Sloppy Seconds

Ssshllssshkkssh you can ring my sshzzjkllssshkll the floor over you ssshkkssshkkssh. Man, there ain’t squat on this radio [Bam!]. Sshklljxxllsshkllzz don’t they know sshkllssh (slammin’ the dash didn’t help). Sshzzlljxxsshkll my legs are thin sshzzllssh. Hold it, sshllzzssh oh well. Bingo!

Now, when I talked to God I knew he’d understand
He said, stick by my side and I’ll be your guiding hand
But don’t ask me what I think of you
I might not give the answer that you want me to 

Good ol’ Fleetwood Mac (before those pretty chicks homogenized ‘em); speakin’a chicks . . . .

It’s Ladies Night at the Lone Star
the kitties will be cattin’ around
and there’s a chance that a chump like me
can get lucky in this one light town
(so I chugged another long neck down)

I’m gonna get ½ loaded 
before I mosey in
no sense payin’ premium
to get 3 sheets to the wind
(then wizz it all out again)

My liquor will be doin’ all the talkin’
it knows what is best to gab about
even if it’s never really quite as clever
as it sounds comin’ outta my mouth
(maybe ‘coz I’m from the South)

I think that I drink 
with sage moderation
my urge to splurge 
is merely well earned recreation
it helps to melt those pesky blues away
(and negotiate another tricky day)

I was just about to stumble on in, when I thoughta Eddie (Eddie Spaghetti). Eddie was this buddy of mine from back in Chuck County. He was a wacky goofball, who had dropped outta school to pursue a career fixin’ foreign cars. ‘Wrenchin’, he called it. I thought it weak of him to quit school; but he didn’t cotton to learnin’. He was a good enough wrencher to support himself and his various habits, though; so who was I to judge? What Eddie lacked in book smarts he more than made up for in street savvy. He taught me things you couldn’t find in the encyclopedia.
I dropped outta college (which was weak of me), and moved in with Eddie. I got a job bangin’ nails (which didn’t seem all that much different than wrenchin’). We’d rabble-rouse and go out carousin’ (a coupla punks on the prowl). As often as not, Eddie would land some cherry doll baby; but rarely would I score. This always puzzled me. I’m not a dashing man, nor am I debonair; but at least my face is symmetrical. His mug was always contorted into this twisted smirk that gave shit-eatin’ grin a new meaning. I guess ugliness is in the eye of the beholder too.
Eddie was a professor at the College of Carnal Knowledge, and I paid heed whenever class was in session. I asked him what his secret was and he had no qualms about tellin’ me. “Ya just slide up to ‘em, and ask ‘em do they wanna fuck. 9 times outta 10 they just look at you like you’re a pig, or they’ll slap you, or tell you to fuck off. Ya just keep on tryin’ till you find that one who likes dirty talk; or maybe she’s got her beer goggles on. The next thing ya know, you’re doin’ the nasty” (I can’t imagine why I ever thought Eddie had somethin’ craftier up his sleeve). I am unable to stoop so low with my small talk. I must have that certain somethin’ that you need to be lackin’ in, that will let me be so blunt. I do remember this one bird flyin’ solo (who wasn’t even all that). I slid up to her and said; “I was thinkin’ that maybe tonight, you could be my Mrs. Right,” as wittily as I could. She just shook her head, and looked at me in a way that was more pity than rejection (ouch).
Anyway, Eddie had a brainstorm once and dropped this little chestnut on me. He spewed out giddily; “When ya settle on a joint for the night; go ahead and lock your keys in the car, right there in the ignition. First off, ya don’t need no more DWI’s (which was true for the both of us). If somehow you do get lucky, she’s gonna hafta drive. But say you have struck out with even the last homeliest dog in the place. Ya slip out just before closin’, and start fiddlin’ with your car. Ya ask any splittail that comes out the door if she’s got a coat hanger, ‘coz your dumb ass has locked your keys in the car. She wants to check your story? There are the keys plain as day. She ain’t got no hanger? See if you can hitch a ride. The next thing ya know, it’s your place or mine” (even a ½ drunken me can see the flaws in this plan).
Eddie’s been 6 years 6 feet under now. He was killed in a freaky car crash on Bealle Hill Road, and it wasn’t even his fault. Jeez, I haven’t thought about him in a many a moon. It’s funny how your mind works when you’re all by yourself. I’d better get goin’ before the pickings get any slimmer (or I stroll any further down memory lane). I am gonna leave my keys in the ignition, though (just for Eddie).
The parking lot was bathed in an eerie neon glow. Large green letters arched over a pink electric star. The L was burnt out so it said The one Star (and that seemed lonelier still). I made my way across the cracked asphalt and into the smoky honky tonk. ‘Searchin’ For A Rainbow’ was playin’; and I felt better already.

And I’m searchin’ for a rainbow
And if the wind only shows me where to go
You’ll be waitin’ at the end, and I’ll know
I’ll say “To Hell with that pot of gold” 
I’ll say “To Hell with that pot of gold”

Hey Bartender
Jack & ginger 
easy on the ginger
and if you’ll keep ‘em comin’ steady
I’ll make sure to tip you heavy

Whoa Nellie!
there’s a fire in my belly
and my legs just turned to jelly
and my heart just skipped a beat
I think it’s tryin’ to tell me things 
I’d better not repeat

“Next man up
rack ‘em up”
said this preppy lookin’ fuck
struttin’ around like he owns the place
(with all of us just takin’ up space)
and so I did what I must do
I chalked myself the straightest cue

I’ll lay the only quarter that I need
on the table and proceed
to teach this cocky local fool
the finer points of shootin’ pool
and if somehow he should beat me
I plan to lose with dignity

Oh my soul!
there’s a bona fide baby doll
posin’ just as pretty as can be
all of a sudden 
whippin’ Mr. Preppy
doesn’t mean that much to me

Slap me silly!
she’s a foxy little filly
just itchin’ to be wooed
watch this stick go lickety-split
and I racked ‘em so they’d scatter good

He broke and sank the 5 and 6
then his cue ball ran and hid
so he thought to leave me tough
(but he wasn’t sly enough)
I saw the slightest sliver of the 9
and coolly sliced it in the side
and by the time the 12 was cleared
all the stripes had disappeared

“8-ball in the corner with a kiss”
I said not carin’ if I missed
‘coz I’ve got bigger fish to fry
(and he don’t seem that bad a guy)
well sure as hell I made the shot
but that damn white ball also dropped
ain’t no sense in feelin’ humble
that’s the way my cookies crumble

“Nice game, buddy”
was as dignified
as I could muster (and I tried)
“I got lucky, pal,” he replied
and it didn’t sound
the least bit snide

Where did that angel get off to?
I could swear she was standin’ right there
and I had started hopin’
that she might even care

My glass just jingle-jangled
and my throat is gettin’ parched
and it seems like my momentum
has lost a little starch

You are my special angel
Through eternity
I’ll have my special angel
Here to watch over me
Here to watch over me

Bartender Ken was my new best friend. He got right to pourin’ when he seen me amblin’ over.
“Tough loss, pal, you deserved better,” he said kindly.
“No, I got what I deserved,” I mumbled (thinkin’ about the big picture).
“Hey, does Johnny Rivers sing this song?” (I’ve always felt he was under appreciated)
“No Champ, that’s Bobby Helms,” he said matter-of-factly.
I was drawin’ a blank, “Bobby Helms, what else did he do?”
“Jingle Bell Rock,” he quickly responded (and winked all-knowingly). Then he turned his attention elsewhere. No shit, those damn barkeeps are fountains of information (ya think you’d see more of ‘em on Jeopardy). Now where did that little goddess go?
“You’ve got a pretty sweet stroke,” said an irritatin’ voice to my left.
It was none other than Peter Fuckin’ Preppy, my billiards nemesis (whose luck had obviously run out).
“My name’s Pete,” he screeched, palm outstretched (you have gotta be kiddin’ me).
I hope the sarcastic archin’ of my eyebrows, did not unmask the mirth I was tryin’ to stifle; at yet another one of lifes’ twisted little coincidences (will wonders never cease).
“I’m Dolph,” I muttered as I shook his clammy hand.
“Are you German?” he asked me stupidly (uh, would that be Georgia, Germany? [jeez])
“Hell no man, I’m American. Dolph is short for Randolph,” I explained (as I bit my tongue).
My name is really Randy, but these cats I knew in college didn’t believe that was my ‘official’ name. They would always call me Randolph, or Dolph, and it just kinda stuck. I asked my Mother once why they named me Randy (thinkin’ it was after some kin or another). She told me that they named me after the paper boy. She said this kid had a nice smile and was very polite when he came to collect (and she wasn’t even just pullin’ my leg). It mighta been Eddie Fuckin’ Haskells’ little brother for all I know (hell, I don’t even know if Eddie Haskell had a little brother). Randy didn’t seem all too special after that.
“Dolph’s a cool name, dude; I’m pleased to meet you,” Petey said sincerely.
“Likewise, I’m sure,” I replied (not altogether insincerely).
He ordered a Southern Comfort & 7 (which is a straight up chick drink). I ½ expected him to ask for a cherry or maybe a little umbrella. Petey told Ken that my next drink was on him (which I thought rather neighborly). I thanked him kindly.
“I’m gonna go shake a leg; maybe we can have a rematch later on,” he said with a straight face. There go my eyebrows again (this time less mirthfully).
“Yeah, sure,” I offered halfheartedly (rematch shematch I giggled to myself).
He took a test sip of his sissy drink, and sauntered toward the dancefloor. Ken rolled his eyes at Peter’s departure, and topped me off with an absolute stiffy. I was slammin’ ‘em down like a beached mackerel. I’d better pace myself, or I’ll be anything but stiff; even if I do somehow hook me a keeper.

What the hell?? Somethin’ that sounded like an awful cross between Bob Marley and Barry Manilow was invadin’ the sanctity of my eardrums (and I even like Bob Marley). I guess Ken could sense my distress, as he leaned over and told me that it was called ‘The Electric Slide’.
“We only play it on Ladies’ Night,” he said (as if that made it alright).
Elvis must be twirlin’ in his grave (Marley too, for that matter; ‘coz I think I just heard that he died).
I swiveled my stool around; and seen what seemed like every kitty in the joint, gettin’ her groove on. Sweeties of every shape and size were boogiein’ in unison. There were jiggles and gyrations. They did this little bend over curtsy sashay kinda thing, that particularly piqued my interest (there might be somethin’ to this). It’s electric
Jeez, I just seen a coupla dudes curtsy. I try not to be too judgmental, but somethin’ about these cats screams A/V Club or Glee Club to me (is there really even such a thing as glee?). I do realize that most every nimrod that pocket protected his way through high school; with a great big L stamped on his forehead, is now wildly successful. I also know, that some of my slickest runnin’ buddies are pumpin’ gas, or bangin’ nails, or cleanin’ out Jiffy Johns for a livin’. Yet and still, I feel smugly superior to these yo-yos.
There’s ol’ Petey, all ajiggle in the back row, with his powder blue sweater draped over his shoulders (actually, I made up the sweater part; but he may as wella been wearin’ one). And there, O! there, is Little Miss Elusive doin’ that bend over thing; that’s got my eyes as wide as pie plates. Kiss my ass! Apparently she and Peter are an item. She just goo-goo eyed him like she was Olivia Newton-John, and he was John Fuckin’ Travolta (which he certainly is not). Who’da thunk it? They just sashayed into each other and got all giggly. There’s obviously some kinda spark there. It’s electric
‘Slide’ schmide. This shit was soundin’ more like Barry Manilow and less like Bob Marley by the nanofuckin’second. I’ve gotta get back on track here. I swiveled toward the bar and began starin’ at ice cube formations in my mostly empty glass. A few had semi-melted together and looked like a little crystal dagger. I jingle-jangled them apart and coated my throat with those last golden drops of comfort. I motioned to Ken for a fill up.

