Us in 1989, in front of our brand new car. I was a week from 32 and believe I had started to shave.
Think that was our second Chevy Celebrity, which all the cops drove, and as we cruised down the Hollywood streets all the other cars would slow down and the crack dealers would slip into the shadows. We were never broken into, even outside Al’s Bar in the optimistically named Arts District just off Skid Row. Not even a crackhead was dumb enough to break into an undercover cop’s car. Sometimes even cops thought I was a cop, and would nod or make secret hand signals so not to blow my cover. I didn’t know the signal but would nod back. I also worked for the CIA and FBI and learned how to say I’m not Migra en español. I remember showing up at a gig to nervous whispers at the door. I got out of the car and a girl came out to meet me. Can I help you officer? Sure, I said, you can help me unload my drums. She carried the snare. Fun car.
That’s a movie star’s jacket, some huge gnarly hunk, I can’t remember who. A friend had copped it from his starwaggon. He had two, she said. Fyl still has that black jacket she’s wearing. It still fits.
Anyway we look very sweet in our nice couple buying a car get ups and clearly not the sort of people who had loud drunken parties full of punks, freaks and losers in their house every single weekend.