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Slip Sliding Away

10/30/2018

You might find it hard to believe, but I haven’t always been the smooth talking Casanova that you know and love today. In fact, meeting members of the opposite sex has been a challenge for me most of my life. It’s not that I don’t deserve an “E” for effort, it’s just that I have never been awarded a “B” for balls. However, the night I’m going to tell you about is one of the few exceptions. It seemed as if the stars were perfectly aligned that night and I could do no wrong. Or so I thought.

One evening, I met a lovely young lady at my local watering hole and we just clicked. I seemed to be saying all the right things at exactly the right time. I was able to show off my amazing wit one minute, followed by my deep compassion for my fellow man the next. This incredible interaction went on for a couple of hours and then she looked at her watch and exclaimed “OMG, I almost forgot that I’m supposed to meet a group of my friends at another bar” and then asked me “Would you like to come along?” I figured “why the hell not?” and offered to drive.

When we arrived at the bar, her friends were already partying at full tilt. She introduced me around and I realized that this was a group with whom I could become fast friends. As a matter of fact, I soon became the center of attention and the life of the party. No matter what I said that night, it was either received with uproarious laughter or a deep understanding of the point that I was trying to convey. I even overheard one of her friends whisper to her “Where did you find this guy? He’s perfect for you”. Before I knew it, it was 1:30 am and the bartender was calling Last Call.

As I was driving her back to her car, I couldn’t help but feel that all I needed was just a little more time with her to seal the deal and that’s when I saw it. The “Kona Lanes 24 Hour Bowling Center” sign was like a message from the universe flashing out to me in neon light. I figured that with my immense bowling prowess from my days with the Junior Bowling League in the sixth grade (my high handicap won many a game for the team), this would be just what I needed to put me over the top. I suggested that we stop in for a game and she reluctantly agreed.

After signing up for a lane and receiving our rental shoes, we quickly chose our loner balls and proceeded to our lane. I decided that I would bowl first in order to show her exactly how it’s done. I assumed my proper bowling stance, wound up and took two steps forward, landing just short of the foul line. What I didn’t realize was that in my haste, I had chosen a ball with finger holes that were too small. The ball had literally stuck to my hand, catapulting my whole body down the lane and I ended up about five feet away from the pins. The entire bowling alley went dead silent and the only sound that could be heard was the uncontrollable laughter of my date. Not realizing how slippery a bowling lane was, I attempted to get to my feet, which let’s just say ended badly, causing the rest of the bowling alley to break out into laughter. After I crawled my way back to the scorekeepers table, I decided it was probably time to go home.

In my embarrassment, I neglected to ask for a phone number and needless to say I never saw that lovely young lady again. It’s like I always say Dude. “Never go nude bowling, unless you’re willing to show the entire alley your balls”

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The Ballad of Texas Tom Lawry

8/30/2018

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If you have read any of my earlier musings, you are quite aware of my dedication to experiencing every psycho active substance known to man. This personal quest goes way beyond mere experimentation and deep into the realm of full scale research. My first hallucinogenic journey still stands out as not only the most bizarre, but also the least understood of all my trips. To this day, when the three of us who took this drug together attempt to discuss what we believe actually happened that night, we still have a difficult time differentiating reality from hallucination, but here’s how I remember it.

It all started the day that Texas Tom moved to town. Tom was a short kid with a heavy Texas drawl and he brought with him stories of a powerful hallucinogenic drug none of us had ever heard of, named Marezine, which was an over the counter sea sickness medication available in most drug stores and super markets. Tom explained that we would need to take an entire box (12 pills), but promised a trip like no other. Keep in mind that we grew up in the Pop-A-Chocks era and truly believed that anything approved by the FDA couldn’t really hurt you, so we figured, “Why the hell not?”

