Ted Avery O’Shea and the Mission Beach Ghetto Guerrillas
(Personal Conflict bassist Toby Gibson commemorates 8/8/08.)
Author’s note: My Ted O’Shea story has been floating around my desk through several houses, five dogs, a divorce and two kids over the past seventeen or so years.
Having the same birthday as someone close to you who has died tends to keep that feeling of loss pretty fresh in your memory at least once every year, and it’s funny how it will surface now and then on paper or on my computer and I stop for a second and relax, letting myself drift back to a time when life wasn’t lived from crisis to crisis and time was measured almost solely by the 90-odd days of summer.
At some point years ago my memories of Teddy changed from that painful ache that loss leaves you to memories of some great times and a little hope, which I suppose is how things should be. Anyhow — at this point in my life I could probably write something more about Teddy that might be a little more polished and maybe sum him up a little better, but I have come to like the early-20s version for the youthful perspective alone, if for nothing else — the lack of my latter-day cynicism and the fact that the loss wasn’t yet a distant memory — and so I think I’ll let things stay as they are. — T.G.
Teddy was already a man when I first met him, hanging around on the north side of the P.B. recreation center. He was riding circles on a black Schwinn Spitfire, his one leg doing double-duty at the pedals, the other in a cast straight out on the handlebars in front of him.
I was twelve or thirteen at the time, and Ted was a couple years older than I. I had been hanging around with his younger brother Tim who was a year or two younger than I. I hadn’t ever met Ted before, I think because he was in juvi or away with his dad in L.A., though I can’t recall clearly which. I think his dad was in the navy — I don’t remember for sure — but I vaguely remember a story about Ted being the victim of a hit-and-run while skateboarding up in L.A., so maybe that’s what it was.
Teddy was riding these lazy circles on the basketball court outside the P.B. rec, talking with Braden Frye and Whitney Costello, a Krakatoa cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth, smoke drifting into his face and stinging his eyes while he concentrated on keeping the bike upright and moving forward. Teddy always had a Schwinn Spitfire, which was the standard vehicle for cruising the boardwalk in ‘79. They were pretty indestructible, easy to work on, and kind of retro before retro was a thing. We used to steal bikes all the time back then, grind the serial numbers and mix up the parts with other frames so they were hard to identify. Me and this kid Ramin had a regular chop-shop going for a while in ninth grade, but had to quit when someone gave us up to the cops and I got sent off to my dad’s place out in the sticks for my tenth-grade year. Ramin got off pretty easy because he was an Iranian immigrant and it was a politically sensitive time in 1979- 444 days, Ayatollah Khomeini, the hostages and all that. Plus he was a master bullshitter — he pretended not to understand anything they said to him, and constantly made no sense speaking his Iranian surferese pidgen until the police and the school finally threw their hands up and let him go with his parents. He was a streetwise kid and got along okay, but I heard all that caught up with him later anyways — but that’s another story entirely.
Teddy once told me that he dropped out of seventh grade, and since I never saw him at school I took it as the truth. He was a typical beach kid in a lot of respects: parents split up, raised by a single mom in a rented beach cottage, worked at Fillippi’s Pizza on Garnet Avenue to get a little extra change- pretty much standard fare for P.B. Life goes on.
Over the years he and I spent some time together, hanging out enjoying our youth and getting into whatever trouble we could get into. After I got to know him he started revealing layers of himself, and I came to find he had a lot going on in his head and that the sum of him was way more than all of that extraneous surface stuff that’s visible at first glance.
Teddy was a romantic and an idealist, a fighter with his fists as well as a fighter for whatever rights he could discover or make up. As the most common ways for kids to make money in P.B. back then was to steal and to sell dope to the swabbies on navy payday, we were all of the time getting rousted by the cops for one thing or another. Over the years there became quite a bit of animosity between the local surfers and San Diego’s finest.
Teddy used to be the first to flash them the finger or throw his arm straight out in a mock-nazi salute and call them pigs or the Gestapo. At some point we always ran, and they always chased us, life imitating art in some parody of Porky Pig chasing the Roadrunner — them with their forty pounds of flashlights and keys and all that crap they keep jangling around strapped to their rotund asses. On the odd occasion that they did luck out and manage to catch us, they were already pissed off just for being such a neighborhood joke. Teddy would point at them, laughing and taunting, jeering at them until they finally pushed back and roughed him up, playing on cheap shots because they inevitably had nothing on him. Teddy would just get all fired up with his stereotypical Irish temper and offer to take them all on in one shot. More than a couple times they took him up on it, and Teddy always went down swinging.
Plenty of times we fought side by side on the boardwalk at night, taking on the meatheads and dirtbags who preyed on anyone outside of their social norms, seeing diversity as a sign of weakness. We always had fun doing that, finding our glory in the fashion of our black-and-white daytime television heroes — John Wayne, Bogart, Clint Eastwood, Bronson. But more like James Garner as Rockford, I always ended up having to pick glass from the alley floor out of my back while Teddy would come away clean because he could hold off two or three guys with that double-edged dagger he carried in a boot sheath and that kind of crazy iciness that radiated off of him when he was threatened. While that may sound like a lot to handle, at that time and place he was the best guy to have by your side, ready for anything and loyal to the bitter end. Mission Beach Ghetto Guerillas and fuck anyone that gets in our way.
Ted and Phil let me move in when my mom tried to send me back to Dad’s place the second time. The word was that I was too much for mom to handle. My dad and step-mom were having some infidelity issues that didn’t leave much time for problem teenagers like me and I was getting the ping-pong ball treatment between the parents, so Teddy just said, “Shine it!” and I moved in with him and Phil. Phil was supposed to be in San Diego going to college, but instead he was working at the Firehouse Deli by day and getting loaded with us by night while trying his best to stay out of our trouble. I would pretty much bum around all day, hanging with Bid when he was around and Ronnie Haig and the rest of the street dealers, drinking a beer or eating at Thousand Dogs, this little taco stand on Ventura (the bona fide name was Acapulco Number 13, but “Thousand Dogs” just fit — no explanation necessary.) At sixteen I was spending my days deteriorating in the shadow of the Belmont Park Roller Coaster; at night I would damage myself alongside the rest of the crumbling city.
We had an upstairs studio apartment on an alley two minutes off of Ventura, where the action was. It had two beds and a table with chairs. When I slept, I slept on the floor. At 5 a.m. the guys left for work and I would scam one of their beds and sleep until nine or noon. We didn’t have a T.V. because one afternoon Phil got fed up with the bullshit and plucked it up and marched down the alley and threw it into Mission Bay, a look of grim determination and satisfaction on his face. We all sat there in the sand for a couple hours and smoked reefer and drank beer and I gave the TV a proper eulogy.
So after that at night we were without television, free. We’d get stoned and listen to local television audio on the far left of the radio dial — Leave it to Beaver and Father Knows Best, Ozzie and Harriet, Bonanza, My Favorite Martian and maybe a couple game shows — abstract shit like that. Back then I was always drawing (which seemed to flat-out amaze Teddy, a lifelong product of San Diego City Schools, which as far as I could tell had never encouraged him to express himself in any artistic manner at all) and so I made us a T.V. out of an empty cardboard box. I think I even made various pictures to make up the different channels. I remember Teddy admiring my craftiness and letting out a quiet laugh at the whole thing. Philthy concentrated on it for nearly an hour in homage of my efforts, looking away only long enough to pack another bowl.
We used to listen to Phil’s tape of Firesign Theater a lot, Phil and Ted quoting it verbatim as if they were performing it on stage, and we’d stomp down the back alleys of Mission Beach in engineer boots on our way to vague destinations or nowhere in particular. We always traveled the alleys — both to avoid the cops as well as enjoy the urban scenery while seeking out waylaid spitfires.
