Any Cockledoo

I told you about how I used to ditch school and hitchhike to Santa Cruz as a teenager, right? Well, this one time two of my friends and I were doing just that, to score a vial of liquid acid. We punks three, posted up at the entrance to Highway 17 and stuck our resin coated thumbs in the air. There's nice enough folks in the area, so you'd usually get a lift within 15 or twenty minutes. It wasn't long before a white pick-up truck with a Black Flag sticker on the back pulled over and let us cram into the cab. Let's call this guy, Jared. So Jared seems like a cool dude. He's in his twenties, kind of a rocker/skater looking bro. We get to talk, and it turns out we have some mutual friends. We blaze. He asks us why we're going over the hill, and we don't bother lying. He's pretty stoked on the idea of tripping on some legit lsd, so he gives us his number and the ride was unmarked by any weirdness or misfortune. Jared drops us off by the Boardwalk, where he says he has some business to do involving his Dad's electrician company. We speedwalk through the flats, avoiding the cholos who are virtually shoving coke and heroin at us. Once down on the Pacific Garden Mall, we skip over to hippie corner and within minutes, a guy named, get this, "Christ", says he can hook up a vial (100 doses) for $75. This is pretty decent deal, so we go with it. Cut to us down at the levy eating full eyedroppers of the acid and smoking some of that lovely Santa Cruz Mountain goodness. Jump cut to a film of us stumbling down the mall doubled over with maniacal laughter. Faces red, pupils like dinner plates, waving cigarettes around like some twisted interpretive dance. We decide that Taco Bell sounds like a good idea. Maybe not to actually eat, but rather to just observe and discuss. Why does that guy in line look familiar? Oh, shit, he's trying to talk to us? It's Jared. I can remember that much, but my attention span is completely shot. I can't really hold up my end of the conversation. "So, I take it you guys got the acid?... ride back... trip, too." I know he's trying to tell me something, so I just nod and try in vain to keep a straight face. Speaking of faces, this dude is just way too close to me while he's talking. I'm outside smoking a cigarette. My friends are there, too, but they're moving across the parking lot. Oh, yeah, the white pick-up w/ the Black Flag sticker... We're headed back over the mountains. Jared is driving, it seems, way too fucking fast. He must have eaten some of the doses, because he's rambling about the skidmarks on the center divide looking like rainbows. No shit. The stereo is on and it's really loud industrial metal. But it's kinda groovy, too. Sweaty sounding. I know this sound, it's gotta be an Al Jourgenson project. There's a lot of kinky samples, and someone keeps repeating, I think, "Gee you're looking good." [The actual lyric is Linger Ficking Good - ed]. It's really fucking me up in the best way possible... great fucking peak whilst snaking through switchbacks. The evening fog rolling down from the summit is alive... this song is fucking crazy... good times, people. Stay tuned. I'm out for now, but let the Revolting Cocks fuck you up with their psychedelic blend of grunts, and groans, and malfunctioning equipment.
...maybe you're in need of a trip.

"It's a RevCo World" (DL)