California Dreamin’ – 1982 to 1984 – Chapter 7 – Fun in Sealy, Texas

“Frank got out of the van holding a steel ice pic in his fist, while I remained inside the van filling my diaper.”

Advertisements

I love this one!

We left Louisiana and were headed west on highway 10. It’s like an elevated road through a swamp which was actually pretty cool. It had been overcast for most of the trip so far. I was hoping for some sunny days.

By nightfall we crossed the border into the state of Texas. We’re tired from driving all day so we decide to stay in the town of Sealy for the evening.

Here’s a little history.

San Felipe, Texas, sold part of its original 22,000-acre (8,900 ha) township to the Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe Railroad to create Sealy in 1879. Sealy gets its name after business tycoon and majority stock holder of the GCSF RR, George Sealy of Galveston. In 1881, Daniel Haynes, a cotton gin builder, filled a request for a cotton-filled mattress which started a company. He named this the Sealy Mattress Company after the town. Business grew exponentially, which led to more innovation and several patents, such as a machine that compressed cotton.

We were always looking to save money and this would be the first motel we would stay in on the road. I don’t remember the name of it but it was off the main highway. I suppose it was one of those places that was once vibrant and busy but when the new highway came in not many people came by to stay there anymore. Sort of like the Bates Motel.

We pull the van up in front of the lobby and go in. It’s a dingy, dimly lit office. Sitting at the counter is this guy who appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Drab clothing and long greasy hair. Sort of like some character out of oh… I don’t know, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre?

He’s sitting there coloring. Yea. With crayons. In a coloring book. I swear to God.

So we fill out the registration card and give the guy the money for the room. I don’t remember how much it was. Maybe $22 for the night.

Frank’s been going on all day about how he wants to watch the Superman movie on TV tonight. “Fuckin’ Supermon! It’ll be brilliant!” he said in his Irish accent. I guess he hadn’t seen it when it was in the theater and was all excited that we could watch it on TV tonight for the first time. It was supposed to come on at 9pm and it was only 8pm so there was time to get beer, settle in and watch it so Frank wouldn’t lose his shit. (This is the Superman starring Christopher Reeve for all you youngsters reading this.)

So the weirdo gives us some bath towels the keys and assigns us a room down the end. (No one will hear our screams) We go back to the van and get in. I toss the towels on the seat behind me and we slowly drive down to our room and park in front of it. Over the door is a dome lamp emitting very little light because it’s so clogged with dead insects. I put the key in the door expecting to be snatched inside by Leatherface, But happily that doesn’t happen.

However, I do realize we’re the only people staying here. There are no other cars and all of the rooms are dark.

We go inside and I find the light switch on the wall. It’s a dingy little room with two beds, a night table between them and TV on a stand on the opposite wall. The room smells like mildew. I walk to the bathroom to see what’s doing in there. The bathroom is always a good barometer of the level cleanliness in a motel. Frank’s busy playing with the TV.

The bathroom looks ok. Not great, but ok.

That is until I pull back the shower curtain. (Oh a bloody dead body? Kidding!)

On the wall I see the biggest fucking roach I’ve ever seen in my life.

I’m originally from Philly. Born and raised. I grew up in Lawndale in Northeast Philly. Everybody had roaches in their basement. My mother would say it was because we live between two rivers. I don’t see how that had any relevance to why we had German cockroaches in our basement, I just knew those things creeped out me and my sisters growing up. I may at some point write an exclusive piece about my hatred and respect for cockroaches as a species.

But this thing appeared to be over two inches in length.  I was immediately terrified and looked for something to smash it out of existence forever in Kubrickian glee.

And that’s when it opened it’s wings and flew right at my face. I squealed like a schoolgirl and ran out of the bathroom.

“Wot the fuck’s up with you?”

“I just saw the biggest goddamn roach ever… and they can FLY down here!!!”

“Fuck off mate. We’ve got bigger problems.”

“Rats?”

“No! There’s no reception on the TV. How the fuck am I going to watch Superman now?”

I’m still trying to process the flying monster in the bathroom. Because where there’s one, there’s more you can’t see. Apparently what I witnessed that night was my first Palmetto Beetle. They look like roaches but have hardened wings so they can fly. Leave it to the state of Texas and the South in general to come up with some scary shit and then make it even scarier.