Hey Bartender
can ya help me to remember?
why I’m makin’ love to my Jack & ginger 
it’s right on the tip of my tongue
along with every other 
bitter song I’ve sung

13,000 beers ago
and 40 or 50 gallons of Jack
I was just a tenderfoot
(so I cut myself some slack)
I took a wrong turn somewhere
‘coz now I’m outta whack 

Sittin’ on a barstool
feelin’ like a damn fool
ignorance ain’t bliss
what I wouldn’t do
to escape from this zoo
and rectify everything I’ve missed

Just look at me
all wild & free
sad slave to my own self pity
I know full well
feelin’ sorry for myself
won’t get me the key to the city 

I think that I drink a little too much
my mean demeanor’s grown so outta touch
with the things I believe in and the people I love
that it’s high time I think maybe I rise above
the perpetual sadness surroundin’ my soul
and somehow make gladness my lifes’ humble goal

By all that is right 
I’ll make time this bet
that the best of this kid 
ain’t been seen yet

The bluesy wail of Skynyrd is piercin’ through my reverie.

Whiskey bottles and brand new cars
Oak tree you’re in my way
There’s too much coke and too much smoke
Look what’s going on inside you
Ooooh that smell
Can’t you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you

All too true, unfortunately, for the 2nd best Southern Rock band ever. I took a fuzzy guzzle of my drink, and noticed that the ice had mostly melted. I’ve been nursin’ this baby for awhile (which is prolly for the better). Well Hells’ Bells, this tiny sign just caught my eye (and stirred up some dust bunnies). It was over the Captain Morgan mirror behind the bar, and it’s déjà vu all over again. The sign said simply:

No Colors

I did a quick once over around the dimly lit establishment, to see if there was somethin’ I had missed. Nope, this was a pretty tame crowd. Eric Von Zipper and his cronies, tryin’ to stuff Annette Funicellos’ wild bikini; is about as sinister as I can imagine it gettin’. It’s hard for me to picture cue balls bustin’ skulls in this joint, or that cats like Petey would dare darken its doorway; if such a potentiality existed (maybe Tuesday is Bikers’ Night).
Anyway, that sign reminds me of another Eddie I know back home. Apple Ass was a co-worker of mine from St. Mary’s County (which is just south of Chuck County). He’s a big kid, 4 or 5 years younger than me, and appropriately nicknamed. Eddie’s a lovable bumpkin; but for him, trouble is like a tornado and he is like a trailer park. He drunkenly missed a curve once, and luckily rumbled into an open field. His luck dried up when he bottomed out in a ditch. He stumbled over to this farmhouse, but there was nobody home. The door wasn’t locked so he made his way in, and passed out on the couch.
Headline in The Explorer, the sensationalistic local rag: Man Caught Napping. Officer So & So comes upon an abandoned vehicle stuck in a ditch; headlights beamin’ skyward, illuminatin’ the distant treetops. He investigates the nearby domicile and discovers a snorin’ intruder. Apple Ass is wakened from his slumber, and thinks it’s his house bein’ broken into. He flails about like a little bitch, then realizes it’s the Fuzz. He screams to his Momma that their house is bein’ raided; which leads to a subsequent search of his actual house, where they find paraphernalia and traces of weed. This would’ve been buried back in the stupid criminals’ section of most papers; but it was front page fodder for that Man Bites Dog weekly. Needless to say, that was hardly his only brush with the law.
Apple Ass was braggin’ one day about what a pool shark he is. I was highly skeptical, and I let him know. He suggested shootin’ it out at the Blue Dog on the way home. Well, I’m prolly only about the 87th best shot in Chuck County; but I figured that was still better than a hayseed from St. Mary’s could be, so I said why not. We got to the Blue Dog which was sparsely filled. It was mostly dudes postponin’ the naggin’ they’d be gettin’, whenever they did make it home (and who could blame them for dallyin’).
I could tell by Eddies’ 3rd shot that he wouldn’t crack the Top 300 in Chuck County. I whipped him 7 straight games then scratched on the 8-ball in the 8th game (and him with 6 balls showin’). He conceded that I was prolly better than him, but that I did have a home table advantage (which wasn’t even remotely true, as I rarely shot at the Blue Dog). I told him that it wouldn’t have mattered if we were in Bumfuck, Timbuktu, shootin’ sycamore balls on a Velcro table with unchalked bamboo sticks; I would still have kicked his sorry ass (at least I would have told him all that if I had thought of it at the moment; but I can never seem to come up with that stuff till long after the fact).
“Shut up and buy me a drink,” is what I said instead.
We were sittin’ at the bar shootin’ the shit. Mostly, it was him tellin’ me about his latest trials and tribulations; and I was all ears. Not only are his goofball antics amusin’; but it always helps me keep a proper perspective, when I hear about someone’s life that is more fucked up than my own. He abruptly killed his babble mid-sentence.
“I can’t believe they’ve got the balls to put that up” he said excitedly.
I looked over to what he was pointin’ at. It was a sign that said simply:

No Colors

I glanced at Apple Ass and he was beside himself with glee (gee, I guess there really is such a thing). He looked like he had just found Shangri-La. I thought to myself; ya can take the boy outta the country, but ya can’t take the country outta the boy. I didn’t have the heart (or the inclination) to tell him that sign had nothin’ to do with black people. I’ve lost track of Eddie (like I have with most everyone else); but I sure hope he’s shaken that dark star he was born under (mental note: check up on Apple Ass).

Man, I’m depressin’ the hell outta myself (as usual). There’s gotta be somethin’ a bit more cheerful in the old arsenal. What about that witty little ditty I shelved awhile back?

Callin’ all girls
I’ve got rubies & pearls
danglin’ from my family jewels
reachin’ for the stars
isn’t all that hard
when you’ve got the proper tools

Listen for the whistle
of this heat seekin’ missile
it’s aimin’ to enjoy
any lonely lady who’s a little bit crazy
and is lookin’ for a brand new toy
I can be your crazy baby boy

If you’re in the mood for love
or maybe a steamy scandal
we can trip the light fantastic
and at both ends burn our candle
‘coz if you like sloppy seconds
I’ve got more than you can handle

I dunno, seems a smidge contrived to me. Alright, it’s downright hokey-joke (but that is a snappy beat). Wait a sec, there’s better shit playin’ than what’s rattlin’ ‘round my head.

Friday night they’ll be dressed to kill
Down at Dino’s Bar’n’Grill
The drink will flow and the blood will spill
And if the boys wanna fight, you better let ‘em

That jukebox in the corner blasting out my favorite song
The nights are getting warmer, it won’t be long
Won’t be long till summer comes
Now that the boys are here again

“Jack and Coke,” sang this heavenly choir of angels. I could smell honeysuckle just as Peteys’ sweetie brushed up against me; and got the hair on my arm all atingle (it’s electric).
“Excuse me,” she warbled with inflection (which made me think she’d done it on purpose).
“No sweat, I rather enjoyed it;” I quipped cleverly (more on top of my game than I would’ve thought possible). She did one of those tee-hee-hee things that only chicks can do; and batted her chocolate eyes at me. Ken was back with her drink in a jiffy. I told him that it was on me; and top mine off as well, please. He nodded and scooted off. I left a $10 on the bar.
“And here I thought you were shy,” she observed wryly.
He who hesitates, spanks monkey (I’ve found).
“Pete bought me a drink earlier so I, uh; figure it’s the least I can do,” I stammered (not really knowin’ where I was headin’ with this).
Her pretty face scrunched up in puzzlement (which detracted from its loveliness not the least). Ken dropped off my drink, and gave me a thumb up when I waved off any change.
“What does that have to do with me?” she asked earnestly.
It was my face scrunchin’ now (albeit not prettily). Somethin’ about all this was leadin’ me to believe that maybe she and Peter aren’t an item after all (I’d better dig deep).
“Well, it got me in a givin’ mood,” I came up with finally.
She eyed me warily, “Do you think Pete’s my boyfriend?”
“Umm, some sparks did fly while you were out there ‘Lectric Slidin’,” I feebly reasoned.
Her eyes widened; she quickly put a hand over her mouth, and tried in vain to keep from snickerin’. She got it under control after a bit.
“In the first place,” she leaned over and whispered; “I wouldn’t even go out with a guy who would do the Electric Slide” (Hallefuckin’lujah!).
“ More importantly though,” and she got right up to where I could feel her breath in my ear (the hair on my arm wasn’t the only thing that was all atingle now). “Pete doesn’t like girls.
He hasn’t bought me a drink in a long time” (speakin’a breath, I seem to have lost mine).
“Hey, I saw him first,” droned a now familiar irritatin’ screech (as if on cue).
I was rendered utterly speechless (which is rare). I tried to recall earlier events of the evening (wasn’t there somethin’ about a sweet stroke?).
“Cat got your tongue?” she giggled in my ear.
All I could do was silently mouth; “Save me,” and looked at her hopefully.
She put her arm around me and told Petey, “He’s not your type.”
“I like all types, Darling,” Petey said with nary a blush.
“Especially the strong, silent ones,” and he eyed me oddly.
That broke me outta my stupor. “Alright, alright; let’s not have a catfight here”
“Pete, I am definitely not your type,” I blurted out emphatically.
“O.K., O.K.; don’t get your panties in a bunch,” he said ironically. “I was just putting out feelers” (the old 9 times outta 10 theory [though a touch riskier I would imagine]).
“Well, I’m not feelin’ it,” I said (and it sounded corny as soon as it came outta my mouth).
He just chuckled, “Dolph, you do have a way with words. I’ll catch you lovebirds later.”
He was off with a wink and a nod to the pool table. I waved him on (knowin’ there would be no rematch shematch tonight).

