Okay, Wallaby... Frat Boys Go To the Drive-In

[Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967]

Dirty Harry and the Omega Man

 

     “Hey!  Let’s go to the drive-in tonight!  It’s Saturday night and there’s a coupla good flicks we can catch!”

 

     Well now, what a CAPITAL idea!

 

     It was a springtime Saturday afternoon back in ’72, and a bunch of us were grilling burgers, ‘dogs and wursts in the back yard of the Kappa Phi Delta house.  Present were the usual bunch of miscreants, plus a  girlfriend or two and two special guests – a pair of very large USC football players.  Not too sure, but I think they were friends of one of our own ‘Gators, Louis “Lovus Quintus” Quint.  Louie was a recreation major and, like many of the frat’s brothers, a starting player on S. F. State’s own team. 

 

     But, it wasn’t football season, and there were no parties or other activities scheduled for the evening.  So off to the drive-in theater with us!  There were two fairly new movies none of us had seen, “Dirty Harry” and “The Omega Man.”  They’d only been released about six months before and we were all anxious to see ‘em.

 

     In preparation for the outing we assembled a package of refreshments – re-purposed milk containers filled with a mixture of orange juice and vodka for the non-drivers, and lemonade for us wheel men.  Of course, we drivers would NEVER dream of sneaking a sip or twelve of the “orangeade.”

 

     We had decided to take two cars: Tom Corbett’s yellow 1970 Volkswagen Bug, and Ol’ Paint, my white 1962 Buick Skylark.  With her small, high-compression V-8 and four-barreled carburetor, she was quick, nimble, and sporty.  And surprisingly comfortable.  With me being the smallest of the bunch, it was going to be cozy in those two buggies, but hey – we were buddies and besides, this was going to be FUN!

 

     After loading up our libations in the trunks, seven of us saddled up and hit the road for the Geneva Drive-In in Daly City.  The traffic gods smiled upon us, and it was maybe a twenty minute drive.  We managed to arrive well before sundown, and snagged two coveted and adjacent spots in the very front row – perfect!

 

     There were four men in my Buick, and three in Tom’s VW.  I had the wheel seat in the Buick, Bill “Wynuts” Wyant had shotgun, and the two USC fellas were shoehorned into the back seat.  Bein’ a stubby five foot ten, I was able to scoot my seat forward and the taller of those two sat behind me.  In the VW were Tom, of course, Half-Breed Pete in the shotgun seat, and Hank lounged behind.  This is noteworthy, as Hank NEVER sat in the back seat.  Indeed, I can only recall two or three times in over fifty years that he could be found there and in at least two of ‘em he was so drunk he likely didn’t notice. 

 

     Since it was only a short time since we’d porked out on back-yard cuisine no one was ready for snacks, so by the time the Bugs Bunny vs Marvin the Martian cartoon started we were well settled and enjoying our beverages. 

 

     Lemonade for me (of course)!

 

     Both cars rocked with laughter as Bugs did his darndest to thwart Marvin and his dog K-9’s attempts to blow up the Earth with their Illudium PU-36 Explosive Space Modulator.  By the time the ‘toon ended, with Bugs hanging by one hand from the tip of a crescent moon, we all had tears of mirth the size of road apples coursing down our cheeks.  Admittedly, there may have been a tiny bit of effect from all the smoke in the cars – the two USC boys were puffing cigarettes (in those days many athletes still smoked… according to “many sports doctors it will improve your wind!” ).  And I had my pipe – a genuine meerschaum-bowled Calabash. 

 

     No comment on the haze within the Volkswagen; however, we did have a quick change of “shotgun” riders, with Bill moving to the VW, and Half-Breed Pete filling the front of the Buick.  I had no way of knowing that this would have a profound impact on the evening.

 

     Anyway, we were shortly captivated by the drama of Dirty Harry.  Cigarettes were finished, my pipe bowl died, and nobody even considered lighting up again for a while.  Even the VW had cleared somewhat; indeed, a few minutes earlier it could have been an inspiration for a future movie featuring Cheech Marin and Tommy Chong.  But the guys were all focused on the movie.

