Friday Night Movie – Teen Years

Drive in movie – Not the one in the story

Warning – This story is dirty.  If anything about sex offends you, please don’t read on;  but then again, if anything about sex offends you, I doubt you would’ve ever stumbled across anything of mine in the first place.   

My formative years were in the late 70’s, early 80’s.   It was hard time being a teenage boy, especially a nerdy, teenage boy, more especially, a needy teenage boy who was kinda chubby.  Girls weren’t really into you and you didn’t have the internet as a fall back position.  Going to an all boys prep school didn’t make matters any better; there weren’t even girls you could look at.  Your imagination and a few dog eared magazines were all you had.  It was a rough existence.  Then, one day, lighting struck, like manna from heaven it appeared, the drive-in movie theater a few miles away began showing x-rated movies.  Real sex, on a screen, but not just any screen, a drive in screen which made things even more magnified.  I had to get there, I had to see them, it was my mission. 

If I had put as much time in my school work as planning this mission, I would’ve gotten into Harvard.  This, my friends, was no ordinary bike ride.   It was a corn field where the stalks had been taken down, so now it was just acres upon acres of open space; with the exception of the start of a woods off to one side.   A long two landed semi paved road cut everything in half.  And in the middle of it all was the giant screen, visible for all the eyes to see.  Maps were drawn of the immediate area to plan both the attack and escape routes.  Weeks of reconnaissance missions took place to determine the actual best vantage point to see the whole screen.  Finally, things were set.

Now to pick a time, a night where we wouldn’t be missed for a couple of hours.  Yes, I recruited a friend for this mission.  He, like me, had no chance of even meeting a girl so he was all too willing to come.   We decided, a Friday, many others at a dance or other parties, we were missing Dallas.    We dressed in black, mounted our stylish ten speeds and headed off to movie paradise.  With the darkness all around us, the ride seemed to go on forever, and then finally as all hope seemed lost we came over a hill, and saw a light.  So, there we were, men, well boys, dressed in black riding along a lonely road two land road with a giant set of cleavage leading the way. 

We made it. It almost seemed too easy, like we were being set up.  Who cared, we were there.  We threw our bikes into the ditch by the side of the road and covered them with straw.  Everything was going perfect.  And then, the mad dash into the field.  I have never been blessed with speed, but on that night I covered that 100 yard sprint like an Olympic champ.   Finally, we came to rest, in the middle of a huge barren field with nothing to cover our whereabouts.   Laying low, we looked up and there she was, a giant women getting ready to take off her clothes; and unlike a magazine, she was moving.  It was a paradise, well except for the occasional cow shit which was not part of the plans.   But again, who cared, she was almost naked. 

And then, three minutes later, disaster struck.  Not only was she still not naked, but I looked back to see flashing lights in the direction of our bikes.  In our haste, the reflectors on our bikes gave us away.  All that planning, and now this.  We were busted.   A broad searchlight covered the field, but somehow missed us lying among the cow pies.  Could we have caught a break?  I didn’t breath.  I didn’t dare look up at the screen for fear of my reaction to a giant naked lady.  It was face down in what I hoped was dirt.    After what seemed like hours, the searchlight was off and the flashing lights went away.   She was just about naked, but we still hadn’t seen anything, should we tempt fate?   No way, it was time to make a getaway.   Amazingly, the run back to the bikes was even faster than the sprint there.  My partner in crime mounted his bike, and as we planned was off to the woods to lay low.  I too began to pedal furiously, but got no where.  It was then I noticed the straw in the spokes which prevented my wheels from turning.   I was going no where.  And then things got brighter, it wasn’t the sex on the screen, but the return of the flashing lights.  No way I was going down like this.  The woods were right there.  I picked up my bike and began to run.  It was valiant, but 10 ft into my getaway the cops had me dead.  I was a goner, busted, ready to be booked, questioned, fingerprinted, strip searched and denied admission to college based on something other than my shitty GPA.  I was ready to ask for my lawyer or more likely ready to cry, but then a miracle.   

“What were you doing?”

“Ummm, watching the movie.”

“What happened to your friend.”

“His bike didn’t break”

They laughed and told me to go home and not come back; and they screamed it loud enough so my missing friend would hear it too.  And then they were off.   As I started carrying my bike the five miles back to campus I heard rustling.  Was it a bear, a cow, no, just my friend who was coming out of the woods carrying his bike.  Apparently there was a swamp in the wooded area and he had to good fortune to ride directly into it.  Soaked from head to toe, we were quite a pair.  As we prepared for our walk back, I turned one last time to see a giant breast staring me in the face. 


Practicing Law – A quick story

Prior to whatever it is I do now, I used to practice law. This was back in the 90’s, when you actually had to do work because you didn’t have the internet to distract you.  For me, those days seemed endless.  Although I was a General Practice lawyer, somehow I had to good fortune of winding up with most of the the divorce cases in the two offices I called home.   At one point this would have been appealing.  Any child of the 70’s who was a fan Happy Days had to be moved by the episode when the guys, Richie, Potsie and Ralph started working for that divorcee who was “hot to trot”.   Divorcee = hot to trot.  The phrase burned in my head.  At the time I didn’t know any divorcees, so who was I to argue.  I found out 20 years later that Happy Days screwed me.  Divorcees weren’t hot to trot, most of the clients, both men and women were out of their minds. 

In my six years of practice, I learned that when handing a divorce, anything could happen, especially when someone says things will be easy.   First lesson of divorce law, when someone say uncontested, don’t believe them.  When I signed on as counsel, for what turned out to be my last case, I found the case was uncontested, expect for the fact that that there was cheating, stolen checkbooks, drugs, kidnapped kids, false businesses started and that was just the start.    

