Acid for the Children: A Memoir

by Flea

As eleventh grade careened its way along a path of acne and masturbation, Anthony and I remained inseparable. We were out in the Valley one day skulking about, riding the bumper cars in North Hollywood. Stoned as fuck, we approached cars at stoplights, attempting to convince them to give us a ride by talking to ’em with a personal touch. “Excuse me, ma’am, we are trying to make it over to West Hollywood, could you find it in your heart to give us a ride?” A little innocent charm went a long way, quelled the fear of the driver, and was a communicative and effective method of hitchhiking developed through oodles of practice. That’s when we saw Hillel Slovak drive by in his green Datsun 510, cranking Rush’s “La Villa Strangiato.” We yelled to each other, “That’s that dude Hillel, he’s in my social studies class, he’s cool! We know him!” We ran him down at the stoplight and he graciously gave us a ride. It was a marriage divined in the cosmos, and it was not long before our twosome became a threesome.