“I wish you could see your face” said Darlene (I think that’s what Petey called her).
My mug ain’t much under normal conditions, so I can only imagine what 3 shades of scarlet have done to it. I tried squintin’ into the Captain Morgan mirror, but all I can focus on is that dashin’ mustachioed pirate (it’s just as well I can’t see myself, I’m sure).
“I do believe you’re homophobic,” she threw out there.
I’m damn near every kinda phobic anymore, so why wouldn’t queers make me queasy and uneasy as well. It’s nothin’ heebie-jeebielike; I just don’t understand their point of view (such as another guys’ hairy ass, for instance).
I explained clumsily, “I’m an all girl guy; but to each his own, I suppose.”
She smiled at me in a sweetly disarmin’ manner. It felt like I had known her for years, instead of the mere minutes we had really been together.
“Is your name Dolph?” she asked me.
I confessed, “My name is Randy. I was named after the paper boy” (as if this one should know that little tidbit). She mulled it over briefly.
“Randy’s a nice name, too,” she cooed; “In fact, I like it even better.”
“Are you Darlene?” I tried to confirm.
“Darling?” she trilled (as I saw the little light bulb come on). “Oh, did you mean Darlene?”
I just nodded numbly.
“No, not Darlene, Paula;” she corrected (there is no way I’m rememberin’ this).
I responded as if on autopilot, “That’s a pretty name” (I do like both of those names).
“Hey!” she suddenly grabbed my arm; “This is my favorite song, let’s dance.”
I didn’t see that one comin’. It was my boys, the Allman Brothers; but I’m not sure I’m up for any shakin’a the leg (least not them 2, anyway).
“C’mon, it’s a slow dance,” she implored as she pulled me to my feet.
Aw, what the hell.

Crossroads, seem to come and go, yeah
The gypsy flies from coast to coast

Knowing many, loving none,
Bearing sorrow havin fun,
But back home he’ll always run
To sweet Melissa...mmm...

I was feelin’ warmth in places that hadn’t been warm for quite some time.

Freight train, each car looks the same, all the same
And no one knows the gypsy’s name

No one hears his lonely sigh,
There are no blankets where he lies
In all his deepest dreams the gypsy flies
With sweet Melissa…mmm…

‘Melissa’ is not my favorite song (or even my favorite Allman Brothers song); but damn if it ain’t flyin’ up the charts right quickly. We weren’t flashin’ any fancy footwork, mostly just rockin’ and swayin’ (but that is substance over style in my book). I dunno who was holdin’ up whom, but I hung on for dear life. I was pressed so tightly to her that I could feel her heartbeat next to mine (actually, ‘coz of our pronounced height differential, her heavin’ bosom was smushed up against my tummy [but who’s keepin’ score]). Mutual admiration was certainly afoot. I was startin’ to have one of those ‘This Magic Moment’ moments, but I caught myself. No sense puttin’ on my shoes before my socks.

But I know that he won’t stay without Melissa
Yes I know that he won’t stay without Melissa

At songs end she stirred gently, and looked up at me soulfully. Her lips parted slightly as if to say, “Plant one on me, big boy.” I resisted that temptation as bein’ a tad presumptuous. I did give her a little pat on the ass, though (as a show of my appreciation). She slapped at my hand playfully (as if to indicate that was territory not yet conquered).
“What happened to you playing hard to get?” she wondered aloud.
My special blend of rural sophistication and aloof nonchalance could be misconstrued as playin’ hard to get, I guess; but that is hardly its intended effect.
“Just weedin’ out the undesirables,” I drawled (as if I could afford to weed out anyone).
“Well, did I pass inspection?” she retorted coyly.
“With flyin’ colors,” I assured her (and I meant it).
The smile on my face felt genuine for a change.
Our whistles needed wettin’ so we gravitated toward the bar. We were intercepted by a sultry babe with bodacious ta-tas (who was obviously chummy with my new best girl).
“Cindy this is Randy; Randy, Cindy,” said Paula (?) smoothly.
This Cindy was scrutinizin’ me somethin’ fierce. I felt like filthy bacteria on a slide under a microfuckin’scope. She even looked into my eyes as if they were the windows to my soul (instead of bein’ just bloodshot roadmaps to Bumfuck, Nowhere). Looks like I’m gonna hafta make yet another good 1st impression (if it’s not too late already).
“Nice to meet you,” I said suavely; and then turned on the charm.
“Usually, the hot chick’s got an ugly friend; but you sure don’t fit that bill,” I gushed unabashedly (praisin’ both birds with one stone). I am absolutely hittin’ on all cylinders.
Paula (?) looked at me with eyes that twinkled like they were dancin’ in pixie dust.
Cindy shot her a disapprovin’ glare, then turned to me (eyebrows arched to the max).
“Was that supposed to be a compliment?” she asked me tartly.
“I, uh, guess it was, um, intended as such;” I hemmed and hawed (did I just throw a rod?).
Miss Hard to Please remarked gruffly, “I think I liked you better before you said anything.”
So much for a good 1st impression (oh that’s right, it was a shitty 2nd impression this time).
Paula (?) thwarted the potential fireworks with tact; “Let’s go freshen up, Hon.”
“Back in a jiff,” she promised over her shoulder; as she towed Miss Priss to the Little Girl’s Room.
Swing and a miss (and the runner is thrown out tryin’ to steal 2nd).

Poets, priests and politicians
Have words to thank for their positions
Words that scream for your submission
And no ones jamming their transmission
Cos when their eloquence escapes you
Their logic ties you up and rapes you

De do do do de da da da
Is all I want to say to you
De do do do de da da da
Their innocence will pull me through

I haven’t got a clue what that mumbo jumbo means (but it does pretty much sum it up).
Oh well, there is still the matter of the wettin’ of the whistle.

Hey Bartender
Jack & ginger
forget about the ginger
it might be smooth & sugary
but it just prolongs my agony

Fire in the hole!
and this one will be scorchin’
all the way to my toes
with the flame that burns so cold
a necessary side effect
of havin’ sold my soul

Bottoms up
fill ‘er up
I can’t seem to get enough
even though I know it hurts me
(to be so goddamn thirsty)
I’m never gonna ever stop
till I finish the very last drop

Of Old #7 in Tennessee
but the only antidote I need
to bring this mindless mission to its end
is holed up in the bathroom with her friend
she’s prolly only workin’ up the nerve
to come and kick my carcass to the curb

Bust my britches!
there’s a dozen sons-a-bitches
carousin’ here nearby
they’re ordinary fellas
who are none too special
yet they’ve each nabbed a sweetie pie

Holy Moly!
somebody hold me
and don’tcha dare let me go
all of a sudden
it is painfully obvious
I’ll never make it on my own

She’s gonna be back in a jiffy
that’s a prospect startin’ to look iffy
I can’t blame her if she’s havin’ 2nd thoughts
(about someone who seems like damaged goods)
or maybe she has listened to Miss Priss
sayin’, “Don’t get tangled up with such a mess
‘coz for all that anybody really knows
in the mornin’ all he’ll say is adios”

Miss Angel Baby may be hurtin’ too
and won’t be riskin’ heartbreak anytime soon
it’s not like I’m Clint Eastwood in ‘A Fistful of Dollars’
(a high plains drifter come to save some fine Consuela)
she prolly thinks I’m just another jerk
or a loser or a boozer or a slob or even worse
and if that princess don’t think much of me
I should leave while I still have my dignity

Nice game, buddy
you gave it all ya had
the creek is runnin’ muddy
but no sense gettin’ mad
there are many other minnows in the sea
and swimmin’ out there somewhere
is an angelfish for me

What could be takin’ so long?
that doesn’t bode too well
does this joint have a back door?
not that I can tell

I wish I had stolen that kiss
‘twas the manly thing to do
but now I’ve gotta piss
like Seattle Fuckin’ Slew

Bop bop bop  bop bop ba dada dada  bop bop bop boP
Bop bop bop  bop bop ba dada dada  bop bop bop boP
Ba dada  daaaaah  dah
Ba dada  daaaaah  dah
Ba dada  daaaaah  dah
Bada dada da  da  daa  
Unh 
Tequila!

Tokillya! If that don’t get ya movin’, you just might need a Q-Tip. Tokillya is the Devils’ spit, and whenever any of it passes my lips; I can’t remember anything thereafter. Oh, maybe a snippet or 2, but nothin’ substantial (like say for instance how the hell did I get home; or did I puke all over Nancy?). Also, the next mornin’ it always tastes like an army of maggots has camped out in my mouth. When pickin’ my poison, I usually steer clear of tokillya.
It’s funny how that subliminal warnin’ is right there in front of ya: tokillya. It reminds me of that Twilight Zone. You know the one with those tall ugly aliens. They come in peace;and present the United Nations with this special book, ‘To Serve Man’. It’s supposedly chock fulla scientific advancements, and medical cures, and so on, and so forth. The book contains indecipherable symbols. The spacemen assure us that we’ll understand it more clearly, as mankind becomes acclimated to their way of thinkin’. The celestial Samaritans spread goodwill and unite humanity. They offer to bring any brave explorer or curiosity seeker to their homeworld, on a sorta cultural exchange mission; and they find thousands of willin’ participants. Just as the starship is about to disembark; this sharp cookie from the F.B.I., or the C.I.A. cracks the code. ‘To Serve Man’ is actually an alien cookbook. It’s got recipes to sauté or fricassee us Earthlings. She gets to the flyin’ saucer just in time; to break the bad news to this gullible appetizer trapped on board. The sheer terror on his face as the spacecraft takes off, and the bitter reality sinks in; is priceless. Anyway, that seems like the same kinda hidden warnin’ that’s plain as day in tokillya (at least I can see the correlation).
I floated on over to this poorly lit alcove, where it seemed like the bathroom should be. I could make out a door that had a wooden plaque, with SQUAWS etched on it (hmmm, I wonder what could be goin’ on in there). I fought the urge to barge on in and find out. I pushed through the other door instead, which was marked BRAVES (how quaint).

