It was dusk before I finally got the Condor in the air. We were rehearsing with the principle talent, as Jason Priestly and the other actors scurried like ants around the Valley house some seventy feet below me. I felt gigantic behind the controls of the massive crane, a dinosaur-machine with eyes burning forth fifty-thousand lumens of brilliant light.
 Arms outstretched, inhaling deep the Valley smog, I could appreciate this land the Chumash Indians once trod. One of my favorite recreations was to bike through the Santa Monicas, the hilly peaks that segregate the Valley and recede to form the Sepulveda Pass. I could get lost on the fire-roads, huffing my way along, stopping for a tarantula or rattlesnake or dodging a common ground-lizard. It was there that I learned something of the people who once inhabited this land, before it became a Mecca for decadence and illusory reality. Before those gigantic letters "HOLLYWOOD" became the totems for the new holy land of the greedy white man's world.
 Nights like this, working for a buck wasn't so bad, if you could get around the bugs. Being the only nearby light in the night sky, you were prone to get some winged visitors. I laid back and reminisced about when it was all so much fun, we couldn't believe we were getting paid for it. That thrill soon wore off, but it was still a fun gig. No sooner was I enjoying the moment, as my radio squawked alive--
 "Jack, are you awake up there?" Anton's voice ripped through the quiet silence from the frequency transmitter. I pushed the big button to respond.
 "Go for Jack--" I said it energetically, like a Marine at attention, like I always do. No ifs, ands, or buts, I try to remember that. Just clear, concise information, and repeat your instructions for affirmation.
 "Jack, are you at full extension on the boom arm? We need to do a little tweak-- you should start your motor up."
 "Copy that-- starting the motor for full extension." I turn the key as the dragon roars to life, belching fire and coughing smoke as it shudders on its foundation.
 It is an awesome spectacle-- crude nuts and bolts, yes-- but it lifts a man 70-120 feet in the air! And you can drive it!
 "Going to full extension!" I was shouting into the transmitter now, over the clamor of the machine. I depress the fuel pedal, and move the joystick. The crane arm lurches forward with a jerk, shimmying the weight of the basket and lights mounted to it, extending a few feet further until it stops suddenly. Again the weight is thrown to and fro, and I truly realize the force and power that I am up against, as I feel like a rag doll getting tossed around in the toy chest.
 "Full extension!" I shout back over the radio. A precarious position to be in, I've always felt. Even metaphorically-- you just don't want to be limited in any direction. Besides that, mechanically speaking, in a situation like this, it is the weakest position to be in. Fully extended means the greatest flex capacity and weakest hinge support for one of these big birds. Definitely the least desirable configuration should an earthquake strike at any moment.
 "Okay, that's pretty good," comes the response. "Shut your engine."

I guess I can let it slide this time. Usually, it's best to lie and say "full extension" before you get there. It's not like someone's going to come up and check on you.
 I proceeded to make myself comfortable, arranging the small space as best I could. If they liked the lights where they were, I could be ignored for hours until it had to change. No problem for me, though, as I set up a furniture-pad like a hammock and settled in.
 They were getting ready to shoot and doing final tweaks with the talent on set. I was just getting sleepy in the solace of my bucket on the quiet Valley night. Everything was A-OK, or so it seemed. Then my radio blasted to life again, upsetting the silence.
 "Jack, you still up there?" It was Anton again, he sounded troubled.
 "Go for Jack." It was like a phone call in the middle of the night, disturbing my space, but I had to answer it. They knew I was home.
 "Jack, we need you to bring the lights down a little bit on the arm-- I don't want to change anything in the bucket, though, so why don't you start your engine and boom down just a little," Anton went on.
 "Copy that." I turned the key of the man-lift and it screamed and spit smoke as I stalled to yawn the sleepiness out of my face. I thought about the weight I was carrying as I prepared to smoothly feather the joystick controller. Any jerky movement could result in upsetting the adjustment of the lights, and endanger my fragile body amidst all that metal.
 They must've been ready to roll the camera, because the talent didn't move from their marks. Priestly was there, with Jennie Garth, and everyone was watching and waiting for my adjustment. I was hoping that this might be one of my smoother moves, because these things have a tendency to whoop-up on you if you're not careful. I was right over a working street with cars and people, and close to the action.
 I put my best wrist english into it, and the boom arm gave way. It slipped right out from under me, as smooth as I could ask for. I could feel the fringe of control, and I was on it. The critical part was over-- too clumsy a move would've been obvious. Holding my radio over my ear, I listened intently for Anton's instructions.
