Stitch, I haven't forgotten. The shit went down very fast. And I was there for everything that happened afterwards.Maybe you don't remember me, but when you guys were hanging around the Victory Diner at the Point, I would ride by and have dinner there once in a while, and then go scooting around with Ralphie in the street. It was your old man, Tom, who taught me how to ride. He rode a blue Electra Glide back then. He was a union carpenter working in a theatrical local in Manhattan. The day I bought my first Harley-Davidson 45, your old man said, "Okay, kid, fall in behind me. I'll show you how to ride." So I rode behind him, following wherever he went, which turned out to be the Jersey Shore. Once there, we got totally fucking drunk. We were shit-faced. The locals were really glad to see us go. We tried to leave, but a six-volt kick-start, coupled with alcohol doesn't make for a quick getaway. As you know.Chaos cluttered the streets of New York City back then, which in the 1960s was all about Burn, Baby, Burn, especially in the ghetto neighborhoods where buildings were being incinerated. The cops were pigs. Revolutionaries were stirring up trouble on the Lower East Side. Squatters moved in everywhere. Lots of heroin was going down. And the French Connection was strong. The city was a place where nobody gave a rat's ass about anybody but themselves.The story continues from there...
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