Yeah, I am Lazy. I Keep Re-Postin’ Old Shite. Git Over It! “California on my Mind MINE? MiNd? No, I Don’t Mind! I No Longer Have The TIME! (NOR The Damn Dime Neither)”

So Let’s Just Call The Whole Thing Off!

You’ll Have to Scroll Down For Ginger;

I Got Distracted.

Yes; It Happens From time-To-Time

I No Longer Have One Dime.

Nor a Brain

Yet, Poverty & Ignorance is Bliss–

I am Blessed to Have Both

“Hey Brother, can you spare a dime?

I seem to have misplaced mine”

But Texas Always in my Heart?

Huh?

And OnCE A’GIN” fUK u word-de-Pressed! i CANnOT DeDIite This! Why Not? Why The Fuk NOT? Fuk U Word-Disstressed!

I have spilled’d way too

Much Virtual Ink on California Yeah!

I spent Above My ‘Income’

No Breakin’ News Nor Revelation

To Be Discovered There!

Yeah! I once spent a Night in The Hotel Del…Cost me a Month’s Navy Pay… Well worth it, even tho I DID NOT Get Laid… Story of my Life! Still Worth it.

“Welcome to Hotel Hell”

Back When, Way Back When!

When I was in SEAL Train’in’

So What????

The Hotel Del Did NOT

Impress Me!

Mother-fu*k California!

Jes Kidd’n

I LoVe Her!

Almost HALF as Much as I Love TEXAS!

But Not Quite.

Aerosmith – Crazy 

GTT

More Texas

Less California

Loved it. Hated it. Few decades ago I could truthfully say, “Hey! I’ve spent half my life in California.” (See This Or This)

Now I can say, “Hey! I’ve spent most of my life in Dangerous Desolate Places.” (Middle East &  East Texas) That worm did turn some. (Go Here or There)

I really don’t care at this point

****

As a Native Texan, I am supposed to always hate California and yes, Yes to all you Texans out there: I know this. I get it. Put the rope down.

Yet I more love than hate California.

In California I learned to appreciate music, art, science, literature, hippies, beaches and blondes. My first kiss was not in California, but I didn’t miss that milestone by much–In California.

In Texas I learned to appreciate drankin’ whiskey and beer , smokin’ dope, playin’ football, chasin’ cheerleaders, and Raisin’ Hell.

Arriving home to Texas late 1968 folks made fun of my ‘California Accent’ if there even is such a thing. (There were no Valley Girls in the Sixties as far as I know). My ‘accent’ was ‘just the way normal people talked’ as far as I was concerned. Texans sounded funny to me (Blasphemy!)

My Attitude Adjustment didn’t take long to take.

In California I was a Little League Baseball Star. In Texas no one gave two shits about baseball. I had to learn football. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, but I had all those baseball skills which were not worth a cup of spit in Texas.

I love Texas and don’t get me wrong. But once in a while, when I see a photo or a news bit showing San Francisco, or San Diego, or a beach, or a blonde… I hear this guy singing:

Sometimes I even hear this blonde singing:

And I tear up. (Just a little bit) but then I throw on some Bob Wills and Remember Who I am.

Bob Wills

And thus remembering, I go out and buy a case of Lone Star Long Necks and listen to this guy:

And I Thank The Spirit of Sam Houston I Am A Texan.

It is Quite Within the Realm of Possibility That I am Drunk, “Part One of a Sailor’s Scholarly Series on U.S. Naval History in The South Pacific”

I slept through ‘Throw-Back Thursday’, so I jumped on my Dash Eight and headed West until I crossed The International Date Line.

OK, NOW it’s Thursday.

Again.

Happy?

Guess where I ended up?

Disneyland!

(‘Ornamental Version’)

***

Liberty Call!

Dateline: 1989 Subic Bay Naval Base / Olongapo City, Philippines 1600hrs

“Knock Off Ship’s Work! Liberty Call! Liberty Call!” reverberated from the 1MC onboard the USS Frederick, LST 1184.

Simultaneously about a hundred sailors went into Fred Flintstone Mode:

“Yabba Dabba Dooo!!”

To beat the stampede off the ship, Matt, Rogers, and I were already in our berthing compartment donning our civvies. We were as always, five minutes ahead of the game. We double-timed up to the quarterdeck,

“Request permission to go ashore” we said in unison as we saluted the O.O.D, (Officer of the Deck) in front of us.

The officer of the deck and the messenger of the watch stand by on the quarterdeck.

“Very well,” he replied, and then we faced astern and saluted the flag or ‘ensign’ in the proper vernacular.

“Salute the Fag, then the Flag”. (Helpful hint to remember the proper protocol for departing a U.S. Navy vessel.)

Scampering down the gangway to the pier we nearly knocked each other down in our haste.

Free at last!

We hustled down toward the Shit-River Bridge which connected Subic Bay Naval Base to Olongapo. Shit River was similar to the Poo Pond I wrote about in my Letter from a South Park Jail series. But the primary difference between the two was no one ever physically came in contact with the Poo Pond.

In Olongapo Filipino children would paddle small boats under the Shit River Bridge and wait for sailors to toss coins into the water.

These children would dive down into the ‘bio-hazardous’ searching for the coins.

To my knowledge no one from my ship ever tossed coins into the river. This was considered dishonorable behavior and rightly so. And for reasons so obvious that I won’t even list them here.

Shit River

Once safely across the bridge we entered Magsaysay Blvd., AKA Magsaysay Drive. Strolling down Magsaysay requires a keen sense of situational awareness. Jeepneys, trikes, drunken sailors and marines, Shore Patrols, flying beer bottles… All of these while-on-liberty-occupational hazards must be recognized and avoided—at all costs.

