some more lipstick and like the title says here are parts 2 and 3 all rolled up into an independence day package. part 2 is not for the faint of heart and if you’re easily offended by the antics of stupid and drunk males perhaps it won’t be your cup of tea. however, it was what it was and i don’t make any apologies for anything other than sorry if we woke you up. thanks again for reading and there is one more installment to follow.
the stones are still rolling and the story ain’t over till every drop of booze has been drunk and the fat lady sits quietly weeping on the edge of the stage. this part here is the theatre part and perhaps not for the faint hearted. who knows?
well over 30 quarts of beer, several gallons of red mountain vino, jim beam and his brother jack daniels gone as well. not gallons but enough or maybe way too much. the girls didn’t drink much. the boys, 6 or 7, made up for it.
way way later in the wee hours, we found ourselves in the hotel cafe ordering up breakfast. sans any women. nothing unusual there. sop. or something like it. events at this point get sorta hazy. in the group was a youngster. even younger than we were and further from 21 than any of us. a good kid and a very good local surfer. his folks lived in the trailer park. so of course, when he went head first into his breakfast, it occurred to some of the more sober among us that, shit, oh oh, this ain’t good or anywhere near cool. people were looking at us, even more so than before the dive into the eggs. an edgy night had just gotten edgier and was about to become surreal.
the bill was paid and we unassed the area as best we could before the cops were called. we made our way across the golf course. still night. summertime dark. perhaps a moon but what the fuck? quarts of beer left out on the grass for the walk home?
somewhere out in the middle of the golf course an idea sorta burst into what would be the theatre part of this sad tale. an idea that to this day lives in infamy. but we were drunk, young, and stupid. a sad thing for sure. something only dean wormer might appreciate. not the theatre but the drunk bit.
out there in the middle of the grass and night was to become the first of many future drunken jfk assassination re-enactments. yes, in all of it’s gory glorious details. right there. night banshees from some sort of kafkaesque delirium tremors. acting out for all who were awake or were about to be, one of the saddest days of our collective history. true guerrilla theatre knows no bounds, my friends. something all of us learned that night. a valuable life lesson i’m sure.
just who played who, is to this day still very murky. the only thing we all remember is the youngest of us all played, jackie. sunny side up eggs still on his face. and he did a damn fine job as well. imaginary lincolns jack jackie lbj the gov lee secret service men gun shots running screaming dark death reigned.
it was over almost as soon as it begun. or at least as long as it took to get organized and done. we all knew the scene so very well. etched forever. it was easy to pull off. parts given and accepted. just do it. the really incredible thing being the cops never showed up. simpler times i guess. the real pale of human insanity hadn’t reared it’s ugly head, just yet.
the jfk assassination became part of our drunken repertoire and even sober theatre. cars were added later along with squirt guns. the youngest among us was always, jackie. regardless.
every time we did the jfk deal it got more involved. not that we did it all the time. just when, i suppose, it was a full moon and the hormones were running rampant untapped by feminine hands. however, the last time we ever performed the jfk assassination it was in broad daylight and we were stone sober. but that’s for an other time. maybe.
‘exile on main street’, ibid or op cit
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 possessive? 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. veering.
so, the next day was spent on the beach in and out of the water. hung over to the max. late in the day, 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 her 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’. the tune, ‘inca roads’, in particular.