While it's true my record is clean of anything but traffic tickets, it's also true there are various things the police did not exactly catch.
(Ed: what about the statute of limitations?)
That's expired, right?
(Ed: nope)
Well, see, there you go.
But I was screwed anyway so we might as well continue.
Something comes over men in their twenties. They can be Roamin' Ol' Dogs who like nothing better than hanging out being dudes, abusing whatever drugs we could find, and going to rock concerts. There might have been some university mixed in with that as well.
They can be Roamin' Ol' Dogs one minute and then, just like in "The Godfather I, II or XII or so," The Lightning Bolt strikes and the Roamin' Ol' Dog falls in love. We anticipate what will come. It's the end of rock concerts, motorcycles, and it doesn't look too good for drug abuse either.
Sure enough, the day came when the Roamin' Ol' Dog announced he was going to get a blood test which was required for his upcoming marriage. Clear and immediate action was required.
So we kidnapped him.
This heinous crime took place in Cincinnati where his soon-to-be-really-angry fiancee had made the appointment for the blood test. This obviously had to be thwarted so we knew we had to be somewhere else and quickly.
We heard there was a Hash Festival in Ann Arbor and this was long, long before legal reefer. We deemed Michigan a suitable distance for our intervention so we executed the plan and, thus, the Roamin' Ol' Dog soon-to-be an ex-Roamin' Ol' Dog was kidnapped and the plan was thwarted.
The coordination of the Brilliant Plan required the advanced skills of three stoners. Cadillac Man, your deadbeat author, and one other perp who seems to be Lotho but it also seems he would have been smart enough not to get dragged into one of these nutjob safaris. Of one thing I am sure, the Roamin' Ol' Dog was roaming once more.
We were not studs, Casanovas, or Mystics on a Search for Cleopatra. We were interested in two things: getting stoned and going to rock concerts. Sometimes university interfered with that but as little as possible. Sometimes also we would get laid but it was more accidental than anything else. We didn't care. Everything for the music.
There was a Pink Floyd concert in Dayton and I took a date to that one. This was an Exceptionally Bad Idea. The way I discovered was the notification from her mid-way through the concert that my trousers might need some attention. At that moment, I was more than a little surprised to discover some impressive flames going up one leg.
So this was not a night I got laid ... but, happily, I can report I did not get burned and could go on to more rock concerts.
(Ed: it's amazing you all kept girlfriends)
For the most part, we didn't. It's not that we're antisocial, we just suck at it. We were good at getting stoned and going to rock concerts. This world we knew and the other one ... crackers ... makes no sense at all.
(Ed: things haven't changed much)
Nope. Still getting hammered and going to rock concerts except now I turn around pick up the guitar to start it. Sometimes I even think I'm getting it. If you imagine every hit of acid you ever ate then that's what it's like considering that change from the time of running those concerts with the dudes to now. Fucking zoom. So many years. So many acts of tasteless decadence.
So we kidnapped the Roamin' Ol' Drug and traversed the many miles to Ann Arbor, eagerly anticipating whatever may happen in an early 70's Hash Festival. None of us had ever been to one so, man, we have to know.
After some while fumbling around Ann Arbor, we located the park and quickly arrived. Now was the time.
Regrettably, however, it was the time but it wasn't the right day. The Hash Festival was not until the following week-end.
But ...
this week-end we have the Hare Krisha Festival and so many saffron robes it's like you're inside one gigantic animated field of opium poppies.
We did the logical thing. We ran.
However, there is still The Penitence. The Roamin' Ol' Dog is thinking he may be able to talk his way out of this but we're thinking, no way, you're screwed, ol' dude (who was nowhere near old at the time).
Naturally, we did the manly, dudely thing. We dropped the Roamin' Ol' Dog at his apartment ... and then ran off and hid ... for a week or three. It seemed there was One Brave Thought among us. Don't be collateral damage. There was absolutely guaranteed to be Hell to Pay. We knew, in messing with a young woman's wedding, we would feel the claws and deservedly but, hey, we're stoned. We're also thinking maybe she forgets. It could happen. Fuhgedaboudit.
(Ed: and?)
And what?
(Ed: how can I say this elegantly. Please, bear with me. Yes. Punchline, Bitch!)
That was the punchline.
(Ed: one more time and I will stab you)
Of course, yes.
These college sweethearts have been married all their lives ... to each other. The efforts of the Dude Intervention were ineffective on this and multiple other counts as, one after the other, the dudes got married and gave up their motorcycles ... except for one dumb ass who got another later and really fucked himself up (i.e. me).
(Ed: is there even a hint of a moral to this story?)
Nothing I can immediately discern but, wtf, I'm stoned.
