Fast Times: The Sequel
The other night, they held the Second Annual Pub Crawl in our little village on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Some people drink to forget. Me, I drink to remember.
Anyway, the pub crawl was the brainchild of our friends Jeremy and Julie, who requested costumes this year, probably in an effort to protect our identities and reputations. The theme was TV and movies from the ‘70s and ‘80s (as if I were even born then).
But I played along, even though I was obviously the baby of the bunch. Two weeks later, I still haven’t found my car, and a significant part of my wardrobe is still missing, including the hairpiece I wear to weddings. And to the beach to keep the sun off.
Most of all, I miss my car. The Little German was an old beater that we relied on for trips to the Hollywood Bowl or to Dodger games. In L.A., you need one crappy car to drive to events where you’re sure the idiot parking next to you is going to ding your door, or to places where you might clip a curb in a desperate effort to flee. I guess that describes most places in L.A.
By the way, if I still seem a little drunk to you, blame the LeBoeuf sisters, Alisa and Missy, who wore pink pussycat outfits with fishnet tops. The connection to the ‘70s and ‘80s was tenuous, though no one complained, especially the men.
Gentlemen, stop your engines. Jeeesh.
The lovely LeBoeuf sisters apparently went to high school with the host, Jeremy. I know this is true because any time he would stop by our table at the pub crawl, the three of them would all smile devious little reptilian smiles.
I’ll always regret that I never went to high school in California, but I did see “Fast Times at Ridgemont High†about 14 times. We had Jeff Spicolis at our high school, too — who didn’t? — but the message I took away from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High†was that nearly everybody had a great time in California back in the ‘70s and ‘80s because, essentially, there were no parents.
I attended a high school near Chicago very similar to one in another movie, “The Breakfast Club.†It was a truth-aversive little suburb with really amazing facilities and ball fields for as far as the eye could see. We had a good time too, though instead of beaches, we had cornfields. Ever surfed a cornfield? Epic.
Anyway, this pub crawl reminded me a lot of high school, and what’s so wrong with that? The best part was when the 40 of us would walk along the busy boulevard from one bar to the other, one dude dressed like Wonder Woman.
As you might guess, this prompted a heavy police presence, for in our little suburb nothing much happens, especially after 2 in the afternoon, and this costumed pub crawl apparently had “Bank Robbery†written all over it. You can get away with almost anything in our progressive little village, but the townsfolk wake up and snort when you start messing with their money.
Witnesses will attest that there was a sheriff’s car at the steak house and another one hovering near the Conrad’s restaurant. If something bad was going down at Conrad’s, that would’ve been a first, because the place smells like chicken-fried meatloaf, attracting mostly retirees. I eat there almost hourly.
So, when the LeBoeuf sisters wandered into Conrad’s at 10:30 on Saturday night — well, yowsa. It was pretty much the most excitement our little town had seen since the Kiwanis installed that new flag pole over by the gazebo.
Suddenly, I must sound like Cheever or Brautigan, banging on the gates of great American literature. But theirs is the vibe I’m after, a sleepy little hollow suddenly alive with lust and laughter. Or at least laughter. Because, let me tell you, the wives were all keeping a pretty close eye on the LeBoeuf sisters in their fishnet tops — especially the wife I’m married to, who has eyes like a Cold War spy plane.
In fact, you’d think that if anyone could spot my missing car, it would be her. I could just hold her over my head like an ice dancer and trot her through several parking lots till she sighted it. I’d make the appropriate airplane noises. It’d be sort of fun.
We do that sort of stunt work a lot anyway, just to relieve the tension in our relationship, of which there is plenty: financial, emotional, sexual, financial, financial, financial.
We did, after all, just lose a $12 car.
Here’s the thing: I don’t think I lost the car so much as I merely misplaced it. No one would ever actually steal the Little German, for she explodes almost weekly. And like me, the car reeks of sauerkraut and leaves drip marks everywhere.
I am my car. My car is me. There is a small reward.