 "Stop!" I heard him say beneath the noisy industrial machine.
 I let up on the stick, gently, then quickly unhanded it. I expected the thing to stop suddenly, but it didn't. I wasn't sure what was happening.
 "Stop! STOP!! WHOA!!" I heard Anton shouting on the radio. I was too shocked to respond, as I looked around the bucket for some indication of what was occurring. I wasn't touching any of the controls now, so nothing should be happening-- it should be dead stopped.
 But still I fell from the sky. The machine had put itself in caution mode, and was lowering itself. Slowly. Down I went. The machine's sensors had decided it was in an unsafe operating configuration, and was automatically bringing itself down.
 By now my teammates were aware of what was happening. The yellow flashing light and beeping from the Condor drew their attention, besides Anton's previous yelling. They shut the lights from below, at the ballasts which controlled them. They frantically tried to disable the Condor by switching electrical breakers and emergency shut-offs, all to no avail.
 The crane was in emergency mode, overriding the manual control from both the bucket and the base. If it was in an unsafe operating position, then yes, the smartest thing to do would be to bring it down immediately. But what the crane didn't know was that it was directly over a tree and an automobile. It's sensors couldn't tell it that. And now it was too late. The monster was determined to bring it's arm down, with or without me in it.
 That's what I thought as I grazed the treetop and began to sink into it. My mind quickly raced through the options; attempting to depart before landing was quickly ruled more dangerous than not doing so. Down I went, slowly, steadily.
 The event had turned into quite a spectacle, and everyone below watched inquisitively. It was like a creature movie, where everyone is curious, looking up, straight into the face of the demon with fear in their eyes. I felt that at any moment they would all start to flee, screaming "peas and carrots! peas and carrots!" in bad overdub.
 And there I was in the jaws of the beast, descending towards them, arms holding on, unable to do anything but watch and wait. I damn near sheared off half of a mature tree in my de-escalation, with a whole crowd watching in awe. Funny thing was, it wasn't as scary as it was disconcerting to not have control. I wasn't afraid, I was helpless. There was nothing to do but wait.
 I cleared the tree satisfactorily, managing to escape with but a few scratches from displaced branches. Had I been armed with a pruner, I would have fared better. I was more than halfway down now, and further out of danger than in.
 Not so for the luxury sedan parked on the street beneath me. It was right in the line of fire, and so was the driver that worked with our transportation department. While everyone else was agape, he had the foresight to run and grab the keys for this Mercedes. Now, as I was nearing crunching it, he was jumping into it to make an escape.
 And what an escape it was. The horror flick continues, as the guy has got to get in the vehicle and drive away before the killer is upon them. He fumbles with the keys-- nervousness makes the simplest tasks seem impossible. He drops them, attempting to open the door. He looks up, sees the massive crane arm over him, lowering, threatening.
 Finally he gets into the car, and tries to start it. It doesn't turn over at first. Then it roars to life, the guy slams it into gear, and screeches out of there. A moment later the bucket touches down where he was just an instant ago, gently landing me. I hop out of the bucket unharmed, and the crowd goes wild.
 Everyone on the production rushes over to me. I felt like I just won the Indy 500. I was exhilarated. Anton came over first.
 "Jack, are you okay? I'm sorry about that, I didn't realize what was going on." He was concerned.
 "I'm fine. Don't worry about it. I didn't know what was going on either. I just tried not to panic," I explained.
 "It's a good thing you weren't over any power lines!" Rick offered, knowing that's Condor 101, but rules are broken every day. It's a good thing is right, but Rick would never ask me to fly over any power lines-- he was just proving a point.
 The production manager came right over. "Are you okay? Do you want to go the hospital?"
 I rubbed my neck a little to scare him. "I think I'll be alright," I said.
 "You're probably a little shook up. Why don't you just go home for tonight, rest it off, and we'll make sure you get paid for the whole day," he offered.
 Kind of a tough offer to turn down. I could tell he was thinking "lawsuit," so I complied to make him feel better. Rick and the boys encouraged it, so I went home early to catch up with Buck Nottingham and see if it wasn't too late to join the party.
 I met Buck at his place later, he lived at a house over in Silverlake near Amanda's. He was there in his garage, working on bikes with Keaton and Slider. Keaton was the tall one with the tattoo of the fetal child large on his forearm. Slider was a baldy pug, with the becoming appeal of Uncle Fester. A poor man's Abbott and Costello they were, with lots of skin ink.
