Santa Barbara


Sitting here and doing nuthin’ and enjoying every second of that nothing while it lasts. It never does. All that reality and shit. Got an email about a summer solstice party somewhere in town here which got me to remembering summer solstices waaaaaaaaaaaaay back in the late seventies when there didn’t seem to be so much reality and shit. It was a big hippie thing, the solstice, don’t know why, but Santa Barbara was about as hippie as it got back then and every solstice they had a big parade of hippies in Santa Barbara right there on State Street. Imagine that now. Anyway there’d be a mellow throng of longhairs with beards and hairy legs and body odor and acoustic guitars playing Friend of the Devil and Sugar Mountain and god it used to drive us punks nuts. We couldn’t stand hippies. So we’d make plans to harass them somehow, getting up early and raising hell, just to bug them.  We’d all get together the night before and conspire and get high and conspire and get higher and play loud records and get even higher and inevitably it would end up with us pairing off and spending the night screwing our brains out.  Morning would come and someone would try and get us up but we were all too hungover and fucked out to harass anybody.  Afternoon would come and we’d eat and start getting high and the cycle began anew, though the screwing part generally began first on the weekends. Then the partying. Then the getting wasted. And more screwing. Ya wonder how anything got done at all.

Come to think of it, nothing did.

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