road warriors
things are different today i hear every mother say… the glimmer twins nailed that one so long ago. it’s not 1955 anymore, or 1965, or for that matter a bit past 1971. things are really different today.
a friend of mine, a lady, was bemoaning that some guy she knew didn’t know anything about cars. sadly, i guess these days that might be a deal breaker. but like i said, it’s not the old days. the computer chip and all the smog stuff caused lots of us guys to hang up our oil filter wrenches. sure, some guys still work on their rides but they have one of the old cars or they are some sort of toyota mechanic or something.
it’s not like when i was much younger and you helped a friend change the head gasket on his ride. your thermostat giving you trouble? screw it. take it out. this is california we don’t need a heater in the car. 20 minutes later the job was done. say, we have the head off let’s grind the valves on the bench grinder. hey, hand me the broom stick, i want to listen to the valves and see how well we did. simpler times and simpler machines. today i doubt i could even find the water pump on any new car. or for that matter do cars even have water pumps anymore? hell if i know. see what i’m saying?
i gave up on oil changes myself as well. too much red tape and just mind numbing wiring under most car hoods to make any sane person not want to tackle much of anything under there. it’s easier to take it to one of the oil change joints though you have to keep an eye on them and be polite when you turn down their extras. the real problem with car repairs now is the semi major or major stuff.
why, yes, sir, you see the computer chip that controls the left side back passenger seat window has shorted out. it’s taken the entire electrical system out with it. we have to wire mainland china to see if they have the parts. you should be up and running in about 6 months or so. we have rentals for under a cee note a day.
sweet jesus, what brought us to these strange times? progress? the industrial revolution? samuel gompers? johnny otis and his elevator. no, wait. he’s a singer. hell, maybe he did invent the elevator for all i know. maybe one night after a hard couple of sets he kicked back to savor a short dog and the idea just hit him. stranger things have happened.
no ladies, most of us guys aren’t road warriors anymore. don’t hold it against us though for the majority of us it’s not our fault. yeah, ok, so maybe we should have gone to night school 6 nights a week and taken up auto repair every year for the past 30 years. however, excuse me, i’ve been busy. sure i’m not that busy anymore but at this point i’m not interested in learning how to take care of anything other than a nice bottle of wine.
you ladies need a good man and us guys just need a good lady and a good mechanic. it’s really just that simple if you think about it. although a triple a card in your wallet doesn’t hurt either.
music provided by, janis joplin with big brother and the holding co, live at winterland april ‘68. this is a good cd. recorded just after they signed with columbia. all the big brother stuff. best part is they actually hit what note they seem to be looking for.
jmh
really high end sushi
it’s been suggested that i spend most of my time eating sushi off the naked bodies of high end geishas. from your lips to god’s ears, would, i think, be the proper response. at any rate that noble idea is not true, just yet.
it has me thinking that maybe it’s not a bad idea. what’s not to like about eating sushi or pork and beans for that matter off the naked body of any lady who is willing to participate. i’m not talking about in the privacy of your bedroom or vehicle or park bench or blanket at the beach, no. i’m talking a restaurant where that’s how your sushi or deep fried potato skins are served. though hot deep fried potato skins might cause some problems with the help being naked and all.
at some point in the past i’ve seen photos of guys dining on sushi sitting a top the bodies of naked young ladies. if you haven’t seen said photos maybe you should. i forget where i saw them but huslter or penthouse come to mind right off the get go. though i may be wrong. maybe it was vanity fair. yeah, right.
it might be worth a shot at trying to get some local yokel municipality to go for the naked sushi idea. why not? enough grease for the right palms (the left as well) and most stuff can happen. i don’t suppose finding naked lady serving dishes would be much trouble either. i mean, given the proliferation of strip clubs here in so calif there are lots of young women apparently willing to dance around naked in front of complete strangers and take dollar bills from them using various parts of their bodies. so it might not be a stretch for some of them to be willing to work as sushi serving platters.