Kramer, Miller and I gathered at Kramer’s house and proceeded to each take a box full. I believe what happened next was that we all fell asleep. We awoke to a raging party going on in Kramer’s house and everyone we knew was in attendance. The crazy thing was that none of us thought we were high and in fact, we thought the drug hadn’t worked. How wrong we were.

I’m guessing it was sort of like a mass hallucination. When one of us would say, “Hey there’s Watson”, the rest of us would also see that person. I remember searching for a match and then finding a grocery bag full of match packs, but when I’d reach into the bag, I wasn’t able to pull anything out. The hallucinations just kept getting stranger and all the while, we just accepted the weird event and moved on to the next as if it was somehow normal.

After a while, we decided that we would take a walk along the greenbelts to see what was going on out there. When we arrived at the Robinson’s house, we noticed a large party going on in their backyard and decided to go around front and invite ourselves in. When we rang the doorbell, Mrs. Robinson (no pun intended), answered in her nightgown and asked what we were doing there at this late hour, to which we answered that we’d like to come to their party, to which she replied “I think you boys should go home now”.

By the time we got back to Kramer’s house, the sun was starting to come up and things just kept getting weirder. The party was still raging, but I decided that I had better make my way home to get ready for school. When I walked out to my car, I discovered that it was hooked up to a tow truck and about to be towed away. I ran back into the house to tell my friends what had happened, but when I brought them out to show them, the tow truck had disappeared and my car was just sitting there right where I had parked it. I concluded that this was just a close call and proceeded to drive myself home. Along the way, I found myself running over pedestrians, skateboarders and bicyclists, each time slamming on my brakes in the middle of the road, getting out of my car and looking underneath to discover that my victim had magically disappeared. I remember feeling a huge sense of relief that I had not actually run someone over, without actually realizing that I was high.

I have tried many other hallucinogenic drugs since then, but I have never experienced the sort of realistic hallucinations that I did that evening. I don’t regret the experience, but I can tell you one thing for sure, I would never do it again. It’s like I always say
“I’ll try anything once, Dude”

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Monsoonal Moisture

6/29/2018

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A visit with a high school friend who now lives in Lake Havasu along with the Duck boat tragedy that recently took place in Branson brought back a long forgotten memory from my youth, when my dad laughed in the face of a Mexican monster in the form of a very unpredictable weather event known as the Mexican Monsoon. Although this North American version is not as persistent as its Indian counterpart, it can be just as deadly and can strike virtually without warning.
On the Friday afternoon of a Labor Day weekend, there was nothing but blue skies as far as the eye could see while we loaded up the car and hooked up the trailer to head out to the Colorado River. As we approached the Arizona state line, it became obvious that the weather was taking a definite turn for the worse. By the time we arrived at the marina in Lake Havasu, we were engulfed in a massive thunderstorm complete with extremely high winds and a torrential downpour. Undaunted, my father proceeded to launch our seventeen foot Bayliner into the lake for a harrowing journey to the other side to meet up with some friends who had been camping in a remote area all week.
As we made our way across the lake, the weather continued to deteriorate and our little ski boat was tossed around by over ten foot waves. At this point, most experienced seamen would have turned the boat around and headed for the safety of the marina, but not my pop. My father was a proud member of the greatest generation. He had made it through the Great Depression and survived the “War to End All Wars” and he wasn’t going to let a little rain slow him down. My mother, on the other hand, who usually supported completely every crazy idea my father ever came up with, had a different plan for how she was going to protect her children from drowning in the middle of the lake.
Although she had never learned to swim herself, she decided that the best course of action would be to wrap me and my younger brother in blankets and stuff us in the hold under the bow. In retrospect, I believe that lifejackets might have been a better choice. I can still remember feeling a little uneasy about the position my mother had put us in, but after some severe rockin’ and a rollin’, pop safely beached the Bayliner at our designated campsite and we were able to set up camp for the night.
The next morning, we awoke to a sunny, albeit still quite windy day and began to assess the damage. Overnight, the little Bayliner had completely swamped and the bottom of the hull had been ripped out due to the pounding it took from being blown back and forth across the sandy beach all night. I do believe that a lesser man would have given up at this point, but not my dad. He enlisted the help of another camper whose boat had survived the storm to give him a ride back to the marina, where he purchased fiberglass, resin and paint brushes. He then proceeded to flip the boat over on its side (with the outboard motor still attached) and apply a makeshift patch to the hull. Now I’m not saying that the patch was completely watertight, but it was good enough to get back to the marina and the boat loaded back on the trailer.
It’s like my Pop always used to say
“You’ll never sink this boat! Come on! You call this a storm, Dude?”