Magsaysay

Olongapo City was Sexual Disneyland for Sailors and Marines.

Up and down Magsaysay Boulevard, every other venue a bar, and every other—other venue was a massage parlor (“Hey Sailor! You want massage with sensation?”) and every other, other joint was what could best be described as a ‘Mega-Club’. These had no less than three to four hundred ‘working girls.’

These Mega-Clubs, (solely owned and operated by the Chinese Mafia) often three stories high, were death traps in the event of a fire, no matter how small. The din inside was cacophonous. Ear plugs were prudent. Cigarette smoke swirled up like the morning Mekong mist in Apocalypse Now.

Imagine a super-sized opium den with high-amp electronic music and strobe lights.

Den of Sin

If the place didn’t burn down during your sojourn, you could still get trampled to death in the stampede to get out the solitary door.

No one feared the danger.

Nor cared.

This was not my first rodeo. I had been to Olongapo before (World Cruise deployment on the U.S.S Callaghan DDG 994 in 1986).

Ditto for my two compadres and we were all GM’s—Gunner’s mates–‘Old Salts’.

Matt was a thoughtful mild mannered, about six-foot tall perfect AJ-Squared-Away first class petty officer gunner but with one fatal flaw:

He loved Filipinas, and specifically one Filipina above all others:

His wife.

Josie was a very beautiful, vivacious, vexatious, sexy, striking woman who was ‘seconded’ to San Dog (San Diego), happily fucking every Marine she could lay legs on while Matt was out to sea and some would also ungraciously add, ‘Out to Lunch’.

But this ‘TMI’ came directly to Rog and me from Matt himself and he knew it was common knowledge throughout The Fleet. (Okay, the entire Seventh Fleet did not know of Matt’s marriage troubles, but it sure did seem so at times)

He unashamedly admitted to being a cuckold, but was so blindly in love he was powerless to do anything about it.

Love has fucked up more lonely sailors and marines than I am able to count, although I really need only count to one:

Me.

Rogers was married as well, but cuckold, he was none. He was a little wiry Irish descendant, ‘bout five-foot and small change with reddish blond-hair and bluish blood-stained wild eyes.  

He was one crazy little dynamo son of a bitch with a fair allotment of Napoleon overcompensation built in.

My persona was dark and foreboding and dangerous. I had ‘rocked out’ of SEAL training for the second time and had but one year left before I could turn in my Canoe Club Card and get the hell outta This Man’s Navy.

Having failed to make it in Naval Spec-Warfare, my Naval Career was over as far as I was able to give one shit.

This made me dangerous.

Rogers loved that about me. Matt was just generally apprehensive and leery.

The three of us were absolutely the very best of buddies and shipmates in every good sense of the term.

Yet, a more divergent trio of personalities could not be dreamed.

One thing in common though: we did not enjoy the Magsaysay Big-Bar scene. It was just too rowdy—too loud—too frenetic—too immature

(Yes. I said ‘immature’)

We were not looking for prostitutes.

Matt had his ‘loving’ wife. Rogers had his Trailer-Park-Shotgun-Bride with their four tow-headed kids, each born precisely nine months and twenty minutes after the preceding.  And I had my transplanted Yankee Girlfriend waiting (?) back in San Dog.

We just wanted a joint which would have that “Cheers” ambiance. We found it at Viva Young, a little shit-hole-in-the-wall tucked in between more substantial and popular bars. For the most part, it went unnoticed, overlooked, and passed-on-by.

Viva Young Baby!

(And Viva Young was deemed ‘Off Limits’ by The Naval Command—never did understand why, but this made it even better: nothing more fun than jacking with the SP’s—Shore Patrol). 

Viva Young had become Our Place and all the girls (and the Mama-San) knew our names. There was not much to it. It was a narrow long bar, perhaps 1500 square feet, dark and smoky and the music volume did not force us to shout. Not many even knew of it, and even if they did, they would not frequent the place.

It was too dark, too run down, not to mention the fact that the regulars (Matt, Lance, and Rog—plus a handful of Marines) did not cotton to stupid, young and green Sailors and Marines fresh out of boot camp or A-School wanting to suck up Our Air.

We ran all interlopers off with gusto and frequency, much to the chagrin of Mama-San, the manager.

We made it up to her though, always spending much more than expected and for shit-sure leaving huge tips all around, just like the drunken sailors/marines that you may have heard about.

Yep.

We invented that cliché.

Upon entering Viva Young, we were instantly assaulted with an all-hands-on-deck ‘Welcome!’ from the girls.

“We love you here Sailor Man!”

“Take your shoes off! We love you!”

“We miss you!”

“We lub chew no chit!”

(Best rendition of a Filipina accent I can muster—ya kinda have to experience it for your-own-self to get the ‘full benefit’.)

Here is a song to prove I am not making this up:

I Love You No Shit

Buy Me Honda

Edmundo Olino Katuwaan Channel. Pinoy Country Singer

***

There was a long cat-walk. The cat-walk was the main attraction—taking up most of the square footage real estate. At the very back of the bar, just for fun, or an afterthought, were two pool tables. There may have been a rusty pinball machine as well, but I possibly have dreamed that.

The nubile Filipinas, fresh from Soccer Practice and still in their uniform until later in the evening were a joy to behold and to hold.

We always seemed to show up during the lax time—that time  between the end of girls’ soccer and the Real Deal.

 They would continuously shower us with their attentive affections:

“Hey Mista Rance! Hey Mista Matt! Hey Mista Rog! We love you! We love you no-shit! Buy me drink?! Buy me Honda?!”

“Sure on the drink Honey! The Honda… maybe later.”

Stay tuned… it gets better.

Shoulda Left Las Vegas

Las Vegas
And pondering why I love the TV show, ‘Nashville’ so much.