 I had only recently met them, but we were all becoming better and better friends. I hired Buck on referral to work some music video, and our mutual interest of classic bikes got us hanging together. Keaton and Slider flanked Bucky in the center, they all rode Moto Guzzis. Then there was me on my runt Triumph. Afterwards, we'd meet at the Burgundy Room for beers.
 Tonight it was some party in Venice. Wherever we went, it was that thrill of being in a "motorcycle gang" that made it memorable. When I rode with them, it didn't matter where Amanda was or what she was doing. I was living in the moment.
 We got to the party and parked our motorcycles outside. The area looked familiar. I thought we were near where Steve-O lived. No matter-- we went in and got drinks.
 The place was pretty crowded. Of course, when we walked in, all heads would turn. We were a motley crew at best.
 We got beers and settled in. Slider immediately started harassing some cutie in a glitter dress. I went over to try to save her, and she turned on to me (Slider had a girlfriend in San Fran anyway). We wound up talking for an hour, and I was flirting with her the whole time-- I was really finding her sexy by now, the beer and everything taking effect.
 She made me forget Amanda, that was what I liked most about her. I felt Amanda would appreciate that, someone to distract me from asking too much of her. Her name was Yvette, and she was totally copasetic to my needs. Yvette. Mistress Yvette. It had a nice ring to it.
 Bad news was, Yvette had to leave early tonight. She nudged her friend, whom she had come with, that was talking to Keaton. She didn't budge-- the fetal child had ensnared her.
 "Hey, I can give you a ride if it's in the area," I offered, "if you don't mind riding on the back of a motorcycle."
 "You have a motorcycle? I'd love a ride."
 And that was that. That was the way it started with Amanda, I remembered-- a motorcycle ride through the Hollywood Hills after lunch at Cravings. Now Yvette clung to my back, and I could feel her hot breath against the rush of cold air. It felt like cheating as we drove through the oil derricks and highway interchanges along Sepulveda past the airport.
 "Pull over here!" she shouted in my ear, and I followed her instructions. "I don't want to wake anyone at the house."
 I got the feeling she might be cheating too, but it didn't matter. We tongue-kissed there on the grass and rubbed our bodies closely before I gave her my number and said goodnight. She said she would call, and I hoped that she would, but I wasn't overly concerned with it. I had my hands full with Amanda, but maybe I could make this work...
 So I turned around and sped back to the party, only it was colder this way, without Yvette holding on to me. And, I seemed to be thinking more about Amanda than Yvette. Why wasn't she here with me tonight? She said she wanted me to have a mistress. Were we really breaking up? Oh, damn, where's that party? And then I see the welcome sight of Bucky's Guzzi.
 We blazed our way back across town and stopped at Jack-in-the-Box for some curly fires and a patty melt. I was eating meat less and less since Amanda was so on my case about it grossing her out. I was glad I didn't have to contend with her now.
 After that I parted ways with the hellion-pack, and diverted my way back to the Skyranch, up and into the hills. Again I rode up that dusty winding road in the silent black of night, the star of my very own Hollywood movie. I arrived and let myself in through the garage, as I tiptoed drunkenly towards my bedroom to collapse in a fit of obliviousness.

*****

 Saturday was one of those lazy days around the Skyranch. The place was getting emptier as we slowly bled our personal belongings out of the home and into storage. There were only a few weeks left before we would have to give up the pad, when our lease terminated in the middle of January. Now it was the end of December. We would all head back east for the holidays, and then disperse in different directions. It was an uncertain time.
 Uncertain for both Mark and Skully. I was pretty sure I was where I belonged-- I had no place else to go. I waited for them to make their moves. Mark was thinking of spending more time in New York. He had contacts there as a gaffer, and it might be a smart move for him.
 And today Skully got the news. An official letter from the Berkelee School stating that he had been accepted. I had no doubts that he would be, he was a talented musician. I knew it was just a matter of time.
 I had considered keeping the Skyranch, taking on other roommates, but it wouldn't be the same. The symbioses would not remain, and the gatherings would be different. Mark and Skull were moving on; so should I, that was obvious.
 So I packed up some more things, I had the least possessions of us all. Amanda called while I was out, and I finally got around to calling her back. I think I felt a little guilty about last night-- I was almost hoping Yvette might call first, so my actions might be justified.