why, yes, waiter, we’ll share the el supremo grande dragon boat. does the lady do shooters? gooey sticky lap dances? god, the possibilites. the mind boggles. right? i think i’ll let that sink in for a bit.
ok. so why not? the only draw back is, the food industry is the most fickle of all industries. plus the most exspensive and time consuming to get into. more restaurants fold than any other biz that i can think of off the top of my head. though naked sushi just might have some legs. no pun intended. only trouble is you might not be able to get a liquor license with the nude thing going for it. a possible catch 22. there are probably plenty more as well. like the health department and their regulations. yeah, they might be the toughest of all to get past. the health boys are tough. i know plenty of them. party animals for the most part but dedication to your health and dining welfare is paramount.
i suppose it might be easier to pull off in a foriegn land, say like, thailand. sex there is not a big thing. not that eating sushi from a young ladies naked body has anything to do with sex. though i’m sure the distraction would be there. yeah, maybe thailand or at one time some dark alley in old britsh hong kong. it might work. i mean if the favorite bar/restaurant of reporters in bankok, during the vietnam fracas, had no overt problems doing their sorta odd business then maybe this idea might fly. though that was then and this is now. hmmm. i wonder.
jmh
the banks and me
i was thinking about doing another riff today but for the past few months banks have been messing with me and josh asked so…
it started in earnest this past january. i got suckered into changing a savings account into one that paid more interest. fine, ok. only trouble was the girl, young lady, didn’t know what she was doing. things got messed up for a bit and every one was sorry. though it took a few trips back to the bank to sit there and fume while they ‘fixed’ shit. yeah, ok fine. i’m such a nice guy or so fucking stupid, one or the other, when i needed an ira for tax shit this year, i went back to my bank to get one. i got the same girl, young lady. again.
i should have just walked out or waited till someone else was around to help me. but no, i’m a nice guy and fucking stupid, so i was like damn, ok, maybe this time… uh, huh. she set me up ok. set me up for an early death from raging angst and high blood pressure. seems she had never done an ira before. oh, boy. she’s all over the bank asking pertinate questions of everybody. i’m drinking coffee thinking…you dumb ass fucker, get the fuck up and leave. now.
no, i was too nice for that action. i stayed. well, it finally got done, the paperwork and stuff. a certain amount was to be taken from my regular checking account to pay for the ira. a week or 2 went by and the balance never showed the ira amount being taken out. ok, crap, i need a java jazz so may as well get some and go into the bank and sit there while they, while they, do what they do.
the young lady, girl wasn’t there. so i saw this youg man. he assured me things would be taken care of. so dumb fuck me left. well, turns out when the girl, young lady, got there they gave it to her to take care of. yeah, she did a bang up job. such a good job they took the ira amount out of my checking account, twice. fucking sweet jesus save me from the wretched banking asses. so another trip to the bank. this time i see another lady. the girl, young lady is there as well as the young man, boy. everyone is like hey, word up? i’m their buddy now cause i’m in there all the damn time. well, shit, sorry i didn’t bring donuts.
i am told by the new young lady, girl all is ok now. it’s fixed. or will be. that day. plus the account will be opened. finally. this has been weeks after the account was supposed to have been opened. yeah, ok. i give em another week and nothing has happened. yeah, i’m back in the bank but this time i want, manager, give me manager. now!! so he’s all oh, yes, ah, yes, and shit. i’m like you have pull. you are mamager. be manager. you call and see if you can light some sort of fire under these ira shit heels. he goes, oh, yes i can do that.
it took another 2 trips to the damn bank to get everything straighted out. just amazing. the last trip i got several other things sorta straighten out as well. kinda. it was the second girl, young lady. she talked me into moving some other money around for more interest. yeah, dumb ass sucker that i am, i went for it. she assured me things would be ok. she was doing it. oozing confidence won me over. well, it took a few more trips to get that mess fixed. things are ok with that bank now or at least they are with me. i guess they will be until the term of the accounts expire and i have to do some damn thing or another. i can’t wait.