Looky there, the bathroom’s done up in a Southwestern motif, and some of the wall tiles have little blue cacti on ‘em (eek!). If I’m not mistaken (and I easily could be), tokillya comes from a blue cactus. These little coincidences are startin’ to pile up (not to mention Eddie Spaghetti thoughts, and the Twilight Zone to boot). Brrrr; I just felt a chill.
“If you shake it more than once you’re playin’ with it,” boomed a baritone voice belongin’ to this gorilla wizzin’ next to me. Jeez, judgin’ by the size of those combat boots he’s sportin’; penis envy or further humiliation will ensue, if my eyes wander any farther.
I fixed my stare on a little blue cactus.
“I am playin’ with it,” I sneered (only semi-sarcastically).
“Haw,” he chortled heartily; and slapped me on the back as he headed out the door. That got the waterworks goin’ (aaaaah!).
From outta the blue (or a little blue cactus) I thoughta Freddie (I’ll betcha thought I was gonna say Eddie). Freddie lived with his cousin, Beaner Gene, and their Granny; on her ranch in Poway. I knew Beaner Gene from high school in Chuck County; where everyone called him Dave, or Crazy Davy (how come the best nicknames are the ones I didn’t come up with). Crazy Beaner Davy Gene was a daffy bozo by any name (but always lotsa laughs). He had moved to California, so I looked him up when I relocated out West.
I was givin’ this family thing a go, down in San Diego. Poway wasn’t too far out, so Beaner Gene came to visit occasionally; and one Friday night he brought Freddie along. We hit it off instantly. Freddie was friendly and energized. He was very quirky and quite demonstrative with his hands when he spoke. That rascal got me laughin’ (and he laughed at my jokes too). Naturally, we started gettin’ thirsty; and Beaner Gene suggested tequila (this was before I had figured out what that evil sauce was all about). Freddie got excited; and insisted that we get this kickass shit, that had a worm in the bottom of the bottle.
“Man, it’s almost like you’re tripping. You see colors and everything.” Freddie was quite the salesman, and I’ll have to admit I was intrigued. I was all but droolin’; when he told us there was only one hitch.
“You can only get it down in Tijuana. It’s too potent for the U.S.,” he emphasized.
If New Jersey is America’s armpit (and it is), then surely Tijuana is its toilet bowl. It is a seedy and dilapidated eyesore; that has all the charm and allure of a flea ridden flea market. Peddlers, hawkin’ baubles and trinkets; accost you the moment you cross the border. They will paint and reupholster your ride for you. They’ll even do dental surgery on ya. “Meester, my brudder he weel feex jor teeths for cheep” (not if it was the last tooth in my mouth, Pedro).
A pretty little tamale, maybe 4 or 5 years old, came up to me on the corner of this bustlin’ intersection. She wanted to sell me her rosary beads. She rubbed her tummy, and pointed to her mouth; then held out the beads. I looked all around for where this bambino’s Madre could be. I saw no one amidst the clutter and chaos that looked like they gave a rats’ ass about this child. I slid her a coupla bucks, but didn’t take the rosary (I talk more to myself than to God anyway). Tijuana is one of those rare places where I actually feel lesser for havin’ visited. I’d better see some fuckin’ colors if I was venturin’ into that dirty jungle.

I told my significant other that we were goin’ on a liquor run (she seemed happy to get us outta her hair). We 3 piled into Granny’s light blue Malibu, for the short jaunt down I-5; to fetch the magic elixir. Freddie couldn’t remember the name of the stuff (how telling).
“It’s clear with a blue label and has a worm,” was all he recalled (sketchy at best, but enough to go on for us thirsty detectives).
Speakin’a flea markets; when we cruised past the exit for El Cajon, my Mother came to mind. She had come to see the baby. She mentioned likin’ flea markets; and I knew where there was one in El Cajon. Bug and I, took Jesse and my Mom, to this enormous open air bazaar (which at nighttime was a drive-in theater). This place had everything imaginable (both new and used). There were tools and rusty horseshoes and baby clothes and Superman comics. Mom was moseyin’ along, checkin’ out every manner of knickknack and whatnot; when she came upon this booth. “Aren’t these pretty?” she admired.
She was lookin’ at these glass bongs with flower bouquets painted on ‘em. The hippie salesdude and I were in stitches, as I broke it to her that those were used for smokin’ dope (even Bug was laughin’). Mom was as red as ketchup. She told us that she thought they were flower vases. The silly grownups had Jesse squealin’ with delight. Wow, a memory within a memory (like those endless mirrors in the barbershops I used to go to). Ah, but I digress (I just had to say that).
I could see the mega-glare of the border lights up ahead, and marveled again at just how close I lived to a parallel universe. We rolled past the checkpoint; and I was comforted by the fact that there wasn’t a major traffic jam headin’ north. Usually, there’s a gnarly snafu of gringos and amigos tryin’ to get the fuck outta there (and it’s so easy to drive right on in). It was the 1st time I’d been there at night, and it was like Bizarro World. Neon signs of every color were plastered haphazardly; every which way, at odd angles (neon must be considered a far more useful invention there, than say street lamps or stop lights). Tijuana is more exotic in the dark; but in a scary, sinister way. My spider senses were tinglin’ tenfold.
Freddie spotted a large liquor store, but we had to circle 3 or 4 blocks away before we found a place to park. We tried to register a distinguishable landmark, but everything was neon blitz and mariachi music. I made a mental note that we parked on Sentido Unico (I was pretty sure that meant 1st Street). Off we set on foot, through that crazy neon maze. We made a left and a coupla rights. We got twisted around a bit, but eventually found the liquor store (which was simple, as it was the brightest building in Mexico).
The shelves were lined with many familiar brands: Jack and Smirnoff, and even Old Grand Dad. We zeroed in on the tequilas. Eureka in Topeka! Nestled in amongst the Jose Cuervo and Dos Amigos, was our mystical cactus juice. Every blue labeled bottle had a bloated worm at the bottom (though for the life of me, I can’t remember the name of that shit). We paid the portly Pablo behind the counter a pittance for the magic potion. He was a smarmy lookin’ hombre with 5 o’clock shadow (make that 7 or 8 o’clock shadow).
Grinnin’ through yellowish teeth he asked us; “Jew weel eet de worm?”
“No way, Jose;” was all I could say (the Jaws of Fuckin’ Life couldn’t have pried my lips far enough apart to let that slimy sucker through). Freddie and Beaner Gene were both noddin’ like the bobble head puppies in the rear window of Grannys’ Malibu. Everyone chuckled; as we made our way out the door, and into another dimension.

There was immediate controversy over which way the car was. My sense of direction is usually impeccable; but all that neon had me outta kilter (we’d gotten turned around a bit goin’ to the store, too). I felt we should go to the right; but I wasnt even gonna pretend that I knew for sure. Those 2 thought left, so we went left. We took the first right (which we all agreed should happen). We saw a sign we hadnt seen before. It was a voluptuous neon senorita. She had huge green knockers, curvaceous orange hips, and juicy red electric lips. Scrolled across the top in shockin’ pink was GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! (as if that buxom Esmerelda wasnt clue enough). We hadnt come this way; but she was tuggin us in her direction (drawn we were, like moths to the flame).
I was coaxed into an unscheduled pitstop (with minimal persuasion). The joint was called Angelitas (or somethin’ like that). Freddie secured the hooch, and we strutted on in like peacocks. There was lotsa red velvet and deep blue mood lighting. A few locals looked askance at us (as if they didn’t appreciate some gringo punks gawkin’ at their chiquitas). The ladies didn’t seem to mind, as they were pawin’ all over us and callin’ us sexy Americanos. They were easy on the eyes, but overly flamboyant with their makeup (one little enchilada even looked slightly garish to me). The greasiest guy I ever saw, talked us into some drink called the Blue Motorcycle. He said it had tequila in it, so we figured that should prime the pumps. We each had a couple (I think Beaner Gene mighta even got a 3rd one down).
We sat right up front and fed dollar bills down G-strings. I even had one snatched from my fingers in a manner that I wouldn’ta thought possible. Saucy senoritas, as naked as jaybirds, took turns workin’ wonders with this shiny brass pole. Our very favorite doll baby said her name was Fatima. She was a sizzlin’ firecracker with bedroom eyes and muscular thighs. I told Freddie that I bet she spelled her name P-h-a-t-i-m-a. He cracked up and told me that he was just thinkin’ the same thing. Slightly Garish was comin’ up next; so we squared up the tab. This one raven haired vixen winked at us; and grabbed Beaner Gene’s ass as a goin’ away present. We left to a symphony of wolf calls and syncopated salsa music.
Those Cycle drinks had loosened me up a notch. Tijuana still sucked, but not as badly. We continued on in the direction we were headed before Esmerelda had sidetracked us. A sign at the corner said: Sentido Unico →. I piped up, Hey, were parked on Unico, lets go this way. At the end of that block was another sign, which read: ← Sentido Unico. Freddie rolled his eyes at me. Beaner Gene felt the need to rub it in.
“You fuckin’ nimrod, that sign means One Way,” he said (as if all of a sudden he was a translator at the United Nations).
I shrugged my shoulders and muttered meekly, I thought it meant 1st Street. We went left anyway (for lack of a better plan). The neon started lookin’ quasi-familiar; and I realized this was the street we woulda taken, if we had listened to me in the 1st place (but then we would not have seen Fatima). We meandered about a bit, but soon enough were back at the car. The bobble head pups looked like they had missed us (I know I sure missed them).

Beaner Gene navigated the Malibu through town with much greater confidence than he had just displayed on foot (maybe the sight of the dashboard Jesus had sharpened up his senses). Before I knew it we were at the border. There were only about 10 or 11 cars ahead of us, and the line was movin’ nicely. We were inchin’ closer to the Land of the Free (I was never so proud to be an American).
2 border cops on the passenger side waved us outta line; and directed us to this pulloff area (not so surprisin’, as we did fit the smuggler’s profile). They asked did we mind if they searched us (as if it were optional). Granny’s ride couldn’t be hidin’ so much as a stray seed; so we hopped out smugly.
Freddie held out our precious cargo and said, “This is all we’ve got.”
The Border Fuzz (who weren’t much older than us) looked at the bottle and the worm with bored indifference. Our lips were smackin’ in giddy anticipation as we waited out the formality. One cop said snidely, “You boys didn’t bring home the gift that keeps on giving, didja?” The other one (who was jet black) chuckled at this cop humor.
He chimed in,“Lawd no, Shorty; they’s all look but no touch, this bunch. They’s jus’ fetchin’ that there worm water on a‘cozza they heard its like summa that LSD shit” (that fuckin’ cat was like Buckwheat and Kreskin all rolled into one).
We just bit our stiletto tongues. Shorty looked as if he was considerin’ lettin’ us roll on through.
Instead he said, “Right on, Leftwich; but it’s a slow night. Let’s go full cavity on these boys” (and 3 punks’ recti puckered up simultaneously).
“Relax fellas, Shorty’s jus’ blowin’ smoke up yo’ ass,” Leftwich cackled. He used this nifty mirror on a stick gizmo, to check the underside of the Malibu. “He’s jus’ talkin’ ‘bout yo’ ride.” Shorty pulled out the floormats and checked under the bucket seats, with this flashlight powerful enough to be seen on the moon. He snickered, “Oh, that was rich. For Christ sakes, you boys looked like your puppy dog died” (the bobble heads didn’t find it amusin’, Officer Asshole).
Leftwich popped the hood and took off the air cleaner cover. He even checked inside of the windshield washer container. Shorty rifled the glovebox and tossed the contents on a floormat next to the car. He snatched the fuzzy dice off the rearview mirror and inspected ‘em closely . He chucked ‘em gruffly on the pile of glovebox papers. Leftwich removed the hubcaps with this pry bar that came outta nowhere. Shorty looked bemusedly at Grannys’ dashboard Jesus. He made as if to pull it off and check underneath; but snorted and let it go.
“Riding with God?” he queried; “How ‘bout we take a peek in the trunk.”
Beaner Gene complied and unlocked it.
Faster than Satchel Paige coulda got under the covers after turnin’ off the lightswitch; Leftwich had the spare tire out, and leanin’ against the rear bumper. He took out the car jack, a big straw hat and a bag of Mary Kay Cosmetics crap. Shorty scanned every nook and cranny of the now empty trunk with his Jedi lightsword (Stevie Wonder could prolly even see contraband with that sucker). He seemed to be satisfied that our ride was clean. He aimed the laser beam into the Mary Kay bag.
“Which of you ladies, does this mascara belong to?” Shorty asked sarcastically.
Freddie said tersely, “This is my Grandmothers’ car, pal; that’s her stuff.”
The squat cop replied, “Cool your jets, hotshot; we get all kinda weirdos on this beat.”
Leftwich let out a shrill whistle and validated his partner, “That sho’‘nuff is the truth.”
Shorty moved on, “O.K., lemme see some I.D.; and you boys can suck on your worm juice.”

