Ed. Note: Lance would kill all the bugs in the Watergate Hotel, the Pentagon, and the White House for JUST one affectionate sideways glance from Bobbie Gentry
She put down her Rubik’s Cube, grabbed the DDT can and bounced it off my head.
That’s my Gal!
Video Credit: benjichilders
More Unsolicited ‘Opinion’ From Y’all’s Favorite Asshole: C’est Moi.
“Donovan:”
Child–King of The Boy Wonder, One-Hit Wonders:
“Atlantis”Way down below the fuckin’ Ocean. You shoulda remained there.Dear Donnie. Just sayin’.
Bobbie Gentry Did him a Solid by even allowing him on her TV show.
How lame was he?
Trust me: The Math breaks down at this point.
But He was Pretty-Boy Lame
******************
So… I’m sleeping one off when I felt something tickling.
Woke up and discovered a rather plumpish large roach parked on my nose.
(Had to go cross-eyed to look at him—yes, I am assuming gender here—my bad)
He jumped off my nose onto my chin.
Then he spoke to me:
“Hey Bubba, we be outta here.”
Still half-asleep and somewhat groggy, all I could muster was, “Whaaat?”
Mister Roach continued, “We are leaving your Dumb Ass.”
I bolted upright, causing Mister Roach to tumble onto my mattress.
“Take a gander Mutha Fukker!”He shouted out of his Little Roach Lips.
But I heard him well enough.
Focused my eyes on the floor. Sure as shit, there was a single file line of cockroaches, some carrying suitcases, some wearing backpacks, all marching quick-time toward my back door. I looked up and saw a squadron of gnats flying over the marching roaches, providing air-cover I quickly surmised.
Spokesman Roach was preparing to jump off my mattress, but before he leapt down to join his comrades, he turned to me and said, “Don’t you wanna know why we are leaving your sorry ass?”
“Not really,” I replied. “But I figure you’re gonna tell me anyway.”
“Damn Skippy Asshole.”
“Well, get it off your chest then. Does your kind have chests, by the way? I have spent many a sleepless night pondering this heavy mystery.”
“Very Funny You Schmuck,” He shot back.
He coughed up some vile phlegm, depositing it on my mattress.
And continued, “For your edification (This was a literate Roach, with a solid command of The Queen’s English) For your edification, he repeated, we have thoraxes.”
“I am praying you will soon arrive-at-the-point,” I said.
He obliged:
“Here is our list of grievances,” He said, handing me a sheet of toilet paper. “Read and Weep. Then wipe your ass.”
I perused the paper and discovered this Piercing Eloquence:
“To Wit, Please Discover Below Our Valid and Legitimate Justifications For ‘Buggin’ Out.”
(I had to laugh at that—This Roach had a sense of humor—who knew?)
I continued my read:
This ‘Host Human’ is a nasty son of a bitch—no shower in weeks—even by our standards, this is beyond the pale
There is no uneaten food anywhere to be found in this ‘Mouse House’
The ‘Music’ he plays (too loudly) assaults our sensibilities and disrupts our concentration
He has been known to spray, indiscriminately, recklessly, RAID at our brother and sister gnats, thus branding him as a ‘Mass-Murderer’
He is ugly and disgusting
He is stupid
“Seems to me Y’all have put a great deal of thought into this… uh… ‘Declaration of Independence,” I said, handing him back his manifesto.
“Yes, we have. Now will you kindly get the door so that we may make good our departure?”
“Sure,” I said. But one question before you ‘Bug Out.”
“Make it quick Jerk; we have somewhere to be.”
“Where are you going? What will Y’all do?”
“Never mind what we will do. Just get the damn door.”
“But how will you get to where you are going?”
“If you must know, there is a ‘Roach Coach’ headed here as we speak. Catch ya laters.”
I opened the door and waited until the Caboose of the Bug Train made it out into the parking lot. I stood in the doorway and lo’ and behold, I saw a Roach Coach (Meskin, judging by the paint scheme on the vehicle). Seemed fitting I suppose: La Cucaracha.
Even though MY Roaches were all Texican/American Roaches and spoke even less Meskin than me.
I wished them well.
Oh Well.
I suppose they could learn. MY Roaches were not idiots. I mean, under good leadership, they had the intelligence to abandon a sinking ship.
I stepped back into my hooch; shut and locked the door; sat down on my bed. Was thinking,
“Well fuck them! My Ingrate Pets. I need to adopt a Dog, or a Cat, or an Armadillo, or an Ant Farm of Fire Ants—any one of which would be more loyal.”