Those guys had a lot of names for me. I was younger than them both (Phil, who at the time went by the nom de plume “Philthy Riggs,” was 22 to my 15) and I was kind of under their supervision and protection- in retrospect not too unlike a younger brother. I was “Toby” first, from way back. Then it was “Tobus McBobus” one night when we were shrooming, and I have no Idea where that came from. Then it was Just “Mac’B” For a bit. After a couple impulsive cat-driven episodes it was “Toby the Cat Hater,” but that never took.
In all seriousness, the other guys we hung with were pretty much too far gone to have any kind of close friendship like we had, though they were all our brothers and they also watched out for us when things got rough. There was just no way they could do the stuff we did — like the T.V. thing or catching snakes at Robb field, or the time we rented mopeds and rode all over the city, or the time Ted and I went to the zoo (He was eighteen and raised in San Diego and had never been to the zoo? What the fuck?!), and fishing off of Bud’s dock for sand-sharks, and the spur-of-the-moment sunset cruises on the Seaforth fishing charter with a twelve-pack of beer and a couple packs of smokes.
We could do all that stuff because we were still hanging onto our humanity, but the real bad guys — street dealers like Woods and Bean and Wally — they were all about dealing and doing dope. The stuff we did, they would laugh at and give me a hard time. They were hard guys, and I suppose you give up some of the good stuff in order to have the security of being a hard guy. I have no idea where they are now, but I hope they all eventually came around and got to at least do the zoo and that stuff — love a woman, cry when their dog dies, care about something — even if they are still into heavy stuff. It’s not like there are too many guys tough enough to give them a hard time for it.
One time Phil got a car — or maybe it was Bid. We didn’t have much use for cars as we rarely left our neighborhood except to go to the occasional show downtown — and then whenever we did go out of Mission Beach we usually traveled in a group and got girls to drive us around. Anyway — We had this car — a primer-gray ‘69 Malibu. It was the Monday after swabby payday, and Woods and Wally came over with a bunch of money and beer and said let’s all go to the drive-in over on Rosecrans.
I guess we were all for it because pretty soon Phil was driving us across the bridge towards Rosecrans (Phil was the only one with a drivers license that didn’t have some sort of leverage against it, and damn near the only one who could give his real name if we got pulled over.) Woods and Wally were riding shotgun; Ronny Haig, Teddy, Bid and myself occupied the back seat. It’s pretty much a matter of course that we’re all drinking heavily. When we get there Wally, Ronnie and myself commit the ultimate act of trust and let them close the trunk on us while Woods and Bid hop the fence and meet us inside.
To tell you the truth, I have no idea what the movie was, and am in fact dead-certain that we didn’t know what was playing until we got there as that would have taken possessing and reading a current newspaper, something I just don’t recollect this bunch doing much. Current events were what was happening on the boardwalk, the current price by weight, and when did the next carrier come in from the West-Pacific Fleet- all information which was readily available on the sidewalk in front of Hamel’s Skate Shop or the plunge, anytime — day or night.
Anyhow — we’re barely into the opening scene and already running short on beer. Woods and Wally have been drinking, snorting and smoking copious quantities all day and are now holding out on us for the last of the beer, which they’ve stashed in the pockets of their flannels and leather jackets before we realized the shortage was upon us. As if this didn’t bum us out enough, Woods is becoming flat out belligerent with a couple carloads of swabbys behind and to the right of us, and they’re telling him to “shut up or else” — which we all already know delights Woodsy when he’s looking for trouble. Ted and Phil are lying on the hood of the Malibu and I’m on the ground with my back against the bumper when Woods shoves everyone out of the back seat and yanks it out, holding it over his head and reveling in the situation for two clicks before he stuffs it through the front windshield of some swabby’s Trans Am.
We’re all still by the car (except Wallace, who’s dutifully backing up his partner) and Woods is jerking these swabbys out of their car one after the next and cold-cocking them, letting them pile up at his feet. Bid has to back up Woods — there’s the spirit of free-trade, and he owes Woods a couple — and poor Ronnie Haig is so blazed that he’s just lying there on the pavement where Woodsy dumped him when he jerked out the back seat. Ted and Phil want no part of this (both because the odds were pretty good for taking a beating from about six dozen swabs and doubly so for going to jail) and so they give me the nod and off we three trot into the night, on a long walk home on some lonely and unfriendly avenues.
That’s about what it was like with those guys, and I guess that’s probably that’s why we didn’t venture out of Mission Beach too often. We would stay around the relative safety of the neighborhood until enough time had passed that either our assailants/victims had forgotten or we had, and then we’d venture across town for another misadventure.
There were lots of times, though, when people came around M.B. looking for trouble, and then it was pretty much all in good sport because it was pretty much their prerogative whether they stayed or left, and it was pretty much their funerals.
I remember a bunch of times that the boys sent me in to college parties around Mission beach because they knew I was small enough that some dipshit meatheads would try to fuck around with me, and they knew that I had this endless well of intellectual anger and this permanent sneer on my face and I’d tell them to fuck off and go die. So in I’d go looking for the keg and this would lead to that and some big dumb jock morons would be about to throw me down the stairs or toss me through the picture window and here comes the cavalry for a free for all punch-fest and to trash the house, rape and pillage, take anything of value and dash after the fun’s over to lick our wounds and drink their shitty keg beer.
Those people had no business there anyway — they were just transplants — frat boys pretending to live dangerously or slumming it or something, and I guess for them we were just one of life’s lessons. Probably not that big of a deal in retrospect. But there was never a dull moment, and I must admit it was a lot of fun sometimes.
“When we grew up.” That sounds a little strange in light of the fact that Teddy died when I was twenty-two, now twenty-one years ago. But we really did grow up in that time — more so for Ted because he started growing up so young. In a lot of ways I still haven’t grown up today.
We grew up and I moved on. Teddy stayed right where he was. I moved on because in my gut I always knew there was no future for me in staying there — I didn’t belong. The only reason I was there was to see what all the fuss was about, why I was supposed to be good and why I should do what I’m told and be like everyone else- to find out what exactly was going to happen if I did just the opposite of what my parents told me.
In hindsight — it’s all the same anyhow — you either play now and pay later, or pay now and play later. Whatever it is, I doubt it matters when you’re gone, and we pretty much all look the same after were gone.
So I moved around, I played in bands, went to San Francisco and then came back. I blew it some more but eventually came around some little by little and managed to defy the percentages and survived my own adolescence.
Teddy did good, too. He still sold a little weed here and there — but who’s to blame him when there are bills to pay and money to be made, and everyone around there is either using or selling or both? So Teddy’s working somewhere and I’m doing construction up the coast in Encinitas and I had made plans to go to Ensenada with Mike McCarthy but on the “morning of” he tells me he can’t go and backs out, leaving me high and dry.
I’m dead set on a surf trip so I call Teddy and spur of the moment he tells his live in might as well be wife that we’re off and away we go with her cackling her disapproval in the distance behind us. Seriously — like thirty minutes notice. That’s something.
Only there’s no surf, so we just hang with the locals and eat fish tacos, camping on the beach drinking Mexican beer and margaritas. Teddy looks absolutely, positively like he is where he belongs, standing on the beach in the dirty weedy sand of La Salinas — grinning and mellowing out, safe and sound.
Over the years I’ve chewed on this like a dog gnaws a bone. I’ve worked at it and wondered at the particulars. Why Teddy? Why not me? Who knows? Not us. I think over time I’ve gotten a handhold on the topic — not a mastery but maybe a start. I finally have recognized that the urban environment we grew up in — it grew up around us, and maybe some of those guys we lost would have fit in a little better twenty years earlier, forty years earlier, or in the Wild West days. Mexico suited Teddy just fine, and he wore it well. It looked good on him, and he looked good in it. But we had to go home, and so we did.
The Ending.