 

     Dirty Harry truly was exciting for us Kappa Phi guys, and the USC boys were easily swept up in the mood.  As most will recall, the story was about a San Francisco Police Inspector, Harry Callahan, attempting to catch a criminal loosely based on the infamous “Zodiac Killer” who had been responsible for a number of murders in our area.  Most of us knew or were related to a few San Francisco  police officers, and the murders had been prominent news for some time.  And, of course, we were very familiar with the locations depicted – we’d been though the bowels of Kezar Stadium, had drank beer and whiskey at the base of the Mount Davidson Cross, and driven countless times past the Marin County gravel quarry. 

 

     We were transfixed by the action on the screen; chatter was at a minimum, limited to comments about landmarks and tension-releasing guffaws at appropriate moments - “Do you feel lucky, Punk?” 

 

     Oh, and requests for refills, of course.  Fortunately, those 2 ½ gallon recycled milk containers were quite capacious – in fact, they’d hold up to 2 ½ gallons of “orangeade.”

 

     Finally, the movie ended, leaving us all feeling satisfied but a bit disappointed that we’d not likely see any more of Dirty Harry.  We were wrong about that, of course.  But one thing was for sure – we hadn’t eaten in over three hours and were all beginning to feel a mite peckish.  An intermission run to the snack bar was in order!

 

     Since the Boys From USC were our guests, Pete and I took their requests and tromped off the gedunk.  There was a queue, of course, and we didn’t get through it until the next movie started and was well underway.  

 

     With our arms loaded we began our mosey back to the car, and I had a spark of an idea.  When we got closer to the Buick, we could see the Boys From USC staring intently at the screen.  If they were anything like the folks we’d been passing, The Omega Man had them pretty much on the edge of their seats.

 

      “Hey, Mac!” I said.

 

      “Yeah?”  answered Pete.

 

      “Ya wanna have some fun?”

 

      “Sure!  Whaddaya got in mind?”

 

     With a chuckle, I said “Follow me!” and took off at a lumbering, waddling trot, arms full of snack bar grub bags.

 

     At about ten yards from the back of the car, I ramped it up to as close to a sprint as possible with armloads of goodies – actually, not all that difficult, as we were all pretty athletic back then.

 

     At the last instant, I lifted off and vaulted off the rear bumper and literally ran over the car, stern to stem, startling the hell out of the guys inside – they literally squealed like girls. 

 

     Oh, it was SO funny.

 

     But, as the Ploughman Poet once noted, all things don’t necessarily go as planned.  I had, in the enthusiasm of enacting my strategy, once again failed to consider all factors.

 

     When I skidded to a halt after landing, I turned and laughed at the sight of the back-seaters’ wide-eyed and dumbfounded stares.  Just in time to see Half-Breed Pete begin his own lift-off.

 

     That’s when the shortcomings of my plan became evident.

 

     You see… I forgot to factor in a couple of facts:  First, I was a sailor and a slender cross-country runner, and was naturally shod in deck shoes.  Second, Pete was wearing logging boots and packing avoirdupois almost double that of mine.

 

     The rear of the car sagged appreciably when his booted hoof launched off the rear bumper.  Its mate ker-plunked onto the middle of the trunk lid, and he trampolined onto the roof with the intent of continuing his dash across the sheet metal.

 

     Unfortunately, when he reached the center of that expanse, the effect of his mass took over.  The entire roof collapsed, and the sheet metal crumpled to the very tops of the front seat-backs. 

 

     Fortunately for them, the fellas inside were already on high alert and instantly ducked, saving themselves knots on their noggins or possible broken necks.

 

     Somehow, Pete managed to continue his trek across Mount Buick, and after making a slight boot-shaped  impression in the hood, bounced back to Earth.

 

     He and I stared at the now deformed Buick; he with an apologetic look and me with a conflicted expression – torn between the hilarity of the situation and sadness about the condition of my ride.  And of course, there was a tiny bit of concern about the well-being of the two victims in the back seat.

 

     Suddenly, right before our astonished eyes, like a fast-forwarded film of a flower blooming, the poor li’l car began to re-inflate as the two imprisoned gentlemen literally punched the roof back into a pretty darned good facsimile of its former self.

 

     Again fortunately, by the time we got the doors opened and crawled back inside – laden with goodies – the lads were laughing uproariously.  They had NEVER had such fun, they declared, and would have some good stories to take home.  Literally, a good time was had by all.

