The son of a very good friend turned eighteen the other day, and he had a party for the old folks, the guest list hand written by him. Somehow I got through the velvet rope, and found myself enjoying food, champagne and embarrassing stores told by his mom about how l'il Abe used to hate birthday parties when he was a (young) kid. Me too, I thought. Then I thought some more; about my 18th birthday and the non-party I enjoyed. Just me, the love of my life, a turntable, some music, recreational aids and dreams of what might be. I'd left home the year before, splitting from my 'family' as they spit after me, yelling "don't come back!" The ill feeling was mutual, Ma.
When I got home I recalled the year that I was 18, and tried to piece together what happened. All I could remember were some gigs, learning how to protest, trying new drugs, dancing, driving, traveling, reading and acting. There was a lot if it, too. The world in 1980 was a frightening, inspiring, fascinating and dull place. It was everything and yet little remains to me. Rather than writing too many words, which would struggle to tell a fraction of the story of my 18th year, I thought I'd do it with pictures instead. What follows is in a random order of imperfect recollection. It's incomplete, of course. If you want any words to go with any of the images, just ask.