So I guess there couldn’t have been a middle-aged Ted O’Shea, any more than there could have been an old Bruce Lee or an old Bob Marley or an old Sid Vicious — that just wasn’t meant to be. Early one morning I got a message just like many times before, and many times since, the message that another good friend is gone forever. After all the shit we’d been and done it was more than a little ironic that Teddy would fall prey to something as mundane as riding his motorcycle in the rain. I thought about it a lot that day and many days after, that at least he went with his head up and his back straight, eyes alive, not like a lot of others who went after years of suffering, dead in the gutter from a lethal injection or a serious bit of come-uppance.
We have the same Birthday, Teddy and I — serious, that. Twenty something years ago we used to go drinking together on August eighth or thereabouts, celebrating our good fortune of being young and alive and invincible, and beyond that born on the same day.
And so it is that I remember every birthday, as well as a lot of other days when the morning’s right or the surf is just so, and I think to myself that Teddy would have really dug this, if only he could see where we can go and what we can do. And in light of all that I can only hope he burned as brightly as he possibly could and that he knows he’s still with me.
At some point on every birthday I can’t help but think: Happy Birthday, brother — I still miss you.
– Toby Gibson
Tags: Mission Beach, Pacific Beach, San Diego, San Diego punk, Schwinn Spitfire, Toby Gibson
August 8th, 2008 at 12:09 pm
Besides the fact that it’s beautifully written, I learned a lot from this piece … My self-preservation instincts always kept me at least an arm’s length from Woods and Wally, for starters, but I was always intrigued by their aura of black menace and trail of destruction! Kind of like a spiky punk comet plowing into an unwary planet.
Thanks for the insights, Toby.
August 8th, 2008 at 12:29 pm
Never a dull moment. They had a certain brand of chaos that is best experienced in type.
August 8th, 2008 at 1:13 pm
Sorry for your loss, Toby. But have a great birthday anyway! Are there any drive-ins out where you are?
August 8th, 2008 at 1:17 pm
No- drive ins here have gone the way of the dinosaur. It would be totally popular with the kids, too. But the tourists like air conditioned theaters, so that’s what we get.
August 8th, 2008 at 1:37 pm
D’oh, I forgot … Happy birthday, Toby! (I told Toby I like being 43 — it’s a prime number.)
August 8th, 2008 at 3:39 pm
Good story, Toby… Happy Birthday!
August 8th, 2008 at 3:43 pm
Hey Toby I read this a little while after you posted it early this morning.
I gotta say I was touched by it.
I lived most my life between M.B. and O.B. In the mid seventies my Mom, brother Sam & I lived in a converted garage apartment near Santa Clara and Mission Blvd right by the M.B. free clinic. Years later some punks lived in that place.
This is a shot in the dark but since you spent a good part of your life in M.B….I wanted to know if you ever new my cousin Lisa Wise?
She lived most of her life in M.B. on Kingston Court.
Lisa taught my brother Sam and I the ABC’s of Punk. Or should I say the SCJ’s(Sex Pistols, Clash and Jam) in the summers 1980/81.
I spent the best summers of my life on Kingston hang’n with Lisa and her friends 1980/82.
Lisa died in 1985. You guys would have been about the same age and gone to High School together.
Thanks for your post it took me back some. O’yeah I saw Ghotbusters at that drive-in. Now it’s a stucco mini mall. Thats a shame.
Happy Birthday!
August 8th, 2008 at 4:14 pm
I pretty much had to have met her, given the proximity and the scant number of punks at that time. The name rings a bell but I didn’t have faces connected to a lot of the names I heard back then. She may have hung out with Alan Bandy and Chipper and Stuart Surgill, who sometimes hung out with us but a lot of the times were on their own trip closer to PB.
The punks at Santa Clara might have been Jodie Crawford and her friends. I remember they lived at Santa Clara for a while. I had a huge crush on her throughout Junior High. Well- and every other pretty girl that was ever nice to me.
Someday soon I’m planning to sit down and focus on seaming together a collection of short stories I have that all take place in Mission Beach (and a bit in North park/Golden Hills) in 1981-82.
August 8th, 2008 at 4:20 pm
Thanks, Toby. I’ve read this several times now and each time it seems to pierce me somewhere different. I hope you’ll consider putting together a collection of stories, a memoir of sorts. Although this describes a particular place and time, it really is pretty timeless. For me it crystallizes what is best and what is most painful about adolescence.
A couple of things struck me that I hadn’t thought about in years. I went to PLHS and spent a lot of time hanging out with my friends in OB and Point Loma. Even before the punk days there was always animosity between the locals and what everybody called swabs or swabbies. The Naval Training Center was on Rosecrans, so the area was flooded with eighteen and nineteen year olds from small towns whose sunburned faces would contrast with the patch of white skin on their foreheads where their bangs had been. They’d wander the streets after the first and fifteenth, looking for ways to spend their paycheck, and the city was more than accommodating. Within a couple of months, most of them would have popeye tattoos, cheap Japanese motorcycles and electric guitars. Anyway, a lot of Point Loma and Ocean Beach kids had fun at their expense, particularly around Halloween. Carloads would go out at night to “egg swabs.”
There were two drive-ins in Point Loma, very close to each other. The was the Midway Drive-in, where your story takes place and where I saw Texas Chainsaw Massacre with Maure Silverman in 1977, and the Frontier, which was near where Sports Arena Blvd turns into West Point Loma Blvd. There are still two pretty good drive-ins left here, one in Imperial Beach and the other in Santee. I take my son there all the time in the summer, and they are always packed.
August 8th, 2008 at 4:32 pm
I used to ride my bike home from parties in P.B. and I’d take a roundabout way so that I could sit on the hill looking down on the Pacific Drive in and drink a beer while watching the movie. The first time I saw Apocalypse Now was right there on the hill, reading lips and straining to make out the words from 150 tinny speakers 200 feet away.
I think there could almost be a topic in our antics in and the eventual demise of San Diego’s drive-in theaters.
August 8th, 2008 at 5:08 pm
This makes me think of Frontier Lanes AKA Tweeker Bowl, we used to call that place and ask them to page “Crystal Burns” fun times.
August 8th, 2008 at 5:17 pm
Toby: Lisa hung out with the Punks but just looked kinda normal.
Pretty girl, kinda chubby with blonde hair. Back then she seemed to knew everyone.
On the Kingston Court boardwalk beach side someone spray painted “Zoners or Zonees go home” & ” No life east of I-5″.
Ray&Toby: The Drive-In I was talking about was the one near sports arena& Tower Records….. My bad.
Ray I am moving my family to San Diego soon. Which drive-in is better I.B. or Santee. Right now we drive from the Bay Area to Santa Cruz just to get our fix. We make a weekend of it.
I love going to the drive-in.
August 8th, 2008 at 5:38 pm
A visit to the Getty 4 Drive-in Theater in Muskegon is always a highlight of our annual NJ-to-Michigan visit. Kids love it … Seems like there could be new life in this old concept, especially in sunny Cali.
August 8th, 2008 at 5:41 pm
Hi Dylan,
I like them both but prefer the South Bay Drive-In because it’s closer to me and they let you drive between theaters if you want to see a different second feature, and because the snack bar sells greasy Mexican food.
August 8th, 2008 at 5:43 pm
Water? Winter Wonderland? J. Paul Getty? I love a good mystery.
August 8th, 2008 at 5:46 pm
And the Trans Am, no less. A classic vehicle for said occupants to have been in in those years. After awhile the giant decal on the hood would begin to peel off as the paint underneath oxidized. A good look, that.
Dylan, if you drive down on 101 while moving, look to see if the drive-in is still there in San Luis Obispo. Have dinner at the Madonna Inn, attend the drive-in, finish the drive….
Toby, thanks for that powerful narrative. Best birthday wishes.
August 8th, 2008 at 5:55 pm
“Crystal Burns,” that was pretty clever. I remember going to school with a girl named Crystal, but I think that name is long out of fashion now. Which may mean it’s just about to return. A sick variation on the paging joke could be “Crystal Knox” with its overtones of 1938. Probably too subtle though, and just wrong, but keeps the Crystal theme going. Running jokes are always fun, until you reach the point where the reaction is just Pavlovian. Then you give them up–or maybe they tear the bowling alley down first….
