Chapter 1: Out of Paradise

Chapter 1: Out of Paradise

1972 was the longest year in the history of man. It was a leap year and the Coordinated Universal Time committee added 2 leap seconds to the clock. It was a time of bell bottom pants and drive-in movies. A time of vinyl LPs, 8 track tapes and pet rocks. A time of Monty Python, Led Zeppelin and digital watches. It was also a time of war. The 1972 Vietnam draft nominees are about to be called and I’m not about to take any chances.

My mother - my Mother, a half Bohemian, 1940’s era American Airline stewardess turned kindergarten teacher, drops her 19 year old son off at the on ramp of highway 99, dark clouds looming on the horizon, knapsack on his back, heading south out of Paradise, California, on her way to kindergarten - and his to the World…

And just the night before, she comes home from school pulling her hair, ranting and raving, going, “What the fuck’s wrong with kids these days?” And, trust me, in 1972, kindergarten school teachers don’t use the word "fuck" very often. “They have absolutely no discipline, no morals, no respect. They are unruly, disorderly, uncontrollable, don’t listen, don’t pay attention, …” (the kids, not kindergarten school teachers). – Now, these are 5 to 6 year olds in 1972 and she’s a veteran, elementary school teacher of over 20 years and never, throughout her tenure, had she ever complained about the state of her students – So she does a bit of demographic research and out of her class of 20 odd students – 2, count ‘em, - 2 of them live with their natural parents. In other words, over 90% of her students had come from broken or dysfunctional families – either separated, divorced, never married, don’t know who the father is… And, seriously folks,  ya gotta ask yerself, “What the fuck’s wrong with this picture? “ – Now, multiply that by the number of years up to the current time frame and you can’t help understanding why the western world is deteriorating the way it is - Why gangs are replacing the family unit, gangs that are the family unit, drive by shootings, mass murders, mass murderers, indiscriminate shootings and bedlam in post offices, public schools and fast food chains and why, not only America, but the rest of the western world is in the state of decay it is.

Case in point - A future girlfriend of mine's mother, also a teacher in an inner city high school in Oakland, California, where whites are the minority, tells me about the number of violent gang related incidents, drug deals gone bad, rapes, murders and general mayhem that take place every year on campus - a high school campus - where students are searched, screened and scanned every day before entering home room and locker inspections reveal guns, knives, chains and other weapons of mass destruction and Survival 101 has the highest attendance rates.

Another case in point - on the opposite side of the globe - Years later, nearly 20 years later, my folks are visiting me in Japan. They have just retired and are off on a six month tour around Asia. So, here they are spending a month or so with my wife and I and their two grandchildren in Shizuoka, Japan and we take them on a road trip to Kyoto. Now, Kyoto is the epitome of everything Japanese, ancient Japanese, the former Japanese capital, the former center of Japanese civilization and culture. We’re visiting Kiyomizu Temple, a grandiose edifice perched on a hill overlooking Kyoto, when along come a group of Japanese high school students on their annual cultural field trip. In the best English they could muster, they all call out “Harro, Harro,” and begin querying my mother, “Where are you come from?” She tells them she’s a retired school teacher from California. They get all somber, clasp their hands together to their foreheads, bow deeply, with the utmost awe of respect and go, “Ah, sensei desu ka?" (Ah, you’re a teacher!) The tears begin welling up in my mother’s eyes. She had never in her life experienced the type of cordiality and respect that was displayed by this group of Japanese high school students on their annual cultural field trip to Kiyomizu Temple in Kyoto. What more can I say and why, you might ask, I’ve been on the road ever since...

Ah, Christ, it’s starting to rain. Just what I need on my first day out.  Car, eh, no luck. I look across the road and there’s the Texaco gas station where I lost my virginity – 15 years old, joy riding in my parents' 1968 Mustang, down to see my good friend Drew working in his father’s Texaco gas station. We’re shooting the shit, he’s fixing a flat tire and along comes a car load of girls on their way to a party – Now, what more could a 15 year old kid, joy riding in his parents' 1968 Mustang hope for than a car load of girls passing by on their way to a party? Uh, let me think - Absolutely nothing! “Uh, party? Me? Uhhh, OK!” The next thing I know I’m being ravished by an 18 year old cheerleader in the backseat of my parents' 1968 Mustang – Don’t you love it when a plan comes together…

Ah shit, headache’s coming on, the rain’s getting worse and more cars are passing me by – “What the fuck’s wrong with you people, leaving a helpless kid on his way hitchhiking to Europe at the on ramp of highway 99 in the middle of a rain storm with a rail splitting headache? What the hell have I gotten myself into this time?”

Like the time we were hitching back from the Rainbow Family gathering in the Lewis and Clark National Forest in northern Montana just that previous summer – You know, the conglomerate of latter day hippies, the spillage of Haight Ashbury, tree huggers, whale savers (now, how many whales do you suppose there are in northern Montana?), Jesus freaks, Jesus look-alikes, Jesus impersonators, Jesus reincarnated, Jesus himself, Hari Krishna, Hari Krishna wannabes, the remnants of the Manson family and us… We leave Paradise - my girlfriend, me and my bud Ellis in his ’69 El Camino on a road trip to the Rockies. Now Ellis was the kind of guy who weaned himself off tobacco with weed, and Ellis, being Ellis, after the gathering, just like that, decides he's staying in Idaho. So, my girlfriend (damn if I can remember her name – let’s just call her Jane). So, Jane and I start hitching our way back to California. Our first ride, which doesn't take too long, is with a couple of young fly fishermen from Wisconsin on a fly fishing mission throughout the northern Rockies.

