Starbuck wrote on Jan 20
th, 2016 at 1:41pm:
Unholy Trinity wrote on Jan 20
th, 2016 at 11:15am:
test
Did we pass?
Speaking of passing, here is the best quote from the article that mojo just posted above. Very much worth the read. In describing the Eagles, it reads just like a Moonie post:
"Soporific Laurel Canyon coke rock whose chief existential lament seems to be ‘What toppings should I get on my burrito?'” the alt-weekly wrote. “The Eagles are the quintessential band for a decade whose favorite barbiturate was the Quaalude.”
LOL. That does read like a Moonie post. I still have yet to try Quaaludes. It frustrates me that it appears you can't even find them like, in Bangkok even!
Back when I first moved to Oakland, I bought my first motorcycle, which was a 1981 Virago, 750. Viragos were like, Harley copies--low-riders, with the V-engine and shit. I was hanging out at this sorta non-Angels biker bar, not too far from the actual Angel's clubhouse, which was down the street from my place, and all those dudes had kept telling me that I should just get a big hog. I kept saying, "What if I drop it?" and they'd go "Well, just don't drop it!"
I dropped that damn Virago three times. It is SO embarrassing to be a young girl all decked out in leather having to wave down a trucker to help get your fucking bike off the ground. Many thousands of miles later, I still maintain that no one's got any business riding a bike they can't pick up. One time it wouldn't start when I was trying to ride home from work so I ended up having to stop in this bar called the Whale's Tail (I think?) and got picked up by this dude who worked only 4 months a year running oil rigs in Alaska and lived on his houseboat in the East Bay the rest of the time. He was a really good lay. He let me drive the houseboat across the bay once!!
ANYWAYS, the point is, we moved from Oakland to SF, and I left my bike in the parking lot of the hippie-pre-Burning-Man warehouse loft place we'd been living in. I was terrified to ride it across the Bay Bridge, and as anyone who rides knows, if you're nervous on a bike, get the fuck off it. So my plan was to, instead, ride it down to San Jose and come back up to SF via the peninsula (this is a very stupid idea, but probably less so than riding, inexperienced, across the Bay Bridge). Anyways, when I got on the thing, the mirrors had been fucked with and I felt like it wasn't riding right, so I rode straight to the bar, 'cause I figured someone would be there who knew about bikes and could help. So, of course, I meet Ron and Shorty (who was about 6'5"--bikers are so clever!), and then spent the rest of the damn day on the back of Ron's Harley, while Shorty rode my bike. They kept it, saying that there was rust in the gas tank or some shit and that they were gonna clean it out, and tune it up, etc. So Shorty was driving it and someone turned left in front of him and he ended up on the road, with the bike on top of his ankle; the leather in his boot melted into his skin and he got gangrene. His license was, of course, suspended, so the bike got impounded. Since I was like, singing in punk bands and working as a canvasser for the goddamn Haight-Ashbury Free Clinic, I had no money to get it out, so we kinda decided we'd let it sit and then wait for it to go up on auction and see if we could get it back that way.
For months afterwards, when I'd finally written off ever getting the thing back, I'd get these drunken phone calls from Ron, rambling about how we were gonna go get my bike back, even if we had to break in the place, etc., etc. They tapered off, eventually.
But Shorty. Shorty had a stash of Quaaludes. And he offered to take one with me, but I didn't take the offer, 'cause I figured I'd spend the whole time peeling him off me, but now I wish I'd been more aggressive and flirty and tricked him into giving or selling me one anyways.
Quaaludes. They musta been something, man.
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Glenn Frey Dead at 67 (Read 11,974 times)