it ain’t over yet. another bank. out where my parents live. they are old, both in their 90’s. at some point or another it became apperent i couldn’t write checks for them if needed. my dad worries as mom is legally blind. bank says, no, your son can’t do that. we go, i used to be on the account for that. well, that was the old bank we do shit different. of course. perhaps you would like to fuck me in the ass with a fork, as well? now it’s a trip to the lawyer, make that 3 trips to the lawyer, to get the damn paper that tells the damn bank, put me on the damn account.
ok. back to the bank with legal papers in hand and it’s all sweetness and light. we do this and that. now dad is old. he still thinks it’s 1955 and banks are still like they were in 1955. yeah, well. he doesn’t have an atm card. refuses to get one. i want one. if they need cash i can score it for them anywhere. we don’t have to wait for the bank to open so he can go in and dick around trying to cash a check without an atm card if the teller doesn’t know him, that’s a really really fun thing to watch. ooofa. drifting.
lady doing the deal says ok. you will have your atm card by so many days. fine. well, the days have gone by. i even threw in some extra ones because of the 4th of july. yeah, it’s been awhile. still no card. i called the customer service center yesterday. no help. plus it’s some offf shore place and i could not understand a fucking word the guy was saying. he had to spell his name 4 times before i understood what the hell he was saying. turns out they can’t do anything. i was yelling by the time i hung up on the douche bag.
i called the bank itself. someone picked up the phone and hung it up with out saying kiss my ass or anything. nice. i’m pretty much frying by now. i call back and get some woman who is clueless. of course. she says i’ll get the lady who set the stuff up to call you back. fine. said lady calls back. i ask about atm card. she goes well, you have this and that and blah blah blah but that does’t allow you to have an atm card. say what? you told me i was getting one in so many days. no, i didn’t. yes you did. no, i’m sorry you may have legal eagle shit but that doesn’t mean you can have one. i’m like livid. i told her i was not hallucinating and she did tell me i would get a card. no, sir, i did not. i say, ok, sweet mother of god, so there isn’t an atm card floating around out in our wonderful mail system. no, sir. i say fine, that’s all i need to know. i hang up.
a few mintues later the phone rings. it’s the lady from the bank. falling all over her self apologizing. she made a mistake. she looked up the stuff and finally remembered who i was. why, yes, with your legal eagle stuff you do get an atm card. ok, fine. where the fuck is it? ah, well, sorry, but um, i forgot to turn the paperwork in. i just found the papers in a desk drawer. i feel the fork in my ass go a few inches deeper. so ok. i get the card. i told said lady to have it sent to the bank and i’ll go get it next week on my parental run. i wonder if there will be donuts?
music provided by, frank zappa, ‘you can’t do that on stage anymore vol 3′.
jmh
desert island music
i’ve kicked this one around in my head for awhile now. other than being transported to some exotic asian place loaded up with all the stuff i’d ever need and babes to go along with it all. where else would work as a nice place to be whisked off to? the obligatory desert island for me. of course it would have have a nice break, surf wise. maybe chest high glass, all day long with some nice barrels that rolled for a bit just so you could get comfortable riding them with a board or body surfing. a kinda kick back and enjoy the ride along with the scenery deal.
i’d need a couple of marshall amps as well or jbl’s, something with some power to them so while i was out in the water i could listen to my music. yes, my desert island would have electricity. cause i am not going if there is no power for stuff. a long time ago i might have but these days, no, i need some comfort. along with a nice bbq, decent food, maybe a lady or two and of course some dago red or white. hmmm, desert islands are hot so some ice cold chinese beer would be nice as well. then of course there’s the music.