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Time to Adjust the Sails

5/30/2018

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With summer back in full swing I’m reminded of the carefree summers of my youth. I had grown up in the Boy Scouts program, first as a Cub Scout, then a Boy Scout (I made it all the way to 2nd Class) and eventually after moving to Orange County as a Sea Scout. A Sea Scout is actually an Explorer Scout, which is the highest level a Scout can reach, and Newport Beach had one of the finest Sea Scout bases in the nation. I was lucky enough to join the elite crew of The Argus. The Argus was a twin mast square rigger built in Denmark in 1908, but to a teenager it was the pirate ship of a young boy’s dreams.
As crew members, we were taught every aspect of seamanship, from rigging to navigation. The Argus was just about as old school as a vessel can be. Every control was manual, there were no electric wenches or even a motorized skiff and in fact the newest piece of equipment on her was an old diesel engine added sometime around the early 1900’s. Just folding and frilling the sails was an adventure all its own. You would climb up a rope ladder to the yardarm and then hang over the yardarm while balancing on a single rope tied from one end to the other. The trick was to maintain your balance while all the while either pulling the massive sail up or lowering it down. This experience was so intense that while practicing in the harbor, one of my buddies made it up, but was too terrified to come down. It took us about two hours to talk the poor guy down and needless to say he never came back.
Our main mission was to ferry Cub Scouts back and forth to a Cub Scout camp on Catalina Island. The camp was located near an isolated cove on the far side of the island. This cove wasn’t like the calm bay at Avalon, it was open to the ocean and usually pretty rough. One of the Captain’s favorite initiation rituals was to pick out a new recruit and assign them the very important task of painting the ball while anchored in the cove. For all of you landlubbers, the ball sits atop the main mast and you remember that rope ladder I told you about earlier, well the rungs get progressively smaller the higher you climb and by the time you reach the top, you can barely shove your foot into it. Keep in mind that all the while you are carrying a paint brush and a bucket of paint in one hand while holding on with the other. Not to mention the fact that although the ship was gently rocking down on the deck, due to the arc of the mast it felt as if you were riding a rollercoaster up top. In reality I don’t think that ball ever really got painted, but it was an endless source of entertainment for the rest of the crew.
One of these excursions will always stand out in my memory. I had been rowing Cub Scouts into shore all afternoon and was the last dinghy to tie up, I signaled to the Captain that I had secured my boat and the ship got underway. Exhausted I made my way from one row boat to another, finally reaching the first boat where a single rope hung down from the tall stern of the Argus. As I started to pull myself up I realized my arms were just too weak from rowing and I wasn’t going to make it to the top. I yelled for help, but no one could hear me over the loud diesel engine and in the position I was hanging, no one could see me either. As I hung there, I felt as if my short life was passing before my eyes, when suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere I mustered the strength to pull myself over the top. As I lie there on the deck shivering from exhaustion, the Captain shouted to me “Sanford, plot the course for home.” I quickly drew a course using all of the navigation skills I had acquired from a one-hour course I had attended three months prior. I gave the coordinates to the Captain and slithered below decks to pass out.
I awoke that morning to the sound of foghorns and dragged myself out on the deck just in time to see the fog clear and realize that we were just about to go aground on the rocks. Luckily the Captain recognized our predicament just in time to steer clear. It seems that in my haste to hit the bunk, I had plotted a course some twenty miles South of our home port.
It’s like I always say
“You can’t control the wind Dude, you can only adjust the sails”