Here goes:

Many a time while stationed in San Diego, I would make a spur of the moment decision to drive the five hours to Vegas.

Occasionally with a buddy or two after closing down a bar somewhere downtown San Dog. Once or twice with a female accomplice,  but usually alone.

“It’s OK. We (I) can sober up on the road. We’ll get to Vegas about sunrise.”

Would just show up, never having the wherewithal or forethought to reserve a room so I’d just nap in my Tornado if necessary.

But then, I never really slept while in Vegas anyhow. Why would I need a room?

Too bad I was born too late to experience “The Rat Pack.” Maybe if I accumulate enough good Karma, I can come back as Sammy Davis Jr. Or Frank Sinatra.  Stranger things have happened, in the night, eh?

Dean Martin, caught in a Gravity Storm.

Priceless.

One Saturday night after a not-too-lucky session at the craps table, I fell asleep in my car, which was always parked in the Union Plaza Parking Lot & Cow Pasture.

plaza

Union Plaza
Live it Up!

Well I woke up Sunday morning, (with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt) knowing full-well that I was due back in San Diego and on my “boat” before nightfall.

While attempting to drive out of the parking lot, the young uniformed schmuck informed me that I owed two dollars for the parking.

“Listen Asshole, I just dropped two grand in your casino last night.”

“Sorry Sir, but the parking is two dollars.”

“Let me say this one more time: I just ‘invested’ two large in your fucking casino.”

“Sir, I am just doing my job.”

“And me mine, for fuck’s sake. I’m protecting your way of life and your right to be an idiot.”

Continue reading

Fuk it! Expanded It. Gotta Re-Post It. Why? ‘Cause I’m Blissfully Lost In My TEXAS! That’s Why! “Shonnie: The Biker’s Wife: Intro.”

And Just For Reference and Deference:

“Escape From Memphis”

Lance, The Texan Moron

Cred: Texas Longhorns

***

Texas Forever!

God’Dammint!

Hook ’em Horns!

Not Shonnie, But Pretty Close (and almost) Beautiful Enough to be a Reasonable Facsimile

***

In Nineteen-Eighty-Seven San Diego County there was only one Country & Western Bar/Dance Hall (that I knew of).

I was sorely missing Texas and even though I was never what one might call ‘A Hardcore Country Music Fan’, I was feeling nostalgic.

So I bought me a pair of Nocona’s, and no, I did not varnish them,

A Stetson, couple pair of Wrangler’s, some shirts with snaps, a string tie, and off I went, ‘Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places.

But in this case, I had found ‘The Right Place’. Even though I didn’t realize it at the time.

***

This One below is Personal and for Shonnie. Wherever she may be.

No need to watch. My narrative would survive without it. But my heart would not.

If you do choose to watch/listen, keep in mind it sums up, and also foreshadows in a nutshell, a great deal of the content in the chapters to come.

Good Gawd! I love My Texas!

***

Mickey Gilley – “Lookin’ for Love”

The name of joint escapes me. Not important. But it was along the lines of ‘Gilley’s’ in Pasadena, Texas, albeit much the lesser.

I mean, Gilley’s had five bars in their Bar and the largest dance floor in Texas, if not The World. (My apologies to ‘Billy Bob’s’ in Fort Worth.)

This ‘Honky-Tonk,’ and I use the term loosely, had but one bar and one medium-sized dance floor. And it didn’t even have chicken wire in front of the stage to protect the band from flying Lone Star long-neck beer bottles.

What a gyp!

Would serve my purposes however, or at least sate my low expectations. I mean, we are talking Southern California here folks, after all.

(According to Sir Willie Nelson in his first book, “Willie: An Autobiography,” The Good Folks who ran Gilley’s, Mickey Gilley et Al, during the Early Years (1971) were compelled to install the wire. Without it, no band would agree to perform there. Things could, and often did, get ‘Rowdy’ at Gilley’s.

By the Time Peanut and I were spending Quality Time in the place–Mid to Late Seventies–I saw no chicken wire. But the rowdy remained. More often than not with Peanut in the thick of it and too often the cause of it. “That Sonuvabitch done pissed me off!”

“Thanks for the memories, P’Nut–You fuckin’ Nut.”)

Credit: Channel Two Houston and devonhart,

June 26, 2014 in ‘Historic Houston’

***

So I began to frequent this establishment in earnest. The thing that stuck me upon my first visit was that all the ‘Cowboys’ and ‘Cowgirls’ looked like Yuppies. Not Dallas Yuppies, mind you: ‘Southern California Yuppies’.

The walls were adorned with all manner of Rodeo Scenes, all of which looked as if Norman Rockwell might have dragged his brush across them.

Yuk!

There were also some lariats, a few saddles strategically placed against a couple of walls, a few ‘decorative’ spittoons (nothing more useless in the world than a spittoon ‘what never dun been used’), and many more things I cannot find the stomach to recount.

Double Yuk!!

The lighting was, well, Too Light. Hopefully, this would be rectified later in the evening’s adventure as the ‘real’ Cowfolks came sauntering in.

One sustains hope in situations such as these. There really is no other choice.

“Good Godawmighty! Lance! Son, you were more ‘at home’ in the Titty-Bars downtown San Dog than this abhorrent lame excuse for a ‘Honky-Tonk’,” voice in my head said.

The other voice in my head (Probably Peanut’s) said, “Cowboy?! You know you ain’t no real Cowboy neither; jes’ go wid it.”

