Jesus...who spit that bundt cake

 Jesus...who spit that bundt cake?!





      My brother fled civilization after his divorce and sure-to-fail residence in cookie-cutter Mission Viejo. He took a cabin up in Silverado canyon that was 17 miles from a main road but was where the actioin was in the hippy years that stretched for decades up there in the mountains above the city of Orange. His place was the very essence of a hippy crash pad and was constructed of outside the  building code materials ranging from river rocks to ramshackle wood planks. There was a bucolic charm to the place as it sat near a creek in a canyon far away from the city. It was boy rules all the way plus open recreational drug use and boozing de riguer during weekend revels. My pals and I visited many times throughout the 1970's and 1980's which explains the many stories remembered that took place within those flimsy walls. The plumbing in the kitchen was a bucket under the sink and the housekeeping was not meticulous. Women were reluctant to use the shower that was supported by an old enamel coated dish pan. Every party I attended had some strange occurence from Billy Hogan throwing a rock at Greg's head while leaving the pad to groovy mind expansion while laying up on the roof digging the stars over Orange County. At these bacchanals the music was loud and the drunken conversations contained stretches of the truth that heaped ridicule on the squares of suburbia. Availability of food was sketchy but beer, wine and pot was brought by guests and normally plentiful. On this occasion it was myself, Timo, Greg and Billy who made the long drive to forget the mean old world and get drunk-stoned in Silverado. Someone, probably MaryAnn had prepared a  large chocolate bundt cake that was just the ticket for munchie maddened guests. Just as Timo shoved a big piece of the cake in his mouth Stephen cracked an old joke that hit the funny bone of a stoned Balderama. Just like in cartoons, Timo snorted and sprayed well-masticated dessert out from his seat at the bar over a group of hipsters sitting on the floor beneath the stools. The overall effect of the spit take was a chocolate cake shower over about six partygoers. However, the music was blasting and the origin of the spew was a surprise so when someone shouted "Jesus...who spit that bundt cake?!" it brought the faux pas into focus. Paper towels were found and bundt flotsam wiped up but from that day forward Timo, Greg and I would say to eachother "who spit that bundt cake" about any unexplained experience. Good times in the canyon.


                                            1982 in the canyon

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