As I was sitting there feeling all alone and abandoned, I became aware of a funky odor and it was ME!
So I spent ‘An Hour In The Shower.’
“I dream of things I can’t say, or I’ll get put away.”
******
To Put A Cork In This Story:
Never put your Faith in Roaches or Gnats. They are fickle and never loyal. They will not stand by you during the lean times.
Get Yourself an Armadillo.
Cheers Y’all!
P.S., “Never hit your Mother with a Shovel. It leaves a Dull Impression on Her Mind.”
–Butch Cassidy
****
Just for you, Donavan:
Credit where Credit is Due:
This was/is a great Song.
Too bad it is all you had in you.
But Hey! Ride that Fame-Train.
Until you run outta track
Video Credit: Carlos Lara
By the way, Donovan, you ain’t no Cat Stevens
Sorry: ‘Yusuf Islam’
(Difficult to keep up with all you ‘stars’ name changes—Identity changes.)
“Yusuf Islam’—Gag me with the ‘Woke-Ness’ Monster spoon, but Cat,
Your wonderful music supersedes your lame-ass identity politics.”
Hey Cat/‘Yusuf!
I’m still looking for ‘That Hard-Headed Woman.‘
HBO?
Help a brother out?
And Cat/Yusuf, I too have known a lot of fancy dancers.
They need not apply.
I am in the Crusade of ‘REAL.’
****
Oh shit! A sudden fear comes upon me:
“What if MS Muse swerves into this post?”
I’ll tell ya what:
It will not be a pleasant experience for your humble servant, that’s what.
P.P.S., I LOVE The Art.
I Give zero shits about the ‘Artists’ Politics.
I love and Appreciate The ART
These sentiments of mine are well-documented in these pages.
said these words to me shortly after Cat Stevens changed his ‘Religion’ (and his name) from whatever-it-was to Islam: “I always knew he was ‘that way.’” “What way?” I asked. “Islamic- Ass-Misogamist,” she said. “You do not know that,” I said back. “You are ignorant on this topic.” She stormed away. Needless to say, I did not get laid that day. And for many days thereafter. Bitch saved grudges like cash money.
As mentioned in the previous post, Viva Young was a tiny joint about a block or two off Magsaysay Boulevard.
Upon entering, immediately on the left was ‘Mama San’s ‘Office,’ which was simply an enclosed counter with an ancient cash register, a small table lamp, a perpetually over-flowing ashtray, and a counter sign which read: “No Credit.”
Every bar or club had a ‘Mama San’—‘Manager’ to put it into Western Parlance. I had a bit of a history with this Mama San.
(Yeah we were ‘Fuck Buddies’)
We were roughly the same age and found each other mutually attractive. She did volunteer work for the mayor of Olongapo and was quite astute. She wanted a career in government. But first, she had a bar to run and girls to manage. In this regard she was all cold business.
When on liberty in Olongapo I generally spent the night with Mama San. She lived with her mother and a sister and a brother and a few children in a fairly decent (though small) house about a mile from Viva Young.
She was supporting the entire family and was never ‘hesitate’ to hit me up for contributions to her domicile. I knew ‘the score’ and happily donated to her cause.
What did I need money for anyway? We had a convenient relationship and genuinely liked each other. And to my mind, she was doing good work.
Running the length of the bar was the ‘stage’ or ‘cat walk’. Or picture a runway, similar to what one might find in a very low-rent fashion show.
Bordering this runway on three sides was a narrow counter top: narrow-minded and horse-shoe-shaped. The open end faced the door and Mama San’s watchful eye.
Bar stools (ancient and uncomfortable) finished the Spartan scene.
The bar girls would line up on the runway and dance to the music from the equally ancient jukebox. Yes, this was best unflatteringly described as a ‘Meat Market’.
But then, that was Olongapo in 1989. Matt, Rogers, and I knew all the girls. (Just not in the Biblical sense). I suspect some were under age. If you’d ask one hundred bar girls in Olongapo where they were from, you’d get one hundred same pat answers:
“I from da Pra’bince (Province). I make money so go to college.”
I never met a single gal (see how easily I throw in some Texan vernacular to cover up the horrible reality?) who told me she wasn’t actually from Olongapo.
Nope, these were all ‘country gals’ with aspirations–from ‘The Province–the true aspiration was to marry a U.S. Serviceman and get the hell out of the Philippines.