August 8th, 2008 at 6:06 pm
San Diego’s drive-in theaters:
where did they all go? I mourn for all the bulldozed theaters, devoured by the strip mall infestation that infected San Diego in the late 80’s/early 90’s. it’s a travesty! Do you remember sitting on the roof of the family vehicle watching Bugsy Malone in your jammies?
The two drive-ins by Tower Records Sports Arena were: Midway and Frontier. You could see Midway from interstate 8.
South Bay confuses me so I stay central. But the Santee Drive-In is good ol’ east county fun. And they have the playground down in front of the screen in case the grommets get antsy.
I recall going there to see Natural Born Killers with a huge group and having a party (this was close to 15 years ago)….we brought a cooler and a barbeque. I believe it was with noneotherthan Brian Peck and Paul Howland. Not clear on that.
fyi: Linda Vista Roller Rink is still in business too. If anyone wants to go, you let me know ok? I got my own skates.
August 8th, 2008 at 7:13 pm
I’ve always had a spot in my heart for drive-ins and bowling alleys. Today (and even in my twenties, when I began to see the writing on the wall as to the impending demise of everything cool about our culture) for me attending either is like stepping back in time.
August 8th, 2008 at 10:04 pm
I forgot to call out Toby’s reference to Firesign Theater.
I remember several days spent with a few friends, a complete set of Firesign Theater, a colossal stereo system and a monstrous tank of nitrous oxide procured from a boating supply shop in Riverside. We whipped a lot of cream while listening to the Firesigns that week!
“Peorgie Tirebiter … He’s a spy and a GIRL-DEE-lighter … “
August 8th, 2008 at 11:08 pm
Skateworld in Linda Vista is where it’s at. I went skating with the whole school on a summer school field trip there a couple of years ago and could still remember the cool moves. Until I fell on my ass, that is. Here’s some advice for the young ones: Good skates have four wheels, and they are NOT all in one line. Even better if you’ve got steel wheels and you have to clamp them on with a key. Anyway, they had a DJ and I tried to get him to play some Chi-Lites so I could skate backwards like in the good old days, but he looked at me like I was a crazy old man. Which I am.
August 8th, 2008 at 11:50 pm
OK, here’s a mashup of SD skating rinks and rock-’n'-roll thuggery: Around 1985 — like, well into recorded history, right? — a bunch of us from the Encinitas Pannikin went to a roller rink in El Cajon … Does anyone remember this place?
I was the first to arrive with my date. I was certainly the least outrageous-looking of our menfolk — leather jacket, Docs, a couple of earrings, nothing much — but in the parking lot, I was immediately greeted with, “Where did you come from — MARS??” Whereupon we were joined by the rest of the away team: maybe a dozen of the Pannikin’s finest, including Steve Kirkham and Jimmy Quill, both of them teased out like glam-rock Tina Turners.
The roller rink turned out to be fairly evenly divided into two camps: redneck skaters and black skaters, both groups apparently co-existing in an uneasy political detente. (The skaters of color definitely had more style, but the dirtheads had a sort of “Rollerball” intensity about them.)
While we were lacing up, two girls who looked a little more Nu Wav than the rest of the locals sidled up to us, and one said, “We really admire you guys! We listen to 91X all the time, and we think it’s totally cool and brave that you came down here to skate. Which is why we want to warn you that those guys are talking [nodding toward the dirtheads], and they say that when you go out to the rink, they’re going to kill you.”
This of course put a weird spin on the whole skating party. The Nu Wav girls came back a little later and told us they’d enlisted the aid of some of the black skaters on our behalf, especially this one huge guy who looked like he could take on the whole redneck contingent. They waved to him, and he gave us this nod and “I’ve got your back” kind of gesture. What kind of weird “Road Warrior” scene was this?
We skated a bit, and while we did get a lot of nasty looks from the meatheads, nobody actually went for us in the building. As we were returning the skates, however, these guys were assembling out in the parking lot. I think there were about a dozen of us total (including guys, girls, and guys dressed like girls) and at least 25 of these dudes waiting beside their trucks, headlights on, catcalling us while we did this kind of stiff perp walk back to our cars. I credit us with extremely good judgment that nobody made a move that could be considered provocative, ’cause we’d have been massacred!
It was like some hillbilly version of “The Warriors.” And it seemed crazy that we could kick up that much agita in 1985! (Nineteen seventy-nine, OK … 1980, maybe … But this was like some kinda head-banger Amish village that time had completely forgotten. What the hell?)
OK, so … I never went back there. Can anybody ID this freak show for me? It was possibly the weirdest pocket of organized, unreconstructed redneckery I ever experienced in San Diego, and I’d be grateful if someone could confirm that the whole place wasn’t some kind of hallucination. (It could be the roller-skating rink referenced in this history, but no rink seems to exist in El Cajon today.)
August 9th, 2008 at 12:48 pm
PS: I don’t know if I’ve mentioned elsewhere that Mike Woods helped me bond with Robert Labbe (who became drummer for 3 Guys Called Jesus) … I met Robert by helping to clean him up right after Woods had decked him and a few other partygoers at Mike McCarthy’s house sometime in early 1985.
Nothing like applying an ice pack to bring folks together!
August 9th, 2008 at 12:55 pm
Toby, you blow me away. I can feel your heart and mind. I’ve read many of your stories, I I just let this one enter me (and no not from the rear!) Happy Birthday.
August 9th, 2008 at 1:01 pm
I saw Dawn Of The Dead and They Came From With In at the Oceanside Drive-in when it came out. I was with my parents in my dads ‘62 International Scout. I think that was the last time i got to pick the move. I think that was the last time we did anything together. Sweet memories of childhood.
August 9th, 2008 at 3:23 pm
Your dad tried to teach me to double clutch in that scout. I still have no idea what the term means.
I saw Children of the Corn at the Oceanside Drive-in.
August 9th, 2008 at 3:24 pm
Thank you for letting me enter a luminary such as yourself. It was decidedly good for me.
August 9th, 2008 at 3:35 pm
The skate rink is on the border of Santee El Cajon on Mission Gorge. My Step Dad has a Repair shop a mile away.Lots of construction going on now around there, so I’m not sure if it’s gonna stay. They used to have Heavy Metal shows there ( the big hair type) I might have even gone to one or two just to check out the local talent when I was a kid.
Toby sorry for your loss,Great story though.I enjoyed reading it. It reminded me of several of my fallen comrades of my youth.
AHH! Drive ins around San Diego, I probably snuck into at least 75% of them as a kid. I hung out with older kids and was always voted into the trunk or we’d send one person in with the car and the rest of us would jump the fence and pool our money that we saved from not paying for admission and buy beer.Good times
August 10th, 2008 at 12:23 am
Ray: Thanks for the Drive-In tip. I am going to be living off the 94 freeway so Santee might be closer. But I like what your saying about I.B.
I used to go Roller Skating at that rink on University sometimes….up the street from that club(but years before) 2581. I can’t recall the name of the rink. They had punk shows there in the later 80’s. I think there was a free for all at a Vandals gig once.
I was not at the Vandals show. I was down they street drinking behind 2581 on the fire escape. 2581 was the name right? A real tiny joint near Winchells Dog Nuts.
Anyways back to Roller Skating. Spent most my time skating on 8 wheels on the boardwalk in M.B. with all the beach babes.
August 10th, 2008 at 1:45 am
2581 university it is, Dylan. There were lots of shows there 86-90 before the owner Julie opened a bar near Fairmont called Megalopolis.