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BrokeDick Mountain

4/30/2018

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WARNING!!! To all men or anyone who identifies as male of any species:
The story you are about to read is an extremely graphic depiction of actual events, that once read, may be impossible to unread. Consider yourself warned.
When it comes to the pursuit of the opposite sex, the two things that I have going for me are a little bit of charm and a whole bunch of persistence. In my opinion, what I might lack in porn star stature, I more than make up for in enthusiasm. I remember one particular evening when I was on my A game and Vlad the Impaler was performing like a champ. I got so cocky (pardon the pun) that I decided to go for the full drawback, but before I realized that I had drawn back too far, it was too late and poor Mr. Happy slammed head first into a brick wall (so to speak). Now I didn’t actually witness the impact, but according to the forensic evidence, Magic Johnson had bent to at least a 90 degree angle.
I think it goes without saying that I finished the job that evening, (quitting is for quitters) but the next morning was a very different a story. As I pulled Little Walter out to perform his morning business, I noticed two large blood blisters, one on each side of his neck and then after his business had begun, a burning pain started to grow. This was quite disturbing first thing in the morning and although I am not a big fan of most penises, I do have a very close and loving relationship with my own so I immediately got on the phone to schedule an emergency appointment with an urologist to find out if there was anything that could be done to save My Little Friend.
After a quick inspection of the damaged zone, the good doctor paused for quite a while and then said in a very unprofessional tone, “I’ve never seen anything like this before. Would you mind if I bring in my partner to take a look?” Had I known that his partner would be followed by every nurse in the office and a large group of medical students, I might have declined. After everyone had touched, poked and discussed possible treatment plans, the general consensus was to try high doses of Vitamin E and see what happened. Believe it or not, after about two weeks, the pain and the blood blisters were gone and Tiny Dancer was back in fighting form.
Almost a year to the day later, I woke up one morning with my usual Morning Wood, but I felt an excruciating pain coming from down under, as if my flesh was being ripped apart. By this time, I had relocated to a new city and so I had to go through the whole explanation and inspection process with a new urologist and his staff. This time the doctor explained to me that the damage that had been done a year ago had now turned into scar tissue. He went on to say that a possible treatment would be to surgically remove the scar tissue, but that the procedure typically created its own scar tissue. To which I replied, “What else you got, Doc?” After thinking about it for a while, he said we could try high doses of Vitamin E to try and dissolve the scar tissue. After about two months, the scar tissue (don’t ask me how I know) was completely gone and I’m happy to report that Free Willy is still going strong, albeit a little more cautious with his backswing these days.
It’s like I always say: Don’t cross the river Dude, if you can’t swim the tide.

