My mother owned a red, 1967 Alfa Romeo in the early 70's, purchased by her boyfriend Jimmy Peters. He was a mysterious guy from New York who worked in the television industry. I think he was married at the time he and my mother were together. My mom was what would be considered "hot stuff" in those days. She had a friend from L.A. named Kathy who was connected to show biz, and she hooked my mom up on dates with Soupy Sales, Frank Gorshin (the Riddler on the Batman t.v.show), and maybe Frankie Avalon (she had a picture of them together in an Italian restaurant). I met Soupy once in Miami, and he gave me a stuffed animal with a radio inside. I think my mom dated some mobsters as well .
The Alfa Romeo was her pride, and joy and it became mine as well, once I discovered the extra set of keys she hid in her jewelry box. Whenever she would leave the house for a while with her friends and leave the little red sports car behind, I would grab the keys and give myself a driving lesson. I would grind the gears trying to figure out how to command a stick-shift properly. It's a miracle I didn't kill anyone or have an accident. She could never figure out why the clutch always needed work or replacement over the few years she owned it. I used to hear her bitch about it, but she never suspected that I was driving the thing around when she wasn't looking.
One fine Friday evening I was informed that she was going out on a booze cruise with a bunch of her friends. They would be out until 2:00am. She was getting picked up and would be gone for around six hours. I could finally get some real use out of the Alfa Romeo. Shortly after she left, I jumped in the car and made my way towards Griffith park, a place nearby, where all the older kids went to meet up and party. I pulled up and invited this jerk I knew and a couple of girls to take a ride with me. We bought some quaaludes and some beer, and headed for the beach. The 'ludes took effect pretty quickly with the beer I was drinking, and I started bumping cars ahead of me whenever I came up to a stop light. The jerk (who's name I forget), suggested that he drive for a while. I climbed into the backseat with the other girl and passed out a short time later.
I remember being woken up violently by my mother, on the front lawn of our house , with one of the girls passed out next to me. There was no sign of the Alfa Romeo. As she went inside to call the police, the jerk pulled into our driveway with the battered remains of the car. It looked like it had been in at least two or three collisions. My mother lunged at the kid driving it and started to beat the living shit out of him. The girl on the lawn awoke from her spot with vomit on her face and wondered what the heck was going on. The kid ran off and the cops caught up with him shortly after. After my mom filed the report and pressed charges, I was grounded for the rest of the year. The poor Alfa was junked. Its a wonder my mother didn't sell me to the Gypsy's.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Saturday, June 7, 2008
KISS; Part 2
Two hours to go til they opened the front gates for the KISS concert. I was selling ten dollar packs of PCP to my left and right, and smoking doobies in the middle. I started to blow an occasional cloud of smoke towards the rental cops positioned in front of the box office. I was a twelve year old punk on drugs. This was going to be a great night.
At 7:00pm the gates opened and I rushed in, right into the waiting arms of those rent-a-cops I had been teasing for the last hour. They pulled me into a makeshift booking station located behind the box office and started going through my pockets, relieving me of a special-roll, pre-encore spliff. I still had a few packs of angel dust in a plastic baggie tucked in my underwear. Thankfully, my Mom still outfitted me in tighty-whities, a safe storage spot for contraband. I was processed, had my picture taken, and walked out to a school bus with wired-up windows for safe keeping. As I heard the muffled sounds of the band onstage, I wondered if this would constitute grounds for discharge from the KISS army.
After the concert had been over for a little while, state police cars began taking the detainees out for the ride to the station in groups of two. In the back seat were my possesions in a plastic bag, including my Polaroid camera. The trooper was pretty easy going and let me document the journey with a few pictures. I still have them in an old photo album. The kid in the car with me was kind enough to snap a couple of pictures of me to show my friends in school. After being booked, I was given a phone call home. My Mother let them keep me in juvenile detention for the weekend to try and "scare me straight".
At 7:00pm the gates opened and I rushed in, right into the waiting arms of those rent-a-cops I had been teasing for the last hour. They pulled me into a makeshift booking station located behind the box office and started going through my pockets, relieving me of a special-roll, pre-encore spliff. I still had a few packs of angel dust in a plastic baggie tucked in my underwear. Thankfully, my Mom still outfitted me in tighty-whities, a safe storage spot for contraband. I was processed, had my picture taken, and walked out to a school bus with wired-up windows for safe keeping. As I heard the muffled sounds of the band onstage, I wondered if this would constitute grounds for discharge from the KISS army.
After the concert had been over for a little while, state police cars began taking the detainees out for the ride to the station in groups of two. In the back seat were my possesions in a plastic bag, including my Polaroid camera. The trooper was pretty easy going and let me document the journey with a few pictures. I still have them in an old photo album. The kid in the car with me was kind enough to snap a couple of pictures of me to show my friends in school. After being booked, I was given a phone call home. My Mother let them keep me in juvenile detention for the weekend to try and "scare me straight".
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