As I walked down the sidewalk, thinking about the films I had just seen, and a lot of other things, there was a five-story building to my left, with balconies covered by a honeycomb type of grilled masonry.

All of a sudden, on the sidewalk in front of me, right at my feet, a drinking glass hit the pavement, and shattered into a hundred pieces, some of them hitting my arms, but fortunately not cutting them.

I could smell whiskey from the glass. As fast as it had happened, it also seemed to be in slow motion. I knew exactly what had happened. Somebody had thrown the glass from one of those balconies to my left, several stories above. And, I couldn't see who had done it, or even which floor it had come from, because of those grilles on the balconies.

Well, what do you do in such a situation? Probably just keep on walking and be glad the glass didn't hit you. You certainly couldn't find the person who did it, and beat the heck out of them.

So, that's what I did. I just kept on walking, wondering who it was that threw that glass off the balcony. Were they trying to hit me? Or did they even look where they were throwing the glass? Were they just throwing it in a drunken celebration? Or, were they caught when they weren't supposed to be drinking, and had to get rid of the evidence?

Well, to this day, I don't have any idea why somebody threw that glass off that balcony. I do know it was a very dangerous situation, and if it had been a split second later, the glass would have hit me, and possibly knocked me unconscious, or cut my head, or no telling what. Walking down that city street, I had encountered danger, but narrowly escaped it.

Well, normally, the broken drinking glass would be all I remembered from such an afternoon, and the films I saw at the arthouse, would be long forgotten. But, this afternoon, was different. I also remember the films, and for good reason.

Around that time, I had seen some digest-sized porno books. Just routine photos of couples in different sexual positions. The anonymous models in those books, were people whose names I would never know, and I would never see them again. but, one photo was different.

It showed this girl, in position for a doggie fuck, her rear end pointed toward the camera, her eyes closed, and a look of mock ecstasy on her face. Lying next to here was a tall, skinny guy with a marcelled hairdo, sticking his right middle finger into her cunt.

Just another forgettable porno photo. Well, not quite! After a second look, she had her hand on the tall skinny guy's cock, and it wasn't just another cock! That thing was a real donkey dick! In another photo, she grabbed it with both of her hands, and still had several inches to spare!

Well, it was an unusual photo alright, but I never expected to find out who that big-dicked guy was, or even see him again.

Until that afternoon at the arthouse. The features were Hollywood Babylon and The Passion Seekers. There is quite a story behind Babylon, being based on Kenneth Anger's all-time great gossip book. At the time, I didn't realize this, and was only dimly aware of Anger as an underground filmmaker.

But, it's The Passion Seekers, the second feature, that concerns us here. It was about a sex therapy group, directed by a woman sitting on a motorcycle, while the sexually troubled members of the group are required to undress and tell about their problems.

Jeffrey, a 27 year old insurance salesman, is shy about doing so, and he is a virgin. After undressing, he goes into a room with a girl for his sex therapy, and turns out to be a real winner in bed. We see some close-up beaver shots, but no hardcore action.

Another woman (?) in the group has no sexual feelings at all. She (?) undresses, and we see her (?) breasts, but then discover that she's a half and half. A she-male. A transsexual! Surprise!

Well, the final surprise in the film wasn't a surprise (at least to me, it wasn't). This tall, skinny guy with a marcelled hairdo, undresses, but keeps his back to the camera. Hey! That's the guy from the digest book! Finally, he turns around, we see his big dick, and he says his problem is that he can't have sex, because his cock is too big!

End of film. The cast listing comes on screen, and that guy has a name: John Holmes. But, again, I never expected to see him in another film. I had no idea at that time, he was already well-known in hardcore films, and even played a continuing character, a private dick named Johnny Wadd.

And, I never would have dreamed that in the years to come, he would become a major porno star, claiming 27 fan clubs, and having his name before the title and on the marquees of the grindhouses. And, that he would become involved in a horrible mass murder, be found not guilty, and die of a horrible new sexually transmitted disease a few years later!

My discovery of the name, John Holmes, was just the solution of a minor mystery, not anything all that significant. As I walked down the sidewalk, I thought of other things, along with my narrow escape from being hit by a falling drinking glass.

There were horrors being reported on national TV, radio, and newspapers. In Texas, the atrocities of Dean Allen Corll had just been discovered-the torture chamber in his house, and the bodies being dug up in his boat shed, and, on the beach at Galveston.

"...On the beach where we used to run, at Galveston, at Galveston..."
-Glenn Campbell, Galveston

And, locally, there were more horrors. Members of a "Black Flag" group, founded on the teachings of Ayn Rand, had been arrested, for allegedly chaining a fourteen year old boy, for over a month, in a room with soundproofing over the windows. At first, he was allowed to summon his father to go to the bathroom by banging on the floor. But, later, this was denied him, and he was given a small bucket for his bathroom needs. Allegedly, he was occasionally allowed out of the room in handcuffs, and was forced to pay off a debt to the Black Flag group by ironing shirts.

It was only yesterday that I was fourteen years old. I thought to myself, as I walked down the street. What would it be like to be fourteen, and be held in such captivity?

I had started wearing contact lenses, and, it made my eyes so sensitive, the sunlight really hurt them. This cat, B. W. Stephenson, was singin' on the radio, "The sunlight surely hurts my eyes. I'm a Lonely Dreamer, on a highway in the skies..." I thought, "Hey! That's me, the Lonely Dreamer!"

So, leaving the arthouse (or, the grindhouse), there were already a lot of things going through my mind-sights, sounds and thoughts that have lingered in my memory to this very day. Images from films, songs on the radio, newspaper stories, the smell of the arthouse that afternoon, and the smell of the whiskey from that broken drinking glass.

I look at that broken glass, as a point on a road map through time. On a road map, there are all these wiggly lines representing roads, and they come together on a tiny dot representing a city, then they spread out and wiggle again to other destinations.

My memories were like roads on a map, and they all came together with the breaking of that glass, then spread out into a future, a future that is now in the past, but still hopefully has a lot of years left.

I suppose that's how it is for all of us, on the road maps we take through our lives. There are many points where the roads of our memories intersect. That's my Grindhouse Memories story. Hope you liked reading it, as much as I liked writing it.