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The Road to Shambala

3/30/2018

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Just off I10 near Palm Springs and pretty much in the middle of nowhere, there lies an oasis of sun, fun and unregulated joy. A place where the puritanical rules and regulations of the early American naturist movement need not apply. The name of this place is Sea Mountain Resort, but I just call it Shambala.
Throughout my nearly thirty some odd years in and around the business of social nudism, it seems that I had formed some pretty naïve opinions concerning the so-called lifestyle scene. All of my pre-conceived notions were about to be forever rewritten when I was struck with an epiphany that this just might be the most honest and pure form of nudism I had ever experienced.
After convincing a courageous non-nudist friend of mine (couples only) to accompany me, we headed out “On the Road to Shambala” which was just a ten minute journey from where I currently live. When we arrived, we were greeted by two beautiful sarong clad twins, both named Jessica (It must have been very confusing for their parents). Since this was our first visit, one of the Jessicas (don’t ask me which one) offered to take us on a brief tour of the grounds. The tour started off in the refreshment room that was filled with complimentary munchies, fruits, teas, juices and sodas. They also serve complimentary Killer Margaritas, wine, breakfast and lunch. On top of that, you are welcome to bring in your own favorite libations and snacks. As we walked past the main mineral spring pool, Jessica announced to the crowd, “I’d like to introduce you to your new friends”, which was followed by a resounding “Welcome!” from the other sunbathers.
Next stop was the Taboo Gardens Lounge, a cool little spot between the pool and the hot tub that consisted of a DJ booth, dance floor, stripper pole and in the middle of all that, a round bed. As we passed by the mineral spring hot tub and through the barbeque area, I noticed a sign that proclaimed “Keep Calm and Smoke Pot”. That’s when I knew for sure that I had come to the right place.
The grounds have a magical Zen garden feel and we spent the rest of the day soaking up the sun, occasionally dipping in the pool to cool off and listening to the awesome poolside sound system. The best part is that we met some of the most warm and wonderful people who have shed many of the common social morays to live a more genuine and honest life where only they determine what is right or wrong for them. I realize that this lifestyle is not for everyone, but if you believe that consenting adults should be allowed to pursue joy in all its forms as long as nobody gets hurt, then I suggest you give this place a try.
I’m not going to share everything that I experienced that day, but let’s just say that my light shined very bright in the “Halls of Shambala”.
It’s like I always say: Do no harm, but follow your bliss dude.

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Miracurl on Ice

1/30/2018

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I don’t know about you, but I was glued to the television for this year’s Winter Olympic Games. Of course, I was expecting the snowboard halfpipe and the bobsled competition to be exciting, but nothing could have prepared me for the pure joy and pride I felt watching the United States curling team take home the gold medal for the first time in history. I love to see the underdog come out on top, even if the underdog turns out to be representing the most powerful country in the world. That’s what got me thinking about my own brush with Olympic greatness.
It was the summer of 1984 and the Olympics were coming to Los Angeles. I was a limousine driver and had just started my own one car service. A couple weeks prior to the start of the games, I got a call from a casual acquaintance named Andy to inquire if my limo was available for the weekend of the opening ceremonies. I had no idea what Andy did for a living and he explained that he was in charge of sports medicine for the Saudi Arabian soccer team and that this would be their first year to compete in the Olympics. He went on to say that he would need transportation for himself and five of his female friends to and from Los Angeles.
We arranged for the pickup at our mutual friend Peggy’s house in Costa Mesa. When I arrived, I was surprised to see that Andy had with him five of the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Andy had requested that I stock the limo with champagne so before we headed out, I asked him if he’d like for me to open a bottle for him, but he replied, “I’ve got this handled dude.” After only a few minutes on the road, I heard the “pop” of the champagne cork immediately followed by a piercing scream. Andy had launched the cork right between the eyes of one of the ladies sitting across from him. For the rest of the night, this poor girl had a big round dot in the middle of her forehead, which must have been a little unsettling for the Saudis.
Our first stop was a private party suite at the Beverly Hill’s Hotel. When I say suite, I’m talking about a whole floor with a full service bar, massive appetizer spread and a special table with bowls full of “party favors.” After all, this was the eighties. The strange part was that besides me, Andy, the five ladies and couple of armed body guards, there was no one else in the room.
Then suddenly, Prince Sheik Yerbouti (for lack of a better name) of Saudi Arabia and his entourage entered the room. The prince and his buddies were all dressed in designer suits except for one little guy dressed in traditional Saudi garb that I nicknamed “Tip”. Every time the Prince would point at someone, Tip would peel off a hundred dollar bill and hand it to them. Although Tip and I didn’t speak the same language, we became fast friends. After all the introductions were finished, we loaded everyone, including the two armed guards into the prince’s private Mercedes and the limo and headed to an unmarked nightclub located somewhere in the underground parking lot at the Beverly Center.
As we headed towards our destination, I kept playing a scene from a movie over and over in my head in which a foreign dignitary is kidnapped while riding in a limo. The first person to be eliminated is the armed guard, but you can guess who they take out next. That’s right, yours truly, but as it turned out the night went off without a hitch and I made sure that everyone except for the girl with the red dot on her forehead made it home safely.
It’s like I always say,“Keep your friends close and the dude with the roll of hundreds even closer”.

