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Before leaving L.A., we went over to some girl’s apartment who gave us mohawks while we listened to the Smiths. Freshly mohawked (believe it or not, it was completely unacceptable to have a mohawk; jocks hadn’t coopted it yet, and people wouldn’t even talk to you), we headed downtown to the L.A. train station.
Acid for the Children: A Memoir
by Flea
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