In the mid-70s, I traveled to California.
I buy a 68 Dodge Polara station wagon in a used car lot in Illinois, it runs well and has a V8 engine.
Creating a space to sleep, I put a straw mat, pillow, and blanket in the back of the car, crashing there if I was too loaded to drive.
In Texas, I buy a desert water bag, made of woven hemp, fill it with water, and roping it to the grill of my car— I had no fucking idea what the hemp bag was for, but it looked woodsy.
I drive Route 66 through Tulsa, Amarillo, and Flagstaff, going directly to LA, bypassing Anaheim. It would be a gas to go to Disneyland on LSD with a Genie Pass.
In LA I was blown away to see 6 lane highways going north and south.
I turn south, driving to Newport Beach, a rich folks conclave, it' scary I hang a Saint Christerfer medal on the rearview mirror, then pluck stalks of Frankincense, spreading the dry sprigs around the inside of the car to perry away bad karma.
At the Beachball bar, near the sea, I dance with the Nixonion conservatives, they can't dance, they move stiffly.
The city is a stronghold for their peculiar values.
I drink shots of tequila at the bar, it's crowded, in a flash, I'm pie-eyed, coming from unknown realms of the inner soul, I shout anti-American slogans to rattle the cages of the dry-eared crowd, it's bad behavior, fuck it.
Viva Castro,
long live el revolution,
viva Palestine,
impeach Nixon,
vote for Eugene McCarthy.
In seconds I’m bounced, literally picked up and thrown out of the bar, landing on the sidewalk, skinning my elbow and knees.
Beachball security was Stasi-like, like, they enjoyed being pricks.
The beach is a few steps away, it's too perfect, really. I look for a rock to toss and shatter the Beachball's fixed window,
I take a Xanax, it levels the playing field, it's a vacation, people look true blue again, the world's globular.
Driving north to San Francisco a West Coast a-ha moment wraps its arms around me from behind.
Southern Californians are preoccupied with exterior standards— fancy cars, beautiful bodies, hair, pristine beaches.
Northern Californians think inwards, it’s the home of august writers— Henry Miller, Richard Brautigan, Allan Watts, Amy Tan. As well as a place you can drive a beat-up car and nobody cares.
At the Sunshine Truck Stop, I gas up, park, and go inside for coffee, downing a pot in minutes, it's nothing.
A trucker facing me, sitting at the table in front of me, looks at me asking,
you sleepy pal, been drivin all night?
Yeah, I say,
the guy gives me a handful of Bennies, pouring them out of a vitamin bottle. I swallow one on the way out, in a few seconds it's— wow, what a phenomenal buzz time, that's how it starts.
Driving Highway 1, north, bouncing on the squeaky front car seat, putting the pedal to the metal, dialing in Radio Free California, FM that plays the sounds of Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Rolling Stones, Def Leppard, and the horrifying music of Ozzy Osborne's band, what's it called? The Oz is a mellow guy, a borderline Amnesiac, right? His wifey Sharon denies it. Rain or shine the family audaciously show their asses in front 8 million people on TV. I've seen the bit, they're always in an uproar about something
Supercharged on Bennies I feel like I could drive to Alaska and back.
In the Tenderloin area of San Francisco, I park near the Adler Hotel on an incline, turning my front wheels in so they hug the curb to keep my car from rolling down the hill. I couldn't tell you why.
I throw some shit in a paper bag, a toothbrush, and clothes, calling to mind a bit in Factotum, Henry Chinaski arriving in New Orleans,
I had a cardboard suitcase that was falling apart. It had once been black but the black coating had peeled off and yellow cardboard was exposed. I had tried to solve that by putting black shoe polish over the exposed cardboard…
In the lobby of the Adler Hotel, things sparkle as light bulbs flutter, my mind and body sizzle on speed.