“We can’t stay here. Gotta see Superman.”

“Will you shut the fuck up about fucking Superman?!”

 

We decide that’s we’re going to drive back up to the office and tell the coloring book guy that we saw a bunch of roaches and the TV doesn’t work and that we just want our money back and we’ll go.

We do just that and after some back and forth with this half wit he begrudgingly opens the register and gives us back our money. We thank him profusely and hop back in the van. We’re on the winding road through the woods back to highway 10 only a few minutes.

Suddenly, this car comes roaring out of the darkness behind us flashing its headlights. I’m thinking, what kind of Urban Legend has been wrought upon us?

Frank rolls down the window and sticks his head out and starts barking at the driver of the late-model convertible behind us. I’m thinking he’s going to get a shotgun blast to the head and that’s going to be the end of it.

“For fuck’s sake, Chaz, It’s the guy from the motel!”

At this point my heart is pounding and I’m terrified.

“I don’t think this old horse can outrun him. Should I pull over?”

“Ya… Fuckin’ pull over I’ll see what your man wants!”

I bring the minibus to a halt. I pull the emergency brake but leave the engine running. Frank grabs this foot long metal ice pick out of his rucksack.

“What the fuck, dude? Where did you get that?”

“No worries let’s see what this fucker wants.”

Coloring book boy doesn’t know that Frank was formerly in the junior wing of the IRA back in Belfast. The Irish Republican Army is any of several armed movements in Ireland in the 20th and 21st centuries dedicated to Irish republicanism, the belief that all of Ireland should be an independent republic. It was also characterized by the belief that political violence was necessary to achieve that goal.

Yea. You don’t want to fuck with Frank.

He approaches the guy.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Of course the coward that I am, remained safely in the van filling my diaper waiting to hear the sound of someone trying to start a chainsaw.

The guy is saying something to Frank but I can’t hear the exchange because of the blood rushing through my ears in fear.

Then I hear it.

“My tails!”

“What?”

“I want my tails!”

“What the fuck is he going on about, Chaz?”

And then I get it. The Southern accent. He’s not asking about the hindmost part of an animal, especially when prolonged beyond the rest of the body, such as the flexible extension of the backbone in a vertebrate, the feathers at the hind end of a bird, or a terminal appendage in an insect.

I reach behind my seat. (My Gun? Kidding!)

I walk back in the glare of his headlights carrying the bath towels he had given us back at the office. I totally forgot about them!

“My tails!”

“Yes. Your towels. I’m sorry, sir. We totally forgot about these.” He grabs them from me with a suspicious look on his face. I apologize again and we walk back to the van.

Frank and I both sit in silence for a moment taking in what just happened. We see the guy turn his car around and head back down the dark road. We watch as his tail lights vanish in a cloud of dust and darkness.

I pop the brake and we both explode in fits of laughter. It was that kind nervous, fearful, relieved laughter. We had just experienced our first harrowing night on the road together.

We got back out on the highway and within a mile or so pull into the lot of a brightly lit motel with several cars in the lot and people out and around laughing and drinking on their balconies. We checked in and went to our room.

Frank goes into the bathroom. The place was lovely and clean. We’re both elated to be where were at that moment.

“Fuck sake, Chaz. Look at the bathroom! It’ll dazzle ya!”

Place was really clean. I hop on my bed and pull a couple of cold ones from the cooler and hand one to Frank.

“What time is it?”

“Nine.”

Frank leaps up and turns on the TV.

We clink our bottles together as the opening scene of Superman appears on the big color TV.

 

Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day.

Instagram: @phicklephilly             Facebook: phicklephilly

The Beach House – Chapter 2

It was about four o’clock when I finished the final load a laundry. It being summer, I still had a good four hours of good beach time left. I grabbed a book, donned my swimming trunks, and headed to my lounger. I mentally kicked myself for forgetting to research a self-adjusting umbrella. I began to adjust the umbrella and felt a sharp pain in my ankle as my foot dug into the sand. Something jabbed me hard right below where the ankle bone stuck out. I whipped my foot up and saw two small welts just above the heel. It didn’t look that serious although it was a bit sore. It must have been some glass or something in the sand. Just another thing trying to ruin my day.

