Growing Up

Tortured as I am about the in congruencies of this world I can only focus on colors that do not rake my mind as certain flavors come together in my breast pocket searching for meaning like truths falling from atop an old Ferris wheel stuck rusted in memories of caramel corn and cotton candy freshly picked in the sweltering heat by old brown callus bony hands that could have at one time gently caressed the soft skin of youngsters longing for their carnival.

Then I recall a small framed mirror with a brightly painted mostly naked girl sitting on an old convertible which was my hard earned prize for having spent fifty dollars to throw a million darts at tiny balloons tacked to a wooden board.

Reminding me that I too have operated a cotton candy machine before in just such a carnival in Germany, where the machine was plugged into a transformer which in turn was plugged into the German electric utility company at the end of a frayed cord which always shocked me as I plugged it in, getting my attention once more for only a tiny portion of my life.

There were no cotton candy machines that I recall in Florence when I bought those tan leather sandals with metal studs that reminded me of Roman Gladiators. These I thought would go rather well with the black nylon pullover shirt with the leather lace that tied the front together which was cheap and seemed to be the rage in Barcelona at the time.

I don’t recall buying anything in Rome except Gelato in front of the Coliseum and then beer that night in the Italian campground, overlooking the ancient city; filled with brightly colored tents of all shapes and sizes.

Then there was the beer at the little sidewalk café in Venice, all of which was bought for me by my underage older brother because he looked older than I and because he could.
We would sit and drink under the green and white umbrellas and stare at the huge Russian ships docked not more than 100 feet from where we sat.

It wasn’t until I called the front desk from my third floor room at the Hotel Linda just off Rembrandt Square in Amsterdam that I was able to purchase my own beer outside of Deutschland; Amstele as I recall. There was no refrigerator but the window ledge worked very well at that time of year to keep the brew cold, almost as well as the back of that old window box air conditioner in Adana.

Which puts me in mind of the nasty warm beer I drank while sitting on the filthy concrete floor at the airport in Istanbul watching a rather large German Sheppard angrily barking from a cage at the Turks who walked by and marveled in fear at the huge dog.
All of this is in sharp contrast to the small smooth brown Chihuahua that would bark as I stole cans of beer from my father and then drank them while hiding in the sugar cane fields as a kid in Okinawa.

Does it seem that drinking has tied my life together? There is much honesty in worn wooden barstools that have seen a multitude of asses in their time.
While held dear to me in that breast pocket none of these memories are as comforting to me as the bars I’ve sat at and drank in recent times. Like the one in Santa Cruz where I was served by a rather young witty Australian who drank as much as he sold while engaged in small chitchat with the Lesbians at the end of the bar.

Then there was that morning in the open-air café on the beach in Cabo when the Mexican waiter was amazed at my hard body, blond tipped hair and tattoos, saying out loud that he thought I was a movie star. He got a huge tip.

Or the cold Corona’s brought to us at poolside by Angel, who took care of us at the Los Arenas in Mazatlan. Where we also hung upside down and drank Tequila shooters at the Giggling Marlin or something like that.

How about drinking free whiskey while playing slot machines in South Lake Tahoe? Or the courtyard at a little cantina on Catalina!

Then too are the memories of the long hot ride on my Harley through the desert to Laughlin and then back to Las Vegas in which cold beer waited for me at both ends.

There was of course the time I sat on the bench in front of Bubba Gump’s in Monterey and I put my feet in the huge cement shoes stuck to the ground. And let’s not forget the little beach in Bodega Bay that I could only get to in my Kayak where cold beer was the reward for challenging rough seas.

There is of course the yearly trek to Mission Beach in San Diego where the beer is cold, the beach is warm and the Tequila flows much more smoothly than the old roller coaster at the end of the Strand.

Well baby’s I could go on forever but I must go and drink a cold one, all this recollection has got me quite thirsty.