You Just Can't Make This Stuff Up

As I've mentioned in previous posts, when you talk to my father, there are certain obligatory subjects that are bound to come up. Loggins and Messina is one, and another is Al Kooper, who is, among other things, a musician from one of my dad's favorite bands, Blood, Sweat and Tears. My dad likes to talk relentlessly about Al Kooper because he and old Al once shared a joint at Venice Beach - and this was before my dad even liked pot! (That's always part of the story.)

Although I like to fancy myself a grade-B rock-snob, I had never heard of Al Kooper from any source except my father (insert grade-A rock-snob snickers here) until watching a rerun of No Direction Home, the Scorcese-directed Dylan special on PBS (which is excellent). Turns out, Kooper played the amazing sounding Hammond organ on the song Like a Rolling Stone, and he was interviewed for the show (the story of how he got himself on the track is pretty funny, but rather that detailing it here I'll refer you to the actual show or the Wikipedia link included above). As soon as I saw him, it all made sense. Kooper has the same aging weird dude vibe - almost to the point of recklessness (at least in terms of fashion) - as my father.

Anyway, I seized the opportunity to make my dad proud, and triumphantly emailed him that I now know who he's talking about when he talks about Al Kooper. The reply was a reiteration of the Venice-joint-before-he-even-liked-pot-story, then some rambling about Steely Dan, and then this:

"Someday I'll tell you the infamous story of my 1st joint, bought in Tijuana on my 18th birthday."

Within an hour, I received another email detailing that story, and it is too wonderful not to share. Here, without edits or explication (which, admittedly, would be impossible), it is:

I've got 17 more minutes to kill so I'll tell you the story now. We didn't have but a couple Mexicans @ Poway HS, no african-americans, an Apache and a sissy French exchange student. Paul & Danny were actually Spanish Mexicans, Tall & slim, not Indians. Paul was maybe Dan's age, smooth, well groomed, athletic & studious. Danny was my age & a real Pachuco. We didn't hang out much together. Maybe Danny was set back a grade because I was old for my class & he was already 18 on 2/9/65, which you had to be to cross the border alone. It may have even been a school night, but I was pretty daring, having just lost my virginity with the only New Year's resolution I ever made (thank you, 7th fleet for being out to sea, & you cynthia white for staying in New Year's Eve @ 9 months pregnant). So we drank some Zombies, then Danny bought a joint from a cab driver. Can't remember where we smoked it, but I was sure I was doomed (turned out I was right). Anyway, we were East of Ave Revolucion & Danny wanted to visit a whorehouse. I had no interest, & was suffering from the whirlies badly. We entered, Danny grabbed a girl & I tried to find the bathroom. "Bano," I moaned, "?Donde esta?" I was pointed to the door at the right. When I stumbled in there were 2 girls there. "Agua, necesito Aqua". They pointed behind me & I saw a bucket filled with scummy liquid. Not wanting to offend my hosts by refusing the water, I splashed my hands in the slick then & plunged my head in. That brought hilarious squeals from the girls, who called evryone one in, including Danny's girl, to join in the laughter. Turns out there was a sink with faucets just to my left, & I'd just soaked my head in the douche bucket. It did cure the whirlies.