 Amanda and I made plans to spend Sunday together, there was a Hemp Rally on the Federal Building lawn. She and her group of friends were strong pro-marijuana supporters, and politically active in that nineties post-hippie Californian liberal way. They were all mostly pot dealers anyway. I'm the last person to get involved in anything political, but I figured it would be an interesting and fun place to get stoned, and maybe I'd be privy to some of that great hippie nostalgia.

*****

 Sunday, December 15, 1991. Kennedy didn't die (well, not today, anyway), and there was no moon landing. It may not have been an eventful day for everyone, but it certainly was a flashbulb memory for Amanda and I.
 It started happenstance enough, up on the hill, as I kicked the Triumph alive and saddled up. I would be riding many miles today, so I garnished myself with all the trimmings of beaten denim and leather, relishing the thought. After a few minutes of warm-up time I was shoving off to pick-up Amanda.
 Everything was peaceful and easy as I rumbled along on the chatterbox. The world of the nineteen-nineties would disappear into the future unthought of, as I sank back into the world of the mechanical past, where you could not escape the smell of oil and gas. A land where you were inescapably linked to your transportation and thoroughfare, not insulated and kept from it. The only thing that matters in this world is, where you are going now. And I was going to Amanda's. It didn't matter why, it didn't matter who Amanda was. That was where I was going. It was best like that.
 That thought set the precedent for the day. It was idyllic, driving through Hollywood with Amanda clinging to my back. We forgot everything that was weighing upon us, we were innocently in love and not questioning the future. Maybe we were on our way to a new beginning. I didn't care-- I was having fun. And that was what I loved about Amanda. Things had recently become so complicated, and that was getting lost.
 We got to the lawn of the Federal Building and there was a large turnout already assembled. The place was littered with leaflets, there were roving peddlers and petitioners, lots of tie-dye and peace signs, bikers and beatniks. It was a psychedelic flea-market for stoners, a collection of lobbyists, and a celebration of the magical, mystical herb.
 It looked like California in the 1970's, a piece of history revisited. Many of the attendees might have been at the original rallies, their long, unkempt manes now peppered and grey. There were also establishment types, with short hair and collars, fighting for the same legalization and medical approval of the drug. Many aggregate groups had formed since those radical times, supporting decriminalized use. It was tough to tell who was pro, and who was con anymore. You've come a long way, baby.
 I moderated the throttle as I passed the lengthy row of Harley-Davidsons that usually accompany these gatherings. They were there in every style and configuration, every flavor of chrome you could realize. Though I didn't care for them individually, there was something about having so many of them in the same place, along with the characters that surrounded them. These guys were real, hard-core, everyday bikers; not the Sunday kind you find in the Hollywood Hills and Topanga. They had traveled in from all over-- it was Sturgis on dope.
 Heads would turn as I rode in, they always did in that kind of specific environment. Not just some stooge, though, it was always the oldest, wisest, most venerable biker guru whose penetrating stare would turn to meet my eyes. We didn't wear helmets then-- there was sixteen days left until the helmet laws went into effect in 1992. It was a time of mourning for scooter types. I had no choice but to hold my windswept squint and let him see my whites-- there was no shame in the noisy pup I strode in upon.
 Then I'd get the nod, or in this case, the slow-blink that said "let him pass." There was Neptune, basking on a luxury yacht, and in I come trawling on my bait-boat. I was okay-- I could park with the Harleys. I was British-made, not some Jap-Crap. I could sit beside the American iron. We were allies during the war, and so we were in peace.
 The honor didn't mean so much as the security it could afford. Parking with the big dogs ensured that no one would mess with my little runt. I could walk away without trepidation, and enjoy my time with Amanda.
 We perused the exhibits, collected propaganda, and stared at the weirdos with wonder. Amanda had a way of bringing me to the finest California had to offer-- she was very in touch with the liberal sub-culture. The group that we were going to meet, Ricardo and his entourage, were at the very heart of it.
 Ricardo's place was a hub of activity. There were always people coming and going, deals being made, excursions being financed. He was a Ken Kesey outlaw throwback, reluctant to be intimidated by conventional law and "the man," inclined to bring prosperous business to the people in any form it may materialize in.
 It was usually in substance form, however, and that was mostly the basis for visits. In between his trips to exotic ruin sites south of the border, based on the Mayan calendar, of course, and their sacred holidays, and when there might or might not be another UFO sighting at the high desert, you could probably find him, and his latest catch, in his very Boho pad at the heart of the Western District.
