Here's another short exerpt from my book THE ME GENERATION...BY ME (GROWING UP IN THE '60s). It's the PERFECT last minute Father's Day gift that you can order here. This is the perfect post for June 15th (you'll see why). It's 1967. I've just gone out on a date with Eleanor. During the date she casually mentioned that she was a witch.
Eleanor was extremely cute. Huge blue eyes, a slight over-bite (which works for me), svelte figure, and a Dorothy Hamill wedge haircut.
Afterwards we went to Sambo’s for dessert (yes, there was an actual coffee shop chain named “Sambo’s”) and I followed up on the witch thing. Her months in bed with mono required no further details (although I would hear them again… and again… and again). I asked, “So you mean you’re like Samantha in Betwitched?” “No,” she snorted, “that show is so unrealistic.” (Really? You mean you can’t wriggle your nose and turn someone into a hamster? Why isn’t there a disclaimer at the beginning of the show?)
It’s been awhile so I hope I can recall this correctly. Jesus blessed her by making her beautiful, but with the extra attention came people who would take advantage of her, or resent her. And so, as protection, since He might find himself preoccupied with other things (like seeing that the Packers covered the spread in the Super Bowl), He also blessed her by making her a witch. Her faith in Jesus was rewarded with an interest in the occult. And she now had the power to inflict curses (which she assured me she only did when absolutely necessary). I think that’s pretty much the gist. It was always my understanding that the Christian Bible strongly denounced any occult practices because they were the work of Satan, but why quibble?
She squeezed my hand as we walked to her front door and kissed me on the lips. Suddenly she went from major nutcase to delightfully eccentric.
Such are the concessions we make for a potential first girlfriend.
We started going out every Saturday night, usually to concerts.
Eleanor was what was commonly called a D.D.H. – damn door hugger. I’m surprised she didn’t fly out of the car whenever I took sharp turns (and there were a couple of nights I took sharp curves on purpose).
I would get my kiss on the lips goodnight. I would get to put my arm around her in the movies. And eventually we made out in my car. I was allowed to grope and pet but she always had to be fully clothed. I was never permitted to learn just how cold a witch’s tit really is.
At school she very friendly but not particularly affectionate. If I held her hand she didn’t pull away, but she never offered hers. She was usually surrounded by her magpie friends. Still, I would say we were an item… if only to the keenly observant.
The spring prom was coming up and I thought, okay, finally, here’s the perfect time to really make my move. Rumor had it that lots of girls lost their virginity on prom night – it being a special occasion and more importantly, curfews were relaxed.
So I rented a tuxedo, bought her the obligatory wrist corsage, and escorted her to the elegant Taft multi-purpose room for this gala occasion. It was my first prom and I couldn’t be more under whelmed. Overdressed classmates awkwardly milling about drinking punch or standing in a long line to get their picture taken. Missing this is what drove Janis Ian to madness?
After the prom I took Eleanor to Monty’s Steak House in Encino for a nice dinner (you can’t go to Shakey’s in formal attire). Then we drove to a secluded spot up in the hills for a little amore. At first I stabbed myself on her corsage but things improved. We were making out, she was seemingly receptive, so I reached behind to unzip her dress.
And she stopped me.
She wasn’t ready to do that (at least with me). I lied and said all the right things – I really cared about her, respected her, she was the most beautiful girl in the entire world, I would pledge to a coven. No dice. But she said it was because of her, not me. And then she explained. I must say, I’ve been given the brush-off a fair amount in my time, but no rejection since Eleanor’s could even compare when it comes to originality. She said she couldn’t get involved because of her birthday. I said, “You have to be at least 16, you’re a junior in high school.” No, no. That’s not what she meant. Her birth date.
Eleanor was born on June 15, 1950. That’s the middle of the month, the middle of the year, the middle of the century. It was her lot in life to always be in the middle, always stay uncommitted.
Even at the time I thought, “Wow, that was impressive. She’s a fucking loon but that was impressive.”
We broke up after that. My birth date is February 14th. We weren’t compatible. I was meant to gun down gangsters in a Chicago garage.
14 comments :
We all have colorful women in our past that linger in the mind. One of mine: when I turned her down for a date, she broke her beer bottle and slashed her wrist right in front of me.
And, if she'd gone 'all the way' . . . pregnant, marriage, birth, children raising children, eventual divorce, fighting, lawyers, fighting, child support, spousal support. And, because you were so young, no chance at your successful writing career. Dreams crushed.
I'd say you dodged a bullet. You should thank her!
Still laughing over the Janis Ian bit..
There is no "middle month of the year," since there are an even number of months...Your logic failed you at a critical moment.
