HANGING OUT AT COBBLEHEADS
If hanging out downtown Friday or Saturday night is de rigueur (I only do one night because I can't do two nights in a row!), then gathering with the Baby Boomers on the deck late Sunday afternoons at Cobbleheads is always in vogue.
I skipped mass yesterday. The money I would have dropped in the collection basket I deposited in Joe Kenney's pocket. I've been depositing money in his pocket for the last 35 years since he first opened Checker's Café downtown and I would sing The Three-Legged Rooster with The Connectors backing me. I'm still waiting for that first cold beer on the house from the Irish Prick. He may be good to musicians, but he has never shown me any of that love. But that's cool. I've had more than my share of freebies.
Emilio Crixell, Albert Besteiro, Charlie Harrison and the regulars were on stage. Brownsville's own Sonny & Cher, Joe and Rosa Perez, grabbed the microphone during one set and harmonized to the groove of the swaying palms.
It was another miraculous day weather-wise. If these cool and overcast days are the price that we are going to pay for climate change, then let the polar caps melt. Hell, Brownsville could be occupying beachfront property in a few decades.
Since I don't celebrate Christmas, Easter, Cinco de Mayor, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, birthdays and anniversaries, I didn't celebrate Mother's Day. My three sons have followed in my tradition by not celebrating Father's Day. I celebrate every day or I lie in bed recovering from celebrating the previous day. For me there is no such thing as days of the week. There are only days.
During a music break, Albert approached me and asked me if I still smoked dope. I told him that I did but only on spontaneous occasions. Since I haven't been playing any music lately, I haven't been puffing on any weed. When I'm high, I want to strum my guitar and sing my RGV delta blues.
One of life's sad realities is that we aren't doing the artistic and physical things we should be doing. As a result we become mentally stagnant and physically flaccid. Fortunately, enough guilt can be inspirational as one finally decides to escape the doldrums.
I don't consider myself an artist. Artists can be arrogant characters who convince themselves that God has given them an insight into this existence that others don't possess. Art for many is a secular religion and I am not a religious person.
I am as stupid as the next guy and as ugly as the next gal. But I do have a creative side. I am finishing my 16th book and I have produced four children besides raising two others. Most of my books haven't been read and one child died, but I still keep writing and fucking. I hope to pen a few more books, but I have no intention of bringing another child into this world.
I spent most of my time at the bar watching the basketball game between Toronto and Philadelphia. It was an exciting NBA weekend. Born and raised in Sacramento, I have been a Warriors fan since the days of Rick Berry.
Another Rick, Rick Lepre, the legendary coach, joined me at the bar. He told me he hated the NBA. Retired from the BISD, he is rediscovering his lost youth with his blond hair and a diamond stud in his ear. It's his way of letting his freak flag fly.
"Do you need a ride home?" he asked after we had conversed a few hours. Wednesday night I got so drunk that I fell flat on my face walking from Cobbleheads to my hotel room. The tequila snuck up on me. I could have hurt myself. If I'm not careful, I might tumble down a flight of stairs one of these days and break my neck.
"Sure."
As Rick dropped me off at my place, he said, "Give me a call during the week and we'll throw back a few."
"Sure."
I skipped mass yesterday. The money I would have dropped in the collection basket I deposited in Joe Kenney's pocket. I've been depositing money in his pocket for the last 35 years since he first opened Checker's Café downtown and I would sing The Three-Legged Rooster with The Connectors backing me. I'm still waiting for that first cold beer on the house from the Irish Prick. He may be good to musicians, but he has never shown me any of that love. But that's cool. I've had more than my share of freebies.
Emilio Crixell, Albert Besteiro, Charlie Harrison and the regulars were on stage. Brownsville's own Sonny & Cher, Joe and Rosa Perez, grabbed the microphone during one set and harmonized to the groove of the swaying palms.
It was another miraculous day weather-wise. If these cool and overcast days are the price that we are going to pay for climate change, then let the polar caps melt. Hell, Brownsville could be occupying beachfront property in a few decades.
Since I don't celebrate Christmas, Easter, Cinco de Mayor, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, birthdays and anniversaries, I didn't celebrate Mother's Day. My three sons have followed in my tradition by not celebrating Father's Day. I celebrate every day or I lie in bed recovering from celebrating the previous day. For me there is no such thing as days of the week. There are only days.
During a music break, Albert approached me and asked me if I still smoked dope. I told him that I did but only on spontaneous occasions. Since I haven't been playing any music lately, I haven't been puffing on any weed. When I'm high, I want to strum my guitar and sing my RGV delta blues.
One of life's sad realities is that we aren't doing the artistic and physical things we should be doing. As a result we become mentally stagnant and physically flaccid. Fortunately, enough guilt can be inspirational as one finally decides to escape the doldrums.
I don't consider myself an artist. Artists can be arrogant characters who convince themselves that God has given them an insight into this existence that others don't possess. Art for many is a secular religion and I am not a religious person.
I am as stupid as the next guy and as ugly as the next gal. But I do have a creative side. I am finishing my 16th book and I have produced four children besides raising two others. Most of my books haven't been read and one child died, but I still keep writing and fucking. I hope to pen a few more books, but I have no intention of bringing another child into this world.
I spent most of my time at the bar watching the basketball game between Toronto and Philadelphia. It was an exciting NBA weekend. Born and raised in Sacramento, I have been a Warriors fan since the days of Rick Berry.
Another Rick, Rick Lepre, the legendary coach, joined me at the bar. He told me he hated the NBA. Retired from the BISD, he is rediscovering his lost youth with his blond hair and a diamond stud in his ear. It's his way of letting his freak flag fly.
"Do you need a ride home?" he asked after we had conversed a few hours. Wednesday night I got so drunk that I fell flat on my face walking from Cobbleheads to my hotel room. The tequila snuck up on me. I could have hurt myself. If I'm not careful, I might tumble down a flight of stairs one of these days and break my neck.
"Sure."
As Rick dropped me off at my place, he said, "Give me a call during the week and we'll throw back a few."
"Sure."
If I didn't know better, I might think I was an existentialist anti-hero in one of Camus's novels. Much like my fall, you keep moving forward until you smack into a wall and it's over.
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