There was, as I said, one bar. And immediately to the right of this bar… 

(a respectable looking bar, if I do grudgingly admit, replete with no less than four barkeeps and many, many serving wenches scurrying back and forth not unlike so many dutiful worker ants—all very pretty—in that Southern California-Wanna-be-Urban-Cowgirl-Beach-Babe-Kinda-Style)

…was the stage with a Cowboy Band. Actually a damn good one. They even had a fiddle player (so at least they could play ‘Amardillo By Morning’  a song which always reminded me of ‘Monsieur Le Peanut’, and forever held a special place in my heart and in my ears.

Immediately in front of the Bar was that ‘dance floor’, (No sawdust, but that could be grudgingly forgiven, I suppose).

The rest was mainly four-seater tables and chairs (And Candles! Fer Christ’s Sake! Candles!)

For the life of me, I could not spy a single pool table nor a shuffle board nor even an air hockey table. Certainly no mechanical bull.

Honky-Tonk Travesty!

The bar itself drew me first (of course). I asked for a Lone Star and got a vacant look. “Ok, gimme a shot ah Beam and a… ah… a Heineken.” (‘Jerry Jeff, please forgive them; for they know not what they do’.)

Now properly attired and bona-fide in my two-fisted drinker status, I went searching for a table close to the dance floor. As it was relatively early, I had no difficulty finding same.

I sat and drank and wistfully, wishfully, sorta woefully…

‘Cowgirl’ Watched, as I drifted back into memories of ‘for real’ Cowgirls.

The place began to fill up along ‘bout 1900hrs. The joint was semi-jumping now. (For San Diego, I guess. By that time I suppose the surf was no longer ‘up’).

I studied the apparently single cowgirls and spied a rather lanky ‘tall drank ah water’, long-haired brunette with Sloe-Gin eyes and all that implies, just tearing things up with several different dance partners.

I made my move between songs. Sashayed over to her and asked for a ‘daince’, (actually tipping my hat! Yes! Yes! I know! Bullshit!) trying ever-so-hard to establish that I weren’t no ‘Coke-a-Cola Cowboy’, but a real ‘un. 

From Texas.

Lance as “Cowboy”

We danced the dance and I could sense I was not her cup of… whatever it is that they actually drink here.

She whispered in my ear, “Hey ‘Cowboy’ (rather mockingly, I perceived), “I have a friend you should meet. Her name’s ‘Shonnie’ and she is seated (seated?) just right over there. C’mon! I’ll introduce ‘Y’all’” (Yet another perceived slight?)

I glanced in the direction she was leading us and saw a rather diminutive dirty blond, absently stirring her drink as she casually watched the band while they began to belt out some Randy Travis monstrosity.

We waltzed up to the table and my escort announced quite cheerfully, “Hey Shonnie! I found you a ‘real’ Cowboy.” (She quickly whispered to me, “Hey Sugar Britches, what’s your name?”)

“Lance”

“Uh, Shonnie, Girlfriend, This here’s ‘Lance’. Say ‘Howdy.’”

“Hiya”

I shook the diminutive hand she offered and sat down.

“Uh, Howdy Shonnie, Little Lady; Nice to meet Y’all.” (Yes, I was really laying it on thick, but I was somewhere between buzzed  and drunk and starting to figure, ‘What the hell I got to lose’?)

She smiled wily, if not demurely, through semi-white teeth, Marlboro smoke, and Paul Newman Blue Eyes. I must admit: I was intrigued.

Thus began one of the most bizarre ‘flings’ I have ever had.

***

More to come… 

***

“And I’ll be lookin’ for eight when they pull that gate.”

“And I hope that judge ain’t blind…”

We all do”

Peanut.

“We all look for ‘eight’

And we all hope the judge IS blind (but you knew that, didn’t you? You asshole! You were not supposed to die first. We made a pact. Didn’t we?? Don’t you remember?”)

Rest, My Very Best Friend.

You are severely missed.

I’ll catch up to you.”

Someday soon…

Suzy Bogguss – Someday Soon

Vid Share Cred: Robert W. Roddis, Esq.

“Uh, Lance, You Are a MORON!” The Biker, Bouncer, Bartender, Big-Boned Gal From Milwaukee” or “Bloody Mary Mourning–Baby Left Me Without Warning

She didn’t even say

“Goodbye Asshole”

This is (sort of) a continuation of my “Shonnie Series.”

And since I like things to be linear,

We shall rejoin our “Hero” just after his ‘Denouement.’ 

Or perhaps just after his ‘Epiphany’.

Or perhaps just after… Oh! Who the hell knows?

Or cares?

***

SHE led me to a car and we all piled in. I say ‘we all’ simply because suddenly there were three of us. Me, HER, and a miniscule blonde. I’d seen this movie before, but this time it came with a plot twist, I guess.

I have to guess.

The rest of the evening (early morning?) lies deeply submerged somewhere in the nether regions of my addled murky-muddled-memory.

After about twenty minutes… I am once again, ‘guesstimating’ here.

Could’ve been an hour or more.

Or less.

After about ‘twenty’ minutes we arrived at a ‘house’.

Could have been an apartment. Could have been a barn. Could have been The Ritz-Carlton. Could have been a flying fucking saucer.

Hell! I do not remember; is what I’m saying.

My torturously painful thoughts of losing Shonnie combined with copious quantities of consumed alcohol had done a seriously ‘detrimental-mental’ on my ability to exhibit fully functional, lucid behavior.

The wheel was turning, but the hamster was dead.

My alligator did not go all the way to the top. There was a spammer in my works. Elvis had left the building with my mind.

In other words, I was a mess.

***

SHE took me inside and led me straight-away to a bed, in a room… A bedroom. Best guess. If memory serves, a rather liberal and generous assumption, we had sex. Violent sex. (Not ‘violent’ violent. Let’s just call it ‘intense.’)