now the rub is, i can only take 10 cd’s with me. that’s it cause with all the other crap there’s no more room. you see, whisking machines can only hold so much and with a couple of babes along for the trip i’m sure most of the stuff would be theirs anyhow. leaving me only enough room for the 10 cd’s, a pair of shorts, a university of oregon t shirt, some flip flops plus a surfboard and a swim fin. i can trave light when the need arises.
the real question has been, what 10 cd’s? what music would i really need? what music is gonna make me happy is what it boils down to. plus, what can i listen to over and over again that won’t drive me mad or madder. good questions. i’ve thought about it and i’ve come up with my 10 selections. of course yours would be different. as sly used to sing, different strokes for different folks. no sly didn’t make the cut. at any rate here they are in no particular order.
1. rolling stones- let it bleed, the opening riffs of ‘gimme shelter’ still give me goose bumps.
2. rolling stones- exile on mainstreet, for me it’s says lots of stuff on all kinds of levels.
3. jimi hendrix- electric ladyland, what could be better than crashing through a tube while body surfing and hearing ‘voodoo child’ screaming out from the sand?
4. bob dylan- highway 61 re-visited, if only for ‘desolation row’.
5. the mothers- burnt weeny sandwich, gotta have some of my mothers and that one pretty much covers the mothers’ spectrum, plus i love it.
6. bob dylan- blonde on blonde, ‘visions of johanna’ and ’sad eyed lady of the lowland’. nuff said.
7. pink floyd- ummagumma live, the ultimate floyd drug experience lp. i still listen to it just for the contact high.
8. van morrison- moondance, this was a really tough one. it boiled down to this cd having ‘into the mystic’ on it. plus ‘moondance’ and he’s always good for getting the ladies interested.
9. paul butterfield blues band- east/west, there aren’t too many blues cd’s out there much better. this one still kicks ass.
10. the allman bros- live at fillmore east, i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again. this cd is probably the best party cd ever made.
ok. there they are. you are all of course going…well, he’s forgotten and what the fuck is he thinking? and yada yada yada. don’t matter cause it’s my list and my desert island. more imortantly, my ears channeling the stuff to be processed by my brain.
this is actually a kind of fun thing to do. it was interseting going over and over stuff to get to the final 10. try it for yourself. the limit is 10 cd’s. no more. oh, i guess you can do less, i wouldn’t, but then it’s all up to you.
music provided by, david bowie, ‘ziggy stardust’, the 30th anniversary edition, an honorary list mention.
jmh
sex and/or theatre, the real deal coda
| this is it the long awaited conclusion to this old sad tale of mis-spent youth. oddly just a short demented portion of said youth. i think it might be a bit anti-climatic at this point but, whatever, it must be done and finished. for whatever reasons, if nothing more than to make me stop thinking i have to finish the fucker. clear the decks as it were or is. the jfk theatre sorta evolved over a couple or 3 years into a couple of things. it morphed into the lincoln deal a few times and that really was theatre on a couple of levels. we tossed in mckinley, as well, which was a short and sweet sorta jack ruby type thing. speaking of jack ruby, we stayed away from that one. i suppose there just wasn’t enough drink to bring us to the point of reeling that one off for the viewing public. tangents and an industrial strength mall coffee jazz working here.