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Bad Instant Karma

11/29/2017

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A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, an epic battle took place in a town called LA. Two behemoth rock stations existed and it was clear that there wasn’t enough room in tinsel town for the both of them. It was decided that there would be a showdown and that the loser would have to change its format forever, never to again play Rock N Roll. The combatants were KMET 94.7 and KLOS 95.5 and they competed for rock FM radio dominance throughout the 1970s, but by the 80’s, both stations had begun to see their listenership dwindle due to the emergence of the punk rock and new wave scenes with new stations emerging that appealed more to younger listeners. When the battle for listeners reached a fevered pitch during the summer of ’86, I was working as a limo driver. I mostly worked nights so my days basically consisted of waking up late, getting high and listening to FM radio. The fight was for listeners and the best way to draw listeners was to give away a bunch of cool shit.
The game was that you had to listen in the morning when the station announced the song of the day and then keep listening all day until you heard that song being played. As soon as the song began, you’d run to the nearest phone and try to be the specified caller number. If you were lucky enough to get through, you would hear some intern’s voice on the other end of the phone exclaiming, “You’re Today’s Winner!” If you weren’t so lucky, you’d hear, “You’re caller number 25, try again.” followed by a click.
As the summer heated up, the promotions got bigger and bigger. What started out as albums and concert tickets quickly progressed into European vacations and thousands of dollars in cash. Eventually, the insanity peaked with the mother of all giveaways when KLOS announced that they would be giving away a classic car every week for a month. The deal was that they would give away one key every weekday to the 95th caller and on Saturday, the winners would gather at the station to see whose key would actually unlock the door. That’s when I decided to get serious and from then on, I made it my sole mission in life to win one of those cars. I made sure that every morning, hung over or not, I listened to the radio at 9 am to hear the song of the day and made every effort to listen until I heard that song being played. I would then rush to the nearest phone and start calling. It takes quite a while for an intern to answer 95 calls.
On the final week, they had saved the best for last; a cherry red 1959 Corvette convertible with a big white stripe down the side. My quest intensified and I pulled out all the stops by making sure that I didn’t miss a single opportunity that week. Strangely enough, as my focus sharpened so did my confidence. Now that may have had more to do with the fact that I had successfully gotten through a couple of weeks earlier and won a pair of tickets to a Julian Lennon concert than it did with some sort of premonition, but I just had a good feeling this time.
On Friday, when I heard the song of the day, I began my calling ritual only to hear fast busy after fast busy and then after what seemed to be an hour of trying (probably more like ten minutes), the line started ringing. Eventually someone picked up the line and said “Congratulations, you’re the 95th caller!” I was absolutely speechless until the intern said “I just have one question for you, have you won anything from this station in the last 90 days?” to which I quickly replied “just a pair of Julian Lennon tickets” and before I could get the words out of my mouth, the intern said “Sorry, you’re disqualified.” and hung up the phone. I’ll never know whether my key would have unlocked that car door, but I’m pretty sure it was that Bad Instant Karma that put an end to Julian Lennon’s music career.

It’s like I said that time I ran for Governor of the Great State of Alabama,
“When in doubt; deny, deny, deny, Dude.”

