Cocaine is a hell of a drug

It's a little past 4 a.m. in the summer of 1980. You come to on the back deck of a Malibu beach house and stumble into the living room. Last thing you remember is downing a stash of Paul Masson Chablis at a party up in the hills with some guy you met - maybe named Steve - who said he's about to break big in the business.

Just a few weeks before, you'd packed what you could carry and boarded a Greyhound out of Wichita; determined to never go back home again. And now? What is all this?

There are bodies both beautiful and obviously just rich passed out on the velour sofas encircling a giant glass coffee table. And in the middle of the table is a giant pile of what you'd guess must be cocaine. It's LA, after all. And you're here to live.

You pick up the straw lying by the pile and just - go for it. Nobody's told you how much to do the first time. Seems like this was too much. Your heart racing and with more pure energy than Steve McQueen pulsing through your body, you bolt out the front door.

And there, just lying against a column on the porch, you see the Huffy Aerowind - and you know it's your time to ride. Like The Wind, in fact. In the moonlight darkness you take a left onto PCH and just go. Unbuttoned safari shirt, awesomely short shorts, Adidas Gazelles and thankfully those Foster Grants still in your shirt pocket, you pedal with a fury you never knew before cocaine.

Somehow you reach Big Sur still on the high. The damn birds are even cheering you on. And nobody has run over you yet.

This. The Dream. The California Life.

Credit: Nostalgic X'er
Original Video: 1980s commercials volume 60