The Good Old Days Wasn't All That Great Either
Memories... it's all history... there are things in life that come back over and over like the change of the day, twelve chimes on the clock... which reminds me, I need to wind the old man. Tucked away in most of us are memories, good or bad, regretful or worth sharing... nice if some would just stay away... wetting the bed 'til you were six years old... catching a dose of the clap... catching another dose... not being quick enough to catch that line drive getting bigger and bigger as it zooms in on my nose... stuff like that. Seems the ones you'd rather forget are the most vivid... used to be able to drink them away... and I've done some of that in my more active days... guess that's why the good times are harder to remember... lots of them were made standing around shootin' the shit with my Buds... lots of 'em... the Indian... full blooded, big gutted strong guy, not the most sophisticated bloke around... but I liked him... get Christmas cards from him still... don't reminisce a lot... but still remember the good times... couple of the guys called him Chief... not very immaginative I know... he's the only man who ever said "I love you man" so's I could hear him... maybe more than once... we did throw some good drunks together... like the time there's just the two of us, swillin' beer to kill time... as us military folks at that time were like to do... musta been close to last call, suckin' on that brew and listenin' to the band... he's not sayin' anything for a quite awhile so I notice his head is on the table, beer still in his hand... can't explain it, why bother, I took hold of his hair, pulled his head up and hollered above the noise of the band, "If you're gonna drink with me you sonofabitch you're gonna stay awake!"... of course he was confused... I don't know if it was the same night or not, there were a lot of 'em... somehow we got from that table when they chased us out of there... somehow found his car... old Cortina pockmarked with rust... scabies like... debated who was gonna drive... he had the keys... speed limit on base was 30, he was like 20 under that... still couldn't keep it out of the weeds... road to the gate was laid out on a WWII taxiway... plenty wide enough to sleep awhile if you're going straight... we weren't... goin' straight that is... at least once, maybe more, I had to take hold of the wheel to get us back on the path... we slow to a stop, the Chief gets out, comes to my side and says "you drive, I'm drunk"... what could I do, so I went around and got in... next day was a revelation, that poor Cortina's parking brake was on full, but it still rolled... how we ever got out that gate past the guard and on the English road I don't remember... maybe he was asleep, the guard that is... I do remember somewhere along the way stopping and making Chief drive... he accepted that I was too drunk... keeping on the proper English side of the road over there was hard enough when alert and sober... too many years on the other side in the USA. I have flashbacks to this day of being on the wrong side... four lights staring at us... no two... no four maybe more... can't say more what happened... some things get forgot in the fog... but another flashback further on assures me we lived... I had jockeyed that little station wagon somehow into a dock area of a warehouse, getting chased off by the guard... somewhere I got the tiller... Chief was kind... "Get your ass out of there and let me drive!"... Right!... getting home must have been one of the good times... no memory of that... the good times... We joined a local social club... just a building to go play darts and drink and bullshit... rub elbows with the locals... Welshman stood us up for membership... a place to get away from the bluidy wimmen and brats for awhile and dump some testosterone... a memory building thought came upon me as it were, standing at the bar drinking pints, past too drunk to play darts... standing in the middle of the hubbub ticking off the diversity of our little group... the Welshman, of course, couldn't understand half what he was sayin' but blathering on just as well as you please... the Chief, full blooded Cherokee or Comanche or whatever, who remembers... another American colonist this one from New Jersey... always had some kind of scam or scheme going on, but that's another piece in the bucket of musings... guy had great gastronomic sense... Blutwurst on a caraway seeded bun with camembert melted over, and a paper cup of champagne... his choice of eats would always elicit "It don't get any better than this!" from our crowd... the Irish bartender from the base NCO club, brogue so thick you could cut it with a celt... a charming up for anything Scot who often showed up in our midst in a kilt... our token black Yank used to say he preferred white women over black because white women had smaller pussies, and his dick was the same size as ours... To hear this bunch standing around together passin' gas was a hoot. Be great if I had some good memories to relate, this bloggin' gives me something to do with my spare time now that my brother oldkid has gone back to Washington. Had to get back before his government provided ticket expired.
Ain't it been fun.
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