In 1983, I drove to California in a Dodge Polera.
Newport Beach is known to many as the most conservative city in America, not even good conservative, more extreme right-wing bordering on fascism conservative.
At the Booty Club, on beach bar row, I dance the night away to Steely Dan, the Eagles, and the Beach Boys, the Southern Cal bands of the day.
Out of nowhere, someone from security, a woman, comes up behind me, screaming as she 86es me,
you're 86ed freak,
I didn't do nothin, I was dancing, you see.
The she-bull throws me out the door and onto the pavement.
When the police show they handcuff me, laughing and saying,
zip it and get in the car asshole.
On the way to Newport County jail, a cop reads me my rights.
you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?
it ain't me, you got the wrong guy, I'm innocent,
you indecently waved your cock at people, pointing the thing at them, we have a witness.
At Newport County Jail after being searched I'm thrown in a cell with 6 Mexicans.
For dinner, the finks hand out metal plates of salami sandwiches and grape kool-aid, ungraciously, and heavy-handed without love, someone asks the jailer,
hey, Gringo, where's the tortilla?
Close to midnight, I'm laying face up on a hard metal bench trying to sleep, when a voice says,
I'm your public defender, are you Henry Lucowski?
yes sir I am, I didn't catch your name,
Jack Hansen,
tomorrow's court, see ya there, Henry.
By noon we're standing before the judge, Alfa Freeman,
eyeballing his bushy eyebrows and the scar on his chin.
There is no substantial evidence that you have commented a crime, no pictures or videos Mr. Lucwoski, so I'm dismissing your case. You're articulate and bright son, I wish you luck in life.
Praise he, I'm a freeman, Jack Hansen chauffers me to my car at Balboa Pier.
As recommendations go, getting the fuck outta dodge is a good one.
Speeding, I take Highway 5 south to Tijuana, way fucking stoked to be out of California.
At the border, I hand over my driver's license to Mexican Customs, making it through.
Turning my Polara right at Revolution Boulevard, I drive directly to La Azteca Bar, finding a booth in the shadows.
A woman with a blond wig and short skirt on hands me a roll of toilet paper saying,
your gonna need this hijo,
why thank you chica,
do you enjoy eating pussy handsome?
Yes, washed down with a shot of tequila.
Drinking shots they reminisce about life,
shit from the 60s, innocent times, and times of total chaos.
What's your name pumpkin?
Ganja, and you are?
Henry, Henry Lucowski.
Ganja's from a good family, farmers from Michoacán.
Take me to Michoacán, she says over and over,
I'm attracted to her so I give in.
They drive towards Michoacán, eventually getting a room at the Peckerwood Motel where they sleep through the night.
That morning on Mexican Highway 2 stopping in Pedro's Cantina, they eat Buñuelos out of paper bags and drink hot Mexican coffee.
After breakfast, they begin the long journey to Michoacán that's a 29-hour drive, Henry says,
I'm pulling over now, I need a deep kiss, right now babe.
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