Vanity

I want to post at least one thing on the internet that proves Jimmy Z surf pants did exist and some people did wear them. I was one of those people caught up in the fad that involved velcro belts. The shorts were more popular but I went all out and bought the pants. I could be wrong that these were those Jimmy Z pants because a lot of pants had velcro belts. I guess I had a zipper head and cleanly shaved for my job (that Help Wanted sign would soon be removed thanks to me) at the Golden Goose on Sagamore where I drank Yoo Hoos in the walkin cooler with Billy D. and checked out the discarded Hustler mags and filled the beer bucket with ice from the cooler in back. That box on the wall is called a telephone booth. Me and that trash can got real close that summer of 1986. Go Sox!


How many gallons of water did this beard save? And when you are living in the desert water is something you pay attention to. This was during my "Zero Resource" period in California. I felt and still feel that the environmental crisis is so compelling that major sacrifices are all that will save the wolf. This period of time in 1994, and the exact events that led me to repair my cheap sunglasses with a paper clip carefully drilling the hole out with a discarded heroin needle, will be described in my Santa Cruz novel.

Part of a portfolio that I brought to several San Francisco modeling agencies where trim men with fingernail polish on looked disdainfully at my mug and the cheaply printed photos and tossed them aside, "Thanks for coming in. Next." and the next man or woman, prettier and slimmer than I would saunter in as I was shuffled out into the rain of 1997. Not only did I not hook up with any aspiring female models I didn't even get asked to give my digits to a gay guy. That's pathetic! My Schwinn Varsity bicycle got stolen on one of these trips to the city. And then the young man who took this picture succumbed to a lung condition. The price he asked to take my vanity pictures involved me getting completely naked in Golden Gate Park and lurching through the woods where hippies shit and junkies shoot up. This was before small video cameras or else I'd post a video. Those nude pictures are somewhere in the ether along with the photographer RIP.


My mug shot today: gray of the years gone under so many Pierce Island bridges. Tides like a feathered hair cut combed by a rain storm. Caught inside a tent where the air smells like heavenly shampoo. Necklaces lost in the hurricane.