[Editor’s note: This essay first appeared in the “Chapters of Our Lives” issue of PREMIUM Magazine, which featured personal storytelling.]

The day I got out of the Navy, I walked down the gangplank with a seabag slung over my shoulder and two thoughts on my mind: USN, never again, and that goes double for San Diego.

I had my reasons: Inflexible discipline. Stifling conformity. Rules. I hated the way the Navy tried to squeeze every bit of individuality out of me. To the powers that be, I was just another piece of government property to be put in harm’s way.

To blow off steam, I’d hit the streets of San Diego, but there was nowhere for a broke, underage squid to go. It was 1987 and The Gaslamp Quarter hadn’t been invented yet. Downtown San Diego was a desolate stretch of dive bars, liquor

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