verdi cries

as mentioned in my previous post, i'm a fan of smoking. maybe it's the fire ritual. maybe i just like being stoned. ah hell, it's all of the above, there isn't much about it i don't like. and, as advertised, i'll do things stoned (or in the pursuit of getting stoned) that i'm usually much smarter about. this, again is one of those tales.

i can pinpoint the day, it was august 10, 1989. it was one day before my sixteenth birthday. i miss the old days, when every birthday is a milestone of one such sorts or another. sixteen is a big deal in this country, because sixteen means drivers license time.

it was this hot august day that the 10,000 maniacs were playing a concert the arlene schnitzer concert hall in portland, oregon. i had been brought along as not only the birthday boy, but also as a casual fan to natalie merchant who could pass as hardcore... i'd actually heard the first album ("secrets of the i ching") and could name a few songs beyond "about the weather". however, bear was a huge fan. yeah, bear loved that shit. in fact, it was just about here where one could pinpoint bear's left turn from club traxx into natural fiber neo-hippy barefoot shit. either way, he knew all the words, and found natalie's six-year-old boy's lisp (lyrics like "kristina's fair" turned into "kwistinayo's fayah") charming. i think bear bought my ticket. thanks, bear.

and we had crew. if memory serves; rich bachelor, bear, myself, and young jay were prepared and ready to roll. we assembled and made our way to beautiful west linn, oregon to pick up bear's then girlfriend, a plucky thing with impossibly fascinating curly red hair. she, sweet as beans, lived on a hill with her parents, in a neighborhood that bordered on two suburban worlds. she drove a 1975 yellow volkswagen bug. before that, she drove an early 80's economy model BMW with a bauhaus sticker. she used to babysit in my neighborhood. her house was built in the mid-60's, yellow big and boxy, with few windows and minor treatments around the yard. a nice suburban compound. a few years earlier, her's would have been the end of the road, and beyond that, pine trees and pathways and deer and spots to illegally dump your lawn clippings.

the late 80's had changed that... now that grove of suburban wilderness had been shaved down for beige and babyshit brown mini-mansions all lined up with minimal yards painted brown with fresh barkdust. we used to drive into these neighborhoods at night when they were being assembled and steal all of the lumber and supplies for our skate ramps. kids like me scoffed at those houses and the people who lived in them... new money. no pop, no style. i grew up in the era of brady bunch houses...tri-level spreads with avocado fixtures and mirrored countertops. these new things looked like two story neo-colonial sarcophaguses for white people.

well, the spunky red head had to prepare. put her face on and so forth... so me and the boys were sent down the street so she could shower and primp or whatever in peace. we were directed to a neighborhood "park" a block or two away, and so off we went. and there it was, a nice new modern playground in the middle of a cul-de-sac, empty and bored, just waiting for assholes like us to show up and do something stupid. we rarely disappoint. we climbed to the top of the structure, and lit up. we swung from the tire swing. we slid the slide. we yelled silly shit at each other.

i'm a funny looking guy now. back then, i must have looked like a circus clown. i'm silly tall, and skinny like i'm twelve. back then, i looked like some sort of comical pirate, doo-rag, punky ripped clothes goof. streetkid style. aquanet hair wings. but i'm not the only one. the bear is probably rocking some ape-drape/makeup combo, looking somewhere between paul king, michael hutchence, and philip oakey. rich bachelor is his impeccable self, sartorially tidy, but sprouting a long blonde ponytail so long that it's presence implies a rebellious commitment not often seen in the 'burbs. young jay looks like beautiful trouble, the kind of kid you keep kicking out of your daughter's room on late summer nights. a perfectly fine young man who won't look you in the eye. in short, a long slow look shows we mean no real harm, but taking the time to look feels like an inconvenience. what we failed to take notice of was that all the insta-shitbox houses all faced into the little park that we decided to pre-function in. as all of these whiteys settled down to their dinner, they all got a view of four strangers lighting up in their otherwise quiet little playground. what did we think would happen?

well, we had dicked off for about twenty or so minutes. i don't remember who noticed them first. but there they were: cops. parked at the edge of the playground, maybe a hundred or so yards away from us. someone, not me, but someone decided to be pre-emptive about the whole deal. it was agreed that we were getting the boot, so we walked towards the cops. i wrapped my rig and my leetle tiny stash in my bandana and walked towards the cops with the blood in my veins turning cold. i was sure i was cooked: i wouldn't see the show, i'd get arrested for possession, i'd have to get bailed out of west linn lockup from my dad, i'd be the laughing stock... i'd probably have to go to some silly-ass intervention. i remember a long walk towards the cops. by this time, i was good and stoned, and working on my best excuse, trying to sound like a man you could believe in. fuck that. we were asked for ID. the cops took an extra long time to do everything, baiting us to hang ourselves with our stories. i remember young jay gave the cops a debit card for ID, because that's all he had in his wallet with his name on it.

and i remember: the cops tipped their hand. they weren't going to do shit with us. they just wanted us out of the neighborhood. clearly, some jackass didn't like their dinner view being ruined with wild looking youths smoking the environment in their quiet burg, so they called cops. it was suggested to us by these cops that we would do much better to go home and wait for our girl to get ready indoors, lest the neighbors freak out again. the blood in my hands returned to normal temperatures. we would live to fight another day. we were directed back to the house, and we started walking in that direction, slowly, with cops watching us intently.

it was here that i fucked up. like a flash in my mind, i remembered my shitty little lamp-part pipe and dime bag wrapped in a bandana, at the top of the play structure. surely, the cops would see it, seize it, and come back to the house and arrest us... something must be done... right? i'm an idiot, and i say out loud: "oooh, i forgot my bandana". rich and jay shoot visual darts at me, literally... hate shoots from their eyes. looks that say "no, dumbass, you didn't forget anything, keep walking!". and as soon it's out of my mouth, i can't put it back. my first thought is: way to verbalize it, dumbass. my next is: well, you're screwed now, you can't be all "no, i guess it's not important, i'll leave it there!", because that just looks way more suspicious. so i turn around, and go to grab the shit. and i walk. slowly. while my friends turn, wait, and stare. that walk took forever. and i climb up that structure, look out on the little cops, and my little friends, grab and stuff that shit into my pocket, and turn and walk back towards them.

i mentioned this in the last entry, but it's really worth noting. this shit sounds boring, until you do it with the stoned wonder of a sixteen year old mind. everything is lush, it's a beautiful summer night. in that walk, i think a million thoughts, notice the smell of freshly cut grass, the way my socks are stuck to my feet, the cool of the shade as i get to the edge of the park. at any given time i could bust out with an "oh wau man" moment, but the pressure is on. i see everything. i hear everything. but i'm stoned, and my subconscious is the only thing directing me. i get back to my crew, still staring daggers at me. we walk the block or two back to red's house, with cops slowly following us. i don't think anyone said a word the whole way back.

beyond all that, i don't remember too much during the night. i remember that tim finn opened. i remember a purplish/blueish background. i thought the drummer looked like the singer of midnight oil, a band i'm not fond of. ol' bear and red sat in front of us, and i remember thinking that he was a corncob because he cried during the performance. i'm not above an emotional moment during shows, but... never ever not once for 10,000 maniacs. get a hold of yourself, pussy.