We set off up through Glacier National Park - through some of the most spectacular mountains and glaciers on the face of the Earth - and set up camp for the night next to a gurgling stream in the middle of the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. No sooner had they set the emergency brake, when out come the fly rods and a mad dash is made to the river. Swish, swish, swish, swish, plop - Within minutes they're snagging these gorgeous rainbow and german brown trout and faster than a tit falling out of Bai Ling's blouse, we have this massive feed of the most magnificent trout known to man. “Whoa, how the hell you do that?” I say, “Here let me see that.” And with a couple of pointers and a fly rod in my hand I set out to catch me a trout - Swish, swish, swish, swish, plop – Nothing - Swish, swish, swish, swish, plop – Nothing - Swish, swish, swish, swish, plop – Nothing – I can see the damn fish swimming around my fly floating on the water above laughing at me – Needless to say, my fly fishing career is short lived until revived in New Zealand over 20 years later – But that’s another story.

So, with me on wood detail and Jane in the camp kitchen cleaning fish, we prepare ourselves for a most excellent banquet of campfire trout. Dishes cleared, another beer in one hand, another joint in the other, rubbing our bellies, listening to Iron Butterfly pouring from the car’s 8 track stereo when out comes the Angel Dust – You know, the stuff they subdue elephants and 19 year old kids with. So, here we are sitting around the campfire doing all the above when we hear this commotion going on down by the river (hey, sounds like a Neil Young song – speaking of Neil Young, I once posed as a member of his road crew to get free entry to a rock festival in Japan – But that’s another story). So, we hear this commotion going on down by the river and we get up to investigate. It’s getting on past midnight by now, we’ve been drinking and smoking since the early evening and were fucked up on angel dust. A group of teenage Blackfeet Indians had driven down to the river and had been doing similarly. As they were making their way back home, they back their car off the riverbank and their left rear tire gets snagged on a tree root growing out of it and can't get out. They’re all scratching their heads, pondering the situation and ask our two fly fishermen friends from Wisconsin if they could go into town and help them find a tow truck to get them unsnagged. So, our two fly fishermen friends from Wisconsin do exactly that. Now, where are you going to find a tow truck in the middle of the Blackfeet Indian reservation after midnight (hey, sounds like an Eric Clapton - more like a J. J. Cale song, unfortunately, I can’t think of any Eric Clapton or J. J. Cale stories off hand, never mind) but at the local pub.

So, about 30 minutes later here come our two fly fishermen friends from Wisconsin followed by a 4 wheel drive pickup with a load of drunken Blackfeet Indians – complete with cowboy hats, cowboy boots, plaid cowboy shirts and guns strapped to their waists. I’m thinking, “Oh Christ, just what we fucking need – a pickup load of drunken Blackfeet Indians with cowboy hats, cowboy boots, plaid cowboy shirts and guns strapped to their waists.” They mull over the situation and tell the drunken teenagers that they will unsnag their car for 100 dollars.

I’m standing over by the drunken teenagers and they’re asking each other, “You got a hundred dollars?”

“Nope, not me.”

“Don't look at me.”

“Me, you joking?”

“OK, here’s the deal," the driver says. "I’ll be in the driver’s seat, and when we get unsnagged and on solid ground, the rest of you jump in real quick and off we go.”

So, the unsnagging attempt begins. The drunken barroom Indians, guns strapped to their waists, stumbling and staggering all about, begin attaching their winch to the drunken teenager’s front bumper and the drunken and drug induced rest of us are standing back watching the spectacle in amazement. I gotta admit, they did put their best effort into it, under the circumstances, but no banana. And after an hour or so of winching and 4 wheel driving, they finally give up and want their 100 dollars anyway. And rightly so, being rousted out of their local firewater den after midnight in the middle of the Blackfeet Indian reservation to rescue a group of hapless drunken teenage Indians.

“Uh, sorry, we don’t have a hundred dollars,” the teenage driver sputters.

"What do you mean, you don't have a hundred dollars?" Cochise counters.

"Yeah, where's our hundred dollars?" Crazy Horse adds.

Oh Christ, out come the guns and up to the side of the drunken teenagers’ heads.

"We want our fuckin’ money,” Geronimo demands.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into this time?” My life starts flashing before me. Ellis on his way to Idaho, all the Jesus impersonators and Hari Krishna wannabes I met the day before, Drew and the times we spent at his father’s Texaco gas station across from the on ramp of highway 99, joy riding in my parents’ '68 Mustang, my ravishing 18 year old cheerleader… I could see it all now – Lock Stock and 6 Smoking Barrels - They’re going to shoot all of the Indian kids over a hundred dollars and then they’re going to shoot all of us just because we’re there. I take my girlfriend, uh, what was her name? Oh, right, Jane. I take Jane, who, by this time, is totally freaking out – smashed on alcohol, buzzed on pot, comatosed on elephant tranquilizer, ranting and raving, going, “Oh no, oh no, they’re gonna shoot ‘em. They’re gonna shoot ‘em.”

And me, I’m not in much better shape, going, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” So, I take Jane and we sneak off into the shadows, over to the campfire, grab our sleeping bags and steal our way out into the forest as far the fuck away as we could possibly manage.

The next morning we make our way back to camp and find the Indian kids crashed in their car, beaten to a bloody pulp, coagulated blood streaking down their faces and their car still snagged on the tree root growing out of side of the river bank.

A car just stops – For me? I throw my knapsack in the back, shake the rain from my hair, the rattle from my roll, and I’m out of Paradise.