Did I ever tell you the one about the hippy kid I met a long time ago back in L.A. somewhere around the time I moved into my first apartment?
I don’t know that we actually met as much as he glommed onto me during a show – which I can’t for the life of me remember the content of. I vaguely remember it being in the Valley but I also remember David and Karen being there and I can’t think what show could possibly have convinced Karen to go to the Valley.
The guy was incredibly young and not my type on any level but at the time I knew nothing about setting boundaries or being clear in my communication about, NO and somehow we ended up hanging out. This part is a little cloudy. He probably manipulated me into giving him a ride home.
He was a very happy little hippy but his circumstances were a bit heart crushing. He lived in a week-to-week motel in Van Nuys. I recall a lot of chain-link fence in the area. He made money by painting address numbers on the curb in residential areas.
I’ve never seen that around here so I will explain how this works. You, as the homeowner, would receive a notice in your mailbox telling you that your curb would be painted. If you didn’t want it painted, you were to tape the notice over your old faded numbers. If you did not, or forgot, someone would paint your house numbers on the curb. Later the painter would come by and collect some money … not much, maybe $7. The idea was this would help emergency vehicles find your house.
This was how HippyBoy made enough money to go to shows and do whatever he did.
We went out one time. I had to pick him up. It’s hard not to think that my wheels weren’t a big part of the attraction. We went to see the Purple Turtles. If I’d only known then that this was a preview into my future I might have paid better attention. If you think I’m not into hippy bands now, you should have seen me back in the 80’s as knockdown drag-out fulltime 100% rocker girl. It wasn’t my thing and he wasn’t my kind of guy. But he was into it and there was nothing I could say that could convince him otherwise.
It got to the point where he’d call the answering machine and leave endless messages. I could be out working late or at the grocery store and there’d be these pitiful messages imploring me to please pick up. Not to shine him on. Etc.
I think I finally got mad at him, or maybe he gave up. But sometimes when I’m with Bob at one of these massive hippy gatherings, I wonder if HippyBoy is still blissing out to the scene.