Not Just Surviving Life

It was Thursday December 29, 1983. I was going to my first Grateful Dead shows. Well that was the plan. Actually I had no real plan. I was 17 and I and two friends were driving from LA to San Francisco to attempt to see the Dead on New Year’s Eve. We had no tickets, no place to stay and really no idea what we were doing. As I was driving my 1975 Toyota Corolla away from my dad’s house in Universal City, the car was making a weird sound. My dad later told me when he heard the car, he didn’t think we had a chance of making it the whole way to San Francisco, about eight hours away.  AI generated. Not me and my dad I picked up my two buddies Fred Delafield and Sean Runnette in Westwood. Fred had long hair, usually in a pony tail. He…

It was some time around 1992. I was maybe 26? I was on one of many trips with Todd in Central America. This time we were in Costa Rica. Manuel Antonio, to more exact. I believe we had been traveling with some friends, Anna Mendoza, Richard Gutenberg, and Sheila. In another story I will tell you about Sheila.  This tale doesn’t involve any of them. In fact we had separated from the group several days earlier because we could not handle Sheila and a “group” mentality of morons. Not you Richard. We felt bad for you and I think we even offered whisk you away with us, knowing you couldn’t abandon your girlfriend Anna. In any case, Todd and I were hanging out on the “post card” beach inside the National park of Manuel Antonio. A few years earlier in 1988 hurricane Joan came through and wiped a lot of…

This is a story about me, written by my dad. It is a letter that he wrote to my grandparents when I was 11 years old and had just started playing little league baseball. I think it is necessary to provide a counter influence in my development that can possibly answer the question of how I survived my childhood in such good shape. It was because of my dad, my rock. Dear Mom & Roy, Just had to drop a line and tell you about David’s Little League. I think I told you some but will start at beginning just so you have the complete picture. On the day of the tryouts he was very nervous and didn’t hit the ball once but was OK at fielding and great at throwing. So anyway we anxiously awaited a call to tell him if he made the Major or Minor league. One…

Summer of 1973. My parents had just separated. I was seven years old, my brother eleven. We were both living that first summer after the separation with my mom, until my dad could get settled and then we would live with him. I think even my mom knew custody of two small children was not a good idea for her. But for that summer, we lived with a mother that was out of control. It was a small three bedroom house in Canoga Park, CA. The bedrooms were within a whisper away from the living room. Post separation, and most likely pre separation, my mother was exploring her sexuality by rapidly dating both men and women. At this point, she wasn’t sure where she fell. When she did fall though, it was usually with a bottle in her hand. That was a wild summer of hedonistic parties, packed full of…

This is a seriously crazy, mind-fuck memory that I hope I do justice to. It starts with me picking up the phone a week before Christmas in 1989. I was 23. I was calling my dad and step mom, Debbie. Debbie’s mom who was in her late 70’s, answered. I could immediately tell something was wrong. Her voice was trembling and she seemed on the verge of hysteria. Over and over I asked her what was wrong. “Oh, …. it’s terrible……… terrible.” “Yetta, tell me what’s wrong.” “Oh, it’s terrible.” “WHAT?! What is it?” “I don’t know what hospital.” “Who is in the hospital? What are you talking about?” “Your Dad’s mother is in the hospital.” “Is she alright? What happened?”  She finally managed to tell me that my grandmother had a heart attack and was in the hospital. She didn’t know which though. This was before cell phones, so…

 I was in kindergarten at my Canoga Park elementary school in the San Fernando Valley. My school was 6-10 blocks from our house. It was a sunny California day and I was walking back from school, alone. In those days, 5 year olds did that sort of thing. As I was walking, I saw my mother in the distance coming down the road. I mean literally walking down the middle of the street. She was pulling a red wagon behind her. I was confused and happy at the same time. This was so out of the ordinary. I don’t remember my mom ever taking me to or from school, other than the very first day of Kindergarten (read about that memory). So the site of my mom walking towards me pulling a red wagon, full of toys as I discovered, was very odd and yet exciting. As she approached, I…

Strangely enough, when I think back on this memory, I do so with fondness. It is about the day I learned my mom attempted suicide. I was 18 or 19 years old. I was living on campus at my University. In those days, nobody had cell phones and our dorm rooms were new so nobody had land lines either. We had a pay phone in the lobby. When people called us, they would call the office and they would put a message in our mailbox. It was Saturday morning and after breakfast, I decided to go check my box for any mail or messages. A few letters and about 5 pink phone message slips. “Why so many,” I thought.   Friday night – 5pm – Call your dad. Urgent!  They were all from the night before and said the same thing, “Call dad, it is urgent!” I am immediately scared. What…

t was the early 1970’s in Canoga Park, California. For those who don’t know Los Angeles, that is out in the corner of the San Fernando Valley, one of the hottest and smoggiest parts of the valley. Back then, there were acres of open land and tumble weeds that would blow down the street during the Santa Ana’s. Look that one up. Canoga Park was just a drunken car ride from Calibasis where my alcoholic mom would frequent a saloon on a dirt road. I was told later in my life it was the bar that Charlie Manson hung out in.  My parents split up just after school let out for the summer of 2nd grade. My dad had enough sense to leave the chaos of drugs, tears, and yelling that surrounded my mom. He decided to leave my brother and I behind for the summer. Of course through the…

I was 10 years old. I know I wasn’t tall enough to reach the gas or brake pedals of my mom’s MG convertible. But that will come later. I was living in Westwood, CA and my mom lived in the San Fernando Valley. Anyone who knows LA, knows that distance is irrelevant. It is how long it takes to get there, that is the more accurate way of describing how far something is. It was about 35 minutes away. But to me, at 10, it was another land. Too far, even for a kid that took the bus all over the city by himself. This was over the Sepulveda Pass. But again, I am jumping ahead of myself. It was LA on a sweltering hot Friday afternoon in the summer of 1976. My parents were divorced and my alcoholic mom wanted to take me for the weekend. Despite the crazy…