THere was an interesting show in the fall of 1982 at the Kings road, where these kids rapped ala Sugar hill gang. The Emerald City Wrappers. They were about my age, 16-17. They had t shirts with Iron ons of the rap group name emblazened on the back of their yellow t shirts. Does anyone else remember this show? IT was just one of those interesting mish mash of music you would hear at Kings road. It was the first time seeing Hip Hop in a live setting, repleat with bad belt drive turntables and a drum machine. ONe of the rappers was a white kid with a Gerry Curl in his hair. Well, weeks later Carina Burns and I went skating at the Linda Vista roller rink, and we saw one of the rappers, the white kid with the gerry curl.
August 10th, 2008 at 3:03 am
Tom: Hey how are you doing? I don’t know if you remenber me but we ran into each other a few times in New York. Vintage store basement and St. Annes Church.
And we also talked in San Francisco @ Bruno’s about doing a band with Jason Kazinski(spelling?). you were gonna play drums? The Loved Ones did a reunion that night. Jason and I never did get a band together.
Someone told me you were playing in a band with Danniel Collas?
Dan and I had a band in New York . If so say hello for me, and does he still play my Vox Jaguar?
I don’t think we will be doing the 101, but I have been to the drive-in that you speak of. My dad lived in Morro Bay in the late 70’s.
I also have been to the Madonna Inn.
I ate there in 87 and as I drank the last drop of coke I spied a cock roach under the ice in my glass. They gave me my meal for free and a t-shirt. that place is crazy. I would eat there again at the drop of a hat. I have always wanted to take there wife and stay in the cave man room.
I have a good roller skating story about Morro Bay, but I will spare everyone…. a kid pulled a knife on me.
August 10th, 2008 at 3:05 am
Wow, your teen urban commando memoir had some parallels with my own adolescent experience, enough to draw me in for a double read of your story. My Schwinn cruiser was brazenly stolen from my mom’s Point Loma condo garage in 1980. I replaced it with a $30 Taiwanese knock off cruiser that I Took everywhere: fishing up in Mission Valley on the SD river (sewer); down to OB with a surfboard under my arm; after school from PLHS down Rosecrans to work at Golden Arrow Dairy on Kurtz st.; often over the bridge to MB/Belmont park; night rides to the Frontier drive-in with a backpack containing a Tupperware jug with pilfered liquor, randomly poured in small amounts from multiple bottles in mom’s bar so as not to arouse suspicion. Heavy metal (the animated rock flick based on fantasy art magazine) was one title I recall seeing from my bike at the drive-in. I got sent up to Dad’s for being “unmanageable” twice in two years, the second time was final and is what moved me from Point Loma to Leucadia – where I would make friends with Wendell and other No. Co mods/punks. Thing was, Dad lived in a trippy-hippy converted step-van at the time, no room to move in so at 16, I lived in my old Ford Courier truck bed for a time with a camper shell and a sleeping bag. Dad grew amazing weed near the Pala Indian reservation and when not tending the crops, was mostly down at Seaside beach, distributing, surfing and doing wood sculpture with his artist buddies. Things changed a bit after I came a knocking on his van. My scene didn’t sound as dangerous as yours Toby. While I did engage in lots of cunning illegal activities, being usually solo and inconspicuous, I rarely encountered cops or violence. I never thrilled at punching with the swabbies or frats. I just got such a vivid picture reading your post I wanted let you know that it re-connected memories of my own urban commando San Diego teen life.
August 10th, 2008 at 6:03 am
You never struck me as the punching type. And I have to say that after a lifetime of hard lessons, there’s a lot of merit to that.
Yeah- Encinitas, Cardiff and Leucadia were a lot mellower at that time. Lloyd and I moved up there because the heat was so bad on us in the beach area around 82. We’d pretty much worn out our welcome with the SDPD.
I remember your dad. I used to surf Seaside in 82-83-84. I surfed Georges, Swamis, and Cardiff Reef more, Surfing with Tommy Louis and building lobster traps on the beach next to the Chart House parking lot. That was a cool crowd to hang out with- Tommy Louis, Danny Hernandez, Petey Hoff, Fred Ashley, Paul Grubb, Bo Hanson- in their time those guys were easily as wild as any of us, but with age comes a little wisdom and by example they taught me that everything doesn’t have to be a fight and to not take the hard road every time.
I think a lot of people would find parallels in a lot of our memoirs. I think I knew only a couple people who had two parents living at home, and I think of all my close friends when I was in Junior High I was the only one who’s family lived in a house that wasn’t a rental. Most of our economics were so bad that even if you did live in a house you owned, the mortgage didn’t leave you with much to play with. And so you found ways to entertain yourself that didn’t take a lot of money- surfing, playing music, art. I think a lot of good can come out of not having a whole lot if you’re raised with the idea in your head that things turn out best for people who make the best out of how things turn out.
August 10th, 2008 at 6:07 am
And thanks everyone for the kind words. Very much appreciated.
Word play: Hobie’s almost Freudian “cunning illegal” phrase is one I’m compelled to play with. Best I can do on the spur of the moment is “cunning illegalness”. Close but no cigar.
August 10th, 2008 at 5:21 pm
that kicked ass toby. thank you.
August 10th, 2008 at 8:14 pm
Toby, you’re a freakin’ genius storyteller…you beautifully encapsulateda spirit and time that is both close to my heart but was far from my mind…now, at stories’ end, my mind is spinning with tiny momentsof my own life that seem to conspire with your own experiences…being a wandering kid in a Navy town, slipping through the crack of divorce and addictions…wandering the streets late at night with some people you find fantastic, and others you find apalling.
I am sorry for the loss of your friend-we seemed to have lost so many that at time it is a miracle that any of us are left behind to reweave the torrid tales.
Keep writing, Toby…your stories may be sad, but they still are compelling, fantastic and true!
August 10th, 2008 at 9:48 pm
Thank you for the compliment.
I try to only write stories that are either sad or funny or both.
So does anyone think Hollywood is ready for “I am Legend- The making of a Bobo-Cricket”?
August 11th, 2008 at 12:36 am
Toby, every time I read this I am more amazed by how poetic your descriptions are and how easily I can visualize what you’re describing.
This story is so full of pain and beauty, of moments of acting on sheer impulse, mixed with a realm of dream repose and acceptance:
“At sixteen I was spending my days deteriorating in the shadow of the Belmont Park Roller Coaster; at night I would damage myself alongside the rest of the crumbling city.”
Amid the world you describe, which as a comparatively sheltered kid I was removed from (and pretty much a coward as far as fights were concerned), is the familiarity of listening to TV channel 6 at the bottom of the FM dial, Belmont Park, hanging out in PB and MB, and all the drive-ins…Settings all witnessed from a completely different point of view from yours in the story, but to know at least the stages you’ve set your scenes in makes this story even more poignant, if that is in fact possible. Straight from your life to the page, with so much heart compassion and warmth to describe a time that sounds so hard and cold. I want to call it breathtaking storytelling but I know it is so much more than just that..
And yes, Hollywood is most definitely ready for The Making of a Bobo-Cricket! I can’t wait to read it!!
August 11th, 2008 at 1:30 am
My sister reads my stuff and wonders where I grew up. That should speak volumes, except for that she was into sports and the student body and was not part of the subculture that dwelt just under the radar. As for the writing- my mom used to make me write down my dreams every day when I woke up. I served a year of detention at Ramona High school for fighting and being a stubborn dork, and at the end of the year the detention (teacher?) sent my dad about a two inch thick stack of creative writing I did in there when I was supposed to be writing about why I was in detention. Of course San Diego schools being what they were and me being what I was, I dropped out six weeks before graduation on general principle.
You all have been so incredibly nice to me and to this piece of prose. I know there are more than a couple gifted writers connected to the Che-scene, and let me tell them up front that if a real critic got a hold of me I’d probably hide in my house for a week and think about taking up washing dishes or mopping floors.
