“find anyone hangin’ in the park?”, yelled riff-raff. “Still early’,
i yelled back. there’s a few people I'd like to hang in the park myself, but i won’t. my x-wife must be getting desperate. been five years since our divorce. she must be looking for hidden assets, how else can you explain these creepo guys hiding in the brush, sneaking up on me in the middle of the night.
she left for Hawaii a month before my dad made his first trip to San Francisco. we’d already been divorced, but still wanted dad to meet her. he even bought a couple of sculptures and an original painting he’d done for our new apartment.
but his son had no wife, no apartment, no career, no money -
let’s face it - everything he wanted me to be, i wasn’t. he left without saying good-bye. haven’t talked since.
brought the artwork over to aunt Rosalie and uncle hank’s house in the Richmond district. 6th and Balboa is where the painting hangs over the fireplace in the living room, a sculpture on each side of the mantle.
“still hiding in a paper bag at golden gate park?”, joked uncle hank. “sure”, i said, “who’s gonna find me in a paper bag?”
“change would do you some good”, said aunt Rosalie after she heard about my planned trip to New York. who-are-they-and-what- do- they-want is what i wanna know. is this the price i pay for hangin’ at the pot clubs?
“human beings didn’t invent marijuana and have no right to regulate it’s use”, stammered Twitch the resident tweaker. a lotta speed freaks use pot to help with the crash landing. “like a parachute”, tweaked Twitch. “never forget the peace rallies in the sixties when half the hippies there were undercover, sometimes it felt like i was the only guy NOT undercover, that was probably the speed talkin’.”
“question authority, but don’t get drunk outside yer house!” riff-raff didn’t have a house. he wasn’t homeless, just at home outdoors.