SHE was no less than six foot and change and as I did report earlier, ‘Big-Boned.” I swear, I saw my life’s movie flash in front of me as she covered me and had her way. (And of course, me mine)

As we lay there ‘after’ in someone else’s bed, she remarked, “Well, that should keep your self-winding watch going for a few days.”

I had to laugh, right before I drifted off.  Passed out.

Completely whacked out and totally done in.

Used.

Abused.

Helpless.

Conquered.

It was an immensely satisfying sweet sense of surrender.

***

The next morning I awoke with the sun singeing my eyes through a casually, carelessly placed shadeless window (What’s wrong with these people?)

I could smell bacon. I rolled over and looked at my watch: 0630. I had a sudden start. Then realized it was Sunday, not a work day, and I did not have ‘duty’ on my ship. I could go back to sleep, un-worried.

But oh no! SHE was up and about. So who was cooking bacon?

(I’d forgotten about Tiny Blondie.)

“Oh. You’re awake?” She said.

“Uh, yeah. Kinda,” was all I could muster. “Where am I? Who are you?”

Not an intelligent question, probably a dangerous, stupid, perilous one, but then, I was hung over and still groggy, and surely she wouldn’t take advantage of a mentally incapacitated, defenseless sailor.

Would she?

“I am the woman to be named later,” she laughed while poking me in the ribs. (Which hurt for some reason)

I rolled over to face her. She was indeed, Beautiful. Very Beautiful. Stunningly Beautiful. Makes one’s eyes water Beautiful.

She was right out of a fantasy, with gloriously long, luscious, dark brown hair. Hair so long, so ‘deep’ so thick that a hapless sailor could go missing in it for days on end.

Long, bronze-tanned perfectly symmetrical legs that seemed to go on for days, shapely firm breasts that simply defy description, sultry dark, dark eyes channeling mystery–too much mystery.

Raw, unfiltered sexuality poured from every fiber of her.

It was unnerving.

Not necessarily in a bad way,

But I was all ‘myster-ied’ out and the only fantasy I was holding was ‘getting back that girl I had before.’ That little short, pale, half-ginger one with the electric blue eyes and the volatile attitude.

I was spent.

Running on empty.

I was exhausted, emotionally, mentally, physically.

Send my saddle home.

Please!

I needed comfort. I needed soft. I needed tender. I needed sweet. I needed to be held and caressed.

Not fucked to within an inch of my life.

I needed Gidget. I needed Gilligan’s Island Mary Ann, I needed Samantha Stevens, I needed Amy Adams, or even Mary Poppins.

As lucky and grateful as I was to have found myself sharing, if only briefly, a bed with this goddess of a woman, I was not certain nor confident I was capable of surviving yet another encounter with such an intimidating representative of the ‘fairer’ sex.

Not yet, anyhow.

Not just yet.

My world seemed to be teeming with ‘Snakes and Ladders’.

“It Breaks Your Heart Just Looking At Her.”

–Joni:  Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm 1988

***

“You don’t remember my name?” She asked after lighting a cigarette.

“To be stupidly and painfully honest, no I don’t.”

“No matter. I am called ‘Layla’. Ring any bells?” (I wish I were making this up)

See this below if you’re puzzled by my ‘Layla PTSD.’

Thinking I had just fallen ass-over-tit into Dante’s Inferno it occurred to me that I needed to change my Sailor–Ways.

First Contrition, then Absolution, then Redemption, then…

Oh! Screw that! What I really needed was a Bloody Mary. A Super-Sized Bloody Mary. And soon! As in five minutes soon, if not sooner.

My mind had wandered off somewhere.

Layla repeated her question,

“Ring any bells?”

“Uh. No. Should bells be ringing? I don’t like bells. Every time I hear bells ringing, something bad happens.”

Rolling her eyes, à la ‘Shonnie’, she said, “So… You’re a Sailor? Yes?”

“Yes. And what are you? And are you from around here?”

“Not from around here. I’m just visiting my cousin. She is the one cooking breakfast.”

“Yeah. I can smell bacon.”

“Good nose. I like that in a man. Have you an appetite?”

“From some memory of last night, I’d have to say ‘affirmative’.”

“Hahahahah! Yep. You do, Sailor Man. Yep, you sure do.”

“So, if you’re not from here. Where are you ‘from’, and what do you do?”

“I’m from Wisconsin. I work as a bartender. I’m also a bouncer, when the need is needed. Oh, and I love to ride Harleys.”

***

“Perfection, I thought. Now what Cowboy? Shit. Here I am again…”

I had ‘some leave-days-on-the-books’ and seriously considered at that moment that I should take them and head home to Texas to get a re-start on my psyche saki… get a ‘refresh’ on my Texan Accent, recharge my Ni-Cad batteries, take a break.

Well, spelling and lucid, rational thinking ain’t never been my thing, but you know what I mean here.

Don’t you?

No matter.

Keep reading.

Sooner or later, it will all make perfect, logical sense.

Or not.

I mean, I was still ‘re-bounding’ for glory and quite honestly, still heart-sick over my loss of Shonnie. But I did have some time, eh? Didn’t I? Meaning I was still relatively young and deep at heart, a perpetual cock-eyed-optimist.

And I was a good and decent man.

Most of the time.

But Shonnie had set me back.

Set me back and set me down.

Hard.

Something must be done.

Something had to give.

My mind was in a very bad place.

“Hey Sailor! You want breakfast and some blood mary, or what?” came her voice from some foggy-in-my-head place below.

Apparently, while lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed She’d left me all alone.

“Uh… Yeah! I mean yes! I’ll be right down!”

“The pitfalls of the city are extremely real.”

