Write about an absolutely horrible time you’re still glad you had. Especially if it’s funny in retrospect.
~~~~~
What do you mean ? "When did they go back to green busses ?"
Drunk-a-logs are boring. Horrible and mundane. Yet sometimes there're ridiculous and funny.
San Francisco was a very different city in the early 70s. Full of comix, good music, cheap rents, and older hippies. It was a great city to be poor in. Me, I bounced around up and down the West Coast, Seattle to L.A. Acid, weed, and of course lots of booze. The booze was getting the better of me. But then I found a great job in "The City."
This was a small worker-owned printing co-op that specialized in rock posters, flyers, and pamphlets for various left-wing movements. About half a dozen folks that came tougher to earn a few bucks, without selling out to the man. I was the pre-press specialist, having been in the union a few years doing process camera work.
Now the way this place worked was by time-barter. Each of us would get a paying customer and barter the work out to fellow co-op mates. Then be responsible for receiving payment and passing it on. It was inefficient, but it worked.
My big deal was Bill Graham Productions, art dept. I had an in. Anyway, they were famous for paying in full and on time. A rare thing. So one week we were printing a bunch of 11x17 telephone pole posters for some show. I delivered the work and got a rather large check for this and past work.
So I had this large check and was on my way to the bank, but first I stopped off at the bar for a quick drink. I definitely remember that first drink. And then nothing. Some days later, I woke up in a strange apartment with a roaring hangover and had no sense of where I was. But living in San Francisco, I knew that all I had to do was walk downhill until I saw a bus stop, so I did.
Finally, a bus pulled up, opened its doors, and I said, "When did they go back to green buses?" The driver asked if I was getting on or not. "What do you mean?" he said. " All the buses are green." As I paid the fare, “Wait, what city am I in?" I asked. “Dude, this is Seattle. Are you going downtown?"
Oh shit, oh shit, I thought. How did I get to Seattle? I was supposed to bring the money back to the shop. I quickly dug through my coat pockets and found only about $100. Shit, a few moments ago I had $15,000. Did I go to the bank? I don’t remember. Did I cash the check? What happened to the red-haired hippy chick I met at the bar?
I had been gone for four days. When I got to a pay phone and called long distance back to the shop, everybody was yelling at me. I have no memory of leaving the bar, going to the bank, or the airport, or flying to Seattle. Four days in a complete blackout. Big-time horrible fuck-up.
The guys at the print shop said, “Don’t come back. We are pissed. And bad stuff will happen if we ever see you again.” They went on to explain that Bill Graham had made the money right. He was that kind of guy. But that if he found out that I was back in San Francisco, he knew some guys..... I did not go back for many years.
~~~~~
What do you mean ? "When did they go back to green busses ?"
Drunk-a-logs are boring. Horrible and mundane. Yet sometimes there're ridiculous and funny.
San Francisco was a very different city in the early 70s. Full of comix, good music, cheap rents, and older hippies. It was a great city to be poor in. Me, I bounced around up and down the West Coast, Seattle to L.A. Acid, weed, and of course lots of booze. The booze was getting the better of me. But then I found a great job in "The City."
This was a small worker-owned printing co-op that specialized in rock posters, flyers, and pamphlets for various left-wing movements. About half a dozen folks that came tougher to earn a few bucks, without selling out to the man. I was the pre-press specialist, having been in the union a few years doing process camera work.
Now the way this place worked was by time-barter. Each of us would get a paying customer and barter the work out to fellow co-op mates. Then be responsible for receiving payment and passing it on. It was inefficient, but it worked.
My big deal was Bill Graham Productions, art dept. I had an in. Anyway, they were famous for paying in full and on time. A rare thing. So one week we were printing a bunch of 11x17 telephone pole posters for some show. I delivered the work and got a rather large check for this and past work.
So I had this large check and was on my way to the bank, but first I stopped off at the bar for a quick drink. I definitely remember that first drink. And then nothing. Some days later, I woke up in a strange apartment with a roaring hangover and had no sense of where I was. But living in San Francisco, I knew that all I had to do was walk downhill until I saw a bus stop, so I did.
Finally, a bus pulled up, opened its doors, and I said, "When did they go back to green buses?" The driver asked if I was getting on or not. "What do you mean?" he said. " All the buses are green." As I paid the fare, “Wait, what city am I in?" I asked. “Dude, this is Seattle. Are you going downtown?"
Oh shit, oh shit, I thought. How did I get to Seattle? I was supposed to bring the money back to the shop. I quickly dug through my coat pockets and found only about $100. Shit, a few moments ago I had $15,000. Did I go to the bank? I don’t remember. Did I cash the check? What happened to the red-haired hippy chick I met at the bar?
I had been gone for four days. When I got to a pay phone and called long distance back to the shop, everybody was yelling at me. I have no memory of leaving the bar, going to the bank, or the airport, or flying to Seattle. Four days in a complete blackout. Big-time horrible fuck-up.
The guys at the print shop said, “Don’t come back. We are pissed. And bad stuff will happen if we ever see you again.” They went on to explain that Bill Graham had made the money right. He was that kind of guy. But that if he found out that I was back in San Francisco, he knew some guys..... I did not go back for many years.