When we moved down to the city I was kind of flying blind- new to the area, new to the beach- and I just naturally immersed myself in urban culture, and I think I looked for the seedier, seamier sides of life. I used to love to get up at 5 a.m. and ride my skateboard from the suburban environment where we lived to Crystal pier, skating around bums asleep in doorways and watching steam rise from the manhole covers. I was kind of ostracized by the good kids who had the right clothes and knew the right things to say, so when the bad kids accepted me I felt like I was finally home, and to this day I tend to understand the “bad” kids and I’m loyal to them for being nice to me when I needed someone to accept me. I find it sad that the “bad kids” seem to have such a short “shelf life”. Maybe that explains my penchant for tragedy. In hindsight it is so strange- 16 year old kids doing whatever they want, wherever they want- running amok in a city that was largely our city. But if I had it all to do again, I’d be hard pressed to do it any differently.
August 11th, 2008 at 1:51 am
Funny- I only fought because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. My dad was an intellectual guy and a pacifist who ran with “greasers” during his adolescence in Oakland and had kind of a funny balance of propriety. He tried to raise me better, but I suppose we all have to run our course. My mom took me to Tennessee Williams plays up in Balboa Park and to art films at the Guild and the Strand (my mom is a hopeless pseudo liberal- her two greatest moments were when my sister dated a black guy and I hung out with Coconut. Luckily my sister married a Jewish-atheist and I have a filipino-chinese son who is my sidekick and partner in crime. I think mom’s liberal fantasy has been fulfilled. Meanwhile, in her advancing years she’s fast turning into her mother. I hope this doesn’t mean we have to put everything back the way it was…)
I used to be totally overwhelmed by various punks/mods/whatever involved in this blog because you all seemed very confident and in your element. I used to refer to you all in my mind as “the smart punks up in North Park” (I had no idea where anyone lived- I assumed you were so confident because you were at home.) At that time I had no concept of paradigms and interpreting life from my own limited experience. Funny how in retrospect I find that a lot of stuff I thought was true was just stuff I made up.
I believe the Bobo story would be embraced wholeheartedly by middle america and he would be instantly recognized as the new James Dean.
August 11th, 2008 at 4:57 am
dick
August 11th, 2008 at 12:01 pm
Can Mr Bobo-Cricket drive a tracter? And spit oatmeal out the side of his mouth Like Red Man chew?!?
August 11th, 2008 at 12:06 pm
Well he would actually be played by Johnny Depp.
August 11th, 2008 at 12:16 pm
Hey! My people are already talking to Johnny about playing Jerry Cornelius and Jack White to portray Bobo.
These Hollywood types are tempermental .. Don’t fuck this up, or we’ll lose ‘em both to the Weinsteins.
Love ya, boychik! Gotta jet. Call me.
August 11th, 2008 at 9:02 pm
I’d kind of like Gary Oldman as Bobo. Shoot- Gary Oldman could play about half the punks from back then- he has the strung out, shot out bit down to a tee.
August 13th, 2008 at 8:42 pm
ok, i’m who ? i want the guy who played mr french to play me, and jason.
August 13th, 2008 at 9:12 pm
Mr French could totally play Jason, except that he’s a jovial british guy. Jason’s a Jovial American guy.
I want to start a new church- Jovial Witless.
August 13th, 2008 at 10:24 pm
I want Brendon Kruze to play me. Doesn’t he play everybody else?
August 14th, 2008 at 4:57 am
toby i’m in, i’m a memeber, a male member ! give jason a turkey leg or shave mr frenchs beard and same same. he would be perfect for us !
August 14th, 2008 at 5:06 am
You know it’s really odd that you’re going to work and I’m about to go to sleep.
August 14th, 2008 at 3:23 pm
its our way. we are contrary.
August 15th, 2008 at 11:15 pm
since when are you country?
August 16th, 2008 at 1:19 am
I’m a little bit country- and a little bit rock and roll.
August 16th, 2008 at 1:20 am
Oh shoot! I forgot to label it!
***NOT SAFE FOR KEEPING YOUR LUNCH DOWN***
August 31st, 2008 at 5:23 pm
The name “RONNIE HAIG” IN THE ABOVE STORY IS IN NO WAY CONNECTED TO THE “ROCKABILLY HALL OF FAME” ARTIST “RONNIE HAIG”
PLEASE DO NOT EVEN CONSIDER THIS TO BE A TRUE STORY IN ANY WAY.
RONNIE HAIG “GENTRY RECORDS” BMI
August 31st, 2008 at 8:01 pm
And the Author Toby Gibson is neither the Molecular biologist from Heidelberg, the well known boxing referee nor the Parrothead Jimmy Buffet historian. This is totally and completely a true story. Did your mother drop you on your head when you were a wee little baby? I already explained to you at length over two years ago that you are neither the only Ronnie nor the only Haig, and coincidentally you aren’t the only Ronnie Haig in existence. Thanks for being a fan.
I’m certain you’ll be just ecstatic to learn that I’ve got around nine chapters of a biography which covers a few summers when I was growing up with my friends Ted O’shea and Ronnie Haig back in 1981-82, and it describes all of the sordid details of our experiences with drugs and sex, prostitutes, fraternizing with homosexuals (gasp!) and lots and lots of other stuff that will pique the interest of the average reader. But fret not- there are some cowboys! and Cops! Your people like cops, right? Lots of cops with big bushy moustaches! Yea cops! Yea Cowboys! Yea apple pie! God bless America!!
August 31st, 2008 at 8:22 pm
The other Matthew Rothenberg is younger than me, thinner than me, better-educated than me and technologically savvier than me — and he outranks me on Google. However, I doubt he ever played “Waiting for the Man” in a Tijuana gay bar.
He moved to the SF Bay area from New York shortly after I moved to the New York area from SF. And although we’ve exchanged a few e-mails, we’ve never met, for fear the sun would explode.
September 1st, 2008 at 8:35 am
the other cricket logan is a 57 year old x stripper who lives in a composit mobile home in kent city florida, with her disabled commom law husband – boss hog. they drive a sometimes working 1974 cadilac. i met the charming couple in a discount auto parts store.
September 1st, 2008 at 4:03 pm
The other Jason Seibert is really smart like i was sposto be. He went to coolage like Milo. Then theres a rapper/ artist thing person who is taking over my google world. You godda add chef after my name to avoid him. BASTARD!
September 3rd, 2008 at 1:13 am
Toby..thanks. You bring back alot of memories. You perfectly describe my teenage years in MB & PB around the same time. Don’t know if I ever met you, but we must have crossed paths. I used to hang out with Braden and Whitney (and her sister) all the time. I was floored to see their names pop up in this piece..instant retrospection. Braden’s brother Donny was one of my best friends. You probably knew some of the crew from PB & the Point..like Skip & Corky, Brad & George Buben, Curt & Stu Barnes, Rick Lovelace and Crazy Dave…the list goes on. Good times. Again, thank you for stirring up the memories and the touching tribute to your brother.
September 3rd, 2008 at 9:28 am
Of the older guys I knew were Skip and Bill Maynard, Glen Horn, Joe Roper ( though truth be told he wasn’t one of my favorite people), Bernie (of Bernie Burger fame), Jeff Taich and the fishermen like David Calloway and the Whale. Kids my age that I hung out with were John Cannas (older sister Caroline), Carrie Greenbaum (older brother Fritz), Amy Sparrow (older brother Pete), Sonny Flores, Ramin Magasadi, Chris Moore, Phil Hughes (older sister Glynnis). Some other peripheral figures on the were Fat Pat Campbell, Mike Losada, and Bobby Hickman. Any of these last two groups could have figured into this story.
September 3rd, 2008 at 12:59 pm
Hey Toby, I was off work today and was bored, so I went upstairs and started looking up names of old friends in mb/pb. I typed in alan bandy and your story came up since he was mentioned in it. I was friends of mike woods, wally , bid, alan bandy, gary oddo, and many others. Your story brought back great memories of the boardwalk. We had our own punk zone on the boardwalk that nobody could hang out at, unless they were part of our group, or had free beer for us, then we would drink em down and kick them out afterwards.I grew up down there and I lived in many apts and houses on the beach or bayside during 1977-1985, then moved to L.A. to try to straighten out. punk, skating, surfing was our lives for many years and I have great stories for my wife and all my kids. Thanks for the story and have wondered for years how to get ahold of any of them.