Credit: AustinCityLimitsTV—October, 1974

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Previously:

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Coming Soon:

“The Biker-Bartender-Bouncer Chick, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: Part Two”

***

Commentary Below From Original Version of this Post

Please Read From Bottom Up for Continuity

18 THOUGHTS ON “THE BIKER, BOUNCER, BARTENDER, BIG-BONED GAL FROM MILWAUKEE”

johncoyote March 7, 2021 at 05:42 Edit

I enjoyed this story. I was station in Texas for almost seven years. I loved the Texas gals. They asked you to dance and they were fast and fearless. I liked the girl that cooked a meal in the morning. And we talk some after. Thank you for sharing the entertaining tale.

LAMarcom August 13, 2015 at 01:45 Edit

Reblogged this on Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics and commented:

How can one go wrong with Willie?

LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 18:34 Edit

🙂

LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 18:27 Edit

Well, don’t go changin’! I like your stories!

LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 17:33 Edit

Hahahah!

It has been said before!

Cheers!

LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 14:14 Edit

Dare I say – You TRAMP, you! LOL 😉

LAMarcom July 25, 2014 at 22:28 Edit

Mark,

You are too kind my friend.

I do thank you though.

Marvelous much.

Cheers,

Lance

markbialczak July 25, 2014 at 21:26 Edit

With Shonnie, your adventures were better than Tom Sawyer’s. With Layla, now you’re going after the legend of Huck Finn. You were something else, my friend Lance.

LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 23:31 Edit

🙂

~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 23:02 Edit

You know I will!! 😉

LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 22:55 Edit

Thank you Sadie.

My mood(s) currently won’t let me continue this one for the next few days.

But… Never Fear!

The words will come, by an’ by…

And I hope you will read.

Cheers,

Lance

~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 22:32 Edit

Can’t wait to read more, Lance!! 🙂 You know I love your stories!!

LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:29 Edit

It only hurt when I laughed.

Thanks for stopping by T. ‘Preciate it.

🙂

Teela Hart July 22, 2014 at 16:38 Edit

I’m with Nancytex.

Rib pain?

You definitely need a Samantha.

Can’t wait to read the next installment.

T

LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 10:36 Edit

If you could have seen Layla, you’d understand. I quickly recovered. (I was young and bulletproof back then ya know?)

😉

Thanks for reading. There will be more to this story….

NancyTex July 22, 2014 at 10:33 Edit

My mind is bouncing all around trying to figure out why your ribs would be hurting. That’s some aggressive sexy, my friend.

LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 08:10 Edit

I read Willie’s autobiography many, many years ago. I suspect if he knew how long he was to live (and may he outlive me), he would have waited some more decades before he penned that ‘biopic.’

At any rate, I do concur: Willie is a fascinating character and a fascinating character study and also a Texas Treasure.

As for me… well, to me marriage was never much more binding than a handshake. This is why after four, I have now sworn off marriages. Just call me Hamlet: “There will be no more marriages!” Get this boy to a nunnery!

Thanks Pain for reading and commenting. Always thought provoking and a pleasure to read.

Cheers My Friend,

–Lance

Exile on Pain Street July 22, 2014 at 06:29 Edit

I was never able to pull of instantaneous, anonymous sex with a stranger when I was younger. I wish I could have because you sure make it sound fun. But I was so wracked with a crippling case of low self-esteem that I never tried. And now that I’m married, it’s too late. THERE’S a lesson for you.

I’ve been listening to Willie Nelson be interviewed on Howard Stern all morning. What an amazing life that guy had! Willie, that is. Not Stern.

Shonnie The Biker’s Wife: “Denouement” or “You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams”

Alternate Title: “Fairy-Tales can come true; it can happen to you if you’re young at heart… and stupid and credulous and careless and think you’re bulletproof.”

But be forewarned: They are fleeting, ephemeral, transitory.

***

“You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams, if you’re young at heart.”

I’m callin’ ‘Bullshit’ on that statement.

Frank Sinatra – Young At Heart1953

Video Credit: kopbyt123

***

Or, if you prefer: “Big-Boned Rescue Gal”

(Or All of The Above: Virtual Ink is Cheap Enough)

***

Nothing to do now but drive away and discover what happens next. No point in trying to flee at a high rate of speed. Most Harleys (when they are not broken down) will outrun a heavy-ass Toranado. Which brings to mind a t-shirt one of MY biker friends often wore.

Yes, I had some biker friends. They were also sailors, but I don’t think that disqualifies them.

The T-shirt read: “I’d rather push my Harley than ride your Honda.”

***

So off I drove into the predawn.

Never having what could be remotely considered decent navigation skills, I just headed in the general direction of what I thought to be south, hoping to hit I-Five, which would lead me to 32nd Street Naval Base and my ship.

And of course I kept frequently glancing in my rear-view.

Billy, or whomever, did in fact follow me, yet at a respectful distance. At one point I contemplated stopping and asking him for directions, but in the end thought better of that.

Eventually, either he got bored, lost his nerve, or ran out of gas.

Anyway, he disappeared from my radar. I made it back to the USS Callaghan with just enough time to change into my dungarees and make morning muster.

When the 1MC announced “Knock off Ship’s Work” at 1600hrs, I quickly changed into my civvies and ‘hit the beach’.

I grabbed a pay phone on the pier and called Shonnie up at work.

“Hello?”

“Shonnie?”

“You were expecting maybe… Madonna?”

Ignoring her classic wit, I said “Are you okay?”

“Yes of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

Uh oh. Her tone did not bode well. “Perhaps you caught amnesia. Did Billy come calling?”

“Uh, yeah. He did.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Come on Shonnie, what happened?”

“He begged me to open the door, so finally I let him in.”

She didn’t seem to want to talk about this, but damn it! I was in ‘need-to-know’ status. ‘Hey! I’m needin’ to know here!’ (Sorry Dustin)

“Well? Do I have to drag this out of you?”