I lay on the lounger and opened my book at the marker. It wasn’t a great book, but I had a rule about finishing every book I start. It even paid off one time with a fantastic ending that made the slog through the rest more than worthwhile. I flexed my leg and ankle a bit trying to shake off the noticeable discomfort from the sand bite. I figured I would be stuck with the pain till I was able to sleep it off tonight. I went back to my book.

An incessant uneven humming began to disturb my world. I looked up from the book and saw a boat breaking the waves not far off shore. It seemed too small for the ocean. Every time a wave went by, it pulled the small engine out of the water and it emitted a high pitched scream. Fucking idiots. They had a whole ocean to play in, and they picked my back yard. I went back to my book figuring they would pass in a moment. The engine got louder as I read.

I looked back up and saw the small craft heading toward my beach. It sounded like the throttle was opened all the way. I lost the grip on my book and it dropped closed. “Son of a bitch!” I said as I realized I would have to spend the next five minutes trying to find my place again. I was really beginning to dislike the captain of the annoying vessel. The boat wasn’t slowing and was still heading to my beach. If they thought they were landing here, they had better think again. I grabbed my phone in case I had to call the police.

The boat began veering off to the left toward the breakwater. The idiots should be able to see the rocks. That’s all I need is a smashed up boat to ruin my pristine view. “Hey, wake up!” I shouted and waived my arm. The boat kept coming and didn’t slow a bit. I screamed again, signaling with both arms, but the boat stayed to its course and slammed into the rocks. I heard wood give way when it hit and saw what looked like a naked body fly out toward the rocks.

I stood quickly from my chair. A little too quickly as my leg had seemed to go numb a bit. I moved toward the shore trying to work the sleep out of it yelling for whoever would listen. “Hey asshole! This is a private beach.” I received no response, but saw something bobbing close to shore. It looked like a body. Fuck, that’s all I need. Someone came all the way to my house to die. I moved quickly to water in hopes of forestalling a visit from the coroner. My arm didn’t really want to cooperate as numbness ran up my side and toward my neck. I moved quickly into the shallows and rolled what I now realized was a naked woman onto her back.

She sputtered a little water out of her mouth and looked up to me with hugely dilated eyes. “Should have just left me,” she said with a Spanish accent before she broke into laughter. Pissed, I grabbed her wrist and began pulling her lethargic body toward the sand with my good arm. Her head was oozing a bit of blood although it didn’t look too serious. Suddenly, pain forced me to my knees. Something was really wrong. I didn’t have any energy to stand back up. My whole chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself. I dropped her arm and remembered my phone. I picked the first number in my recent list and dialed Monica.

“Monica… Monica.” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t have enough air in my lungs. I realized I might be dying. A wave a fear ran through me. I wasn’t ready to go yet. I haven’t even finished the book.

“Fuck! You’re having a heart attack!” The woman sat up, and two rather attractive breasts bounced on her chest. She was failing miserably at trying to hold back laughter. My vision was drifting in and out which made the whole situation surreal. I fell backward, half in and half out of the water. She grabbed my phone before it got wet. “Mr. Private Beach needs a doctor.” She laughed into the phone and threw it over her shoulder into the water. The last thing I remember was her Spanish laughter as she straddled my stomach.

 

Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day.

Instagram: @phicklephilly      Facebook: phicklephilly   Twitter: @phicklephilly

 

California Dreamin’ – 1982 to 1984 – Chapter 6 – The French Quarter – Part 2

First, let me give you some history on Mardi Gras.

Mardi Gras is actually only one night. Fat Tuesday. The night before Ash Wednesday. The weeks of partying before Mardi Gras is actually Carnival.

For the entire Carnival, they never clean Bourbon Street. They can’t. Since the bars are open 24 hours a day, never close no matter what, it’s impossible to clean up. In other words, when you walk down Bourbon Street, you never look down. If you drop something, it’s gone man, forget it. After Mardi Gras, you throw away your shoes.

When you walk down Bourbon, things you step on squish, crunch, slide, make little crying noises, so you NEVER look down.

Some of the people arrested during Carnival are held in jail until Mardi Gras and forced to clean the streets. Now that’s punishment.