And who could blame them? Many a young Sailor or Marine, after having his first sexual encounter fell in love with a Filipina and did fulfill her dream.
They would marry and the new bride would move to San Diego. Within a few months the rest of the family would be sent for. This was called the ‘Filipino Pipeline’.
Sadly, more often than not, once secured with U.S. Citizenship and the rescue of her family, the new bride would divorce her Sailor or Marine and make her way into the American Dream, leaving the husband wondering what the hell had gone wrong.
I never felt sorry for the cuckolds. I was a cruel son of a bitch back then, and secretly, as a perpetual con and huckster, I was always for the Filipinas.
Actually everything always went wrong with such agreements.
Now some might say Brother Dave was a racist and they would probably be right, but I am posting these bits because I love the way he talks politics and specifically about “Daddy Bird.”
I really don’t think Bro Dave was racist in his heart. Most things he said were tongue-in-cheek, but that is just my opinion.
“See? I don’t drink alcohol, ’cause I don’t want no fat liver… but that ain’t no testimony. You may have your liver to do as you please.”
“But you talk so much politics!” I’m sick and tired of politics!”
Author’s Note: I love Brother Dave becuz he was always so up-beat—Never Down! Just a Happy Man (and a drug addict)–which killed him in the end, but we have his work to cherish and to hold. And to revisit again and again and again. Caint take that away from me!
When last we left our Boys they had arrived at Viva Young not unlike victorious Roman Legionaries returning from Gaul—The Conquering Heroes—welcomed with gleeful squeals of joy and happiness by the Girls.
A little more detail on Viva Young The Establishment, and more than a little more detail on ‘Mama-San’ is in order here.
Upon first entering, immediately on the left was ‘Mama San’s ‘Office,’ which was simply an enclosed counter with an ancient cash register, a small table lamp, a perpetually over-flowing ashtray, and a counter sign which read: “No Credit.” Every bar or club had a ‘Mama San’—‘Manager’ to put it into Western Parlance. I had a bit of a history with this Mama San.
(Yes we were ‘Fuck Buddies’)
We were roughly the same age and found each other mutually attractive. She was tall for a Filipina, just a little bit chunky with shoulder length reddish brown hair which she kept in a semi-perm. Or perhaps it kept her; maybe that was its natural state. Dark brown eyes and the ‘Ornamental’ version of The ‘Shonnie’ Voice—semi-coarse and gruff.
She did volunteer work for the mayor of Olongapo and was quite well-read, savvy, and politically astute. She wanted a career in government. But first she had a bar to run and girls to manage. In this regard she was all cold business.
When on liberty in Olongapo I generally spent the night with Mama San. She lived with her mother and a sister and a brother and a few children in a fairly decent (though small) house about a mile from Viva Young. She was supporting the entire family and was never ‘hesitate’ to hit me up for contributions to her domicile.
“You gonna pay my bar fine?” Were some of the first ‘personal’ words she said to me on the night I ‘proposed’ to her, which was what seemed like eons before this particular port visit.
Some clarification: Subic Bay is a ‘working port’ not a ‘liberty port’. It is just like being in San Dog, only ‘with benefits.’
But still a working port.
Hence, during this particular Westpac deployment, we would find ourselves in Subic Bay every month or so ostensibly for resupply, but mainly because we were schlepping about six hundred US Marines around the South Pacific.
The Frederick LST 1184 is what is known as a ‘Gator Freighter.’ The ‘LST’ stands for ‘Tank Landing Ship.’ And yes I know the acronym is ass-backwards—‘Landing Ship, Tank’—My Navy is kind of Dyslexic.
Anyway, our primary purpose, our only purpose, our whole raison d’être is to ferry Marines about, dropping them and their AAV’s ‘Amphibious Assault Vehicles’ off at various beaches throughout the region.
“You call. We haul.”
That is the mantra of the Amphib Navy.
So we’d drop off the kids, head back out to sea and return a few days later to pick up all the ones who had not drown in the surf-zone. And sadly, I am not joking. We lost a half-dozen or so during that deployment.
Marines really cannot swim for shit and are not benefitted by the ‘Drown-Proofing’ training they teach at BUD/s (SEAL Boot-Camp, which if you recall, your humble author had been through.)
Twice.
“Drown Proofing”
It’s Great Fun!
***
Back to Mama:
Upon our first meeting, we were working on our mutual attraction. Using all my debonair wily Texan/Sailor charms, I broached the subject of “Let me take you away from all this.” (After closing time of course)
“You pay my bar fine. OK?”
