I first met Vikki when she was a carhop at the In-N-Out Burger at the corner of Walk and Don't Walk in Venice Beach, circa 1969. The year was significant to two digits, specifically the two I soon had up her snatch in the back seat of my Chevy Impala. She was a Botticelli in lace-up roller skates, if you know what I'm saying here. If you don't, what I'm saying is this: the girl was HOT. She could put your Muladhara chakra directly in touch with God, do not pass GO, do not collect moss on your rolling stones.

Her two favorite things in life, she said, were hot fudge sundaes and LSD. She said the acid helped keep her weight down. Well... that and all the strenuous fucking. For the next couple years, I tried to accomodate her desires in every respect. Rock. And. Roll. Hootchie Koo!

But it was something she told me that first night that has shaped the entire trajectory of my intellectual development ever since. She caught me stuffing fries into my face and staring enraptured at her perfect ass. She skated over and looked directly into my eyes. "Don't get any funny ideas," she said.