 

     Well, eventually Charleton Heston met his end and we made our way home.  When we arrived it was foggy and drizzling, so I let the other fellas out in front of the frat house, then went in search of a parking spot – which I found near the corner on the opposite side of Baker Street.  I parked and had just gotten out of the car when another frat brother drove up; he stopped to chat for a moment, then spotted the wrinkles in my roof.

 

      “My God, Rocko!  Wotinell happened to your car?!”

 

     I laughed and said “Lemme show you!” and leaped gracefully atop the vehicle, where I bounced a time or two.  Fortunately, the roof held; unfortunately, the tired old girl had had enough, and bounced me plumb off her roof.  I landed on my butt on the trunk, and was further bounced completely off into the street.

 

     That was embarrassing!

 

     But not quite as embarrassing as my landing, albeit on my feet, right in front of the police car that had just cruised around the corner from Oak Street onto Baker.

 

     Wisely, I scrambled across the street and up the marble steps.  The officers goosed their car uphill a few yards and lit me up with their spotlight – whereupon I executed a perfect “Shuffle Off to Buffalo,” and slipped into the front door, which had fortuitously been left ajar.

 

     The last thing I heard before the door clicked shut was peals of guffaws from the Black-and-White.  After all, this was their beat, and they knew Kappa Phi Delta well.  They knew us.  Yup - they knew us.

 

                                                                                

[Buckshot Bear]

Love it !!!!!!!!!!!!

[Wallaby Jack, SASS #44062]

Thank You   

[Singin' Sue 71615]

Classic!!

Where can I buy the book???

[Imis Twohofon,SASS # 46646]

We havent gotten Hardpan that much in gear, but Wartrace's own Nantahala Ned has just published an 800 page book about his 3500 mile walk across America in 1979. It is available from him or Amazon, titled ALeaf in the Stream  by Steven Foust. I read it and enjoyed it immensely. It is not rowdy frat boys stuff, however, he does manage to misbehave a little in the over a year the walk took.

 

Imis

[Finagler 6853 Life]

I'd like to take a lawn chair and just follow you around to watch future episodes of your book.  You crack me up.

[Injun Ryder, SASS #36201L]

Heston died???? I'll bet you told the people in line to see "Titanic" that the boat sunk!!!!

[Subdeacon Joe]

Yep.  You spin a good yarn, Hardpan.

[Eyesa Horg]

15 hours ago, Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967 said:

Dirty Harry and the Omega Man

 

     “Hey!  Let’s go to the drive-in tonight!  It’s Saturday night and there’s a coupla good flicks we can catch!”

 

     Well now, what a CAPITAL idea!

 

     It was a springtime Saturday afternoon back in ’72, and a bunch of us were grilling burgers, ‘dogs and wursts in the back yard of the Kappa Phi Delta house.  Present were the usual bunch of miscreants, plus a  girlfriend or two and two special guests – a pair of very large USC football players.  Not too sure, but I think they were friends of one of our own ‘Gators, Louis “Lovus Quintus” Quint.  Louie was a recreation major and, like many of the frat’s brothers, a starting player on S. F. State’s own team. 

 

     But, it wasn’t football season, and there were no parties or other activities scheduled for the evening.  So off to the drive-in theater with us!  There were two fairly new movies none of us had seen, “Dirty Harry” and “The Omega Man.”  They’d only been released about six months before and we were all anxious to see ‘em.

 

     In preparation for the outing we assembled a package of refreshments – re-purposed milk containers filled with a mixture of orange juice and vodka for the non-drivers, and lemonade for us wheel men.  Of course, we drivers would NEVER dream of sneaking a sip or twelve of the “orangeade.”

 

     We had decided to take two cars: Tom Corbett’s yellow 1970 Volkswagen Bug, and Ol’ Paint, my white 1962 Buick Skylark.  With her small, high-compression V-8 and four-barreled carburetor, she was quick, nimble, and sporty.  And surprisingly comfortable.  With me being the smallest of the bunch, it was going to be cozy in those two buggies, but hey – we were buddies and besides, this was going to be FUN!

