Hi pals! I just relocated this blog, after enough co-workers urged me to stop wasting my anecdotes & write them. So, maybe this will amuse. I forget most of them :(
Like most normal people, part of my twenties was spent hell-raising. Unfortunately, it was the latter part (when one is supposed to forge a career and lasting relationships) rather than the early part. Hand to god, I get asked on the phone all the time what my age is, and invariably get: "You sound so young!" "It's because I'm incredibly immature," is my reply.
Back to the topic. Having wasted my early twenties in being an incredible swot at university, anorexo/bulimia, undiagnosed depression and just generally being a jerk (sorry, M&D and also Matthew) I jumped foot-first into look-at-me debauchery. Sex, not-too-much-drugs, and pop music were my jam. (after all, I'm a Marine Corps brat. I always had a job.) I rarely took anything that I didn't know how long it would take to come down from (except that time with Stevie D, the tranquilizers, the poofy shirt, and the 'Get Smart!' marathon - hi Stevie! and also the LSD thing with the Lou Reed-ish friend from the coffee spot in SF. I'm sorry I forgot your name, pal [it was mostly speed, anyway. Bummer.])
But, being a young and not-too-shabby-looking lady, I quickly made the rounds of the local pop contingent, who shall remain nameless. One of them was the impossibly gorgeous frontman of a band whose name included animals and paranormal phenomena, and one of whose members is now married to rock royalty. (Frontman is also a lovely gentleman, BTW. ) The point is, through him, I became pals with Joe Simon (Hi Joe! Miss you!) who initiated the rock nights at Canters Deli, which are now an institution, but not so much back then.
As was my wont, I was vodka-ing my way through my evening's tips, and chatting up some unscrupulous character. Whom I persuaded to accompany me to the trunk of my 1967 Sunbeam Alpine (Hi Sunbeam! Miss you!) where I extracted slightly more of my tips. Shortly thereafter, I climbed into the cockpit and sped home (to the apartment I shared with the heroin addict. Oh, I forgot about that, too.) In any case, when I emptied my apron, no tips were to be found. So, what would a sensible person do? What would Plato do? (to quote the immortal John Cleese.)
Incredibly irresponsibly, I hopped back into the Sunbeam and headed for Canters. A stoplight took too long for my liking, so I ran it. And was promptly pulled over by an LAPD. Unlike many of my cohort, I actually like police. Probably because I'm white and (used to be) pretty, but also because I grew up in the military, so I have that mindset.
Officer: Why did you run that light?
Me: Unintelligible combination of sobs and "I was robbed!"
Officer: "Where are your parents? You should go back to them."
Mind you, I was 29 at the time - I think? So: incredibly immature. But, bless him, Officer Friendly
let me go. Back to Canters. Where I strode into the bar, and located the offending character.
Me: Turn out your pockets. (I know, right?)
OC: What?
Me: You stole money from me. Turn out your pockets.
OC was not forthcoming, to do this. Fortunately, The Mob Lawyer stepped in, handed me a hundred bucks, and the situation went away. But The Mob Lawyer had a further place in my life. This is all verifiable, BTW. More to come, AZC
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