As the divorce was rolling along, and getting crazier by the minute, I was invited to dinner by the father of my client.  He was paying the bills for the contested part of this uncontested divorce so he wanted to know what was happening.  I agreed, and then immediately regretted it.  He chose a place in Little Italy and would be driving.  Now, at that point, I had seen my fair share of mob movies, and although this man wasn’t connected, as far as I know, I was still sweating.  Was he going to rub me out?  Would he just push me out of the car while driving over the bridge?  Why the hell couldn’t the client at least be hot to trot?  My paranoia kicked into full gear when I was invited to sit with my back to the door; now I wouldn’t see the hit coming.  When the waiter quietly came over to take our order I almost had a heart attack.  Every little shuffling of a chair or creaking of the front door made me jumpy.  I even thought about going to the bathroom to check for any guns taped to the back of the toilet. 

Of course the reality was far more bizarre than even my imagination.  Instead of rubbing me out, I spent the entire night being quizzed by some hot shot, pseudo celebrity attorney who was trying to steal the case from me.  I had spent months toiling over this insane case and now someone else wanted it. Just as I was about to happily relinquish control, my client stood up and said I was his attorney and he wasn’t changing.  He then stormed out of the restaurant leaving me with his father and this other lawyer who I’m sure billed for his time.  I honestly can’t remember much being said after that, except check please.

A happy post note.  The case was finally finished and my client lives a happy life to this day…and the attorney who tried to steal the case eventually got disbarred. 


Amsterdam at 50 – The Final 18 Hours

Urinal at Winston’s Cafe

Dear Diary:

5:00PM Last night in Amsterdam. Raining, but it’s supposed to stop. Choices – Order in food, watch movies and get up at 6:00AM for the flight or hope the rain stops, ride over to Winston’s and hang out. Last night in Amsterdam, I’m heading out to Winston’s.  

6:00PM Arrival at Winston’s Tavern, Warmoesstraat 129, Amsterdam. The amazing thing about Winston’s isn’t the Mick Jagger urinal, the two for one drink specials all day or the MLB baseball that plays on the TV, the best thing about it, is the outdoor cafe where meet people from all over the world who stay at the hostel attached to the bar. This trip I had already met people from England, Australia, Israel, Portugal, Germany, and even some guy from Texas, but honestly, I think he was lost and was checking out soon after checking in. It’s like a college dorm and frat house rolled into one. Spotted my friend from England and we once again began chatting about the insanity of Trump and the late night antics of her two roommates at the hostel.  

Some patrons at Winston’s

7:45PM. It’s raining, hard. There’s no way I could ride home. With a 9:00AM flight, I can stay here and wait it out or abandon my beloved bike of ten years. Time to get some food.  

8:00PM Having the one table under cover, other people begin to fill in the remaining spaces. Seated around me is the woman from England, her two Finnish hostel roommates, two college aged girlfriends from Amsterdam who were Winston’s regulars, and two guys, one from Germany, one from Finland, also in college. I’m the oldest one here by over 20 years, these poor kids.

8:15PM Everyone chatting like a model UN session. It turned out the college guys and the Finnish girls had met on a bar crawl the night before. The girls from Amsterdam were just out for a night of partying. When they asked me my story I elaborated about living in Vegas, certainly slightly more interesting than the nightlife of New City, the kids going off to college and my 50th birthday. Drinks flowing, the smell of colitas and the rain kept coming. At this point, they either think I’m some quirky American with interesting opinions, or they’re just fucking with me.

9:30PM Rain lets up. For me, a perfect time to ride home, for my crew a perfect opportunity to go to another bar. They decide on the Sky Lounge and I decide to pee one last time because there’s no way I could hold it in during 13 minute ride home, certainly not after the four gin and tonics they had bought me. I held it longer than normal because I already went five times and if they really did for some reason think I was cool, I didn’t want my kid sized bladder to shatter that image. Peeing into the Mick Jagger lipped urinal one more time, I came back down to say goodbye to my international friends and get their snapchat names so we could stay in touch. Then the impossible happened, they insisted I continue to go party with them. I’m not sure what kind of parallel universe I was in, but reminding them of my flight did nothing. I was assured they would make sure my ass was on the plane at 9:00AM. Let’s face it, I would most likely never thought of as being this cool again. Off down Warmoesstraat to the Sky Lounge.

10:00PM Sky Lounge Amsterdam Surprisingly, with some more drunk than others, we made it to the Sky Lounge, an amazing rooftop bar near Central Station. More drinks and still no one telling me its time to go. How I wish I could go back in time and convince my 20 year old self that one day, well at least for a night, people actually thought I was cool…although writing this last sentence proves how false this statement really is.  

10:45PM I can confirm, after my second trip, that the bathrooms here are much nicer than Winston’s. 

The cool kids included me

11:30PM For someone who normally goes to bed at around 9:00PM I’m up way later than normal. Starting to feel sleepy and feeling whatever perceived coolness I have left draining from my body, I hear the following:  

“Lets go to an all night dance club.

Yeah, lets do it.

I know where there’s one.

It’s not like the black out party I went to in Berlin, but it will be great.

Sounds good, let’s get a cab.”

The moment of truth. What would I do? What would I say? 

“I can’t, I’ll never make my flight. 

Are you kidding you have to come.

Don’t worry we’ll get you to your bike by 5AM.

You’ll have the time of your life.”
Do I dare continue this adventure? Was I some part of a social experiment gone bad? I can’t believe I have to go to the bathroom again? There was no way I was going to press my luck. I was going out on top. So despite the protests, and my immediate self-doubt, we finally parted ways, them to dance and me to pee one last time before the ride home in the rain.    

#amsterdam  #Winstons #Netherlands #belushi #rollingstones