Heady Days: 1983

Nick: When Dad was the age I am now—61—it was 1983. He was four years away from retirement, and I was four years away—though I had no clue—away from moving lock stock and barrel to Japan.

But that was far from my mind in 1983. I was all of 25, or 26, depending on the time of year, and depending on the time of year, I was living on Desmond St., Oakland.

The Pink House, 2019. Corner of Desmond and Coronado, Oakland.

Circa 1983: Cone Five Oxidation: L-R Bob Coons, Mike Giri, Mike Dorosin, Nick Robinson

Drawing of the band from a photo—Nick Robinson

Same Corner as Above: Kitty corner from the Pink House 2019

I was going to CCAC, the California College of Arts and Crafts, and was living three blocks away. I was in a band: the drummer, Mike Giri, had been a school chum from Charterhouse, who, through circumstances too obscure to remember now, had moved from England to live eventually in the very same Pink House, which changed hands within friends and family several times.

Bob Coons, the guitarist, was a friend of the bassist, Mike Dorosin, who was an illustrator colleague of mine at CCAC.

In 1983 it's possible that I was living on the second floor of the Pink House, which was actually a ballroom, with almost the entire floor being one room, with a bedroom off to the rear and a kitchen out front, with Geoff and Verna living below on the first floor.

At some stage I was living with a girl named Cora Craig, who also went to CCAC, although in the Christmas of 1983, if memory serves me correctly, she moved out of the house in with some English guy she had met at a party while I was in Montreal. It was the best possible thing to have ever happened to me, although I would have disagreed with that statement at the time.

1983 was a year of turmoil, of changing situations and changing relationships. But one thing was guaranteed to remain stable: I was putting away the equivalent of about a litre of scotch per day. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but never none.

And smoking: I smoked at least two packs of Kent Threes per day. Or Kent Lites. Or something. But the first thing I did on wakening every morning was to light a cigarette. Only then would I be able to make a cup of coffee.

And the last thing I did every night, after having a final slug of whatever I was drinking, was to put out my cigarette and move the ashtray away as far as I could from the bed.