![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() I called the Captain Crunch Express home for a couple of years as we went up and down the coast looking for the heart of Saturday night, looking for the great blue-pink American West night as the Be-Bop Kid described it and everybody kind of bought into that idea, hell, maybe just looking to turn the world upside down and see if that was any better than the gruel that was on tap for, the gruel force-fed to us for no known reason. A group of us sometimes sticking together for months like the Be-Bop Kid, Peter Markin, my closest friend since he hailed from North Adamsville about twenty miles north of my hometown of Carver, Tiny Slim Tim as you might suspect a giant whose real name was Dexter something and Butterfly Swirl (Catherine Clark) from down in Carlsbad who was “slumming” from the perfect wave surfer crowd she hung with in high school to see what the next best thing was in the frenetic California night and who every guy on the bus took a shot at, including Be-Bop and me stuck together longest (Markin as it turned out for years after we got off the road before he ended up badly down in Mexico, all sister crazy, over a busted drug deal he was trying to put together with the cartel boys who were not pleased), others, Mustang Sally (you can figure that one out if you know the song), Reefer Jones (ditto on the figuring out just throw yourselves back to any urban college dorm, student ghetto apartment, rock concert and high school boys’ or girls’ lav when it filtered down to the teenagers), Guy Fawkes ( after the English plotter who has had a resurgence lately between the NSA and the young libertarians), Digger Stewart (after the 17 th century English communists led by Gerrard Winstanley up on Saint George’s Hill for a while anyway, a movement before its time) for shorter periods. ![]()
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