Freddie had his wallet out lickety-split, and gave the pushy cop his drivers’ license. I was just about to hand him mine when Beaner Gene squawked out, “That bitch stole my wallet!”
“She musta lifted it when she grabbed my ass,” he moaned; “I’ve gotta go back.”
“Don’tcha go gettin’ all piss’n’vinega, Hoss,” Leftwich said calmly; “’T’aint worth it.”
Shorty added, “He’s right, you’ll take an ass whooping or even worse; and you still won’t get your wallet back. Gimme your name, Rambo; and I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”
Beaner Gene saw the wisdom in this advice and told the Fuzz who he was. Shorty strolled to the guard shack to run a make on us. Leftwich helped us reconstruct Grannys’ Malibu (which of course took longer than it had to dismantle it). We were champin’ at the bit to get this overkill bullshit over with. The Sgt. Fuckin’ Friday wannabe, finally made it back. He gave Freddie and I, our I.D.s.
“O.K., you boys are clear to go. Next time, stay away from those senoritas; they’ll get you every time,” he pontificated condescendingly.
It was a moot point, to me; as I knew there would be no next time.
“Y’all drive cafful now,” said Leftwich (with more concern than his sidekick had shown).
They made Freddie drive ‘coz he still had a license (or maybe they thought Beaner Gene would pull a u-bee). We took a different lane that bypassed the other cars; and were finally free. I felt like a piano had just been lifted off my chest. Freddie seemed none the worse for wear. Beaner Gene was ridin’ shotgun and stewin’ in his juices. I figured I’d cheer him up.
“Look at this way, Dave; they’ll sell your I.D. to some underage kid, and he’ll get to drink.”
“Shut up, Baby Huey; I had mucho dinero in there;” he snapped back.
Ouch, I’d forgotten that crappy moniker. “How much is mucho?” I asked him softly.
“My whole fuckin’ paycheck,” he snarled (with righteous indignation).
Freddie tried to console his cousin. “Hey look man, I’ll float you some cash; and you don’t even have to pay me back,” he offered.
“This was all my fault anyway,” he added somberly.
Beaner Gene shrugged with resignation, “What the fuck, it’s only money. At least I got my ass grabbed.”
We all hadta laugh at that. Freddie turned on the radio. The song that was driftin’ outta the speakers, seemed oddly juxtaposed against our current scenario.

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people 
Living life in peace …

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one

Beaner Gene belted out the final words right along with the former Beatle (well I’m a dreamer too; but right then I couldn’t envision any utopia that included Tijuana). We got off the freeway, made a coupla turns; and pretty soon were rollin down ‘E’ Street. Freddie parked the Malibu near the alley where I lived. It was late now, and the house was all quiet. We stole on in like sneaky weasels (if we woke up Jesse, there’d be hell to pay).
We set up shop in the kitchen. Freddie cracked the seal on the tequila. I could smell it from clear across the room. I was rootin’ through the cupboard, for these plastic cups that I used for drinkin’. Beaner Gene was gettin’ an ice tray from the freezer. I turned around just in time, to see Beaner Gene turn around; and knock the bottle outta Freddies’ hand. It crashed noisily to the floor, and splintered into a kajillion pieces. I saw the worm bounce slightly; then settle in a pool of liquid sunshine and shattered glass.
“Fuck,” shrieked Freddie; and ½ caught himself at the same time (which looked painful).
Beaner Gene bent down and plucked the worm off the floor. “5 second rule,” he declared shamelessly; and gobbled it up like he was fightin’ for table scraps. He made a God awful face, and swallowed his ill-gotten booty. Somethin’ in my tummy started doin’ flip flops.
Freddie said, “Damn” (with this ‘I can’t believe my eyes’ kinda voice).
He was starin’ curiously at the floor. Holy shit! The linoleum (which I had previously thought to be immaculate) was 6 shades whiter; wherever the tequila had splashed on it (could it eat its way right on through to the floor joists?). My tummy was sayin’ rapid-fire Hail Marys in gratitude for escapin’ a similar fate (where was the skull and crossbones?). Bug was comin’; and sounded beyond agitated.
She was still adjustin’ her bathrobe, when she rounded the corner and spat out hotly; “Are you idiots trying to wake up the baby? What the hell didja break ..?” Her voice trailed off as she followed our gaze to the floor. I heard her gasp. The sight of the bright white splotches specklin’ the floor; had disturbed her deeply (she’d thought it clean enough to eat off of). Bug regained her wits in short order.
“Well, don’t just stand there; this mess isn’t gonna clean itself up,” she admonished.
I couldn’t help but think that another gallon of this rot gut shit oughtta do the trick.

A few more cases of similar shenanigans left me absolutely bachelorized. I moped around the house, writin’ shitty poetry; and wishin’ things would return to normal. That never did happen (although the poetry did get less shitty). Freddie caught wind of my dilemma, and was very sympathetic to my plight. He’s a real people person (sorta like my pal Schwartz is). He pulled me into his circle of friends (which stretched as far as Escondido).
Freddie fixed gizmos that were on the fritz. He went between repair shops; mendin’ vacuum cleaners, and sewin’ machines, and lawn mowers, and chainsaws. He even calibrated votin’ machines for the State of California durin’ election years. The guy’s a nonstop bundle of unbridled energy; who can restore to workin’ condition, just about anything. He even picked me up, when I was less than zippity-doo-dah. If ever 2 cats, who weren’t actually fruity; could be soulmates, then Freddie would be mine (plutonically speakin’, of course). Freddie and some buddies were rentin’ this swell house on a cul-de-sac in Poway. It had a big swimmin’ pool and even an orange tree. It seemed a far cry from that lonely shack, where I lived in the city. I needed some fresh scenery; so I packed up and moved into the party pad.

I was adjustin’ to my new found freedom (not really). I met some very nice people; and perfected my drinkin’ skills (among other things). I had sex with someone other than myself; and wrote some less shitty poetry. I worked maintenance at this plant that made gyroscopes. Everyday, I encountered ordinary people, workin’ in this normal reality; that I could never seem to fully inhabit. I was stuck in this overlappin’ universe where 12 black holes had lined up; and sucked outta me, whatever enthusiasm I ever had in me. A Red Cross bloodmobile visited the factory one mornin’. This older unit, who I’d become friendly with, asked me if I had given a pint (I could see a tell-tale band-aid on her arm).
I said without much emotion, “I can’t imagine they’d want my 90 proof blood.” (nor did I feel I could spare it)
She smiled sadly at me and said, “This too shall pass” (more like: do not pass go, I thought).
I was missin’ Jesse somethin’ terrible. I needed a change of scenery, that was more within his immediate vicinity (even if it meant movin’ back to Chuck County). I told Freddie and the guys, that I was pullin’ up stakes ….

“Christsakes, Dolph; next time get a stall,” said this pesky chirpin’ in the back of my head. My pupils were dilatin’ wildly, but finally zeroed in on a little blue cactus. An awful image filled my head. It was John Lennon, brutally slain. His blood had left bright red splotches on the sidewalk. I was doin’ that tumblin’ through time thing again (not to mention I was sketchy on my whereabouts). One minute I’m pissin’ like Secrefuckin’tariat; and the next thing ya know, I’m shakin’ it more than once (and feelin’ kinda homesick). How long have I been standin’ here doin’ who knows what with myself? (I do remember some schmoe askin’ me howzit hangin’).
I grunted, and for no apparent reason said; “This too shall pass.”
“You feeling alright?” said that same shrill chirp (a bit more to the forefront now).
I glanced to the left, directly into the concerned visage of that Petey fella (and when I say fella, I use the term loosely). It was all comin’ back to me now, how that Darla babe had blown me off. She was prolly long, long gone. I tucked my stuff in, and zipped up my fly.
He followed me to the sink and asked, “What do you have, kidney stones or something?” (jeez)
I was outta witty retorts at the moment, so at the risk of pickin’ the wrong shoulder to cry on; I spilled my guts.
“This uppity ass Cindy chick convinced Darla to cut me loose,” I groused.
Petey was taken aback by my sudden outburst. He seemed bewildered when he said,
“Well, I don’t know who this Darla is; but the uppity bitch is my sister.” (oh brother)
“On a side note,” he added, “Paula sent me in here looking for you.” (Paula [?])
Oh yeah, Paula! I made for the door with cobwebs in my head (and hope in my heart)

And she’ll tease you
She’ll unease you
All the better just to please you
She’ precocious and she knows just what it takes to make a pro blush
All the boys think she’s a spy
She’s got Bette Davis eyes

She’ll tease you
She’ll unease you
Just to please you
She’s got Bette Davis eyes

This must be another one of those Ladies’ Night specials; ‘coz damn if the dancefloor ain’t crawlin’ with poontang. I’ve heard this song before (in other peoples’ cars). It’s not really my cup’o’tea; but it is kinda catchy, now that I’m actually listenin’ to it.
I guess I’d rate it about a 5.2 on The Captain & Tenille-O-Meter (with The Captain & Tenille at zero and say Paint it Black, or Layla, or Stairway to Heaven at 10 [as points of reference: Ferry ‘Cross the Mersey is a 5.7, The Worst That Could Happen is a 4.8, anything by Tony Orlando & Dawn is below a 3.6, and that Pina Fuckin’ Colada Song is a -13.1]).
Whatever I mighta thoughta the tune, the kitties seemed to like it. They were dancin’ campily to & fro. Every so often, they’d stop; and strike a provocative pose (chin on shoulder, hand on hip, eyelashes aflutter). I’m pretty sure Bette Davis woulda been proud (or maybe I’m thinkin’ about Betty Grable). I’d better start thinkin’ about Paula. I don’t see her out there dancin’ (but she is sorta short). I do see her pushy pal, Miss Priss; posin’ up a storm (lookin’ even better than I remember). It’s a shame she’s so damn cranky (maybe she’s just bitter that her brother ain’t quite right). I hadn’t noticed that said brother had slid up beside me (an all too frequent occurance).
“Look at her uppity ass. I’m gonna go set her straight,” he barked cartoonishly.
He put his chin on his shoulder, his hand on his hip; and highstepped forward. He switched his chin to the other shoulder (perhaps to see what those folks thoughta his performance). Petey pirouetted; winkin’ at me as he rotated by (I’ll hafta admit that he does have a certain je ne sais quoi about him). He thrust his hips this way and that, shamelessly over to his sister (who hadn’t noticed his exaggerated approach). She found herself hip to hip and chin to chin with her oddball brother.
They immediately began tryin’ to outflutter each others’ eyelashes (can ya imagine what that dinner table was like?). So much for the bitter feelings (in fact, if anything it looked like they had practiced this routine). I couldn’t help but wonder whether they’d taken this act one step further (like I used to ponder about Greg & Marcia Brady). Oh well, mine is not to question why, merely just to get on by. I headed resolutely to the bar.
Lo and behold! Miss Angel Baby was talkin’ to Ken (her fine caboose aimed toward me). Ken caught sight of me, and said somethin’ to her. She spun around quickly, and launched herself at me. I caught her, and pulled her snugly in (I could almost feel relief oozin’ through her body). Paula relaxed her grip a bit, and leaned back.
She smiled at me; and spouted out, “I thought you’d left. I was so mad at Cindy for butting in. She’s all Womens’ Libbish; and thought maybe you were putting the move on the both of us. She said that you’d probably read about it in Penthouse magazine, and that you couldn’t wait to try it out for yourself. I told her she was crazy. Isn’t that crazy?” (yes it is. usually I just look at the pictures.) “Cindy said you’d be gone by dawn.” (Helen Reddy, you are off of my Christmas card list.)

