I was talking to my friend Jay shortly after I wrote a story about my stay at Camp Wayside, he said something very cool, and he said, “A person with no secrets has no lies.” So, with that in mind here goes another tale of my misspent youth. In 1982, 1983, I was hanging out with a group of guys, there were five of us that went by the “club” name of The Time Square Boys. One of the guys, Mike R. came up with the name, he was from New York (he moved six months prior), and came up with the concept of a club because all the preppie clubs on campus could leave class due to club business, so why not us?
After, about, a month or so one of the club members, Wes, and I met a couple of girls that we would split our time with, half the time with the Time Square Boys, and the other half with the girls. Everybody, except me, loved weed, if I messed with anything, it would be a beer or two.
A funny thing about being a punk during this time, I would say 98% of the world hated you, and members of your own family would be somewhat distant. The people that got close to you sometimes viewed you as a superhero of some sort. I remember when I used to hang out with these guys, and trouble would break out – they would all look over to me as if I could demolish the world. Two of the guys in the Times Square Boys, Tim and Wes were about six feet, two inches. I was five feet, 10 inches, and about one hundred and fifty pounds. I wasn’t big, but any situation, cops, fights or whatever – it was assumed I would handle it.
So, back to the weed situation, the guys, and the addition of the two girls all liked weed. No one knew how to get it. So, it was assumed that I, the guy who hung out with unrespectable people in Hollywood, would know where to get it. Unfortunately, I did. One Christmas, after dinner, my uncle took me to a park in Reseda to score something or other. So, when these chicks asked me to get them weed I said OK. They parked at one end of Balboa Park, and I walked around until I found the people who were trying their hardest not to be noticed. So, after a few minutes, I found some hippie-looking guy, long hair, and a beard, playing chess on a blanket with some hippie girl. I asked them, in my hippest lingo, Hey, do you know where I can score some bud? They ignored me. So, I walked off, while mumbling “F” you guys. Then some chunky burn-out runs up to me and asks if I want sticks, I didn’t know what sticks were, but I played along. Yeah, man, some sticks. He took me back to the hippies, we swapped the money and weed, and I got pissed. I said if you had the weed, why in the fuck did you ignore me? They still said nothing. The chunky burnout tells me, they hold it, and I sell it. There was no way in the world I could have been confused with a narc. I had bleached white hair spiked-up like Colin from GBH.
Anyway, I did these runs for months, after the first one, everyone who wanted the weed was too scared to go with me, they would loan me their cars or whatever. My last “run” was mid-1983. I was loaned a Moped, which belonged to one of the guy’s sisters. During this year or so that I was buying for people, the “dealers” that sold at Balboa Park, back then, were pushed out to Woodley Park, pushed out again, and finally back to Balboa Park. So, I was buzzing down Louise towards Balboa Park. I pull into the parking lot on Balboa, and immediately I see the chunky burnout. He waves me over. Same deal as hundred times before, give him money, he gives me a baggy. As soon as I take the baggy, I hear sirens from the far end of the park, I look over and a cop car that I didn’t see before comes ripping across the park, I take off on the Moped in the opposite direction. The cops are burning out across the park, across the grass, I head down Balboa, right on Burbank, right on Louise, left on Oxnard, left on White Oak, left on Ventura and another left on Louise and into the security gate of my friend Wes’ house. I stayed inside the garage for close to twenty minutes. And when I heard no sirens, I came out. I felt like Kris Kristofferson in Cisco Pike. But in reality, I was an idiot.
Inside the house, I gave everybody his or her weed and explained what happened. It took a good hour for everybody to believe it. They were all . . . “That shit is right out of a movie, man.” No movie, just stupid teenage adrenaline.
– Last One To Die, 2011