 Meeting and knowing Ricardo, and his manner, gave legitimacy to his pursuits. He had some years on me; I guessed that he might have bent a couple of spoons in his day-- if anyone could do it, he could. He had that kind of power, to harness what was before him, and experience it fully looking for truth. Take and absorb what is useful from it, discard the rest. I admired that quality. Time or energy was not wasted with skepticism.
 It made me respect him and his travails in the same way. I was not inclined to judge his endeavors until I had experienced their worth for myself. Such was often the case, as Amanda would frequent the events on his agenda, being well in tow with his crew.
 Like the time we went to a channeling. I had never been before, so I didn't know what to expect. Had I known, I might have bailed myself out of it, not fully having embraced Ricardo's gift for want of experience. But in retrospect, I am glad to have seen it, and will withhold judgment further from such instances introduced to me.
 There were no tricks of the light, no crystal balls, and no silverware taking new shapes. Just one kooky guy sitting at the center of a circular theater, on a stool with a glass of water and a microphone. It was a  new-age learning center or church, depending on how you look at it. It might have been an open-mike night or no-headline improv from the looks of the arena. It was Hollywood, and this town is tough to get an audience in, but Bashar had no problem selling every seat in the house.
 There was an excitement in the room as the channel took his place centerstage. He cleared his throat to the mike, and started the proceedings. He had a very meek persona, that barely carried across the room. He said a few words, the room fell silent, and then he quickly administered a self-induced trance.
 His head fell limply to rest on his shoulders. He stays there, not moving, as the crowd waits in silent anticipation. Moments go by as the suspense thickens. Then, suddenly, the channel comes alive as his eyes pop open and a strange new voice projects from his throat, with a whole new strengthened enthusiasm.
 "Welcome, all and welcome one..." he begins his diatribe with some trace of otherworldly accent in his voice. No, not a foreign tongue, but an alien voice with a kind of clicky resonance that comes from the throat. Hard to place-- I had never heard anything like it.
 "Good evening... I am Bashar," he would begin by introducing himself, and by now it is apparent that every aspect of this gentleman's former bodily host was now gone. The crowd was astounded, believing they have just seen something short of a miracle performed. "There is an event occurring in the Universe whereby one man, an evil man, a man persecuted for great war crimes is being reborn into the world at the turn of the century, the turn of the millennium. This soul is being reintroduced to the world, in seven different bodies, the soul fragmented amongst them, and in each deriving a special goodness to amend past injustices. One will discover a cure for disease that has been ailing man for centuries..."
 And on he went, in this affected voice, describing how Hitler's seven reborn identities would go on to make valid contributions to mankind. It was a fascinating little scenario he concocted, this Bashar, for an unseen entity occupying another's body. If unrehearsed, it was certainly impressive the way a story can come together so quickly out of thin air, complete with details and a specific point of view. If it were an act, well, it would be quite difficult to make convincing when the later aspect of audience participation came into play, and Bashar was answering questions.
 I found the whole affair stimulating, it raised some interesting issues about consciousness and reincarnation. It was a fascinating, inspired production of one man looking into the void, and daring a class full of people to challenge it's authenticity. Not that it was a room full of skeptics, don't forget-- most of those who would seek out and attend such an event would presumably be pre-sold believers anyway. Maybe I was the exception, looking with a critical eye, and somewhat schooled in showbusiness. This was new-age California spiritualism at it's finest, that much I do believe.
 Bashar still visits this planet today, as far as I know, and has been the subject of books and other controversies. Having met with him, it is easy to identify and accept this force, despite it's dubious origins. He supports the idea of an infinite Universe, and interchangeability within it. He has very valid lessons to teach on harnessing powers within this material world, using internal powers of observation and visualization to achieve worldly goals. If you are experiencing confusion or ruination in this world, you might consider consulting someone outside of it. They may have something very valuable and interesting to offer.
 Meanwhile, back at the Hemp Rally, we were growing bored with the freaks, and had gotten over the novelty of openly smoking pot on the lawn of the Federal Building. We were stoned, and I was getting hungry.
 "Let's get something to eat on the way home," I suggested to Amanda. She agreed. We would hit a vegetarian cuisine in Hollywood on our way back to Silverlake. We wandered past the freaks back to the parking lot and saddled up the bike. Moderating the RPMs between my legs, with Amanda at my back, we eased our way across the stars on Hollywood Boulevard.