Everyone in the story ended up with at least one university degree. Now ain't that a bitch. Fookin' stoners.
(Ed: what about the statute of limitations?)
That's expired, right?
(Ed: nope)
Well, see, there you go.
But I was screwed anyway so we might as well continue.
Something comes over men in their twenties. They can be Roamin' Ol' Dogs who like nothing better than hanging out being dudes, abusing whatever drugs we could find, and going to rock concerts. There might have been some university mixed in with that as well.
They can be Roamin' Ol' Dogs one minute and then, just like in "The Godfather I, II or XII or so," The Lightning Bolt strikes and the Roamin' Ol' Dog falls in love. We anticipate what will come. It's the end of rock concerts, motorcycles, and it doesn't look too good for drug abuse either.
Sure enough, the day came when the Roamin' Ol' Dog announced he was going to get a blood test which was required for his upcoming marriage. Clear and immediate action was required.
So we kidnapped him.
This heinous crime took place in Cincinnati where his soon-to-be-really-angry fiancee had made the appointment for the blood test. This obviously had to be thwarted so we knew we had to be somewhere else and quickly.
We heard there was a Hash Festival in Ann Arbor and this was long, long before legal reefer. We deemed Michigan a suitable distance for our intervention so we executed the plan and, thus, the Roamin' Ol' Dog soon-to-be an ex-Roamin' Ol' Dog was kidnapped and the plan was thwarted.
The coordination of the Brilliant Plan required the advanced skills of three stoners. Cadillac Man, your deadbeat author, and one other perp who seems to be Lotho but it also seems he would have been smart enough not to get dragged into one of these nutjob safaris. Of one thing I am sure, the Roamin' Ol' Dog was roaming once more.
We were not studs, Casanovas, or Mystics on a Search for Cleopatra. We were interested in two things: getting stoned and going to rock concerts. Sometimes university interfered with that but as little as possible. Sometimes also we would get laid but it was more accidental than anything else. We didn't care. Everything for the music.
There was a Pink Floyd concert in Dayton and I took a date to that one. This was an Exceptionally Bad Idea. The way I discovered was the notification from her mid-way through the concert that my trousers might need some attention. At that moment, I was more than a little surprised to discover some impressive flames going up one leg.
So this was not a night I got laid ... but, happily, I can report I did not get burned and could go on to more rock concerts.
(Ed: it's amazing you all kept girlfriends)
For the most part, we didn't. It's not that we're antisocial, we just suck at it. We were good at getting stoned and going to rock concerts. This world we knew and the other one ... crackers ... makes no sense at all.
(Ed: things haven't changed much)
Nope. Still getting hammered and going to rock concerts except now I turn around pick up the guitar to start it. Sometimes I even think I'm getting it. If you imagine every hit of acid you ever ate then that's what it's like considering that change from the time of running those concerts with the dudes to now. Fucking zoom. So many years. So many acts of tasteless decadence.
So we kidnapped the Roamin' Ol' Drug and traversed the many miles to Ann Arbor, eagerly anticipating whatever may happen in an early 70's Hash Festival. None of us had ever been to one so, man, we have to know.
After some while fumbling around Ann Arbor, we located the park and quickly arrived. Now was the time.
Regrettably, however, it was the time but it wasn't the right day. The Hash Festival was not until the following week-end.
But ...
this week-end we have the Hare Krisha Festival and so many saffron robes it's like you're inside one gigantic animated field of opium poppies.
We did the logical thing. We ran.
However, there is still The Penitence. The Roamin' Ol' Dog is thinking he may be able to talk his way out of this but we're thinking, no way, you're screwed, ol' dude (who was nowhere near old at the time).
Naturally, we did the manly, dudely thing. We dropped the Roamin' Ol' Dog at his apartment ... and then ran off and hid ... for a week or three. It seemed there was One Brave Thought among us. Don't be collateral damage. There was absolutely guaranteed to be Hell to Pay. We knew, in messing with a young woman's wedding, we would feel the claws and deservedly but, hey, we're stoned. We're also thinking maybe she forgets. It could happen. Fuhgedaboudit.
(Ed: and?)
And what?
(Ed: how can I say this elegantly. Please, bear with me. Yes. Punchline, Bitch!)
That was the punchline.
(Ed: one more time and I will stab you)
Of course, yes.
These college sweethearts have been married all their lives ... to each other. The efforts of the Dude Intervention were ineffective on this and multiple other counts as, one after the other, the dudes got married and gave up their motorcycles ... except for one dumb ass who got another later and really fucked himself up (i.e. me).
(Ed: is there even a hint of a moral to this story?)
Nothing I can immediately discern but, wtf, I'm stoned.
Everyone in the story ended up with at least one university degree. Now ain't that a bitch. Fookin' stoners.
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