Mustache

My god, a mustache. I don’t remember that at all. Otherwise I look like every other 22 year old kid stuck in post hippie late ‘70’s Santa Barbara, bored out of his fucking mind. I was totally into punk rock but this being Saint Babs and not LA you could still look like this even if you couldn’t stand the Dead. It was summer of 1979, tho’, and apparently somebody cut my hair soon after the picture was taken, probably some chick who was nuts about me but I was too dumb to notice. Apparently there was a string of those—the female to male ratio in Isla Vista then was 60 to 40, and if you were male and breathing you could get a date—but I was completely and utterly oblivious. I once spent a couple hours alone with an attractive willowy coed with eyes like deep pools (I wrote) on her bed in her softly lit dorm room interviewing her for my writing class and she was laying back and looking seductive and purring and I laid at her feet (bare, by then) taking notes as she ran her fingers up and down my arm. She’s touching my arm, my notes said. I was very serious about being a journalist, and I did get an A on that essay. But I wasn’t a drummer yet. Maybe that explains it.

Anyway, I assume that my feeble attempt at a mustache blew off in a Santa Ana. Otherwise Fyl would not have bothered with me a few months later, as she detested mustaches and hippies, nor was I taking notes.

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