You should have reminded her that her good part was in the middle of her body, right between her thighs. And you were a warlock.
Suddenly flashed to a moment in Cheers when Diane said "My heart says yes, but my mind says no." Sam manages to say something about a tiebreaker.
My 60s witch story:
Heading west on I-70 on a solo 1967 cross-country trip.....driving a big old Ford Fairlane with a HUGE V-8 under the hood.....picking up various hitch-hikers along the way.....Kansas City was always a bit of a boondoggle for hikers heading west....so on the outskirts of the city there had to be at least 30 bedraggled travelers.....so I loaded up with 4.....2 guys, 2 girls.
Lots of tokin' and jokin', rock'n'roll on the radio, and tall tales a-plenty.....about half-way across the state, Lorraine mentions in passing that she's a witch....not THAT huge a deal at that time....but as the trip proceeds she starts to get into small arguments with the other hikers.....I'm ignoring it 'cuz I got the white-line fever.....just enjoying the going.....but Lorraine starts spouting some incredibly wild and kinda scary tales.....it's getting obvious that the other passengers are NOT enjoying the show.....so one by one they announce that their plans have changed, and "just let me off at one of the next few exits".
As each one leaves, Lorraine gets a little crazier.....and after I dropped off the last rider, she turns to me and says. "Well, that worked pretty well"
"Huh? What are you talkin' about?"
She explained that she wanted to have the whole backseat to herself so she could lay down and catch some shut-eye.....AND she didn't want any conversation going on that would keep her awake.
"So you're NOT a witch?"
"Hell no......I'm a Mormon."
After laughin' my ass off for a few minutes, it was on the road again.
Gotta love the 60s.
Friday question: Both "Episodes" and "Californication" have story arcs involving television writers getting it on with hot young actresses on their shows. (Hilarity ensues.)
The public is well aware that movie producers and directors often have "special" relationships with star actresses, but in films, the writers tend not to be around for the shoot, whereas in TV, the writers are always there (along with the producers and directors of course).
No question David Duchovny and Stephen Mangan are attractive guys. My question: since television writers are writing these shows, how much of this is from their own or observed experience as television writers, and how much is wishful fantasy?
And Tina Fey's TV writer character on "30 Rock" dated a cute young actor for awhile.
Hey Ken, I just came across some vintage photos of the aforementioned Sambo’s restaurant.
Great story. Well told. It seems to me there was a Sambos in Santa Barbara until relatively late in the chains life.
Wow. I remember Sambo's.
I couldn't think of the name of that chain for many years...Thanks Ken!
I, too, remember Sambos ... in Bakersfield. Went there to celebrate my graduation from 8th grade. Hey, it was costly to take 7 people out to dinner on a middle-class budget.
I recall the menus told the story of L'il Black Sambo turning the tigers into butter to put on his hotcakes.
My grandparents used to take my cousins and I to the various Sambo's in the L.A. in the 70's. I honestly do not recall him ever being referred to a "Little Black Sambo", or any other racial/ethnic based promo material. He was just another mascot, like Big Boy; it wasn't until the big hub-bub about the name that I had ANY clue that the joint my family took me to was sorta racist. And my charmer of a Grandfather had "no use for the blacks", so I would've thought he'd revel in the place. Or maybe he did, and just kept it to himself.
Also, I felt that as a semi-observant Wiccan (Dude, there is SO MUCH STUFF/CRAP you HAVE to have to be Wiccan; candles in right colours, special knives and stones, an astronomical calendar to keep track of all the bloody holidays. It's exhausting), it is my duty to point out that just as with people that actually know martial arts, a "real" witch not only doesn't do around announcing it to the world, but they out use their abilities for *defense*, not *attack*. The Threefold Law of Karma, which says that anything you send out into the universe (good or bad) comes back threefold, is supposed to prevent us from even thinking about trying a "curse", and the few I've known who tried to "cast a curse" ended up being WAY more screwed than their target ever was. Karma is a bitch that doesn't take being dicked with lightly.
So yeah, here's a Fun Guide to Crazy Pagan Chicks for you; If she's just a tree hugger that calls herself Ravenclaw, with too many candles, crystals, and varieties of incense and tea, she's probably harmless. And a wild-ass minx in the sack; you'll have loads of fun until at least Burning Man.
If she claims to have "supernatural powers" or is into "cursing people", or even brings up the S Word (except to say "You do know I do NOT worship Satan, right?"), then for the love of Bowie-- RUN. That's a whole different level of Crazy Pagan Chick, and I don't care how good the sex is, you're in for a whole wide world of wacky. And these chicks think everything is ETERNAL and FATED and there's no way you're getting out easy later. RUN NOW.
Cheers, and blessed be,
Storm
Post a Comment