“But you’re Mama-San. How can you have a bar fine?”
“You pay bar fine.”
I paid.
For the uninitiated, if one wishes the solitary company and undivided attention of a working bar girl, one must make payment to the Mama-San: the girl’s ‘bar fine.’ Call it a ‘handling fee’ if you must be so callous.
And while I am on THAT subject, allow me to inform you, I never paid any bar fines of any young girls for sex. I did not believe in it. There is much I will explain in future installments regarding this, but for now, suffice it to say that this sailor is an Honorable Man.
Fancy
Bobbie Gentry – (1969)
Street Cred for Vid: kelly heisler
***
But Mama-San is a different matter because she was a woman, not a girl.
I knew ‘the score’ and she kept the score. I happily donated to her cause to keep her score card to the positive and in the black.
What did I need money for anyway? We had a convenient relationship and we were genuinely fond of each other as far as it went. And to my mind, she was doing good work. She was ‘Mother’ to her girls and sincerely looked out for their wellbeing. She could spot a potentially abusive sailor or marine in an instant and would never allow same to leave the bar with one of her girls.
Ever.
And if by some chance she needed help with showing some asshole the door, there were the three of us Fast Freddy Sailors and the regular marines to provide assistance, not that Mama-San ever really needed it.
***
Running the length of the bar was the ‘stage’ or ‘cat walk’. Or picture a runway, similar to what one might find in a very low-rent fashion show.
***
Bordering this runway on three sides was a narrow counter top: narrow-minded and horse-shoe-shaped. The open end faced the door and Mama San’s watchful eye. Strings of lights hung precariously from the ceiling. Bar stools (ancient and uncomfortable) finished the Spartan scene.
The bar girls would line up on the runway and dance to the music from the equally ancient jukebox. Yes, this was best unflatteringly described as a ‘Meat Market’. But then, that was Olongapo in ‘89.
Matt, Rogers, and I knew all the girls. (Just not in the Biblical Sense). I suspect knew some were under age. If you’d ask one hundred bar girls in Olongapo where they were from, you’d get one hundred same pat answers:
“I from da Pra’bince (Province). I make money so go to college.”
I never met a single lil gal (see how easily I throw in some Texan Bullshit Vernacular to gloss over the horrible reality?) who told me she wasn’t actually from Olongapo. Nope, these were all ‘country gals’ with aspirations for higher education brought from ‘The Province’. Their true aspiration was to marry a U.S. Serviceman and get the hell out of the Philippines.
And who could blame them? Many a young Sailor or Marine, after having his first sexual encounter fell in love with a Filipina and did fulfill her dream. They would marry and the new bride would move to San Diego. Within a few months the rest of the family would be sent for: Mama, Daddy, Baby Sis, Baby Bro, Big Sis, Big Bro, real cousins, faux cousins, best friends, et cetera. This was known as the ‘Filipino Pipeline’.
Sadly, more often than not, once secured with U.S. Citizenship and the rescue of her family, the new bride would divorce her Sailor or Marine and make her way headlong into The American Dream, never once looking back and leaving the husband wondering what the hell had gone wrong.
I never felt sorry for the cuckolds. I was a cruel son of a bitch back then and secretly, as a perpetual con and huckster, I was always for the Filipinas anyway.
Actually everything always went wrong with such arrangements.
Well wrong for the sailor/marine.
But right for the ‘Girl-from-da-Pra’bince.’
The Girl from Ipanema
Artists: Astrud Gilberto, João Gilberto and Stan Getz
Street Cred for Vid: catman916
“If you hold sand too tightly in your hand it will run through your fingers.”
–Joni Mitchell (Telegram she sent from Crete to Graham Nash in CA, 1970)
Now some might say Brother Dave was a racist and they would probably be right, but I am posting these bits because I love the way he talks politics and specifically about “Daddy Bird.”
I really don’t think Bro Dave was racist in his heart. Most things he said were tongue-in-cheek, but that is just my opinion.
“See? I don’t drink alcohol, ’cause I don’t want no fat liver… but that ain’t no testimony. You may have your liver to do as you please.”
“But you talk so much politics!” I’m sick and tired of politics!”
Author’s Note: I love Brother Dave becuz he was always so up-beat—Never Down! Just a Happy Man (and a drug addict)–which killed him in the end, but we have his work to cherish and to hold. And to revisit again and again and again. Caint take that away from me!
