I could feel my whoremones raging in the belly…I relaxed with great vigor and the convertible ride through light and action brought back the sweetest memories of cruising the streets of LA with the poet Lefty Hyerdahl in my ’68 Impala, me in my Giants hat, he in his Dodgers blue, both in shades…all the post-Angelians looking at us like Frisco Queers as we sped by in that run-down bucket of bondo and verse…
I put away all my effontry and put matchsticks between my eyelids for maximum optical intake…We obviously had no agenda, just the mild feeling of our slashing movements and the continued cannibus we smoked like Vikings, passing from front to back as our heads turned to watch a pack of women samba by, street vendors hawking the parts of the sow, and my favorite bacon-wrapped hot dogs…it was a city, by God, and this city wanted to stay up late…Oscar parked the rig and we humped out onto the well worn sidewalk, briefing ourselves on degeneracy in order to corral some female admirers…we had landed in an oft-tracked borough and the first club we came to looked promising enough…it had a line ten people long and each time the door opened to let someone in or out, the great rush of hot air and noise, a breathless cocktail, would intoxicate our mouths and eyes like manna…finally, after 20 minutes, we were ushered in by the bouncer with a dent in our change purses…the immediate let down was a collective grunt…the place was a hovel, and wall to wall Mexico. Being assuredly cooked, the last place I suddenly remembered I would want to be when this stoned was a claustrophobic, windowless mansoup with very little English speaking to speak of…most of the women wouldn’t speak a lick of my native tongue, and my Spanish was only good in light, wind, space, sand, sea, or six foot waves…I was doomed to sip drinkies and hope that David would feel my pain, while Jon and Oscar got busy (and they had already picked out their conquests)…We put back Jack and Cokes and looked around like fuckheads, caught inside, rolling in the green room with no rudder…It was clear that San Pedro had spoilt me, for in the small beach town, everyone was looking to make it, where sometimes, and as you will see when I get back there, a woman comes up to you with nothing more than the intention of taking you somewhere to take a few pumps…but here, back in the ditch we were in, it just got more crowded, more tight, and more boring…
- Michael Price
