Picture, if you will, over a dozen white-haired and bald distinguished-looking gentlemen  - not the women, of course, because they are smokin' hot chickie-babes! - walking into a smoke-filled shoebox crammed with 20's-something biker wannabes. It's a good thing our conga-line was able to blend right in. Yeah, right. There was booze to anyone who obviously didn't need to show I.D., i.e., us.

I quickly did an about-face and played reconnaissance scout to General Dickson Custer's ambushed troops. I jogged to the Billiards Parlor and Pub I'd noticed a few storefronts down and was pleased to find a veritable oasis with a beer-serving bar that liked selling cold alcohol to adults, room to turn around without hitting anyone's boobs, relatively fresh air and and some empty pool tables. Rack 'em up!

I quickly went back and let the others know I'd found sanctuary and to leave before they got scalped. The retreat began! I know it's hard to understand why we'd want to leave the Zebra Room when the only real biker outside (or at least the only guy who had a motorcycle parked on the sidewalk) called out to Ginger, "Hey Pretty Lady, what are you doing tonight? Yeah, you in the red dress, I'm talking to you!" Once the women stopped swooning they all made it to the Pool Pub. We toasted our survival, both for that evening and for the years that have raced by, played billiards, laughed and went home smiling an hour later.

Who says the Class of '72 is out of adventures? Bring on Narbonne High!

Rick Boal

More Photos
(click to enlarge)