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Heart & Soul

10/30/2017

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Have you ever have one of those days that starts great and ends perfectly? Yeah, me neither, but there was a beautiful summer day in 1985 that was the closest I ever got and it all started with breakfast at Marie Callendar’s. If you didn’t grow up in California, you probably think Marie Callendar is just some woman that makes frozen pies for Walmart, but to me, Marie will always be the Queen of the Fresh Olallieberry Pie. The incredibly sweet-tart olallieberry is a cross between a youngberry, a loganberry and a raspberry. My buddy, Kramer, and I grabbed a whole pie to go and hit the road for the Playboy Jazz Festival at the Hollywood Bowl.
The Hollywood Bowl is a venue that is absolutely in a class of its own with world class acoustics. It is steeped in tradition and a dress code that is quite a bit more restrictive than the usual Hollywood dives we would frequent. Plus, they allow you to bring in your own picnic basket filled with wine and snacks. Luckily, we had both worn our very best pair of shorts that day and although we were not big wine drinkers, we had managed to find an empty wine bottle, fill it with Jack Daniels and bring in what was left of the olallieberry pie to snack on. What followed was a wonderful day of jazz music that started around noon and ended the evening with an awe inspiring set by The Yellowjackets.
After the show, Kramer and I decided to stop by the bar at the Sheraton Universal for a quick nightcap before the long drive back to Orange County. When we walked in, the place was pretty much deserted except for a table of dudes drinking, laughing and talking. Kramer turned to me and pointed out a tall dude sitting at the end of the table and I realized that it was Stephen “Doc” Kupka, the baritone sax player and founding member of Tower of Power. Although Kramer and I were big jazz fans, we were absolute funk freaks and Tower of Power is the Greatest Funk/Soul Band of All Time.
We tried to stay cool as we headed over to the table, but by the time we got there, we were just a couple of blubbering idiots who proceeded to tell The Funky Doctor what gigantic fans we were and attempted to recount each and every time we had seen them perform. I guess Doc took pity on us because he invited us to take a seat at the table. He introduced us to the other TOP band members and explained that they were touring as the horn section for Huey Lewis and the News. Right then, Huey Lewis walked in with his entourage and the place got crazy. By the time we got around to ordering our first drink, the bartender had announced last call so Huey, probably thinking we were friends of the band, invited everyone at the table to his suite to continue the party.
Once we got up to the room, I pulled out my trusty blow bullet filled with twenty five dollars worth of the finest Peruvian marching powder money could buy and in true Tony Montana style, said, “Who wants a bump?”. That poor little anemic bullet barely made it around the room, but after that, we were everyone’s best pals. I spent most of the night watching Huey roll a joint, light it up and pass it on. He repeated that process at least ten times throughout the night and by the end, Huey and I were drunk harmonizing to the TOP classic “You’re Still a Young Man”. Eventually, we said our goodbyes to our newfound friends and headed downstairs, but I still remember how Kramer and I turned to one another in the parking lot and said simultaneously, “Did that just happen?”
It’s just like I always say: Timing is everything, but it never hurts to have a little blow on you, Dude.

