"The Warriors, The Warriors Did It!"

When I rode my motorcycle from New Jersey to California in 1966, back then there was no damn pussy helmet required. We didn't huddle in doorways to smoke, we had what we called "ashtrays" right inside. People worked a job and then got a pension for their years of service to the company. "Safe sex" was watching for cops or familiar cars pulling in where you were parked. You could get a ticket for speeding without having your trunk searched and the back seat pulled out. People drank and let their hair down at the office Christmas party. Toxic waste was dumped WAY out of town, all the way down by the river, so nobody worried. The good old days, when men were men, and women . . . thought it was okay.

Back in 1971, I worked for a while at Hobie Cat down in San Juan Capistrano, making catamarans. There was a sign on the wall that said, "We gratefully acknowledge the part marijuana has played in the production of Hobie Cats. Signed: The Management." I worked the second shift, and the foreman would come in every night with a couple cases of beer, his dog, and sometimes his girlfriend. It was such a nasty job with all the fiberglass and resin, the secretary in the office wouldn't even give an application to anybody applying with short hair, afraid all the surfers and hippies working there would think it was an undercover cop and quit, and they'd never get enough straight workers to fill out a crew.

In the early '90s, I worked as a driver in a car wash owned by two biker brothers. One day we did eight cars short of 1200; it was a BIG car wash. The foreman would walk around with a giant soda cup with a plastic lid with a straw running into the 16 oz can of beer inside. A couple times when guys would show up wasted, they'd just be told to go lay on the couch by the time clock until they were up to working. Just back from lunch one day, a guy pulled in driving a Volvo and told me, "You can have what's in the ashtray." (It was FULL of nice roaches!)

Working at a bed and breakfast on my first Saturday morning, the boss was making potato pancakes while his wife welcomed the guests and set up juice. The guy had a cigarette in his mouth with a long ash on it, and darn if the ash didn't fall into the bowl. When I said something about it, he told me, "It's part of the recipe."

Just starting at a resort, I got a knock on my trailer door. It was the owner. "Sorry to bother you on your first day off, but somebody left these behind in their room. Want them?" And he held out four joints.

A girlfriend and I were living in Vancouver, Canada, wanting to move to the country. We ran an ad in the Sunday paper, which came out up there on Saturday, for a semi-isolated cabin or small house we could care take. A guy who owned a hotel in North Vancouver responded and said he had a property with a cabin near a lake he'd like to have someone living in to keep an eye on things, and we stayed in it for free, on two-hundred mountain acres, for fifteen months. (I have picture slides of the whole time. Wood stove, no electricity, carry the water, shotguns. And with no vehicle, we had to hitchhike up with all our supplies so we got to meet a lot of friendly locals, so life was always hoppin'. Or should I say "swingin'"? Yes I should.)

I picked apples for two five-week seasons, five years apart. First time in Oyama, B.C., and then in Wenatchee, Washington. (The second time I'd been hitchhiking around Northern California and Oregon with a blond girlfriend for about two months, but I broke up with her on the Steel Lane on-ramp to 101 in Santa Rosa, knowing the partying that went on in those apple camps at night, I didn't want to be tied down.)

Me and another guy planted Christmas trees for a farmer/pot grower up in Oregon. At the start of each day, and every day after lunch, he'd give us each a nice joint to smoke. (He also had several acres of raspberries he told us paid the bills for the year; the Christmas trees and pot were all profit.) I also planted trees way out in the bush with B.C. Forestry for a while, but with them you had to bring your own smoke.

I was working with a cleaning crew through a day-labor place in East L.A. one time, and we went to a ten-table pool hall to wash the windows and floor. I went back after work, and a couple weeks later I was managing the place.

A good gig is cutting firewood. And house/pet sitting is bearable and you get to hang out in a lot of different neighborhoods. House painting pays well and doesn't last forever. And there's always selling plasma in a pinch. If you can make money at doing something you enjoy and would be doing anyway, more power to ya. But if you go to work and put in your time just to get paid so you can have a place to live so you can work, what's the point? You can live really well on very little when you learn to keep the overhead down. And your time stays your own.

Life is short. Might as well do some living while you're busy surviving.

Or you can make your parents proud and just hang on waiting for those three-day weekends. (Four at Thanksgiving!)

Any questions?