regular readers may remember a certain lady, who for a number of years was a weekly source for buying us all the booze we wanted and gave us a place to drink it. it’s back there some place under one of the ’stuff gracie made me want to do’ deals. i’m not re-posting it or them. if you are interested you can slog thru and find it yourself. any the ways, at different points she would do road trips. the more famous of them were trips to rosarito beach in ensanada, baja. i never made one of them as i was usually working for my dick around money. those trips were famous for their drunkenness and upon occasion their almost deadly fireworks. i did manage to make one of the road trips though. 4th of july, 1966. not baja but carlsbad state beach here in south socal or north san diego county. a nice beach campground that sits up on a cliff above the beach and water. i spent the easter holidays there in 1964 during and after the great alaskan earthquake. we sat up most of the night waiting for the tidal wave that turned out to be only inches high. thankfully. carlsbad is not one of my favorite beaches because it sits at the foot of the cliffs and there isn’t much breeze or air down there on a hot summer day. generally hot enough to melt the wax on a surfboard. that’s hot. though up on the top there’s usually a nice stiff ocean breeze. well, the beach deal was set up. seemed like everyone was going. a large contingent indeed. i think in hindsight we all knew this was probably going to be the swan song for a number of things and it turned out to be so. several people who didn’t have to work made it down a day or so before hand to set up the encampment. encampment was what it was. the lady was a marine during ww2 and once a marine, always a marine. a very nice camp site. several very large tents, one for the ladies and one for the boys to men, and windbreaks with all the almost comforts of home. even a list of ten or so dos and don’ts for the camp site was predominately posted. we arrived on the scene late in the afternoon. several carloads of us. they almost didn’t let us in. some of the group were not 18 and no one in any of the cars was 21 to act as chaperon or responsible party. the lady had to come down to the main gate and get us in. only trouble with that was it put us the park ranger’s radar screen. bad juju, indeed. the campgrounds were packed as it was the 4th and a long weekend. we unloaded our stuff and for some reason or another, the muses again i suppose, we decided to give the assembled campers a nice rousing rendition of the jfk dallas deal. stone cold sober. in and of itself a first. we had a nice stretch of straight narrow road. several cars, no the chocolate bomb was not one of them. sadly. though we did have a vw with a sunroof. it became the lincoln. squirt guns. a captive audience as it were and the stupidity of youth to pull it off. i must say the performance was inspired. so inspiring that some of it wasn’t even a part of the original tragedy, like secret service agents being shot and falling off the cars into the sand. yes, indeed, a true spectacle of youth gone insane and wild. mouths were agape. some strange sort of weird madness had fallen across the collected camper consciousness of mr and mrs america that late friday afternoon. something they had not been prepared for in the least. something that made their heads swirl with utter befuddlement and wonder at the crazed scene unfolding right before their very eyes. a scene they had not counted on ever seeing i suppose. yes, well, what can i say? other than the park rangers were far from amused. in hindsight i’m glad this was before the time when the california park rangers started packing side arms. they probably would have shot us just on general principles. i also imagine when it was being debated as to whether or not rangers should have a side arm the ‘carlsbad incidents’ (yes, there were more, incidents) were brought up as proof positive park rangers needed guns to save the unsuspecting public from brain addled youths. yes, of course, i whole hardily concur now a days but that’s a drift. ah, johnny law, at his most perturbed is at times a sight to behold. even to this day. they swooped from it seemed everywhere all at once. a very almost swat like tactic. they probably didn’t realize they had it in them but the true spectacle of human weirdness was upon the park and it was their duty. we were collared and they demanded to know who was in charge. of course the lady marine was not happy. she was ready for our stupidity when we were drunk but sober was another story. then of course she had park rangers tramping through her fire base, as it were. looking around. then one of them spotted the posted ’list’. he demanded to know what it was who put it up and just what the hell was up with number 9. you have to remember these were simpler times and things were just beginning to come unglued at the hinges for america. for you see rule 9 on the list, in bold print, stated to all concerned: NO FARTING IN THE TENTS. god, the horror. but none the less a simple and common courtesy for your fellow campers. drunk or sober. a rule that should be known to all in the camp. anyways, the lady marine had had it with us, now she’d had it with the rangers. she went ballistic. the rangers retreated but put everyone