September 3rd, 2008 at 9:11 pm
Toby..it just keeps getting better ;O)
Of the folks you mention, I knew Skip, Joe, Glen and Bernie..man did we love his burgers. Bernie is long since gone I’m sure (he was old as dirt even from my earliest recollections). and I think Glen sold the shop a long time ago. I knew both Carrie and Pete Sparrow..actually hung out with Pete quite a bit. Fat Pat rings a distant bell for some reason. I used to help Kevin Farrar make traps & fish off of Sunset Cliffs. Did you know a fellow named Jim Azuri (sp?). He too was am Iranian immigrant as far as I recall..lived in the condos right next to the pier.
September 4th, 2008 at 12:08 am
I didn’t know him. Was Kevin Farrar related to Greg Farrar who (I think) was in the original line up of District Tradition?
My first job was washing dishes at Bernies. I still make Bernie Burgers now and again.
(Bernie Burger: French roll sliced in half slathered with generous amounts of thousand island dressing. Hamburger shaped to fit bun, salted and peppered, chopped onions and bellpeppers imbedded into top, griddle fried. Chopped lettuce on top, lightly toast the buns.)
(The Del Mar racetrack must have felt the loss in their bottom line the year Bernie passed on. He was a stalwart supporter of the gambling industry in San Diego. He and a couple other old guys would catch the bus up to the track, get drunk and gamble. He was always a pain in the ass when he came back if he lost money.)
September 4th, 2008 at 12:11 am
Oh geez- Chipper. Aren’t you mentioned in this story? I don’t know if you remember me but we had some good times for a while there. I’ll have to dig up your story and post it. Hopefully you’ll remember the night- that would make it all worth writing.
Totally stoked to find you alive and well. After all the crap we pulled, it’s a wonder any of us survived.
Chipper: I tried to send you the complete chapter but your email wouldn’t receive it for some reason. My email is Tobylifehater@hotmail.com. Send me a current email for you and I’ll get you some stuff I think you’ll enjoy reading.
September 4th, 2008 at 12:30 am
Just a small chunk of a chapter:
I remember one fourth of July we were up on the boardwalk with a couple cases of beer. It was Woods and Wally, Chipper, Stu Surgill and Alan Bandy, Teddy and Myself. We’ve taken a spot along the seawall and are shooting the shit, drinking beer, watching people go by as we wait for the effect of the psilocybin mushrooms we ate thirty minutes earlier. Woods and Wally are on the prowl for the odd drug sale; Teddy and I are just getting primed for a night out. There are a lot of people on the boardwalk for evening, but it’s 4th of July so that’s to be expected.
I look down the boardwalk and see four guys coming our way that look like several variations on that guy Tommy Shaw from the band “Styx”. Here’s these guys ambling along, assumably from somewhere inland, bell bottoms and platforms, wavy blonde Farrah Fawcett hair, strutting down the boardwalk on fourth of July oblivious to the misfortune that awaits them at every turn- or in this case directly in front of us. As they pass they give us a collective friendly smile and a nod, checking out our fucked up hair and Woods’ Black Flag shirt with the cop sucking the end of his gun. One guy chuckles and says “Radical.”
Woods just raises an eyebrow and nods as if to say, “that’s too easy”. As they pass the end of the line of us Chipper reaches over and gives his bike a nudge, sending it toppling close behind the glam rock guys. They jump back, startled, turning on their platform shoes and flipping their bangs out of their eyes, trying to figure out what just happened. Chipper leans against the sea wall holding his beer, giving them a blank stare. “You knocked over my bike.” His voice is even, maybe a little menacing but not to the point where it would ever hold up in court. He makes a vague gesture with his hand towards the bike and then towards the now flustered Tommy Shaw. “Pick it up.” The glam quartet exchange glances and hair flips and then the smallest of the four that looks more than a little effeminate says “Sorry.” and shrugs and picks the bike up, leaning it gingerly against the seawall.
Chipper’s eyes are lit up from shrooms and speed. He’s never much for words and tends to not smile or laugh much when he makes a joke, assuming you either get it or you don’t with the attitude that it’s no concern to him either way. As the guy leans the bike against the wall and turns to walk away Chipper gives the bike a quick nudge, sending it clattering to the ground again behind the unfortunate glam rocker. The guys again turn towards us, this time with the tired look of four guys that just realized they’re very likely about to get their asses handed to them.
There’s a one second silence that seems like forever as the four look at Chipper and he stares at them. “You knocked over my bike.” Chipper stares at them, taking a long pull from his quart of beer. The glam guy gives him a pleading shrug and turns to his friends for support, and then back to us with arms outstretched, palms up as if to say “Can you do something for me?” Turning his focus back to Chipper he says in an exasperated tone, “I didn’t knock over your bike, man.”
We all stand there drinking our beers, leaning against the sea wall amused watching the drama unfold. The poor rocker guys are outnumbered and outgunned and exchange glances with each other again, and the tallest of them pushes his mirrored shades up on his head and pleads with Tommy Shaw in an exasperated tone, “Come on man- just pick up the bike.”
The poor fucker again rights the bike, making an exaggerated effort to lean it carefully against the wall, testing dramatically to see if it’s going to fall again, then steps back with his hands out as if to say “Voila”. He looks to Chipper for some sign of approval and Chip just dismisses him with a wave and a nod, looking off towards the setting sun and taking a long pull on his beer.
As the guys turn to leave Chipper again knocks the bike over, sending it crashing to the ground behind them. The guys jump back and are nodding their heads in disbelief, incredulous looks on their faces saying “Aw come on!” and “This is bullshit!” in the dismayed voices of the terminally doomed. We’re busting up laughing, and Ronnie gets up from the seawall and pats the smallest guy on the shoulder, telling him “That’s okay man- I’ll get it.” And leans over to pick up the bike with one hand. The guys laugh nervously and move as quickly as they can without actually breaking stride and running, and we laugh a little louder Wallace calls out to their retreating backs, “Don’t forget to stop by on your way back!” The laughs diminish and trickle down to silence as we resume our positions along the wall, watching pastel evening light and enjoying the psychedelic effects of the mushrooms.
The world around me began to take on transparent multiple-layered cast that is typical of a mushroom trip and I withdrew into myself as I stood there half way listening to some sparse, disjointed conversation between Woods and Alan Bandy. Wallace is sitting a ways off hucking drugs to passing swabbies, saying “Weed? Hey buddy you looking for some speed?” in what street dealers fool themselves into believing is a hushed tone yet is loud enough that I can make out everything he says thirty feet away. The sun is down now and the purples are fading to night. We’re under the cover of darkness and the night is young, though we’re down to our last six-pack so Teddy hops on Chipper’s bike and heads out on a beer run.
Beyond what’s written above: Shortly after that some british guys walked by and started taunting us, saying that we’re just copying the English and shit like that. I believe it was Woods, Teddy, Bid and Chipper that ended up following them down the boardwalk and into the alley where a fight ensued and the brits were left pretty scuffed up along with a security guard from a nearby condo who made the mistake of spraying Woods and Teddy (and Chipper, I believe) with Mace. Good times. I totally should have posted this on the fourth of July!
September 5th, 2008 at 2:52 am
hey… ummm my name is lucas scott… bill heazlit is my uncle. you know… chipper? he showed me this after looking for his old buddies and i just read this and its pretty cool.
