Today. Some big picture politics from the vacillation camp - home base the Sunshine State, but with high hopes for someplace?
A new chapter from the sequel to The Rednak Chronicles. Some parts could have a ring of truth to them. So my psychiatrist tells me. A taste of On The Road With Boudreaux & Me
Way back when, music was in a "groove" revolution. A significant part of that change was the emergence of Rock and Roll. A little bit less dramatic was the evolution of the Blues. One Sub-genre was an underground profusion of dirty blues-soul. This entertainment was performed by artists known only on the African-American circuit, or heard from after midnight on renegade stations like Nashville's WLAC . The fifties and early sixties were a time all their own. God Bless You, too, Moms Mabley.
And in keeping with the Valentines Celebration of cupids, kisses, and chocolates, a little love note from one of my fans. See way below.
Again. . . What the . . . ?
Okay, alright. Now he’s running for governor, too. Fer cryin’ out loud, boy, make up your mind. Marco Rubio, young political lion, political whore, fast shuffling candidate for all seasons. Doesn’t want Cuba to have new shoelaces, but waffles to this day, on rampant immigration. What the ??
He’s already, still, “deciding” whether he’ll run for President or for his Senate seat in 2016. Double down on the trifecta and take whatever fate has to give you. Campaign funding is becoming a tricky set of maneuvers because of Jeb’s entry into the national race, diverting dollar sources from conservative advocates. Rubio has completely alienated his Tea Party base since polls made him flip flop and run in a new direction. Strategy now, could be, “Look, I’m muddying the funding pool and diluting the support base, but you could guarantee me the governor’s mansion and head off any bloodletting.” Clever. Maybe, but awfully transparent.
On the campaign trail, Marco is going to find himself skating on thin ice as far as Cuba is concerned. That continued isolation may ring popular with Bay of Pigs survivors, but in the bigger picture, Cuba, is a small fish with a big play neighbor, bullying that small island, for fifty years. Today, that’s simply a grudge. Hold up Germany and Japan to the same light. We helped them recover and they were Satan’s spawn until we whipped their asses. James Quinn made that argument in the Tampa Times, Letters To The Editor, last Sunday. He finished with this quote from Robert Anthony, “Some people drink from the fountain of knowledge, others just gargle.”
And others pose while they spin round & round in the political "Musical Chairs" game.
# # # #
Speaking of musical. Today's musical interlude is with one of those underground, blues mavens I mentioned above. Denise Lasalle does,
Hey Lady, Your Husband Is Cheatin' On Us!
Boudreaux, Thanks For The Memories.
Boudreaux called me at the office and left me an excited message. “Rednak, you will love this piece of beauty salon gossip I got fo’ you.”
First, a little background is called for. My heavy equipment operator, farm pond excavator, fuel oil peddler, and flower child reject, of a friend, was now, in present day, a genuine hair stylist. He and Sally Jane, his wife, were the tonsorial toast of the West Ashley Business district. People came from below Broad Street and even from the sea island resorts to sit in Larry’s work cubicle and listen to his styling and life force ideas. If the waiting list and number of magazine readers in the front of the salon weren’t clue enough, a discerning look around and some eaves dropping would be adequate evidence. Two gay hairdressers, as queer as three dollar bills, with two boyfriends who were decorators and fashionistas, meant that Le Barrineau’s was a happening place.
The decorators turned the back half of the shop into a haute` clothing emporium. Fashion shows went on every day with customers taking the bait and walking the “runway”, duped as models, blue- yellow haired, dark roots showing like a carpet in the snow. Glasses of port and wine from the cellars of Piggly Wiggly, kept the regulars coming, regularly. This was a cash cow that Boudreaux could never have conceived of. Pack and curl, had taken on an entirely new meaning.
The parties that were held and directed by the hairdresser’s (Brett’s & Bruce’s) love interests, Thomas and Alexander, dba Fils de St. Fe`llashon, designers, decorators and event planners. The Barrineau klatch was top draw in Charleston’s nouveau social circle. The parties were held in Boudreaux’s and Sally Jane’s home, which was a design showcase of pastel purples, blues, and greens. And plenty of gold lamaise. I went to one of those parties and that was enough. Even my wife hated it, despite her fascination with gay decorators and hairdressers.
This was high cotton. Our fellowship revolved around a brotherhood sort of thing. You loved each other and when necessary any sacrifice was in the interest of the comradery. In the ensuing three years of fame and fortune, I drank every penny’s worth of scotch I’d ever bought for the two of us and nearly all the Christian Brothers, too.
I called Boudreaux back and he started with a deep breath. “This guy named Frank Fontaine waited three weeks to get in. He could’ve gotten in sooner but I don’t take newcomers until they’ve waited a sufferin’ period of anticipation.”
“You’re talkin’ to me, Boo. I know all about this business- marketing strategy of yours. Get on with the story.”
“Frank Fontaine seemed to ring a bell, but when I saw him he was a complete stranger.”