on super secret probation and gave out a stern warning. well, with all the pre-dinner sordidness everyone was walking on eggshells at dinner and clean up time. when it came time for drinking it was a very somber affair indeed. there’s nothing worse than somber drinking for underage drinkers. it adds to the already pent up youth anxieties and needs to come screaming out at some point. scream out it did at 0600 hrs the next morning. there were so many of us there wasn’t room in the tents for all of us to sleep. i was one who slept outside the tent by the edge of the cliff nestled nicely in the arms of cold beach sand. i was still asleep when i was blasted awake by a squirt gun and screaming. every one’s 6am wake up call was a re-enactment of the storming of the beaches of iwo jima. yeah, it was in reverse as those doing the show were running, shooting, screaming, and jummping off the cliff to land a few feet below on a nice sandy lip area. then scampering back up and doing it again. yes, indeed. early morning madness. the only thing saving the day was the fact that the rangers hadn’t arrived for work. though of course when they did arrive they paid the camp a visit. technicalities were back then, as they are today, still rule the day. they had not actually seen the rampant insanity with their own eyes so we were granted a stay in being asked to leave the park. post haste. more super secret probation and dire warnings all around should we fuck up or around anymore. yep, we were little angels for the rest of the day. lady marine was not camping happily. especially when we started to mess with the ladies in the group. telling them stories of the dreaded snapping sea land crabs that infested the beach down below. it kept them up on the cliff and out of our hair. though the marine was not happy with them in her hair all day. night came again and more drinking was in order. that evening it was more of the drinking on a usual basis type deal. vast amounts of whatever. we maintained a sort of decorum however. nothing untoward as we knew it meant an early departure if we screwed up or around. though some of us couldn’t help but go down to the surf line and watch the night surf fishermen do their thing. we would chat one up for a bit and he would gather his stuff and leave. being to drunk to notice we’d just shrug and wander off to the next fisherman. who after a bit did the same thing. this went on until we were the only people left on the beach. left to our own devices. left to our own insanity. what better way than to show our drunken disregard for the rangers and every one’s lack of a sense of humor than to write stuff in the sand in letters 3 feet high to let everyone know just how fucked up they were or are. i mean the tide was gonna come in an wash it away, right? so what the fuck? rock and roll. the next morning we awoke to large groups of folks standing on the cliff and pointing down toward the water. uh, yeah, the tide had already come in the night before so our insane pornographic ramblings were still visible for everyone to read that next morning with their coffee. another visit from the rangers of course. technicalities once again saving us. no one could prove anything. no one could prove we were the culprits. ipso facto we got off. however, the lady marine was livid. making the rest of that day and night almost unbearable. so unbearable we plotted against the lady marine. what else is a poor boy to do? it was decided we would sabotage the move out when it came. one of us was to stay with the ladies and help with the tent striking stuff. the rest of us were leaving in the morning. that night we rigged up the tent so when whoever was inside during the take down would end up underneath the collapsing tent. a sure fire knee slapper that we would not be around to see. as for the guy that was supposed to be helping he would be off wandering the beach having forgotten it was time to decamp the camp. brilliant. it worked perfectly. only trouble was the poor lad had to drive home with the lady. she was so pissed she had to let him drive. something she never did on any outing. lady marines always drive. ok. there it is in all of it’s mad glory. the completed story. it’s out there now and i can forget about it. well, writing about it anyways. jmh |
sex and/or theatre pt4 or the chocolate bomb
for once the catagory sorta resembles what i’m going to write about. no sorta mystical, what the fuck is he talking about stuff, but an auto or maybe 2, unless of course i get side tracked.
the chocolate bomb was an early 60’s corvair convertable. 4 cylanders of mush power with a nice chevy slip and slide auto tranny. but best of all was the color, milk chocolate brown. hence it’s name.
it was a friend of mine’s mother’s car. the same family from huntington and the trailer park from previous stuff. it was a fun car. it never went any place in a hurry mainly because it couldn’t.
i almost used it to take my first drivers test at 16 years old. you could parallel park it in your sleep and believe you me some days i needed it. it is kind of amazing that the local dmv, down on 4th in the olden days, didn’t get wise to the chocolate bomb. it must have shown up a number of times with a different smiling shinning faced teenager behind the wheel. this your parents car? yes, sir.