At Midnight on Fat Tuesday, they lock all the doors to all the bars and other establishments on Bourbon, and anyone caught on the street is arrested. Once all the doors are locked, the Police come down the street. A line of three Patrol cars, followed by a line of Police on horse back, followed by three SWAT trucks, followed by three Street Sweepers.

They cruise down the street arresting people while they clean the streets.

On to the story.

Frank and I are just going from bar to bar and drinking our faces off. It’s a crazy time and I can’t believe I’m already living this life on the road. People are dancing in the streets and i feel like I’m in a scene from Easy Rider at 19 years old.

We’re in Bourbon Blues (an awesome club on Bourbon Street) and I start talking to the guy next to me. He says his name is Tim and he’s from Cincinnati. He sells Bingo supplies. We talk for a while and he offers to buy us a round of drinks. Four, thirty-two ounce Hurricanes. And these are seven dollars each, plus one for himself….Do the math.

I thank him, and he says, “No, you’re not done yet.” And proceeds to order two shots of Tequila and two shots of 151 Rum into EACH drink. Shots are five bucks each, that makes each drink worth Twenty-Seven dollars, and he bought five of them.

My idiot friends ( We just met yesterday) don’t realize what’s going on, all they know is that there’s a fresh drink waiting for them. They don’t know about the four extra shots in them.

So we talk, finish our drinks and I tell him that I’ve got the next round.

He says no, and buys another round of five, Twenty-Seven dollar Hurricanes.

And the guys I’m with still have no idea what the hell is going on. They still think it’s just a normal Hurricane.

We finish that round, and once again I offer to buy a round. And once again, he declines and orders another round the same way.

And once again, my friends have no idea what they’re drinking.

When we finish this round, I offer one last time to pay for the round, and once again, he buys it instead. Let me break this down for you. Four rounds of five drinks at Twenty-Seven bucks a drink = $540.00.

I figure this is the nicest person I’ve ever met in my life.

Then my Philly Paranoia kicks in and I figure he’s going to ditch and stick me with the bill. Until I see him hand the bartender a credit card, get his slip, sign it and hand back the receipt.

Now I know he’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met.

Halfway through the drink I turn around, and Tim’s gone. He’s like the alcoholic Lone Ranger. What a nice guy. For the next hour, I was truly planning on flying to Cincinnati and find Tim and thank him personally.

A little while later I’m at the bar talking to a girl when I feel a rumbling in my stomach. I excuse myself and proceed to puke all over the floor while sitting right there at the bar. Thankfully my friends were there to take pictures.

After I was done, I wiped my mouth, apologized and continued talking to the girl.

That was when we realized that Tim isn’t all that nice. He got us so drunk we could hardly walk. From then on he was known as “Evil Tim” and we all planned a trip to Cincinnati to kill him, or at the very least, hold him down and pour a bottle of 151 down his throat.

At 2 am, I turn to my friends and announce, “I’m leaving.”

“You can’t leave,” Juan tells me, “They haven’t opened the doors yet.”

“Why do you want to leave?” Mikey asks.

“I’m out of cigs. I’m leaving.”

Ten minutes later we’re outside the club, on the street, in the middle of an insane riot.

To this day, we have no idea how we got outside. There were bouncers guarding every door and window.

So we’re in the street, there are people running everywhere, and about thirty feet away I see a bunch of cop cars with the sirens on.

I turn to Frank, Juan and Mikey and say, “Hey, let’s go see what’s going on with the cops over there.”

And I started walking towards the ruckus.

Mikey grabs us by the arm, points down a side street and says, “Why don’t we go this way instead?”

I turn to Mikey and say, “For once I agree with the Jew.”

And we followed him to safety.

The next day Frank and I walked around the cloudy aftermath and took some pictures and then got back on the road.

Definitely and insane detour but well worth it.

 

Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish everyday.

Instagram: @phicklephilly    Facebook: phicklephilly

 

California Dreamin’ – 1982 to 1984 – Chapter 4 – On The Road Again

The week in Atlanta went by fast and before we knew it, we were off again. We got on highway 10 and headed west. Our first stop was in Mississippi. Apparently Frank had another Uncle that lived there. I told him if he had enough relatives scattered across the country we could probably make it to California for free.