“That name sounds a little familiar to me, too. Oh shit. You’re not talkin’ about the Isle of Palms are you?”
“None other. Well, anyway he didn’t know who I was except the referral from the world of Hoitey- Toidey. So, I started him out with a facial, then shampoo, and finished with a razor cut. We talked a lot and he told the most. He’d been ushered off the island after being served with an injunction by your lovely ex wife. I didn’t tell him about you. He had money to spend until his first court date, and you know I never piss in the hot tub just to spite somebody. Anyway, here’s the long and the short of this latest episode about Barbara’s stable of exes. Fontaine was a friend of Lamar’s, when Lamar was married to Barbara a couple of years ago. He sold Lamar some property in Israel. He is still a high roller, broker type, about foreign properties belonging to the rich and famous. The perfect candidate for hedging the future for Barbara. Cuckoldry is her specialty, as you recall.”
“Yeah, I was lucky to be just good looking. The Bloomberg law firm and Miss Barbara the legal secretary, made my life miserable over our kids.”
“Well, you survived it. Thank the scotch. I didn’t have to take the gun away from you, either. Any who, the rest is pretty uplifting. She now had three Chihuahuas. The two from your era, are so old they can’t walk. She carried them in a shoulder sling. When she puts them down they would curl up like cold rats and just wheeze and snarl.
“The third charmer was called Gordito. Vicious little, big eyed, shit with a yapping bark. She had a Spider monkey, too. She also has the big blue Macaw, from way back. That thing must be thirty five years old, at this point. The monkey’s name is Julius, he lives off the dog food. When Gordito catches him in the act he doesn’t bark. He ambushes Julius and bites him like a mongoose. Then, in turn, Julius stalks Gordito and when he catches him he pulls out his eyelashes, or the hair on his ass, until the midget escapes under the couch. Gordito looked like he lived with a pissed off monkey.
“Apparently when Julius first came to live at Barbara’s zoo he took a shine to Poquita, the parrot. It was her tail feathers he was fixated on. First try, he got a handful, but left her with a few dangling. The next time he tried the feather caper, Barbara came home to find blood all over the den and the floor underneath Poquita’s perch stand. Julius was minus three fingers on his right hand. Afterward, Julius wasn’t very ambidextrous. When he faked wackin’ off for peanuts now, it wasn’t too convincing.
“Someone, according to Frank, had to be teaching the parrot new things to say. My theory is, the parrot is so old it teaches itself what to say. That jives with Frank’s story.”
“I think that’s more like it, too. If this is goin’ to take much longer, Boo, I’m going to pour myself some a drink.”
“Okay, I’m almost done. I’m just tryin’ to give you the benefit of a history lesson that you can take some pleasure from.
“Fontaine says that the parrot learned some indicting things to blurt out over the years.”
“Yeah, I heard some stories about that after my predecessor - - - Bob wasn’t it?”
“Correct. Bob came home one evening and Barbara said, ‘Watch what Poquita can do.’ Then Poquita said, ‘Bob’s boinking the babysitter. Polly wants a cracker.’ Barbara’s lawyers had video, stills and recordings. Supposedly Bob, settled for $300 grand and the condo on the harbor.
“Next came Dick, I think we drank to Dick one evening at the beach. The precursor to actual service of papers was Poquita’s refrain for a cracker, ‘Dick is dorking the decorator.’ Next was Lamar with the beachfront house on the Isle of Palms, then our new found friend and cuckolder, Fontaine. The parrot’s send off for Lamar was ‘Lamar sucks in bed.’ Lamar though, was already gone, leaving the spoils and the beach house as his penance for bad decisions.
“And finally, Frank. A few weeks back, Frank flew in from London and when he walked in to the empty house Poquita said, ‘Polly wants a cracker. Frank has been f---ing Felicia.
“Today, Frank said he ended his participation in the zoo with the following: He put the three Chihuahuas in a croaker sack full of rocks. He caught the Parrot in a landing net and wrapped the whole thing with duc tape. Julius went in the pet carrier after the Purina he put in.
“Frank put it all in his Land Rover and headed off the island. The croaker sack went over the rail on the Ashley River Bridge. Julius was turned loose on Rivers Avenue in North Charleston and later seen sitting on the bar at a local strip club. The tailess Parrot was sold to a guy in the Summerville Flea Market and now does commercials for a divorce attorney in Wilmington, N.C.”
“Friends like you, Boudreaux. Yeah, Buddy. . . Did I hear you say, Glen Gori from the Highlands?”
Happy Valentines Sweetie, I couldn't do it without you.
By: Bill Monteverde (firstname.lastname@example.org) Commented On: Pearls & More Rot... Date Commented: 09/27/14 03:56PM
Bill Monteverde said:
You have crabs!!! You know that this is a treatable condition?
Stephanie, please take care of yourself since these little critters can be transmitted to others. Please don't use the Town Hall bathroom
Good luck to you Stephanie
Can you imagine this guy as a town commissioner?
Definitely, Enuff Said