Like many people my age, I look back at my "parking" days with a bit of a cringe and a warm feeling in my gut (it used to be lower, but, well you know). The art of "parking"—finding an isolated spot to park your ride and make out with your "date"—seemed so groovy at the time.
My favorite parking spot, growing up in Kingman, was on Crusher Hill, wayyyy out in the sticks, on Hall Street (today Stockton Hill Road). Yesterday, I was cleaning in the garage and found this: back in the eighties, I did this artwork as an homage to that era and to those hot summer nights:
There were other parking spots around Kingman: Black Bridge, White Tanks, Perfume Pass, White Cliffs and Court House Hill. For a brief time I frequented Court House Hill until some nightshift sheriff's deputies watched me go up there, from the court house, and waited fifteen minutes before pouncing with their lights flashing and sirens blaring. I seem to remember I was with the Mormon Bishop's daughter, but I can't completely confirm that (nor would she!)
Of course "parking" today sounds as hokey and corny as "sparking" did to us when we were young and horny.
Ain't it funny how the night moves?
"Out past the cornfields where the woods got heavy,
Out in the back of my '60 Chevy. . ."
—Bob Seger, "Night Moves"
"You gringos sure know how to make sex embarrassing."
—Old Vaquero Saying