the chocolate bomb was around even into the jfk street theatre days. it played the role of the lincoln a few times. however, it’s greatest role came one early summer evning. at the north end of newport beach. just south of the river mouth. the houses in that area right on the beach.
several of us had gone out for a cruise with the top down, of course. we wandered onto the streets around those houses. cruising. as any good street theatre performer of those days knows, when the muse slaps you silly, you act. regardless how fucking stupid the idea is or how even more fucking stupid you will look if you do it. yes, yes.
it occured to us all at pretty much the same time. muses are quick and can slap numerous people silly very quickly. well, 3 anyway. hey, we need to ’do’ the rose parade!! boffo idea!! lots of folks outside bbqing or washing their rides they need a diversion. and the diversion was us. myself and another guy sat on the back of the car with our feet on the back seat waving and blowing kisses, just like the damn demented rose queen and her court. in hindsight, 40 years ago was not the time or the place for that riff. hell, it might not even be the time or place for it today. i guess it would just depend. veering here.
things went ok for a time as we wound our way through the streets in that area. we even got a few laughs. at some point or another we pissed some guys off with our little show. go figure. they of course yelled crazy shit at us and we yelled back. they ran for their car.
the chocolate bomb for some strange reason, maybe the muses had slapped her as well, was up for the occasion. the driver floored it and with the head start we had, the douche bags got close, but they never caught us. then again maybe the reason being we knew the area and the streets and they were just renters from des moines. i really don’t know. in a spine tingling rush of adrenaline the legend of the chocolate bomb reached new heights that night. it may have been it’s finest hour. pushed to the limit of it’s mushy 4 cylanders, it careened to and fro through the streets of newport beach for what seemed an eternity. time may have stood still that summer evening but the chocolate bomb sure as hell didn’t. god bless her.
this morning’s non-music provided by espn on the am radio.
jmh
sex and/or theatre(?) pt3
ok. just because somebody out there is probably wondering just what happened to blondie and plain jane after the totally unfortunate previous sordid evening’s misadventure. can an evening be posseive? drifting already. screw it.
no, the ladies did not participate in the the jfk street theatre presentation. generally speaking that presentation was a male only deal. though maybe a lady or two was involved a time or two. sadly i can’t remember. but probably doubtful. i mean it was something they would watch for sure but actually get involved with, not very likely, on numerous levels. drifting.
so the next day was spent on the beach in and out of the water. hung over to the max. late in the day, for some reason, perhaps in some demented way like a salmon trying to spawn, i wandered over to where blondie had first been spotted. amazingly enough she was there. plain jane as well. blondie, red as an over cooked lobster, but only on the front side. a goddamn sight to behold. i was like, whoa, ah um, nice to see you. what happened? seems she really did like me and had sat there all damn day, tit side up, waiting for me to travel back up stream while she got the sunburn of her life.
i got her address which was way west of de onta and phone number. but i figured i’d never be free from plain jane and any woman who would get a third degree sunburn over some dumb fuck she hardly knew was probably not worth the time and energy involved. yeah, i never saw her again. call me stupid or whatever. however, to this day i still think i made the right call.
frank zappa, ‘one size fits all’.
jmh
sex and/or theatre(?) pt2
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sex and/or street theatre (?)
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the tangents have already started and i haven’t even begun. shit running rampant through my synapse frazzled brain. sex? street theatre? yeah, i prefer theatre, imagine noel coward, for those of you who even know who the fuck he was, and say ‘theatre’. quite british i suppose. anyways the other way it’s spelled looks like an optometrist’s eye chart to me. demon dyslexia. sex and/or street theatre. simple as that. or is it? sex and religion? philosophical theatre? yes, of course just get on with it. a number of years ago in a lifetime far far away from today…
summertime. huntington beach. surf city. the old mobile home park behind the sheraton hotel right on pch. friends parents had a trailer there. nice place and nothing like where britney spears comes from. more tangents. even a nice 3 par golf course wandering through the trailers. nine iron and a putter. step out and play. sweet.
