JFred, I think I understand (I hate it when people say that), what you're talking about in the dope hurricane.
I lived in LA til I was 12-13. Then moved away. I had many LA friends. People I felt bonded to, I didn't want to leave.
Up in the Rockies, drugs came in very gently. Almost like dispensed.
There was no huge fuss about it, it was new, but sort of "sacramental", if I may use the word. They were taken seriously. The more I think about it, the more serious I realize it was. I think ritualistic is defaming.
Anyway, I got to go back to LA once a year.
I went to see favorite friends. I couldn't find them at their houses; the first places I looked. They were in other places. We're talking people too young to drive, in 1967-68. They had their own clubhouses. Places on alleys. Places where they met, and discussed what was going on, where this or that would happen. Dirty clothes. Very grown-up; like business already. No sacrament, no exploration, just availability.
My best friend, when I saw him (not at his house), he was all different. He had been one of the most sensitive and handsome/beautiful people I've ever known. Intelligent. Taught me; by example.
His naturally blond, non-surfer hair, was now dirty; and the thing that hit me was his tooth. Teeth. One of his front teeth was broken, like I would assume could only be from an accident. I said something, a question, innocently, and he said it was from a fight. I was stunned. This was a guy who taught me to shy from a fight. I could tell, even worse, that he was one half of the fight.
Two-three years earlier, I used to lend him my mitt. Me, his bike.
He said, "Don't be a stranger."
I never saw that happen, where I lived. |
