I had a friend, Scott Wechsund who was similarly involved and who managed to pique my interest. He had purchased a decrepit LI 150 Lambretta, and after numerous trips to motorcycle dealers who had previously been supporters of this once infamous Italian marque, had given up the ghost and reconciled old parts to the dustiest back regions of the shop. Scotts scoot required nearly an entire transplant. His engine, while it could kick over was missing a piston, which is a vital component on a single cylinder vehicle.

Clutch cables and exhaust were equally difficult to obtain, and for some time I thought we were both chasing a lost cause. After a year or so, we managed to scrounge together enough pieces that we felt it was safe to give it a shot and, lo and behold, the damn thing ran. Not well, but it ran. The next few weeks were spent with Scott and I tooling around on his scoot in our Army surplus parkas, grinning from ear to ear like the fools we were, and trying to keep the local punks from running us off the road.

A few weeks later, I had an accident that totaled my car. I took my insurance money straight to a Vespa dealer in Newport Beach, Ca. and plunked down some $2000 on a loaded 1979 P200E. I got the color coordinated fairing, the "bitch seat" backrest (normally applied only to cruisers, something I learned in later life) and the cigarette lighter built-in. I was set for some serious posing.

 One problem however. Scotts scoot was busted again with no hope of repair in the foreseeable future. The dealers we spoke with advised the only place we could find a new crankcase was in Mexico, and our hopes were dashed. That still didn't stop us from enjoying ourselves, however, since the only real difference was that now I was the one with the bugs in my teeth from the ear-to-ear grin, since I was the pilot.

Lest you feel I was a complete idiot, I still maintained my links to my former punk past, and visited shows in Hollywood, Huntington Beach and elsewhere to visit my thrasher buddies, I just dressed better than them. And I didn't ride my scooter.

 Over the next few months, after taking a monkey-boy job at the local Radio Shack I started on my personal road to Vespa customization. First on the list were the 1" wrap-around chrome guards, front and back. These were required since I had already dumped the thing twice, due to an, um, unbalanced load. (As anyone who had ridden an Italian scoot knows, these things *really* lean one way or another, regardless of the inebriation factor)

 Second on the list was a high powered AM/FM cassette deck, with speakers mounted on either side of the passenger (drop the bitch part) seat, facing forward and the volume control on the handlebars. Remember, this was the late '70s, even Honda didn't have this kind of fun yet.

 At this point I embarked upon the road to find my perfect "modette". As Southern California culture at this time was pretty diverse, I fully expected to find my temporary mate at the local clubs, grooving to The Jam, the Chords, or Junior Walker and the All Stars. No such luck. I actually met her during some lonely cruising looking for others of my ilk far from home.

 The next summer was spent hopping from show to show, and when some friends of mine that had a "mod" band managed to get a gig opening for the Jam, I was in seventh Heaven. Suddenly my MOD LIFE was coming to a crux, and I didn't know how to deal with it. I can remember standing backstage at the concert, and actually speaking with the Paul Weller.

Shortly after all this, my circle of friends began to drift apart. Scott pursued a job as a fireman. My friend Mike went after his degree at CSULB, my buddy Marco from the band Solidarity that opened for the Jam dissolved the group, and I dissolved into my own self-absorbed version of dementia.

 Those were some of the best times of my life, though. The threshold between childhood and JOB, and the point where no one really gives a crap what YOU are doing, or what YOU want to be when you grow up.

I really miss those guys.