 

     After loading up our libations in the trunks, seven of us saddled up and hit the road for the Geneva Drive-In in Daly City.  The traffic gods smiled upon us, and it was maybe a twenty minute drive.  We managed to arrive well before sundown, and snagged two coveted and adjacent spots in the very front row – perfect!

 

     There were four men in my Buick, and three in Tom’s VW.  I had the wheel seat in the Buick, Bill “Wynuts” Wyant had shotgun, and the two USC fellas were shoehorned into the back seat.  Bein’ a stubby five foot ten, I was able to scoot my seat forward and the taller of those two sat behind me.  In the VW were Tom, of course, Half-Breed Pete in the shotgun seat, and Hank lounged behind.  This is noteworthy, as Hank NEVER sat in the back seat.  Indeed, I can only recall two or three times in over fifty years that he could be found there and in at least two of ‘em he was so drunk he likely didn’t notice. 

 

     Since it was only a short time since we’d porked out on back-yard cuisine no one was ready for snacks, so by the time the Bugs Bunny vs Marvin the Martian cartoon started we were well settled and enjoying our beverages. 

 

     Lemonade for me (of course)!

 

     Both cars rocked with laughter as Bugs did his darndest to thwart Marvin and his dog K-9’s attempts to blow up the Earth with their Illudium PU-36 Explosive Space Modulator.  By the time the ‘toon ended, with Bugs hanging by one hand from the tip of a crescent moon, we all had tears of mirth the size of road apples coursing down our cheeks.  Admittedly, there may have been a tiny bit of effect from all the smoke in the cars – the two USC boys were puffing cigarettes (in those days many athletes still smoked… according to “many sports doctors it will improve your wind!” ).  And I had my pipe – a genuine meerschaum-bowled Calabash. 

 

     No comment on the haze within the Volkswagen; however, we did have a quick change of “shotgun” riders, with Bill moving to the VW, and Half-Breed Pete filling the front of the Buick.  I had no way of knowing that this would have a profound impact on the evening.

 

     Anyway, we were shortly captivated by the drama of Dirty Harry.  Cigarettes were finished, my pipe bowl died, and nobody even considered lighting up again for a while.  Even the VW had cleared somewhat; indeed, a few minutes earlier it could have been an inspiration for a future movie featuring Cheech Marin and Tommy Chong.  But the guys were all focused on the movie.

 

     Dirty Harry truly was exciting for us Kappa Phi guys, and the USC boys were easily swept up in the mood.  As most will recall, the story was about a San Francisco Police Inspector, Harry Callahan, attempting to catch a criminal loosely based on the infamous “Zodiac Killer” who had been responsible for a number of murders in our area.  Most of us knew or were related to a few San Francisco  police officers, and the murders had been prominent news for some time.  And, of course, we were very familiar with the locations depicted – we’d been though the bowels of Kezar Stadium, had drank beer and whiskey at the base of the Mount Davidson Cross, and driven countless times past the Marin County gravel quarry. 

 

     We were transfixed by the action on the screen; chatter was at a minimum, limited to comments about landmarks and tension-releasing guffaws at appropriate moments - “Do you feel lucky, Punk?” 

 

     Oh, and requests for refills, of course.  Fortunately, those 2 ½ gallon recycled milk containers were quite capacious – in fact, they’d hold up to 2 ½ gallons of “orangeade.”

 

     Finally, the movie ended, leaving us all feeling satisfied but a bit disappointed that we’d not likely see any more of Dirty Harry.  We were wrong about that, of course.  But one thing was for sure – we hadn’t eaten in over three hours and were all beginning to feel a mite peckish.  An intermission run to the snack bar was in order!

 

     Since the Boys From USC were our guests, Pete and I took their requests and tromped off the gedunk.  There was a queue, of course, and we didn’t get through it until the next movie started and was well underway.  

 

     With our arms loaded we began our mosey back to the car, and I had a spark of an idea.  When we got closer to the Buick, we could see the Boys From USC staring intently at the screen.  If they were anything like the folks we’d been passing, The Omega Man had them pretty much on the edge of their seats.

 

      “Hey, Mac!” I said.

 

      “Yeah?”  answered Pete.

 

      “Ya wanna have some fun?”

 

      “Sure!  Whaddaya got in mind?”

 

     With a chuckle, I said “Follow me!” and took off at a lumbering, waddling trot, arms full of snack bar grub bags.

