“Mr. Forrest, we see you’re not currently enrolled in classes at Los Angeles City College.”
“No, no,” I said with practiced nonchalance. “I’ve been accepted at Cornell University. You know, the Cornell University. That’s why I’m not in those classes.”
In the days before computers and the Internet, this kind of scam was incredibly easy to pull off. Records got lost all the time. The mail was slow. Any number of things before the advent of the Digital Age could slow things up or cause delays. And all you really needed was a little time to work the system. I had some family near Watkins Glen, New York, so I decided a short break from L.A. might be fun. An academic vacation of sorts. I took off for the East Coast with Sheree. I admit that I liked the prestige of being a Cornell undergraduate, even though, technically, I wasn’t. In fact, I hadn’t even bothered to apply. When I got to Watkins Glen, I went to the financial aid office on campus and put on a little show to keep the money coming in.
“I’m not even registered here? How can that be? I’ve come all the way here from Los Angeles, and now I’m stranded here? You have all my paperwork. I sent it in months ago!”
The poor clerk in the office looked stunned. “Well, this does happen from time to time. Here, let me get you started,” she said, and handed me some forms to fill out.
I worked my hustle. I ran my hands through my hair in a pantomime of false despair. “This is so bad … so bad. What am I going to do? I just did this whole life-changing thing to move here. I left my home all the way across the country. My financial aid’s been transferred here!” I looked upset. I looked like I was about to cry. I thought maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I enrolled in some drama courses. That stuff could come in handy down the line given my increasing reliance on putting on these kinds of shows.
I convinced her. She sighed and peered over the rims of her glasses. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Now that we’ve started the paperwork, everything will be fine. You can register.”
I signed up for classes. I skipped drama, but I took on a full load of art and history courses at one of the most prestigious colleges in the country. That alone felt like a huge accomplishment. Of course, my hustle didn’t always work. This particular one only lasted for about a month. I had thought that once I had my foot in the door as a registered student, I’d just slip through the cracks and nobody would ever notice that I’d never even bothered to apply. They did notice.
In an art history class one day, the tweedy professor cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Forrest, may I speak to you?”
I gulped. “Sure.” It didn’t feel right.
“You can’t attend this class. You need to go to the registrar’s office.”
I trudged over and went inside, my typical morning hangover suddenly, screechingly worse. The woman behind the desk sent me back to another office deeper in the building. A stern-looking official had my pathetically, laughably thin folder in front of him. “Mr. Forrest, we don’t have transcripts from you. Nor do we have SAT scores, nor do we have a basic application form, nor do we—”
I cut him off. I tried to work up a front of righteous, middle-class indignation straight from the heart of suburbia. “This is outrageous!” I sputtered. “What kind of incompetent office do you run here?”
He just leaned back in his chair and said, “I’m sorry. You are not a student at this university.”
Well, the jig was up. It was a good scam while it lasted. I turned around and headed back to Los Angeles and re-enrolled at LACC, which I was once again eligible to attend. Once I officially signed up for classes again, those government checks started to arrive in the mail. The purpose of my student days and my only academic goal was really just to be registered somewhere to get money to live and to do drugs and go to clubs. It was a pretty good hustle as far as hustles go.
Now that I was back in town and my financial situation was settled for the moment, I got back to my real business: rock and roll. One of my favorite clubs to visit was the Cathay de Grande. Situated dead center in Hollywood at the corner of Argyle Avenue and Selma Avenue, the club’s main stage was the subterranean home to some of the most exciting music in Los Angeles. It featured the raw punk of local acts like Fear, X, the Circle Jerks, and countless others. The Orange County punk bands like Social Distortion made the Cathay their home away from home. The club was also home to a vibrant local roots-rock scene, with the Blasters and Los Lobos often taking the stage, as well as numerous cow-punk bands, who, really, were playing the kind of straight-up Bakersfield country that had fallen out of favor with rednecks but was finding a new audience with young punk rockers. It was the kind of music that would have fit right in at Zubie’s in Orange County … if the sweaty cowboys could get past the punk rock look of the musicians playing it.
I worked that scene like it was a job. Sure, I