The desk clerk is over the hill, her face is caked with makeup, her breath is unbearable, I turn my head away, she talks too much and is slow on the uptake. I rent a room for a week, the clerk assures me I can bring prostitutes to my room and drink all I want.
I walk up 3 stories to 317.
The room is dismal, the carpet's worn, and the bathroom smells. There's a plastic bucket for ice and a coin-operated TV.
Pulling up the blinds, I see a brick wall a few meters away. It feels claustrophobic, I close the blinds.
That night, laying in bed in my underwear I stare at the ceiling, itching under my skin I can't sleep. I flush what's left of the Bennies down the toilet, I'll never take that shit again.
It's raining out, I put on a raincoat, wearing underwear underneath I walk barefoot on the streets searching for beer.
At Eddy’s Liquor, I buy 2 6-packs of cold beer, Eddy bags em for me.
On the way back, I tell a bum on the pavement, shaking a plastic cup, begging, jonesing for Thunderbird wine,
you're weak man, you're a slave to alcohol, it controls you, you don't control it, it's demon alcohol, it's the master and you're its slave, go to AA or die.
In 317, I sit on the bed drinking beer. It's dark out so I open the window and blinds.
With no barbiturates, I gulp down 7 cans of beer, then passing out.
I sleep for 14 hours.
The next afternoon, I comb the Tenderloin looking for a greasy spoon. There’s nothing like a well-oiled breakfast— eggs, hotcakes, grits, sausage, to cure a hangover.
After eating, I walk the hills of San Francesco looking for Alcatraz.
Pioneer Park is on top of Telegraph Hill, a grassy knoll with staggering views of sea and city, and a 20 ft high cement monument resembling a Bic lighter.
I stare at Alcatraz, dumbfucked, what it was like back then with prisoners like Alfonse (Fon) Capone, Machine Gun Kelly, or the Bird Man sitting in the Mess, blinded by fluorescent lighting, death radiating everywhere, eating a generic meal of breaded mystery meat, a cup of instant mashed potatoes, a few slices of white bread, and hot canned succotash.
On Grant Street, revered by some, I go to The Saloon, an all-wood bar that was made in Italy and sent to its present location and assembled there. It's across the road from the literary cesspool known as City Lights Publishing.
In the 70s The Saloon was a hangout of the Hells Angels, the Beat poet, Bob Kaufman, Ken Keasy, and Wally, a sculptor with a Whitman-like beard, who had one show in Italy a raving success worldwide. Oddly, Wally never picked up a hammer and chisel again, on Social Security I think, I never asked him.
Wally savored Heavenly topics— God, the gods, angels, UFOs.
He'd arrive at noon, sitting at the far end of the bar, drinking wine, a friend to all, he'd talk to anybody,
asking those who listen in the bar,
what's it like inside Paradise?
Poor Janis Joplin was 86'd for life from The Saloon a decade ago. I can't imagine her hanging out there. She pissed somebody off, you gotta love the delta lady.
Dying for a beer I sit down, the atmosphere captivates me, feeling alive, I jokingly order,
A Bud-Light in a mug, big size, the transexual brew.
The bartender is a cheesy character with a ponytail, his only concern is keeping the lid on things, it's as far as his mind can travel.
After a beer, I’m hungry, so I walk a short distance to Hoy's for noodles, ordering egg rolls and a bowl of wonton soup.
George Carlin the famous comedian walks in alone, taking a seat, ordering a bowl of noodles, and a Jack and soda.
Anyway, I've been around celebrities, but if someone asked, I couldn't name 1 of them.
I'm more fascinated by street people, bums, and drug addicts.
Walking back to the Adler Hotel, I pick up a paper.
In my room I sit in bed, thumbing through it, checking the want-ads, looking for menial work— a stockboy, dishwasher, or a janitor, responsibility-free work.
Blah, blah, blah, I've made my own choices, not the best ones and not the worst, in between somewhere.
In my mind intelligence and creativity are worth more than gold. I live my life with this in mind, I'm a bonafide artist.