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Bolo Bros Forever

9/29/2017

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When I recently attended my 40th high school reunion, many classmates that I had hoped to see were not in attendance, but I was surprised to see several of the members of our made up high school fraternity. We called ourselves the Bolo Bros which was short for The Royal Order of Bolo Brothers. We were a likeminded group of adventurous young lads who were interested in girls, parties, skiing, rock climbing, backpacking, rock music and anything else we could find to get high upon (Oh yeah, did I mention girls?).
We were lucky to have an awesome outdoor education program at our high school and up until this trip, most of our ski trips together had been school-sponsored events. This time, however, we decided to set off on our own. The crew consisted of Boz, Gronson, Whiteamus, Ernie, Kramer and of course, myself. Kramer was kind of an honorary member of the Bolo Bros because he didn’t really get into the sporting side of the group, but what he lacked in physical prowess, he more than made up for by having an totally awesome connect for Humboldt Sinsimilla (Spanish for “seedless”) and the fact that he owned a Ford Courier with a camper shell.
That morning, we loaded up my GMC pickup with all of our ski gear, jumped into the two trucks and headed down the road towards the jewel of the High Sierras, Mammoth Mountain. We hadn’t even made it out of Riverside County before my truck overheated and blew up. Undaunted, we transferred all the ski equipment, stuffed all six of us into the Courier and abandoned my truck by the side of the road. The rest of the ride up went off without a hitch and we spent the next couple of days skiing some of the best snow conditions any of us had ever experienced. Even Kramer took a shot at the slopes, but every time I’d get him strapped into his skis, he’d immediately turn his edges into the snow. It seems he was a natural at the snowplow, but not much of a downhill racer.
Everything went smoothly on the ride down from the mountain until we reached a little town named Bishop. I guess that old Courier had taken all it could take of six guys and a ton of equipment because it broke down also. So there we were, stuck on the side of the road pretty much in the middle of nowhere. After much discussion, we came to the conclusion that our best bet would be to split up into two groups and attempt to hitchhike the rest of the way home. We pulled all of our ski gear out of the truck, decided who was going to go with who and positioned our two groups about a hundred feet from one another on the road pointing south.
Eventually, an old 60’s style Ford Econoline van pulled up in front of the first group. The driver stepped out and motioned to the second group to come on over. He asked where we were headed and we all said “Orange County” to which he replied, “That will work, I’m going all the way to San Diego”. We proceeded to throw all our crap in and then piled ourselves into the van. A few miles down the road, the driver pulled over at a convenience store to fill up with gas and asked if we’d like some beer. I’m guessing he had already figured out we were too young to buy beer for ourselves and of course we all replied, “Hell Yeah!” Soon we were back on the road, drinking beers and listening to rock n roll music on the van’s old eight-track tape player. The van was pretty crowded and old Boz had decided to sit backwards on the engine cover that in those old style vans extended back beyond the front seats. I noticed that Boz was starting to sweat profusely, but before I could say anything, he turned to the driver and puked all over his shirt.
The driver immediately pulled the van over to the side of the road and jumped out, screaming obscenities all the way. I thought he was going to beat the living crap out of Boz (I think we all would have been willing to hold him for him) or at the very least, leave all of us right there. Instead, the driver took a few minutes to gather his composure, changed his shirt and although it was a very quiet drive from then on out, drove us all the way home.
It’s like I always say; No good deed ever goes unpunished Dude.

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About Wali,
The Grateful Dude

In my formative years, I was lucky enough to attend an amazing high school modeled after the freedom school from the Billie Jack films. The curriculum included outdoor education, pottery and organic farming and emphasized values like creativity, self awareness and a strong sense of community. I spent several summers traveling from show to show with The Grateful Dead and found that not only could I beat the crap out of a plastic bucket in a drum circle, I was also quite the imported beer salesman. My early career started off in the eighties driving limousine for posers, drug dealers and wannabe rock stars in Los Angeles. In the late eighties, I was introduced to the former owner of Paradise Lakes Nudist Resort who had just seduced and proposed to my roommate while she was on vacation in Florida. Fred took me aside one afternoon and told me, “I like you, kid and since I’m taking your roommate and I’m pretty sure you can’t afford this beach rental on your own, why not come on out to Florida? I’ll find you a place to stay, give you a job and you’ll be surrounded by naked women”. So I loaded up my truck and moved to Paradise. Lakes, that is. Swimmin’ pools. Porno stars. (insert banjo solo here).

I wake up every morning (well almost every morning) knowing that today is a wonderful gift to be unwrapped and explored. I believe that every day is filled with limitless possibilities and endless abundance. I’m convinced that our true purpose in life is to interact with our fellow beings and give witness to this amazing universe that surrounds us.

If you are searching for miracles in life, you need go no farther than your backyard to realize that we are living in the midst of the greatest miracle of all.

Slip Sliding Away

The Ballad of Texas Tom Lawry

Monsoonal Moisture

Time to Adjust the Sails

BrokeDick Mountain

The Road to Shambala

Miracurl on Ice

Bad Instant Karma

Heart & Soul

Bolo Bros Forever

About Wali,
The Grateful Dude

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