The cottonmouth had me tongue-tied (on top of bein’ at a loss for words). I angled us to the bar, for some lubrication and inspiration.
Ken got the jump on me, and had a drink waitin’. “Figured you might be thirsty,” he said (with professional courtesy).
I’ll tell ya, when I can afford a fulltime bartender, I’m comin’ back for this guy (that is etched in stone). Paula just wanted a Coke, ‘coz she said that she was drivin’. I was glad to oblige. I ordered her soda, and gave Ken a $20. He seemed appreciative when I told him to keep the change. I took a long pull off the nightcap he had left me. I whistled brightly to clear the pipes. It was that coondog whistle construction workers use, when some cherry baby doll rolls past the jobsite. Driven by a force beyond my control; I said the very next thing that popped into my head.

Listen for the whistle
of this heat seekin’ missile
it’s aimin’ to enjoy
any lovely lady who’s a little bit crazy
and is lookin’ for a brand new toy
lemme be your bouncin’ baby boy

Paula seemed a bit flabbergasted by this (so I may as well go for the gusto).

If you’re in the mood for love
or maybe a saucy scandal
we can trip the light fantastic
and at both ends burn our candle
‘coz if you like sloppy seconds
I’ve got more than you can handle 

I musta thrown her for a loop, ‘coz her eyes were as round as silver dollars. She covered ‘em quickly with her hand; and furrowed her brow. Her pretty face, (what parts of it I could see between her fingers) was wrinkled up in intense concentration. This can’t be good. She’s prolly analyzin’ umpteen ways to let me down easy (and cursin’ herself, that her friend was right). That’s what I get for layin’ my weak shit on her (not that anything better is springin’ to mind, even now). Paula turned and reached for her pop. She took a tiny bird sip, to clear her throat. I braced myself for the worst (it was fun while it lasted).
She smiled and said sexily, “Let me give it a whirl;” and began an impromptu recital.
“First you tittle…, no, I can’t do it,” she sputtered out (her sweet cheeks glowin’ rosy).
My prospects seemingly strengthened, I egged her on; “I won’t laugh, I promise. C’mon.”
Paula peered around to make sure no one else was listenin’, then laid this humdinger on me.

First you titillate me with your urgent thirst
next you come undress me with your eyes
you’re no Charles Bronson, but I could do worse
gonna try some sloppy seconds on for size

“You had me at saucy scandal,” she purred demurely.
“Yeah, well you had me at titillate,” I countered (actually, she had me back at ‘Jack and Coke’ [but who’s keepin’ score]).
No other moment in my life seemed more kissworthy, so I didn’t disappoint. I swept her into my arms; and locked lips like I was Rhett Fuckin’ Butler, and she was Scarlett O’Hara (I even performed a little exploratory surgery). I’m usually not much for public smoochin’; but I was oblivious to my surroundings, durin’ that magic moment when time stood still. Wait a fuckin’ minute, did she just say that I wasn’t no Charles Bronson? On his best day, Chuckie Bronson ain’t no Randy; and if it’s the last thing I do, I’m gonna let her see that (Clint Eastwood [for sure], Steve McQueen [maybe]; but Charles Fuckin’ Bronson [jeez]). I got over her oversight quickly (I’ve got broad shoulders). I probed even deeper. Neither of us wanted to be the one to break our passionate embrace. Finally, she came up for air.
“Whoa tiger, I’ve already had a tonsillectomy;” she said with a steamy gleam in her eye.
I joshed back at her (after I caught my breath), “That’s just me playin’ hard to get, babe.”
Giggles and nibbles and cuddles ensued. A tap on my shoulder broke my undivided attention. I turned, ½ expectin’ to see Petey; but instead found myself gazin’ into the steely glare of his Gestapo sister, Miss Priss.
“Can I cut in?” she said with a sing-songy lilt (I noticed her eyes weren’t that steely at all).
“Sorry I’ve been such a bitch. Paula’s kind of on the rebound; and I didn’t want to see her get hurt by the first Handsome Harry that strolled into town. Oww!” (this last in response to a sharp swat from Paula.) Did she say handsome? Angel Baby was starin’ her daggers.
“No harm, no foul,” I said with a sly grin (I never was one to hold a grudge).
Miss Comin’Around said sincerely, “Any friend of Paula’s, is a friend of mine.”
She gave me a little squeeze around the waist, and a peck on the cheek (with 2 dolls wrapped around me; I felt like the meat in a sweet thigh sandwich [whew!]).
Cindy peeled off before anything interestin’ arose, and squealed; “That sure was fun.”
Paula was all smiles that her pals had kissed and made up. Everything was hunky dory. Emboldened by the recent developments, I figured I’d show these gals my sunny side.
“So, uh, Cin; ya up for a threesome?” I said with mock bravado.
She shot Paula a voodoo death glare; and snarled out haltingly, “I can’t believe you told him that.”
Apparently, Paula felt equally betrayed. She looked at me with her mouth agape (which in itself was cute).
“Just kiddin’, ladies; I was just kiddin’. I can’t help myself;” said the Foot-in-Mouth Kid.
Cindy punched me in the arm. Paula spanked me sharply (these birds play rough).
Angel Baby feigned anger, “We’ll settle this matter later.”
“Let me count the ways,” I deadpanned; “I’ll take it like a man.”
“Men are such pigs,” Cindy said with some disgust (minus the venom).
“Oink, oink,” I obliged (to another round of slap and tickle).
This hot new song with a clean bass line started playin’, and the girls got all excited. They tried to coerce me into dancin’, but I pooh-poohed that notion. They jiggled off spryly.

Sometimes I feel I’ve got to
Run away I’ve got to
Get away
From the pain that you drive into the heart of me
The love we share
Seems to go nowhere
And I’ve lost my light
For I toss and turn I can’t sleep at night

The obligatory disco ball, hangin’ from the ceilin’; spun oblivious to the frenzy below. A shimmerin’ kaleidoscope of color, rained down upon the clientele. Brilliant bursts of blindin’ light, bleached out the color; in sync with the thumpin’ beat. The zany dancers were frozen in silly positions that alternated slightly; every time the strobe returned (kinda like that claymation effect you get watchin’ Gumby and Pokey). The joint was jumpin’.

Once I ran to you (I ran)
Now I’ll run from you
This tainted love you’ve given
I give you all a boy could give you
Take my tears and that’s not nearly all
Oh … tainted love
Tainted love

Wow! You would almost have to be a tree stump to not get off on that (high 8’s, low 9’s are the early returns on the C & T [I won’t pass out hasty judgement]). The dizzy dance crowd had mostly dispersed. They were spent. One poor schmoe really looked like he had blown his wad. He hung on to his sweetie, all the way back to the table. Several hardy souls were already boppin’ to the next number (prolly ‘coz they had bankers’ hours). It was this wacky ditty by a quirky combo (who wore telescopin’ yamikas on their heads).

Crack that whip
Give the past a slip

Miss Angel Baby’d had enough. Her slumped form got closer to the bar with every single strobe burst. Beyond her I saw Cindy; cozyin’ up to that Hercules in combat boots fella. She was practically givin’ him a vertical lap dance (as seen in the Gumby effect). Good for her. It might be the cure for what ails her (but she’d prolly wear the pants even in that family).

When a problem comes along
You must whip it

In the next flash, Paula was upon me. We resumed our prior positions (before we’d been so cordially interrupted). She was doin’ the probin’ now, and I was the lucky patient. Ooh la! Any second now we’re gonna hafta talk about the first thing that pops up.

It’s not too late
To whip it
Well, whip it good 

My sentiments exactly. The little hell-cat was workin’ me over good (not to mention workin’ me up a notch or 3). Had she a slightly longer tongue, she’d’ve found that my tonsils were still intact (I need to formulate some kinda exit strategy lickety-split here).

“Last call! Last call for alcohol,” blared outta the P.A. (in between numbers). Paula broke off long enough to see if I needed to answer that bell (my standard procedure was to squirrel away a drink, then get one in a go-cup to boot [with extra ice]). I do declare: for the 1st time in damn near forever, I feel downright satiated (I have quenched what seemed to be unquenchable).
“Naw, I’m good to go,” I told her (hint hint). I am growin’ up by the minute. “I’m sure I can stretch this stiffy out; right up till closin’ time,” I added proudly. Paula just snuggled her head on my shoulder (actually my upper chest). It was cozy as could be to me.

One bourbon, one scotch, one beer
Well I ain’t seen my baby since I don’t know when,
I’ve been drinkin’ bourbon, whiskey, scotch and gin
Gonna get high man I’m gonna get loose,
Need me a triple shot of that juice
Gonna get drunk don’t you have no fear
I want one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer
One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer

Those damn Destroyers, tryin’ to work my thirst up (and makin’ some headway). I reached back for my Jack, and rationed myself a sip (like a Legionaire would, in-between oases).