 

     At about ten yards from the back of the car, I ramped it up to as close to a sprint as possible with armloads of goodies – actually, not all that difficult, as we were all pretty athletic back then.

 

     At the last instant, I lifted off and vaulted off the rear bumper and literally ran over the car, stern to stem, startling the hell out of the guys inside – they literally squealed like girls. 

 

     Oh, it was SO funny.

 

     But, as the Ploughman Poet once noted, all things don’t necessarily go as planned.  I had, in the enthusiasm of enacting my strategy, once again failed to consider all factors.

 

     When I skidded to a halt after landing, I turned and laughed at the sight of the back-seaters’ wide-eyed and dumbfounded stares.  Just in time to see Half-Breed Pete begin his own lift-off.

 

     That’s when the shortcomings of my plan became evident.

 

     You see… I forgot to factor in a couple of facts:  First, I was a sailor and a slender cross-country runner, and was naturally shod in deck shoes.  Second, Pete was wearing logging boots and packing avoirdupois almost double that of mine.

 

     The rear of the car sagged appreciably when his booted hoof launched off the rear bumper.  Its mate ker-plunked onto the middle of the trunk lid, and he trampolined onto the roof with the intent of continuing his dash across the sheet metal.

 

     Unfortunately, when he reached the center of that expanse, the effect of his mass took over.  The entire roof collapsed, and the sheet metal crumpled to the very tops of the front seat-backs. 

 

     Fortunately for them, the fellas inside were already on high alert and instantly ducked, saving themselves knots on their noggins or possible broken necks.

 

     Somehow, Pete managed to continue his trek across Mount Buick, and after making a slight boot-shaped  impression in the hood, bounced back to Earth.

 

     He and I stared at the now deformed Buick; he with an apologetic look and me with a conflicted expression – torn between the hilarity of the situation and sadness about the condition of my ride.  And of course, there was a tiny bit of concern about the well-being of the two victims in the back seat.

 

     Suddenly, right before our astonished eyes, like a fast-forwarded film of a flower blooming, the poor li’l car began to re-inflate as the two imprisoned gentlemen literally punched the roof back into a pretty darned good facsimile of its former self.

 

     Again fortunately, by the time we got the doors opened and crawled back inside – laden with goodies – the lads were laughing uproariously.  They had NEVER had such fun, they declared, and would have some good stories to take home.  Literally, a good time was had by all.

 

     Well, eventually Charleton Heston met his end and we made our way home.  When we arrived it was foggy and drizzling, so I let the other fellas out in front of the frat house, then went in search of a parking spot – which I found near the corner on the opposite side of Baker Street.  I parked and had just gotten out of the car when another frat brother drove up; he stopped to chat for a moment, then spotted the wrinkles in my roof.

 

      “My God, Rocko!  Wotinell happened to your car?!”

 

     I laughed and said “Lemme show you!” and leaped gracefully atop the vehicle, where I bounced a time or two.  Fortunately, the roof held; unfortunately, the tired old girl had had enough, and bounced me plumb off her roof.  I landed on my butt on the trunk, and was further bounced completely off into the street.

 

     That was embarrassing!

 

     But not quite as embarrassing as my landing, albeit on my feet, right in front of the police car that had just cruised around the corner from Oak Street onto Baker.

 

     Wisely, I scrambled across the street and up the marble steps.  The officers goosed their car uphill a few yards and lit me up with their spotlight – whereupon I executed a perfect “Shuffle Off to Buffalo,” and slipped into the front door, which had fortuitously been left ajar.

 

     The last thing I heard before the door clicked shut was peals of guffaws from the Black-and-White.  After all, this was their beat, and they knew Kappa Phi Delta well.  They knew us.  Yup - they knew us.

 

                                                                                

What happened to "the girlfriend or two?"

[Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967]

7 hours ago, Eyesa Horg said:

What happened to "the girlfriend or two?"

 

HA Ha ha...  good question!  

 

There are a couple of lines of thought on this.  

 

Most of the guys who did go to the movies that night were not the ones who had girlfriends at dinner; no more than one or two, perhaps.  I s'pose that they could have piled into another car... however, I think that in this case common sense prevailed.  On the ladies' part, of course ~ after all, they knew us!