Summer. Nineteen eighty-something. We were parting the traffic on the 605 southbound for Huntington Beach; I was wearing nothing but shorts and sandals, one hand holding on to the motorcycle seat, the other cradling a six-pack of beer, football-style. We leaned headlong into the wind like a pair of ski-jumpers, as P. effortlessly weaved the stodgy Honda CB350 through the cars, rendering them still as haystacks. I peered into them as we passed, looking for girls. My head rocked with spontaneous energy, to some silent beat, the effect of the youth spending itself within me. The exquisite expiration of childhood. We shouted back and forth in the gale we carried along with us, laughing through mouths windswept into lunatic grins; we cheerfully harried the odd fellow who was momentarily abreast and sharing our direction. We turned with the road into a direct and endless path toward a sun that will never set...
The Dandy Warhols, Grunge Betty
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Power working behind the scenes used to be so much more subtle. The pancake make-up was barely lifted from the president's increasingly ...
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5 comments:
Speaking as an uptight and conventionally shod northeastener, I hope you left those sandals in that honey-toned past, Dennis.
I bronzed them. Now I occasionally take them out and stare at them longingly, after a few shots of scotch.
as you see
Bronzed sandals! You could make millions as an installation conceptual artist! What are you waiting for?
You give me too little credit. Alas, they pulled my grant money--due to the recession. The recession! Damn esoteric investment vehicles! They serve no social purpose! They only destroy! Not like my sandals installation...
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