Gonna get high man listen to me
One drink ain’t enough, Jack you better make it three
I wanna get drunk I’m gonna make it real clear
I want one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer
One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer

Mighty clever of management to spin that number for last call (I gotta hand it to ‘em). There was a minor stampede to the bar. Angel Baby and I, had substantially less elbow room; than we’d just been enjoyin’. She clung to me all the tighter. I felt very protective. Cindy pushed through the throng, draggin’ her Incredible Hulk by the wrist.
“Hey guys, look what I found!” she bragged; “His name’s Anthony, but I call him Tony.”
“No, no, no,” he bellowed; “All my friends call me Tiny.” (I think I’ll just call him Sir)
He thrust his bear paw in my direction. I grasped it as firmly as I could.
“I’m Dolph,” I said deeply. Cindy jerked her head around, and made a weird face at me.
“Wait a second, you’re the guy in the bathroom,” he deduced.
“Guilty as charged,” I admitted (the Missin’ Link ain’t gonna drop dime on me, is he?).
“Man, that was some funny shit,” he chortled anew; “I am playin’ with it.”
The girls exchanged quizzical looks. I prolly looked outta sorts myself.
I needed a diversion. “How rude of me. Tiny, meet Paula;” I interjected.
Tiny took stock of Angel Baby. He eyeballed her up and down (like any guy would).
“How do you do?” he crooned (more suavely than I woulda thought him capable of).
“I’m just peachy keen,” she replied jauntily (and a little too rapidly).
“Alright, Tarzan; only one Jane at a time,” Cindy said saucily. She ushered Tiny back to the dancefloor. Paula followed ‘em off with a wry smile (and a faraway gaze in her eyes). Was she just happy for her friend (or envious she hadn’t hooked the biggest galoot in the joint)?

I got an assist from an unexpected source. The country kitty, Tammy Wynette, cut loose her heartfelt anthem (which made Helen Fuckin’ Reddys’ drivel seem like so much sour grapes).

Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman
Giving all your love to just one man
You’ll have bad times
And he’ll have good times
Doing things that you don’t understand
But if you love him you’ll forgive him
Even though he’s hard to understand
And if you love him
Oh be proud of him
‘Cause after all he’s just a man
Stand by your man

Stand by me? Angel Baby was all but straddlin’ me. My little songbird knew every word (and sang ‘em as if she believed ‘em). She wasn’t the only one. All around the place, sweetie pies were serenadin’ their men (with unconditional love). Over by the pool table, Petey was slobberin’ to his cuestick (I can only imagine who he fancied it to be). Under the disco balls’ tangerine twinkle, Tiny tried to persuade Peteys’ sister into singin’. Cindy wouldn’t have any part of that Stepford Wife mentality (she is woman, hear her roar). Paula regained my attention with a well placed thigh. She outsang Tammy down the stretch.

And show the world you love him
Keep giving all the love you can
Stand by your man

I would stand beside this woman for just as long as she would have me (I knew that then). Our next kiss was our best kiss. It wasn’t near as physical as our earlier smoochin’; but it was infinitely more intimate (in a this person means somethin’ to me sorta way). I’d crept beyond the protective stage and into somethin’ territorial (like I might hafta find me a cue ball if Tiny tried to make Angel Baby another notch in his sex pistol kinda territorial). I was treadin’ dangerous waters. Not so much for any ass whippin’ I may receive; but for the pain my heart couldn’t take if another relationship went awry. The rational part of my brain (what little bit there was) said to proceed with caution. The brain down in my britches had another plan entirely (it was sayin’ all systems go, full speed ahead).
There was a lull in the proceedings. I noticed there wasn’t any music playin’. I broke lips with Paula, to check on what was up. A nervous closin’ time murmur was in the air. That’s when folks get edgy about any parties they didn’t hear about (or how they’re gonna stumble through the real world that lies just outside that door). I glanced over my shoulder at the bar clock (which I think ran backwards). It was hard to read the tiny hands. Either way it was 10 minutes till 2 (at least in bar time). The moment of truth was close at hand. The P.A. popped on with a crackle. “We’ve got one last request. It’s from Tony; for his new squeeze, Cindy.”
“Aw, isn’t that sweet,” gushed Paula (that sly dog Tony; I mean Tiny, I mean Sir).

I’ve got sunshine
On a cloudy day,
When it’s cold outside,
I’ve got the month of May

Any schmoe worth his salt was already dancin’ with his baby by now (I was no different).

Well I guess you’ll say 
What can make me feel this way?
My girl, (My girl, my girl)
Talkin’ ‘bout my girl, (My girl)

Was this the 1st song I had ever slow danced to? No, it wasn’t. That was either to Colour My World, or I’ll Be There; but not My Girl (with Lynn Jameson or Heidi Snow, in the basement of Margie Stepnowskis’ house). I remember stuff like that (sorta).

I don’t need no money
Fortune, or fame
I’ve got all the riches, baby,
One man can claim,

Well I guess you’ll say 
What can make me feel this way?
My girl, (My girl, my girl)
Talkin’ ‘bout my girl, (My girl)

Sorry to all you other girls I ever slow danced with (of which I just named ½). Angel Baby has you beat. Let’s see; the best dance, the best kiss. I was startin’ to daydream about what other finest hours may lay ahead. I figured I’d just put my hand on her ass, for starters (this time there was no resistance). She repositioned herself, with her arms around my neck (I’m gonna call this the Full Frontal). A guy could get used to this many happy thoughts in a row.

I’ve even got the month of May with my girl

Paula squeezed every last decibel outta that song (she hung on even after the neighborhood pooches couldn’t’ve heard a note). I tried my best to not upset the fragile balance of things.
She arched back, and looked dreamily up at me. “That was wonderful,” she sighed.
“It sure was,” I concurred wholeheartedly (the runner is on 3rd, after triplin’ in the gap).
Some killjoy turned on the house lights, and snuffed out our Kodak moment. There was loud moanin’ & groanin’ from the peanut gallery. My cones & rods were pulsatin’ madly. The first thing I noticed when they finally settled down, was that most of these people were clock stoppin’ ugly (and this even knowin’ I’m no Mel Gibson). I peeked down at Angel Baby. I was not surprised to see, that she looked even more radiant under reality’s harsh glare. There are 9 ways to score from 3rd (I prefer the suicide squeeze).

“That’s a wrap, folks;” said the tired P.A.. “Come back tomorrow to hear The Whitewalls covering the swinging 60’s. Drive careful, everybody; there’s a bunch of drunks out there” (hey, I resemble that).
The middle of my back had an imaginary itch. I turned around so that Paula could scratch it. She did so deftly (with nails that had some bite to ‘em). “Up and a little to the right,” I steered her. My drink was within easy reach now. I knocked back the last of the stiffy I’d been nursin’ (which admittedly was slightly watered down by this point).
“A bit to the left,” I said (milkin’ it for every drop); “aaah, right there.” She dug in harder.
“Thanks, sport,” I told her (feelin’ a touch guilty over my fabrication).
“My pleasure,” she replied with relish (which made it seem a smidgen worse).
“Besides,” she added (with an ulterior tone to her voice); “You can pay me back someday.”
“Soitainly,” I responded in my best Bronxese (where I’d spent my formulative years). Too bad for her that my gnawed on nubs; would sointainly provide less bang for the buck.

I was just about to broach the subject of what the rest of the night might bring; when Tinys’ flappin’ gums filled my ears. “Dolph, Paula; party at my place. C’mon over, it’s about a mile from here.”
I turned to face the gentle giant (I had to look up to do so). He was grinnin’ like Jack Fuckin’ Nicholson in ‘The Shining’. Cindy stood between us (with this ‘please say yes’ look, etched across her face). This new wrinkle could only cramp what little style I had. (‘sides, Cindy seems ornery enough to walk the high wire without a safety net.)
“Naw, I’m gonna hafta pass. I’m runnin’ on fumes, Man” (it had been a long day).
Tiny received the news like he could take it or leave it. Cindy appeared crestfallen.
She tried to play on Paulas’ sympathy (with a guilt trip); “C’mon, I could use some company.”
(I wonder what happened to the One Tarzan, One Jane Cindy; I had come to appreciate?) Angel Baby looked momentarily torn. She was at that fork in the road place. On the one hand she could babysit Miss 2 Face, in Paul Bunyans’ cozy cabin; or she can take a chance on some schmoe who ain’t quite Charles Bronson. It’s so hard to decide. I guess there’s a 3rd road really, (let’s call it a hidden driveway) where she could just go home (sans Randy). I almost know what phone # she’ll give me (it’ll be 867-5309).
Paula chose Door #3. Speakin’ mainly in Tinys’ direction she said, “I’m gonna have to take a rain check, I’m all pooped out, and I have to get up early tomorrow to go to a craft fair.”
Cindy gave her this dubious look. Tiny winked at me. I was highly unsure of the outcome.
“Be sure to give me the details,” Cindy sniped; “Of the craft fair, I mean.”
“Oh, every last windchime and doily,” promised Paula.
That better be chick talk for ‘I’ll let ya know if he’s just as dreamy under the sheets”; and not that there was the slimmest chance I would be stumblin’ through tomorrow, checkin’ out baubles at some craft fair [I would rather scrape barnacles off the underside of a battleship]).
Tiny was champin’ at the bit to vamoose outta Dodge (prolly to see if there was any bite to Cindys’ bark).
He said, “C’mon, Sugar, Let’s blow this pop stand” (that was so last year).
Cindy shot back, “We’re burnin’ moonlight” (now that was original [sorta]).
She faced us, “Well toodleloo, you party pooper people” (she’s on a roll).
Lastly, for Paula; “Seriously, don’t let the sun catch you crying” (that was unnecessary).
Angel Baby ate it up. She and Cindy shared one of those mushy goodbye girl hugs.
Above the din of the dwindlin’ crowd, I heard Paula say; “That’s ditto for you with a cherry on top” (is that what I think it means?).
Tiny could take no more, “Me Tarzan, you Jane;” and he corraled Cindy off into the night.
I was dwellin’ on the fact that I’d just heard my 2nd fuckin’ Gerry & the Pacemakers reference of the evenin’. This coincidental streak was takin’ on legendary proportions. I’m gonna feel a dash antsy if there’s a full moon peekin’ through the clouds outside.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Paula said pensively (jeez, they’re worth at least a nickel).
Truth is, I couldn’t describe the scrambled mish mash between my ears; no matter how much moola she was willin’ to fork over. I was razor close to just askin’ her did she wanna fuck.
“I’m gonna get a ginger ale for the road,” I said instead; “Ya need anything?”
She answered quickly, “Just hurry, I might turn into a pumpkin” (phat chance that happens). Ken was washin’ out glasses when I got his attention.

