Shortly after 1982’s first hangover subsided, Ma’s kind friend, Robin, let me have her super-cheap, street-level, one-bedroom apartment. Three days before my seventeenth birthday, I got my own pad to come and go as I pleased. The place was a block from Los Angeles City College, in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood littered with small, independently owned businesses, such as tortillerias, panaderias, and carnicerias. I have no clue what the vegetable shops were called, because I don’t eat ‘em. That would be cannibalism. I enjoyed the neighborhood’s culture far more than the corporate chain bullshit we got littering the cityscape nowadays. But I do love me them Walmarts. They got everything, so I don’t have to drive around searching for shit. The ultra-low prices are just an awesome bonus, and the money saved is spent on learning to speak Chinese.
I registered at Marshall High School, housed in a seventy-five-year-old building. In the early twentieth century, no thought was ever given to wheelchair accessibility during construction, so I only attended for a day before transferring to the nearest wheelchair-friendly school. My fifth school for tenth grade was Fairfax High, located on the corner of Melrose and Fairfax. That school boasted an impressive who’s who of celebrity alumni. Besides every imaginable music genre clique representing loud ‘n’ proud, there were stacks of authentic punk rockers that stood out from the crowds. I’m not talking preppy wannabes like Newport Harbor High. Those Fairfax High punks had Mohawks, safety pins through whatever, and they donned punker threads imported straight from London. My favorite visuals at Fairfax were the hundreds of hot chicks of every size, shape, and color.
It never evolved to love in the elevator stage, but was far more entertaining than going to class.
Every morning, a bus rolled up to my house, tooted its horn, and waited till I made it out. At school, I had an elevator key for classes on the second floor, and a few hot ‘n’ sweet young ladies were kind enough to smooch in there with me. It never evolved to love in the elevator stage, but was far more entertaining than going to class.
The Friday of my first week, a long-haired dude wandered into English class late and sat directly behind me. Moments later, a vice principal walked in and barked, “Michael Jagosz!”
As the administrator began scanning the room, from behind I heard a gym bag slide my way. He then looked right past me and pointed to the late-arriving hippie. “Mr. Jagosz, come with me. Bring your bag.”
I knew the sound of free drugs sliding my way, so I said, “That’s my bag.”
Mike returned shortly after the bell rang and immediately retrieved the gym bag from my lap. He smiled. “Thanks, I got a half ounce of shrooms in here.”
Although I was disappointed about missing out on a free stuff opportunity, I smiled and shrugged. “No problem, dude.”
After that day, whenever he showed up, he’d sit next to me and we’d talk throughout class. Except for him disliking AC/DC, we dug the same heavy metal bands. When he told me Ronnie James Dio was his favorite singer, I bragged about having Sabbath’s Heaven and Hell LP autographed by Tony and Geezer.
A smoking-hot chick who usually sat two rows away often had us speculating about how magnificent a sight her nude body must be, and that she probably tasted sweeter than Marry Ann’s legendary coconut cream pie. One day, Mike told me, “I got tickets to Mob Rules,” and then pointed to the babe. “I’m going to take that chick.”
I was fully impressed that Mike had scored a date with such a fine honey, and pointed her way just to make sure. “That chick’s going to Sabbath with you?”
He had yet to invite her, but seemed to believe any babe in her right mind would sell a kidney to be with him. Right before class ended, Mike said, “Watch this,” then went to her desk, tapped her shoulder, and nonchalantly said, “I got tickets for Black Sabbath, you wanna go?”
She looked quite annoyed, while offering a snarky, “I don’t like Sabbath,” before turning away.
I chuckled and busted Mike’s chops a bit, but he shrugged it off. During the times we hung out, I can’t recall many chicks rebuffing his affections. He was a six-foot-tall, light-mocha-complexioned, green-eyed hunk with shoulder-length brown hair. Add a charming smile, pleasant laugh, quick-witted intelligence with supreme confidence, and the girls swooned. To me, it seemed like Mike could have had anything in this world he set his mind on and worked for.
Not long after we met, Mike invited me to see his band rehearse. At first, I thought he said their name was Pie-Crust, but it turned out they were called Pyrrhus.
Not long after we met, Mike invited me to see his band rehearse. At first, I thought he said their name was Pie-Crust, but it turned out they were called Pyrrhus. After school, the band’s guitarist, Tracii Guns, picked me up in his dad’s plumbing truck. I sat in the back and held on tight all the way to Mike’s Hollywood Hills house, a bitchin’ old Victorian in the shadow of the Hollywood sign that must’ve been majestic in its day. In the backyard was an out-building shaded by a towering, generous avocado tree. Inside, the band’s gear was set up ready to rock.
As Tracii warmed up, I was immediately impressed by his mad skills riffing of the Van Halen licks “Mean Streets” and “Eruption.” He established the band’s volume by cranking his Marshall 200-watt combo three notches past ear-bleed level as drummer Robbie Gardner pounded his Ludwig oyster pearl maple drum kit vigorously, trying to keep up with Tracii as well as Dani Tull’s bottom-slapping Ampeg bass gear. The crappy Peavey powered mixer with matching dilapidated speaker towers were no match, so Mike turned his lungs to full hurricane force aggression to be barely heard.
Pyrrhus opened their set with the intro riff to “Heaven on Their Minds” from Jesus Christ Superstar, then proceeded to burn through several Zeppelin covers, Sabbath’s “Children of the Grave,” Ozzy’s “I Don’t Know,” and a few originals. Along with his blazing guitar, Tracii was quite the showman, bobbing his head, shimmying, shuffling, and stomping around like he owned rock ‘n’ roll. Dani moved and swayed to the music in a hypnotic, mellow, laid-back groove while Robbie kept a solid energetic backbeat.