We stayed at his Uncle’s place in Mobile, Alabama overnight. I was never clear if this Uncle was the ex husband to Frank’s Aunt we just stayed with for a week. He was really nice and took us out to a nice southern place for some delicious cuisine. I was eating and enjoying things I’d never seen or done before. The world is such a bigger package that the little borough you live in.

We stayed the night and in the morning we were off again and headed West.

Next stop… New Orleans!

 

Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish everyday.

Instagram: @phicklephilly    Facebook: phicklephilly

Phicklephilly – Special Report – The New Fuckboys

This blog post  is dedicated to my friend Amelia.
One of the best people I know in the world.

fuck·boy

Dictionary result for fuckboy

/ˈfəkˌboi/

noun

VULGAR SLANGDEROGATORY
plural noun: fuckboys
  1. a weak or contemptible man.
    • a man who has many casual sexual partners.

     

I googled this horrible title for young men today and this is what the internet yielded.

 

But there is a new mutated version of these horrible little rodents.

 

My lovely neighbor, Trish, and my co-worker Jane, and my beloved former co-worker Amelia have all recently fallen victim to this new virus of boys.

Back in the day, when I was in my teens and twenties, we used to actually have to go out and be social with other people to meet women. There was competition and several other factors going on. You had to develop certain skills. Some guys never got it, but some of us, and hopefully most of us tried to develop a little charming game to woo a girl. It’s called courtship. You meet a girl you like and you get to know her. You exchange phone numbers and if you’re lucky, and you call her.

Hopefully her dad doesn’t answer the phone when you call because that’s a wall with a poisonous moat around it.

But if you could get the guts, and the luck to get through, maybe you could take her on a date. This wasn’t the fifties. This was the seventies and the eighties.

You needed to build your character and charm and personality to try to meet a girl in the real world in real-time.

It was nerve-wracking but the rewards could be an enormous bounty of love, romance, fun and maybe even sex. (Holy shit!)

 

Let’s jump to today. 2019. The world of dating has completely changed.

But people haven’t changed all that much.

That’s the catch in this new technological world.

If a guy is reasonably good-looking and has a decent profile he merely has to swipe right on hundreds of eligible women on Tinder, Bumble, OkCupid, Plenty of Fish, and the list goes on.

This fucker doesn’t even have to leave his couch to connect with women.

And same goes for girls!

 

But here’s the catch. They never develop the social skills and the thrust and parry of the actual dating experience. (I write a dating and relationship blog, I’ve been in 3 bands and have over a half a century experience. So listen to me people. I’ve seen it and one it all. i go to my sister Janice’s Christmas party every year an i look around the room an know I’ve had sex with more people than everyone else in the room…COMBINED.)

 

I have begun to see these young guys. Nice enough. Good looking. Probably decent families. Careers.

Seems like a nice catch.

Everyone is swiping like mad now. No one is going out into the world to meet real people anymore. No one wants to talk to a person to even order food anymore. This younger generation doesn’t mind paying more.

They just want what they want now.

I come from a generation that is far more patient.

Because when I was young you had to wait for EVERYTHING.

You wrote letters. You sent away for thing and they arrived 6 to 8 weeks later. There are more examples but I can’t think of them right now because I’m on  bit of a rant.

This generation has their faces in their phones and lack any spatial awareness and want everything, easy and NOW.

Technology has made them and provided a platform for all of that.

But we gave them that. We made them.

 

Three years ago when I stared this blog I had all of the dating apps. I have deleted them all. It’s all full of losers and leftovers for someone my age.

It’s pathetic to read all of the clever nonsense people my age write on their profiles. “Love the beach, camping, mom of two great grown kids, love travel, friends, brunch, camping, adventure, ready for the next chapter of my life.

Fuck you.

I know what living is, and it’s not that shit. 

Those sites are just littered with the sad detritus of people from broken marriages that have been cast asunder by their life partners and soul mates. Divorce. Child support. Alimony. The list goes on.

It’s sad.

I want nothing to do with that collective of losers.

These people are just trying to replicate what they think is love. You’re not 28 anymore darling. It’s over. You can desire all the fun camping and travel you want, but in reality you’re simply lost and running from your past and hoping to recreate what your parents taught you what was love, happiness and marriage.

All bullshit.

Am I bitter about my own losses? Fuck no. I forgave everyone ten years ago. Why should I drink the poison hoping all of those fuckers die? I can’t be bothered with that weight.