“Listen Lance, he broke down and cried All Right!

He promised to be a better husband and father. He begged me to take him back. He is the Father of my Son, Goddamn it! What-the-fuck-do-you-expect-me-to-do?”

(Kids always trump lovers. I suppose this is as it should be, but… this asshole was abusive. At least that was her early story.)

“So, you’re getting back together then?” I felt as if I had been kicked in the solar plexus.

Hard and more than once.

It was becoming difficult to breathe.

“Yes.”

“You sure about this?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Goddamn it Shonnie! You can’t do this to ME! To US!”

“It has to be this way Lance.”

“Well, I guess that’s it then.”

I quickly scoured my brain for something else to add but could not continue the conversation.

“Yeah. I guess it is. Goodbye Lance.” She hung up.

“That’s IT??!!” I screamed into the dead receiver.

***

Heartbreak. Sorrow. Self-Pity. Despair. Rage. Anguish. Aloneness.

All clawing at my mind, tearing apart my heart, climbing over each other in their effort to get to the top of my emotional hit parade.

Damn it!

I never saw this coming!

I slammed the receiver into the phone and watched it bounce out and fall toward the ground, stopped short by the silver metal tether.

I stood there vacantly staring at it for a moment as it aimlessly swayed back and forth, pendulum-like.

Suppose at some point I walked toward my car, because that is where I ended up. As soon as I sat down in the driver’s seat I realized I was crying.

There seemed to be a pattern developing here:

Talk to Shonnie. Then grown men cry.

Note to self: ‘research this.’

Fuck! This Hurts! Hurts Real Bad.

I sat there and watched my heart breaking.

Bits and pieces of it fell to the floorboard.

Linda Ronstadt – Heart Like A Wheel (1976) Offenbach, Germany

***

A couple of weeks later I was kidnapped by some buddies from my ship.

“Marcom, you done been moping around for too long. We’re goin’ out tonight to a great joint. No arguments. Just grab yer shit and come on.”

I had to acquiesce.

Mark and Tommy mounted their Harleys. Frank, Lenny, and I climbed into Lenny’s ’68  orange Chevelle, which he referred to as his “She-Vail” Accent on the ‘Vail.’

Of ‘course’ it was ‘hot-rodded’ up, racing stripes, loud pipes, loud stereo, the whole bit. He loved that damn car. Talked about it more than booze or women.

“Where we goin’?” I asked after about five minutes of ear-splitting Guns N’ Roses (Lenny waxed and waned between ‘Pure Country’ and ‘Heavy Metal’ depending on his mood and blood alcohol level.)

“Goin’ to IB,” he shouted over Welcome to the Jungle. (‘Imperial Beach’ for those who may not have had the opportunity to visit some of the classier environs south of San Diego.) One can actually ‘smell’ Tijuana from IB, not an entirely unpleasant smell if the wind is right and it ain’t summertime.

Welcome to Imperial Beach

HAZMAT Gear On Tap for Rental at Cook’s Corner Boutique & Bar

(Subject to Availability)

We were just a couple of car lengths behind Mark and Tommy straddling  their Harleys,  puking blue smoke, and producing one hundred decibels above what OSHA would consider workplace violence.

They had effortlessly and instantly metamorphosed from ‘A-Jay-Squared-Away Sailors’ into ‘So-Cal Bikers’…

Replete with all the garb: leather jackets, black jack-boots, Brando Hats, ‘too dark to see through’ sunglasses.

The whole bit.

We passed through National City, (‘Nasty City’) then Chula Vista, (Chew, Ya-Wanna?’).

I couldn’t help but think of Shonnie and how much she would have loved this ‘adventure.’ And I with her, experiencing it together. Damn! Damn her! I missed her still!

“Almost there!” Lenny shouted as we pulled off of I-5 and tacked somewhat west toward the Pacific.

“Almost where?!” I shouted back, but Lenny said nothing. After navigating through some of Imperial Beach’s “Nicer Hoods” our little caravanserai pulled into a gravel parking lot, which presumably belonged to the ramshackle ‘Joint’

I now found me staring at. Lots of Harleys in the lot. I cannot recall the name of the establishment, but it was something along the lines of “The Salty Frog.” or “IB Bar N’ Grill” or “Busted Spoke.”

Oh wait! Now I remember!

‘Cook’s Corner’

No matter, I was only interested in drink, not ambience. Mark and Tommy dismounted as Frank, Lenny, and I ‘de-She-Vailed’ and headed into the ‘Dew Drop Inn’ or, what-you-will.

Inside, the joint wasn’t too bad. Good A/C, low lighting, a couple of pool tables and lots of… Yep: bikers. Well, why not?

I was sick to death of the memory of the squeaky-clean C/W Joint where I had first met Shonnie and this place was as far removed from that type of joint as I could ever hope to get.

We found a table against a back wall and proceeded headlong into the arms of intoxication. As I was not expected to drive (this was sort of a ‘coming back out of the shadow of death’ party for me after all), I planned to “Drink that woman offa my mind.”

“Drinkin’ My Baby (Off My Mind)”–Eddie Rabbitt

***

The drinks flowed and the bullshit rolled (mostly downhill into my lap, as it was well known that I was in ‘lost love recovery’ mode.)

I won’t go into detail about how piercingly eloquent we all became during the course of the evening. Mainly because I cannot remember all the pearls of wisdom which were cast back and forth amongst us swine.

What I do recall was my exit:

Roughly fifteen minutes after Last Call, and as all the patrons began to shuffle (or in my case, stagger) toward the exit,

I ran headlong into an immovable object: probably because I was trying to guide my feet one step at a time with my eyes cast downward and not really paying attention to the ‘bigger picture’ part of navigation.