Hey Bartender!
I surrender
can ya fix me up with a plain old ginger?
in a go-cup (and some ice to boot) 
with the mercy of time, the avenger
I shouldn’t need a shot to shoot

It was a helluva night
it was clean outta sight
at least what I recall
thanks for puttin’ up with me
and thanks for the mammaries
a real good time was had by all

“It’s on the house, Champ;” Ken said with a tired smile.
He slid me a Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid, and a straw. I thanked him some more.
“By the way,” he went on; “Johnny Rivers is the Man.” We gave each other a thumbs up in partin’.
Angel Baby was givin’ me this ‘it’s about time’ look, when I got back to her.
She took my hand, and walked me out the door.
In the sultry summer air she informed me, “My place is kinda messy.”
It was high time I ‘fessed up. I gazed at Paula longingly; and said to her softly, “My place is parked over there” (pointin’ at the big brown Ford in the corner of the lot). “We can’t get in ‘less you got a coat hanger, ‘coz the keys are locked up inside.”
With a jillion questions in her eyes; she said to me warmly, “My place’ll do.”
A mustard colored Pinto pulled out of a parking spot, and rolled up beside us. Petey was ridin’ shotgun. He leaned across the guy who was drivin’, and said in his whiney pitch, “Don’t worry about me, Scott’s taking me home” (Scott appeared as if he didn’t want that to be common knowledge).
Paula gasped. She said to him, “Sorry, Pete; I completely forgot.”
He shrugged it off, “It’s O.K, it all worked out for the best. I can see you’re preoccupied. ”
Petey said to me, “Dolph, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” (was that reverse psychology?).
“Right back at ya,” I shot from the hip. They pulled away without further adieu.
Angel Baby wrinkled her nose at me. “I was supposed to take Pete home,” she explained (the plot thickens). I acted perplexed.
“To his house I mean” (oh, does that make it better?).
“To drop him off” (I see).
“You’re a noodge,” she tacked on (1st time I’d been called that).
“Who’s that cat, Scott?” I asked her; “Petes’ fella?” (hard to believe there’s 2 of ‘em here).
Paula rolled her eyes at me, “Let’s not spoil the moment” (that musta touched a nerve).
She sang out, “I think we’re alone now” (my 2nd favorite Shondells song).
There were only 2 cars left in the lot; my mobile home, and a black convertible VW Rabbit (which was hers).
The moon in the sky was a big pizza pie and the beatin’ of our hearts was the only sou-ound.

The green glow of The one Star flickered and went out. The pink star followed suit. We swapped spit, and climbed into the Rabbit (which had more leg room than I thought).
“My dad gave me this car, it used to be his,” Angel Baby told me (that worked out nicely).
She backed outta the spot, and drove off (I always back in for easier getaways). We made a right on Route #1. I turned up the radio. A commercial pushin’ Virginia smoked hams was playin’ (Salt Cured!, Juicy’!). My tummy started gettin’ queasy, but the blurb was over soon enough. The DJ came on, makin’ these lip smackin’ noises; “Sounds deee-licious” (with a Texasy twang).
“You listen to country?” I asked her (I would not have guessed that).
“I can change it,” she offered (if we can keep it under 4 songs, I won’t need a beer to cry in).
“Not on my account, Bobbie Sue; I’ll listen to just about anything,” I boasted (‘cept disco).
‘Gonna serve ya up some Cajun cookin’ by the late, great Hank Williams,’ drawled the DJ. It was my favorite Hank song (it was my Stepfathers’ favorite, too).

Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a filet gumbo
Cause tonight I’m gonna see my machez a mio
Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be gay-oh
Son of a gun, we’ll have big fun on the bayou

Hank is the Bob Dylan of country (or maybe Dylan is the Hank Williams of rock & roll).

Thibodeaux, Fountainbleau, the place is buzzin’
Kinfolk come to see Yvonne by the dozen
Dress in style, go hog wild, me oh my oh
Son of a gun, we’ll have big fun on the bayou

Paula bopped along (with her eyes on the road). She’d made a coupla turns already, and I wasn’t really payin’ attention (that doesn’t bode well if I should hafta find my own way back to Brown Betty [mental note: be sure to bring a hanger, if that downer should come to pass]).The Hank song ended, and blended into a George Jones number (he’s my Moms’ favorite). That’s another, in an eerie series of coincidences (not to mention the Tammy connection).

He said I’ll love you ‘til I die
She told him you’ll forget in time
As the years went slowly by
She still preyed upon his mind

Damn, I might be needin’ that beer sooner than I expected. I slurped a sip of my ginger ale.

He kept her picture on his wall
Went half crazy now and then
He still loved her through it all
Hoping she’d come back again

Paula pulled into the lot of this small apartment complex. She found a spot near the end, and killed the engine (just in time, too, before George had me snifflin’ in my shirtsleeve). Angel Baby lived on the 3rd floor. We helped each other up the steps; and giggled when she struggled to get the key in the lock (if she were a guy, I’da told her to put some hair around it). She finally inserted, and we tumbled on in. It was a nice size unit, with an L-shaped livin’and dinin’ room area. Stuff was scattered hither and yon, givin’ the place a lived-in look (alright, it was downright unkempt [but who’s keepin’ score]). This colorful poster hung over her stereo. A Far Eastern dude with 6 or 8 arms; had farm animals and mystical symbols, floatin’ all around him (it was trippy as hell). Paula lit a candle, over in the corner.
She turned on a lava lamp, that sat atop a bookshelf. She tiptoed to the door, and latched the deadbolt. Then, she killed the lights. Her pad felt homey in the amber glow of the lava juice. A blue lump at the bottom, was risin’ up toward globulation. A flicker danced on the wick of the candle. It reflected in her chocolate eyes.
“Lemme slip into something a bit more comfortable,” she said; (in her best Mae West)
“Take your shoes off, big boy; and stay awhile” (prolly a good idea to air these puppies out).
I sassed her, “Just hurry, I might turn into a turnip” (more like a limp noodle).
“You’re incorrigible,” she concluded (as if she liked that aspect of me [what’s not to like?]).
I watched her wiggle, all the way back to the bedroom. I deshoed myself, and rifled her record collection (you can learn alot about someone, in there). Paula had quite the mix. She had some Beatles (naturally), Jackson Browne (love him, but I’ll prolly just burst into tears), some cat named David Allan Coe (who’s prolly country), The Country Gentlemen (who are definitely country), a buncha Dead (which could mean anything), the New Grass Revival (which I guess is bluegrass [hopefully not stained glass bluegrass]), and some New Riders of the Purple Sage (I think we have a winner). I ain’t heard them fellas, in a many a moon. I powered up her stereo, and cued the needle on the country rockers.
I kicked back on the couch, and fixated on the billowin’ lava lump. It looked either like a nuclear mushroom cloud; or one of those bulbous water towers ya see in any Smallville. Life givin’ water or nuclear death. It’s funny how good and evil can be found just about anywhere (if ya look hard enough). The blue ball broke loose, and rose to the top. It bounced off the narrower sides; and morphed downward, in 4 or 5 smaller balls. Their rate of descent slowed as they approached the heat of the lamp. One glob crashed into a smaller glob, that was risin’ rapidly. The little glob won, inflictin’ severe damage. Lava schrapnel shot out in all directions, causin’ further carnage to other upward and downwardly mobile globs. Pretty soon, there were 40 or 50 lava lumps of varyin’ sizes. They continued to slam together, and morph into bigger or smaller balls. There was chaos, where shortly before had reigned the status quo. I couldn’t quite decide whether good or evil had won. It was bitchin’, though.

Angel Baby emerged from the bedroom. She was wearin’ a beige terrycloth bathrobe (with I can only imagine what all else on underneath). Her smile was sexy and serene. She had brushed her dark brown hair. It lay long and lovely on her shoulders. I could smell a fresh dose of honeysuckle. Well Hello, Mary Lou, goodbye heart (I’d just heard that song). Paula pinned me down, and began molestin’ me (I discovered there was nothin’ on underneath).

You angel you
You got me under your wing
The way you walk and the way you talk
I feel I could almost sing

Paula was hickeyin’ up my neck. I’m sure sometime tomorrow I’ll feel like a branded steer (prolly at the fuckin’ craft fair); but right now, I’m powerless to prevent it.

You know, I can’t sleep at night for tryin’
Never did feel this way before
Never got up and walked the floor
If this is love then give me more
And more and more and more and more

I gotta tell ya, I’m almost positive this is a Dylan song (wasn’t I just mumblin’ to myself, somethin’ about Dylan). These fuckin’ coincidences are stirrin’ up my heebie-jeebie juice. Why they tryin’ to rain on my parade? (or maybe they’re an omen that I’m gonna have sex.)

You angel you
You got me under your wing
The way you walk and the way you talk
I swear it makes me sing

I was singin’ on the inside (maybe on the outside too). Angel Baby unleashed the beast, and soon had tamed that rascal. She had my full attention (and intentions).We gathered our wits, and headed for her room (my britches remained by the couch). Let’s just say she led me on. Paulas’ room was neater than the rest of her place (at least by the glow of the Tinker Bell nightlight). She pushed me back on her queen size bed (which I surmised was freshly made). She began to . . . ya know, I’m not one to kiss and tell (not usually), so I won’t go into the glorious details. Suffice to say, we boinked our brains out (and it wasn’t run of the mill). I’m not sure how long our steamy session lasted (it mighta been as long as a Johnny Carson monologue; or maybe we lasted past Ed, and the first coupla guests). We crested the wave, then crumbled in a heap (like we’d just run a 10K sextatholon). Paula was still pretzled up to me, and pantin’ (I too, was outta breath). She slid along me, to get to my face. I pulled her up by the hips, and kissed her on the lips. Mutual probin’ led to fondlin’ and gropin’.
She breathed heavily, “I’m ready for my seconds, now.” (say what?)

Angel Baby had called my bluff (there’s not a snowballs’ chance in 12 Hells, I can muster up another masterpiece at this moment). My mind was willin’, but my body was wavin’ the white flag. I need to stall for time (I might be good for some afternoon delight). Nah, lemme ‘fess up; no sense startin’ off with little white lies (no good can come of that).
“Listen, I’m too pooped for an encore. Guess I was just whistlin’ Dixie,” I said in shame.
I looked at Paula to see how that went over. I’ll be damn; she’s fast asleep, countin’ sheep. I rolled her over, and covered her up. “G’night, she uttered; without even openin’ her eyes. Looky there, she’s suckin’ her thumb like a baby angel (ya gotta love that).

Things change
and that’s a fact
but they just might get better 
with this monkey off my back

Rode hard
and put to bed wet
that buckin’ little filly
took on all she could get 

There’s an angel gracin’ 
my pillow tonight
her sweet disposition 
is tender and bright

She’s my ray’o’sunshine
she’s my 4-leaf clover
and I hope the magic still remains
in the mornin’ when I wake up sober

Everything was goin’ just swimmingly (but the room began doin’ that spinny thing). Tinker Bell winked at me (at least one of ‘em did). Speakin’a winks, I’d better get me some. I snuggled up to Paula like a jigsaw puzzle piece (looks like this one could sleep till noon). That’s prolly why she’s so pretty (beats the hell outta Rosie). I guess I’ll tell her about Jesse, in the mornin’ (we’ll see how that alters the chemistry). I think I hear the Sandman comin’. I slept real tight (and didn’t let the bedbugs bite).

Bumfuck, Anywhere
(which is better than
Bumfuck, Nowhere)
6/5/1981

(actually it was written in:
Bryans Road, Maryland
02/2009 – 04/2010
[but who’s keepin’ score])

p.s. pardon the embellishments
p.s.s. no offense intended (to anyone offended)
p.s.s.s. sorry Mom, you did raise me better
p.s.s.s.s. a tiny, schmaltzy part of me (really tiny)
likes the Pina Fuckin’ Colada song