I know I’ve been hot on this subject but Phicklephilly is a dating and relationship blog and I need to get back to what it really is. The reality of life. Not a bunch of links to some one elses dating column so I can get traffic. That shit ends here.

Once the dating and relationship shit runs its course I’m not doing it anymore on Phicklephilly!

 

Now that the storm in my mind has passed I need to tak about this new breed of fuckboys.

Guys… come on. Have you learned nothing from us?

Or have you just gotten better at being pieces of shit to women?

I hate you all.

 

I wasn’t the best representative of a man when I was a teenager but we need to do better.

 

I’m so pissed off I can’t even write this garbage about these pieces of shit

 

Here is the new trend:

 

https://www.foxnews.com/lifestyle/mosting-is-the-latest-maddening-dating-trend

 

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/this-new-dating-trend-is-even-worse-than-ghosting_n_5aabfcf6e4b05b2217fe8495

 

This happened to 3 young girls I know.

 

This is the new dating trend.

  1. Go on Tinder or Bumble and swipe on a bunch of girls.
  2. Connect and engage with them
  3. go on an affordable date with them
  4. spend hours talking to them and build an honest heartfelt connection
  5. Girl thinks she has finally met the ONE
  6. Be that good at it. (You are simply practicing and learning about yourself and using these innocent should to figure out who you eventually want, but she doesn’t know that. You have absolutely no interest in building a relationship with her, She is literally a crash test dummy to you.)
  7. go on may one more date with her… maybe
  8. Fuck her
  9. Time passes…
  10. fade away…. (You’ve gathered your intel from another victim on your journey of self discovery
  11. Afer some sudden absence, text her and tell her you need to figure some things out, you can’t do anything right now, work is crazy. Basically lie to her now that you’ve gathered the two days of experience and penetrated her.
  12. GONE

 

This is some despicable behavior. Like I said. This has happened in the last month to not one but three girls I know. So this is not an anomaly

This is a trend among young men.

Why.

Because they can.

 

Think about it. No one needs charm or a sense of humor or talent anymore. If you look decent and don’t seem threatening, you put up a profile on tinder and off you go

You don’t build a personality and confidence and approach a woman in public and get to know her. Your little greasy thumb swipes right and you get to meet a pretty girl.

 

But you’re blowing it and so are they. You meet, you engage so quickly (Just the way this generation like everything. Quick and easy) and within two or three dates you’re having sex.

But at what cost?

Fuck technology and immediate gratification! Your Heart is at stake here!

 

The technology is new and fast and easy, but hearts are slow and beautiful and they continue to break just like they have for hundreds of years from bad behavior and shitty people.

 

So in closing, I’ve been inspired at 2:05 in the morning because some douchebag hurt my friend Amelia with his awful behavior.

As bad as I’ve ever been in my legacy I never did that to a girl. I don’t know where this generation is going, but I will advise the women in my life to protect their hearts and take the time to protect their bodies, minds and their virtue from these charming pirates disguised as future husbands.

 

Text me for advice before you leap ladies, please! I have three sisters and a daughter. I’m here to help!

 

 

Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day.

Instagram: @phicklephilly      Facebook: phicklephilly   Twitter: @phicklephilly

California Dreamin’ – 1982 to 1984 – Chapter 3 – Big Night Out In Atlanta

Things were good. Frank and I were chilling at his Aunt’s house in Atlanta and enjoying our time reconnecting. But I was itching to get back on the road. Frank’s Uncle came to visit and said he wanted to take us out. I’m fresh out of the nest at 19 and Frank is a world traveler at 21, so we’re down for anything. I can’t believe how many Irish people have relatives and friends scattered all over the globe.

The first place we go to is this cool country bar. We’re drinking beers and eating food and all is right with the world. This guy comes out, sits on a stool and plays original songs. I remember him being really good. It was a good warm up to the night ahead.

Then his uncle says he’s taking us somewhere else.

I’ve been to Baltimore and Washington DC, but not really anywhere else. I lived with my parents before this. This is the furthest I’ve ever been away from home in my life. I’m happy I have Frank with me, because he’s my security. I’m just a scared musician with anxiety and depression I barely even know I have. My mom made me three square meal a day my whole life. I have no clue as to what the world is.

