"Our little bachelor pad" That's what you called it. My junior year in highschool. I never saw you that much. You were dealing drugs and working construction with Charlie. You bought me a motorcycle, and sometimes, on the weekends, we would go to Pier 1 imports, and buy thousands of dollars worth of useless shit that never left their boxes. Next door was that famous ceramicist, but I can never recall her name. In the morning, while I would be washing dishes. I would see her in her backyard, smoking a joint and kicking out a vase. She must of been 70 at the time. Boy, she was a hoot. That catcher from the Dodger's had the house across the street. Mike Piazza, or some shit similiar. Maybe one Z, but anyway I used to get off on pulling up next to him on his tenspeed while he would be riding in the morning, and I would be going to school... I would say, "Hey Mike?" And he would try to ignore me, but then I would say. "Overpaid fat fucking fag Jock, you SUCK! AND SO DO THE DODGERS, ha!" He would start screaming all kinds of foul hype, but I would just keep three feet in front of him all the way down the mountain. Then right at the stop sign I would wait for him to get right on top of me... Just to drop my clutch, and smoke that bastard out. Sweet sixteen, Sweet, sweet, sixteen.