September 7th, 2008 at 11:04 am
Good Morning Toby, I remember that night, I think that lasted for a week or so. Mike was a crazy dude, but a great friend. You wrote about the trip to the drive-in one night and it was in my Impala and we stuffed three or four in the trunk and the movie was Holloween. I remember Mike and Bid hanging out at the concession stand that night trying to pick fights with whoever walked up.Bid lived with his Dad and Brother in a small house behind Jack in the Crack and myself and Mike had a studio with 3 or 4 other friends around the block from Bid in the alley off Bayside. We paid about 350.00 back then and splitting it 5 ways was affordable for us, because we needed money for partying. Mike always watched out for my sister, Dusty, do you remember her? Your story is a great read and brings back memories of what a wild life we had back then. Turn it into a movie!! It would be a hit. Our small group were the first Punks of San Diego!! Don’t forget the Mods and Jocks that hated and were jealous of us for what we stood up for in Mission Beach.
Stay in touch. “chipper”
October 1st, 2008 at 9:32 pm
I never met my uncle. I was born a few years after he died.
But I’m really glad I read this. My dad told me that his mother met you recently and that you knew my uncle, etc., and had written a story about him. I imagine he was a wonderfully spontaneous. I couldn’t help but think in the first couple of paragraphs when you said you met him riding a bike one-legged with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, “Damn, Ted was bad-ass.”
I do have his bass, though. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen it. It’s a dark wooden Gibson with a sticker on it, of some screaming purple face. I’m 17 now, funny thing is, I was supposed to be born on August 8th, too, but was born three days early. All I can say is thank you for giving me some insight on what he was like, I’ve always wondered.
I would love to talk to you about him, if you would.
- Kayra.
October 2nd, 2008 at 12:19 am
I just realized that I said “was a wonderfully spontaneous.” Oops.
Anyway, my dad read the story, too, and he says that Ted had the hit-and-run while skateboarding on his way to visiting my dad, apparently. Also according to my father, Mr. Whatever-his-name-is O’Shea was not quite in the picture. But that’s just my father’s word, obviously I wouldn’t know much in the matter. I still can’t believe I found this. I’m so excited!
October 2nd, 2008 at 1:14 am
You are the absolute best ever. Thanks so much for posting this. Check your email.
October 5th, 2008 at 10:03 pm
Just wanted to thank Ted’s mom for a very nice email. She also cleared up a couple items which I feel I should pass on: one is that she took all of her boys to the zoo (I must have assumed that or made it up- that Ted had never been to the zoo- maybe it was a little poetic license- I love to bash our vacuous culture but would not ever want to bash Ted’s mom- he always had only nice things to say about his family.
Also he was on his way to visit his brother when he got hit by the car- by the time I met Ted his dad had not been in the picture for a very long time.
On a side note: Philthy- when you read this- you’re pretty much the lone person I’m waiting to hear from.
Hope you’re well. Later- Toby
October 8th, 2008 at 4:39 am
Ted.
October 10th, 2008 at 5:20 pm
Holy moly, can’t believe I found this site….talk about bringing memories. I lived in M.B. santa barbara court and hung with Bandy, Todd Bolt, Johnny D, Wally, Woods, Abby, Scooter and a bunch more of the group. I was always on my skates or surfboard or pretending I was a punker
My kids would die if they heard that! But thanks you gave me some awesome memories of a time that I’ve totally distanced myself from….life has a way of moving quickly!
October 20th, 2008 at 3:36 am
I first read this when Sharon sent a copy to Tim to read. Tim and I have a 6 year old son, Tim jr. I have heard so much about Ted, I feel like I knew him. Though I’m sure it could never compare to having really knowing him. I wish I could’ve! Tim still struggles with the loss, everyday. Though Tim and I aren’t together anymore, we are pretty good friends, (he knows he can always depend on me, and he does!) and this touched him!! I could tell by Tim’s famous lack of words!!!lol
Anyway, I think the fact that Ted made such an impact on everyone around him, so-much-so, that he is still remembered and remembered often, after so long, he was truly special! Also to the person that was asking about the skating rink in El Cajon… it was originally, “Ice Palace” and then became “Skate Palace”. I believe it’s still Jerome’s Furniture now. Thanks for such beautiful insight of who Ted O’Shea was. Lindsi Krukowski
October 22nd, 2008 at 1:30 am
Thanks for your insight and comment.
Did I mention Tim’s brevity/reticence? If I didn’t, that’s pretty funny! If there’s any one thing I remember about Tim it’s that he never wasted words (as opposed to me, who no one could ever shut up.)
I talked to Tim the other day- first time since like 91 or so- and it was really good to hear from him. After I hung up I was thinking about it, and I don’t think I’m in contact with anyone (aside from my family) that has known me longer. For me that was kind of a neat thing. I miss those times.
March 12th, 2009 at 12:47 pm
Last weekend my son and I spent our days at the zoo, both days I found myself thinking of this thread and how Teddy never went to the zoo as a kid….
Anyways sunday we grabbed a soft serve and a bottle of water and my boy & I toasted “cheers, heres to Teddy”.
A great weekend, indeed!
March 12th, 2009 at 1:27 pm
I was corrected by Ted’s mom- she took her sons to the zoo plenty times. Just wanted to clarify- don’t know where my teenage mind got that idea.
April 5th, 2009 at 6:48 pm
how to start this..to tell you the truth its good to hear something other than “he died” and nothing else. Its good to hear he was a man. Im the son of his brother roy, i never met my uncle but heard of him on separate occasions. now at least i know something.
tim,ted,roy,kai the band of brothers with a life worth hearing
April 5th, 2009 at 6:56 pm
Man it is so cool for me to see all these O’shea boys show up around me so many years down the line. That’s the absolute best for me.
He was a man and a hell of a good guy and one of a kind- larger than life.
Aloha- Toby
May 27th, 2009 at 1:52 am
Wow, you knew Ted well Toby. Your words are beautiful. I can feel your love and your loss in your words Toby. I grew up with Ted in Los Altos elementry school and some jr high at Montgomery Jr. High. The first time I got high was with Ted at the Del Sol apartments. The first time I surfed was with Ted as we ditched jr high to go to IB. First time I stole a bike was with Ted. Ted did leave school in 7th grade. Then he went to Palomar Continuation. That lasted a little while. In elementry school Ted lived in a house with a swimming pool. We used to swim there all the time. We used to skinny dip with Pam Evans and others. Jump off the roof into the pool. (Sometimes naked) LOL. Roy, Ted, Tim and I used to go to the beach riding our bikes and go surfing.
There was one time in our life when we were swimming in the lakes behind Alpha Beta store. We dove down and saw a Volkswagen Beetle in the lake at the bottom. We would go there all the time and try to figure ways of getting it out so we could drive it all over. We were probably 12 or 13 yrs old. We wanted to drive so bad then. We traveled so far on our bikes. From the border at San Ysidro and Border park State Beach, to National City. We explored all over on our bikes.
One time when Roy was on leave from the Navy. We went to go visit Ted, I met Toby and some of the guys and then we went to the Firehouse Deli where ted was scheduled to work. Ted rode his Schwinn and Roy and I went on a bicycle built for two. Ted said he would make us lunch. Roy and I went there and Ted made us a shrimp omlet that to this day, is the best omlet I have ever had in my life. I compare all other omlets to the one Ted made me.
Ted was a free spirit that made an evelasting impression on my youth. We stayed friends untill his death. In his later years we would keep in contact two or three times a year. But I always have and always will love Ted for the great friend he was. Everyone who knew him in any way has lost a great friend. Ted loved life, he loved the beach and he loved his friends and family. I think of him and his brothers often. I miss him very much. And I know he looks down apon us and smiles. Peace out…………………….
Jose F. Aviles Sr.
June 16th, 2009 at 8:23 pm
Thanks for that.
July 20th, 2009 at 10:33 am
I just realized that I lived on the same block as Ted for a while. My friend Dixie Lee and I would hang out with him. He was always really down to earth and his mom was pretty cool. For some reason I distinctly remember giving him all of my Genesis cassettes!