‘Situational Awareness’ is overrated and for cowards anyway.

Looking up I realized I had run into a woman.

A very tall, very large woman. Not a fat woman, mind you, but a tall and large Jumbotron of a woman. I mean a ‘Big-Boned Gal.’ A fuckin’-beautiful-brunette-dark-eyed Big Bone Woman, who, praise Neptune, did not appear angered by my clumsiness.

I found my voice and said, “Hi… Uh… I’m Lance. Will you take me home? With you?”

BBG smiled down at me, “Yes. I sure will,” she said as she took me by the hand.

I wanted to tell her that I was a refugee from a disconcerted affair, mourning over the one that got away, but even thinking about Tom Waits, let alone quoting him, would have hurled me into an emotional tailspin and probably also into a drunken crying jag for added melodramatic value.

I dared not risk it, so I shut up and silently allowed her to lead me to her vehicle.

***

Well I’ve lost my equilibrium and my car keys and my pride,
The tattoo parlor’s warm, and so I hustle there inside
And the grinding of the buzz-saw, “What you want that thing to say?”
I says,

“Just don’t misspell her name buddy, she’s the one that got away”

***

But as they say (Always ‘They’. Who ARE ‘They?’ The ‘They’ who always say?)

“Nothing gets you over the last one like the next one.”

***

My recovery was officially underway.

Thank You Big-Boned Gal!

Street Cred for Vid: barefootkd’s channel

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This Concludes Our ‘All Things Shonnie’ Broad Cast (no pun). We now return you to our regularly scheduled insanity.

***

Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I was ‘enjoined’ to write it.

However, BOLO for some ‘Final Thoughts Part Duh’ coming real soon.

I’d provide them today, but they are gonna be Real ‘Heavy,’ Real ‘Philosophical,’ Real ‘Tedious,’ and Real ‘Sad.’

And I am not up to the task of laying them down just yet.

Perhaps tonight,

Perhaps not.

We’ll see.

Peace and Beer to all Y’all!

Oh! I almost forgot.

“Coming Soon: More Big Boned Gal”

As Promised:

***

Previously:

***

If you are new here, or a long-lost returning Pilgrim, you may want to begin your Shonnie Journey Below

And then simply “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” i.e., The Lancelot Links:

***

Comments from the original version of this post may be discovered below.

Please read from the bottom up for continuity.

18 THOUGHTS ON “SHONNIE THE BIKER’S WIFE: DENOUEMENT”

LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:42 Edit

Youth is a magic healing bullet.

Thank you very much for reading this long series. Your time spent here is greatly appreciated. I know how busy all of us are and there are TONs of blogs out there to read.

I am very grateful you took the time to read mine.

Cheers Friend.

Tony Single July 22, 2014 at 19:09 Edit

Fantastic read. Truth be told, I was actually a little gutted at the end. I’m not sure I could go through a break up like that.

LAMarcom July 18, 2014 at 18:19 Edit

So glad you are enjoying the tale.

Yeah, lost loves can be painful, especially when one is young and doesn’t yet possess the thick skin for protection.

Thanks very much for reading and commenting.

-L

Teela Hart July 18, 2014 at 11:13 Edit

Great story Lance.

I enjoyed every minute.

I know how it is with lost loves.

I’m not sure I could write about mine, but I have to say once again that you have skills dude.

Can’t wait for the next adventure.

T

LAMarcom July 17, 2014 at 20:22 Edit

Thanks my good friend.

Truth be told, I’m glad that one is done. I’m rather emotionally exhausted.

😉

Time to move on to other Tales O’ Texas (and other places)

Have a wonderful eve,

-Lance

markbialczak July 17, 2014 at 20:19 Edit

You got, you gave. Good story, Lance. A little better than good. Great, possibly. Told well, sir, told well.

lauramacky July 17, 2014 at 12:29 Edit

loool

LAMarcom July 17, 2014 at 11:38 Edit

Hahaha! Well, ya know… I was just a simple sailor.

David Scott Moyer July 17, 2014 at 09:37 Edit

I enjoyed it. Seems like you did too, for the most part.

lauramacky July 17, 2014 at 09:28 Edit

Well that didn’t take long. Out with the old, in with the new I guess! LOL. Another lol was one of Imperial Beaches “Nicer Hoods”…reminds me of Oakland hahaha

LAMarcom July 17, 2014 at 08:19 Edit

Worse woman tango! Hahaha! Love it!

Gracias Amigo!

happierheathen July 17, 2014 at 01:43 Edit

The only cure for the bad woman blues is the worse woman tango. 😀

Thanks for filling in the blanks, hombre. (That’s pronounced as Daffy Duck pronounces it: Homber.)

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 22:09 Edit

In truth, Sadie, I am happy to put Shonnie to bed.

And also in truth, I would like to ‘bed’ her just one-more-time.

For old time’s sake.

😉

Cheers,

Lance

~ Sadie ~ July 16, 2014 at 22:04 Edit

I hope it was as cathartic for you to write it as it was enjoyable for me to read it 🙂 There’s some good memories there . . .

Peace out, Lance

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 21:13 Edit

David, Friend,

Time for me to move on, and truthfully, aside from a couple of ‘relapses’, that was the end of me and Shonnie.

You’re just going to have to trust me on this one.

And thanks so much for reading the series; means much to me.

Always love your comments.

Cheers,

Lance

David Scott Moyer July 16, 2014 at 21:09 Edit

I’ll believe it’s over when I believe it’s over.

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 21:05 Edit

Homeopathic.

Always works.

Hahahah

Thanks for readin’ Annie.

Cheers,

Lance

Mad Annie, Bronwyn, Ann July 16, 2014 at 21:04 Edit

Hair o’ the dog what bit ya!