It sounds odd to find a story like this familiar, but our time in the Bay Area overlapped a bit as did some mishaps involving drugs and borrowed autos. In the early-90s I had a, let’s say, "charismatic" girlfriend who others just called "crazy" and who, for reasons I never fully understood, often had access to one set or another of flash wheels—now a late-60s Mustang, now a mid-70s Karmann Ghia, all ill-used in her care. I was a passenger in the ‘Stang for an ill-advised Bullitt homage and I was in the front seat for what turned out to be the Ghia’s final trip. Since you know the city, I’ll just say that our route was from a North Beach nightclub to my loft squat in the Mission, and that GF was seeing how much air she could get in the stomach-flipping plunges after each plateau. After the second one, my fake whoo!’s became fake-chuckling pleas for some restraint and, on the fourth one—a chassis-shuddering slam onto the pavement with a twinkling view of the East Bay before us—the car died without a gasp then rolled half a block. I got out and went to look under the how-you-say “hood?” (where all I could do was confirm that there was a motor in there) before we pushed the poor little thing to the curb and probably cobbled together a little “broken” sign with frowny face and took Muni home. I wish I had a final scene as transporting as your Fellini-esque tableau by the Ihop (which for some reason I see on Market near South Van Ness). When I remember events like this, I sometimes wonder why my friends and I were so convinced we wouldn’t be killed or go to prison. One reason is that most of us were white. Another is that we were habitués of the same mileu as Mona, Todd, and I’m guessing those skinheads too. Your request that Mona make sure Todd eat now and then reminded me of a bit of counsel this one homeless man who Berkeley students employed as bong monitor used to give at his post in the druggy student-run dorm Barrington Hall. “It’s a good idea,” he’d say handing up the pipe. “To have a little food.” He’d light it. “Once in a while.” When I imagine having this kind of a lifestyle as a teenager—Jesus, I sure am glad you're alive.
Great story. So that's what happened to you! Turned out Ceasar was helping that Orson Welles looking guy (later,fatter version) find and addict talent for the porn films they were shooting in the back rooms of that spooky Italianate villa on the hill above Cafe Screen test. I'm happy that you had parents who cared, strangely happy that I didn't, and I'm grateful to be here listening to you tell the tales live, while I fret that my 22 year old has started smoking pot.
Can't believe you went to POLAND. In fact, I can't believe you have PARENTS. Somehow, you seem like a child of the world, like a free spirit who arrived here in a nontraditional way. I'm so glad you and Mona survived your wayward youth experiences. Where is Todd today? Please tell me he is alive and well?
I'm my hazy drug mind. I recall receiving one letter from you while in Poland that was so redacted with black ink it basically read... Hello from Poland, love Cintra.
It sounds odd to find a story like this familiar, but our time in the Bay Area overlapped a bit as did some mishaps involving drugs and borrowed autos. In the early-90s I had a, let’s say, "charismatic" girlfriend who others just called "crazy" and who, for reasons I never fully understood, often had access to one set or another of flash wheels—now a late-60s Mustang, now a mid-70s Karmann Ghia, all ill-used in her care. I was a passenger in the ‘Stang for an ill-advised Bullitt homage and I was in the front seat for what turned out to be the Ghia’s final trip. Since you know the city, I’ll just say that our route was from a North Beach nightclub to my loft squat in the Mission, and that GF was seeing how much air she could get in the stomach-flipping plunges after each plateau. After the second one, my fake whoo!’s became fake-chuckling pleas for some restraint and, on the fourth one—a chassis-shuddering slam onto the pavement with a twinkling view of the East Bay before us—the car died without a gasp then rolled half a block. I got out and went to look under the how-you-say “hood?” (where all I could do was confirm that there was a motor in there) before we pushed the poor little thing to the curb and probably cobbled together a little “broken” sign with frowny face and took Muni home. I wish I had a final scene as transporting as your Fellini-esque tableau by the Ihop (which for some reason I see on Market near South Van Ness). When I remember events like this, I sometimes wonder why my friends and I were so convinced we wouldn’t be killed or go to prison. One reason is that most of us were white. Another is that we were habitués of the same mileu as Mona, Todd, and I’m guessing those skinheads too. Your request that Mona make sure Todd eat now and then reminded me of a bit of counsel this one homeless man who Berkeley students employed as bong monitor used to give at his post in the druggy student-run dorm Barrington Hall. “It’s a good idea,” he’d say handing up the pipe. “To have a little food.” He’d light it. “Once in a while.” When I imagine having this kind of a lifestyle as a teenager—Jesus, I sure am glad you're alive.
Great story. So that's what happened to you! Turned out Ceasar was helping that Orson Welles looking guy (later,fatter version) find and addict talent for the porn films they were shooting in the back rooms of that spooky Italianate villa on the hill above Cafe Screen test. I'm happy that you had parents who cared, strangely happy that I didn't, and I'm grateful to be here listening to you tell the tales live, while I fret that my 22 year old has started smoking pot.
Can't believe you went to POLAND. In fact, I can't believe you have PARENTS. Somehow, you seem like a child of the world, like a free spirit who arrived here in a nontraditional way. I'm so glad you and Mona survived your wayward youth experiences. Where is Todd today? Please tell me he is alive and well?
I'm my hazy drug mind. I recall receiving one letter from you while in Poland that was so redacted with black ink it basically read... Hello from Poland, love Cintra.
Wait, I was in Poland for two months in 1988. But never had a Pantera.
i love you buddy!
...was horribly in love with Mona, far past the point of self-preservation;