friends parents were gone, off to god knows where, and the place was ripe for party time. college kids high school kids. need i say more? you bet. the place was ours.
i was in the living room with a nine iron and promptly put it through the ceiling with my backswing. it was only 6 or so in the morning. harbinger of things to come? general consensus was…maybe no one will notice. youth in all of it’s bluster.
ok. party planned and lots of alcohol. way too much alcohol. girls even. though they knew us all to well so more were needed if anything was going to happen. sexually.
out on the beach hitting on anything faintly resembling a woman and asking them if they wanted to go to the party. most of them ran away frantically seaching for johnny law or somebody like him. another harbinger? or just giggled. perhaps even worse.
in and out of the water wandering the beach. back in back out. searching. by early afternoon it looked like the only women there that night would just be the ladies we already knew. not good for horny young men.
like a shimmering mirage from a testosterone haze. she appeared. sitting in the sand. blonde and gorgeous. amazing. where did she come from? someone’s gift or a cruel joke? only time would tell. like all gorgeous women back then, of that age, and from what i’ve seen today wandring about they always have the homley friend very close by. in some sort of demented hindsight it seems as if they are the chastity belt of sorts for the more hot babe. tangents.
ever swave and debonner the hit was made. amazingly blonde goddess says, yes. say what? friend i’m with and i are pretty much dumbfounded. did we hear her right? yep. but then things are rarely what they seem. plain jane says, no. a big no. we spent the rest of the afternoon chatting with them trying to convince the plain one to attend the festivities that evening. no dice.
luckily they were staying at the hotel that weekend with blonde bombshell’s parents. sadly all of them in the same room. another harbinger? we begged and pleaded for a hotel pool side meeting that evening in order to chat some more. blonde babe was even on our side. she liked me. plain babe relented and agreed to the pool side meet. nothing more.
after an early dinner friend agreed to go to the pool meet with me. a nice gesture if there ever was one. they were waiting. blonde babe even lovelier in jeans and a shirt. sweet. we talked our heads off. the party had already started. we hadn’t even had a drink. it was getting summertime dark. we were not getting anywhere. then out of nowhere plain jane says, ok. fucking yes!!! there is a god after all.
we hit the party and and things are cool with plain jane. she actually seemed to relax a tad. no booze however. but there are other females there. after a bit blondie and i hit the kitchen for some…privacy? lust and youth know no bounds?
tongues down throats. hands everywhere. is it just me or is it hot in here? or maybe the sunburn? the jaunt into the kitchen for privacy is actually working. the move is made. hand down here pants under the underware. eureka! home free and she’s already sopping wet. what could be better? well her hand down my pants and past the underware. bingo! bacchus is indeed smiling tonight.
well, he was for maybe 30 seconds or so. standing by the kitchen sink and in mid grope a blood curdling scream is heard. plain jane had gone looking for blondie. she found her there in the kitchen. it was right out of a nightmare. for plain jane. blondie. and poor poor me.
plain jane does a very nice about face, worthy of any military one, and jets out the front door. screaming, no shit, screaming and running pell mell across the golf course and into the night towards the hotel. it’s blondie’s turn to freak out. she’s going to tell my parents. aw just fucking amazing. there she goes out the front door and into the night as well. what the fuck happened was the question from everyone there. damned if i know, i say, grabbing a quart of beer and heading out the door myself.
friend and i found them by the pool. blondie begging jane not to rat her out. another marthon chat fest. jane agrees, finally, to keep quiet about the whole sordid affair. however the rest of the evening is spent drinking sans blondie or any other female willing to go into the kitchen for some privacy. see what i mean about harbingers?
this morning’s very fitting music presented by, the rolling stones, ‘exile on mainstreet’.
jmh
a little bit of drive-in movie madness
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