Travel is so broadening. The world is such a bigger package than most people ever realize. All you know is your little world. But I know this journey is going to fundamentally change me. It’s something that has to happen. Leaving home was hard enough. I was terrified traveling all of that way by myself. None of my friends are doing anything like this. Just me. I’m different. I’m not but I know at that moment I’m different from all of them. I’ve always walked among them but never really joined them. This trip is proof of that. I have to learn to crawl towards the things that frighten me. Frank has no problem with anything. He’s a solid, bright guy. I’m just a skinny nothing. I don’t want to go to college like my sister Janice. I just want to go out into the world and find out who the hell I am.

Maybe music will carry me forth.

I just needed to get away from the dead-end existence of living in Wildwood. That’s a fun place in the summer, but nowhere to raise your kids if they’re from a major city. The winter is and empty desolate place where most of the people who live there are business owners that make a nice living and they spoil their children. The kids grow up in wealth but are bored out of their minds. I saw more drug abuse and teen pregnancy in that town than when I was back in Philly growing up.

Do I love that I got to spend every summer in the 70’s at the shore? Damn straight. It was amazing! Nobody on my block got to do that. Only us. So it set us apart from our neighbors in Lawndale. We didn’t care. We didn’t know. We were just kids. It’s something we just looked forward to and did every summer.

But Janice going off to college and me having to take my senior year at Wildwood High was just some self-serving selfish shit on the part of my father. But I’ve covered that already.

I’m happy to be on the road and free of the trappings of my parents existence. I’m sure Janice had her own awakening at college and so did little Gabrielle. We all made our way in different ways.

I’m here to be open and brave.

Here we go.

Frank’s uncle takes us to a place called the Pussycat Lounge. I don’t know what that is but it sounds sexy.

We go in and there are naked women dancing onstage.

My brain explodes.

I had never experienced anything like this in my life. I’ve heard about it and seen scenes like this in a movie but never the real thing. Back then I was still wet behind the ears. It was fascinating to see naked women before my eyes. Getting out in the world was an exciting adventure. They didn’t have anything like that anywhere I grew up. In between the girls dancing, there was this comedian that would come out and tell dirty jokes. He was really funny. Normally it takes a lot to make me laugh, but this dude killed.

Frank, his uncle and I had a great night out. I was still reeling from seeing that many naked girls standing right in front of me that night. When you’re young, and you see something like that for the first time it has incredible euphoric power.

I slept well that night and was still excited about what was next in the coming days.

 

Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day.

Instagram: @phicklephilly                                       Facebook: phicklephilly

 

Murder Mystery Weekend – Chapter 7

The days crawled by. I saw just about everybody on the list in September, individually or in small groups. But it proved impossible to find an occasion when all 11 of us were free.

Finally, Thanksgiving weekend loomed. Leo and I both skipped off that Friday. We packed our overnight bags and the costumes in the backseat, along with some food supplies Teresa had asked us to pick up.

Then we went shopping for the booze. Everybody had given us their requests. We got six cases of beer (two-fours, in Canadian slang), and three cases of wine. I wasn’t sure that we had enough wine. Then we added a case of liquor. Most of it was rum, or flavoured rum, but there was also vodka, tequila, scotch, and even a bottle of peppermint schnapps (Leo was on a schnapps kick).

– “Schnapps?” I asked him. “For pirates?”

– “It won’t go to waste.” he said. “Just imagine that we’re sailing past some German island.”

As you can probably guess, geography and history weren’t Leo’s strong suits.

– “You psyched?” he asked me.

– “Just a little.” I admitted.

While he was rearranging things in the backseat, I saw that Leo had packed a box of 12 condoms in his overnight bag.

– “Somebody’s optimistic.” I commented.

– “Hey – Be Prepared. That’s my motto.”

– “You have about 100 mottos, Leo.” I said.

– “You can never have enough mottos.” he replied.

– “That’s 101.”

I didn’t kid him too much about the condoms. After all, I had packed a dozen of my own. I was hoping for an epic weekend, too.

 

 

https://lapetitemort17.wordpress.com/?p=262

 

Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day at 8am & 12pm EST.

Facebook: phicklephilly       Instagram: @phicklephilly       Twitter: @phicklephilly