Hunter   Gatherers   of   the   Teenage   Crashpad
By The   Drunken   Master   Devise

Once   upon   a   time   there   was   a   legendary   place.   A   lost   kingdom   of   freedom   most   teens   could   only   dream   of.   Everytime   it   was   broken   up   by police   or   was   just   abandoned    by   summer's   weekend    warriors ,   a new   one   grew   in   a   new place   over   looked   by   society.   Sometimes   it   would   be   a   wild   tent   city   in   a   long   gone   river   bed   south of   downtown,   or   in   a burned   out   house   near   Mckee   Road.   Once it was   in   a   long   forgotten   transit   access   tunnel   down   the   road   from   Ohlone   Chenowyth   lightrail   station.   But   the   golden   era   of   my   life  took   place   in   the   abandoned    wing   of   the   Del   Coronado   Apartments.   This massive   subterranean   complex   had   whole   rows   of   buildings   festering   with   scum,   winos,   bums   and   outlaws.   Out of   this   desolation    the   lost   and   thrown   away   kids   would   meet   up   in   back   of   Longs   Drugs   to   make   out   with   chicks   and   swill   booze   while   sitting   on   blown   out   TV's,   twisted    up   shopping   carts   and   scum   stained mattresses.   Swapping    stories of drunken   insolence,   fist   fights with parents,   Albinos   and   white chicks   who had   strange   color   tones   under   their   clothes.   Out of   this   stew of   eternal   drunken   masters,    underworld   skaters   and   young   angst   a   family rose.

We lived   in   a   spray   painted   dream   world,   high   on   psilysibon,   fumes   and   who   knows   what   else.   Surrounded   by   beautiful   women,   liquid   colors   and   shimmering   walls   as   freestyle   sessions   took   us   on   cerebral   journeys   to   dimensions beyond   the   other   side   of   reality.   We had friends   doing   sick   ass   art pieces   while   we   slept,    homies   doing   kick flips   in   the   living   room.   Well after midnight   there   was   impromptu   acoustic   jam   sessions mixed   with   spoken   word   poetry   around   an   indoor   fire.   MC   and   graffiti   battles   fascinated   whole   crowds   of   people   who   knew nothing   of   the   art   form.   We had   interchangeable   girl   friends,   hangers   on   and   some   of   the   strangest   one   time   visitors   the   world   has   ever   seen.   It   was   like   Haight   Ashbury   mixed   with   Wild   Style   we   had   a   culture,   a   unique   style   of   music,   art   and   true   community... as   well   as   free   utilities.   A   generation   of   the   cutting   edge   writers   of   our   time.   It   was   like   Animal   House,   Fear and   Loathing   and   The   Wall:   all   at   once.   We   had   a whole   wing   of   the   place   that   was   condemned.   It was   cool   with   old   fountains,   a   court   yard   with   flourishing   wild   life   like   raccoons   and   coyotes   and   a   pool   so   dirty   only   we   would   use   it,   mostly   on   warm   summer   nights.   It was   far   from   the   eye   sight   of   informants,   snitches,   busy   bodies   and   even   the   maintenance   men   would   show   us   love.   Cops   would   be   around but   since   there   was   no   real   crime   but   malicious   mischief   we   could   just   disappear   as they   did   a   walk   thru,   and   since   we   were   in good   with   maintenance   we   had   advanced   warning.   The   worst   habit   any   one   had   was   one   of   the   homies   had   an   issue   with   oxycoton   and   triple   C's.   No   scandalous   people   were   allowed,   many   times   fools   ended   up   getting   86'd   the   old   fashion   way.   No junkies   or   fools   the   chicks   would   have   to   worry about,   we   protected   our   home   girls   with   a   hard   fist   and   cold   stomp.

Everyone    was   welcome -- thieves,   hookers,   spray   painters,    rappers,   punk rocker   runaways   and   socially   destitute   burn outs.   All   this   family   needed   was   a   home,   this   is   when   one   of   the   larger   delinquents    kicked   open   the   door   to   a   shadowy   crashpad.   Soon, furniture was   brought   from   the   sidewalks,   a   Barbecue   pit   was   boosted   and   spices   were   taken   to   create   some   of   San   Jose's   most   legendary   marinades.    Most of us   had   homes   but   dysfunctional   families   and   not   wanting   to   strain   single   parent   house   holds   had   these   young   winos   take   to   the   streets. We went   from   hanging   in   under ground   parking   structures   to   having    a   safe   place   to   spend   the   winter.   We were a   tight   knit   group,   when   somebody   was   hungry   it   was   a   guaranteed     grocery   store   raid.   Loading   up   on   steak,   garlic bread,   pizza's,   beer,   tequila,   and   boxes   of   wine.   There   was   never   individual   meals   allowed,   if   we   were   going   to   pull   a   move   it   would   be   enough   to   feed   an   army.   We'd   go   in in   teams,   one   on drinks,   another   on   meat   and   a   third   on   tooth   brushes,   condoms   and   tampons.   We were   unstoppable,   we   would   rotate   stores   to   not   draw   attention   and   some   of   us   had   the   coldest    routine   I've   ever   seen.   A select few,   our   special   forces   would   go   in   in   a   collared   shirt,   slacks and   italian   shoes.   These   true   scums   would   grab   a   cart   and   using   skill   derived   from   the   great   Krylon   raids   of   the   1990's   would   pull   the   months   grocery   list.   These were   artists,   true   ninja   bandits,   could   walk   in   smile   at   clerks,   greet   old   ladies   and   be   nearly   invisible.   When the moment   was   right   casually   stroll   out   with   the   most   overloaded   cart   that   we   could   push.   It's funny because   as   I   write   this   I   laugh   remembering   a   Christmas   turkey   sliding   down   my   pants   as   the   manager   looks   at   me with   holiday   cheer.   Or having   to   run   with   ice   cold   chicken   blood   filling   up   my   socks, or   bottle   raids   that   ended   with   a   car   pulling   up   on   the   side   walk   and   having   to   use   every   football   juke   I   knew   from   High   School   to   disrupt   a   loss   prevention   teams   sting.

We   saw   the   rise   and   fall   of   countless   inter-group   romances   as   we   watched   crazy   art house   cinema   on   a   heavy   ass   TV   some   body   dragged   up   the   stairs.   Certain   movies would   be   on   constant rotation    like   the   Sly   and   The   Family Stone   segment   of   Woodstock,   Repo Man,   Suburbia 83,   Return of The Living Dead,   Fantastic   Planet, Bumfights, Basquat,   City   of   God   and   Where   The   Buffalo   Roam,   the   Bill   Murray   adaption   of   Hunter S. Thompson's   life   from   the   80's.   We would   make   our   own   rap   in   Tall   Can Sloth's   portable   studio   and   film   skate   videos   on   the   countless   rails,   stairs   and   balconies   in   our   little   vacant   metropolis.   We would   feed people   we   didn't   even   know   and   adopted   an   old   bum   to   listen   to   his   stories   of   wildness   in   the   60's.   The   location   changed   but   the   love,   dedication   and   devotion   to   each   other   never   died.   Sadly   some   of   us   did,   others   spent   long   jail   terms   away   and   others   just   moved   to   the   next   town   on   the   rails.   No one   who   was   there   will   ever   forget   those   lost   days,   every   one   has   a   different   story   to   tell   of   our   misdeeds   and   heroics.   The story of   some   real   side   ways   burn   outs.   These are   the   memories   of   some   young   anti-hero's   on   a   psychedelic   adventure   that   never   ended   and   never   will.