Going Down the wrong street

Big Earl telling how he danced with the Devil by the dark of the moon for the very first time. In his own words.

I got lost. Plain, simple and the truth. But sometimes when you get on the wrong street it leads you down the wrong path. I was on my way home and was late. I had to stay after school because I had done or said something the teacher didn’t like. Just in the second grade and already well on my way to being a disappointment to my parents. So, I had to write something on the blackboard fifty times. I did that so many times when I was young I don’t even remember what I was being punished for. I just knew that I was late and that was going to get my ass whipped if I didn’t get home before Pop. I took a shortcut and got lost.

When I figured out I didn’t know where I was, I stopped. There were a bunch of Indian kids coming down the road toward me. I knew they would help me. After all, I was an Indian. Pop had told me and my brothers we were Indians. That is why we weren’t allowed to go to school with white kids. Indians weren’t good enough to go to school with white kids. Hell, Indians weren’t even good enough to go to school with black kids. That is why the Indian schools got their textbooks after the white schools were through with them. And Indians had to wait until after those same books were considered too old for the black schools. That was why Pop said Indians had to stick together. So these kids would help me find my way home. Fat chance. Sometimes you just start out with the wrong idea.

I had no clue anything was wrong. The boys came up and stood in a circle around my bike. I started to ask the oldest boy where my house was. I never got it out. The oldest kid said, “Shut up white boy, you are in the wrong place.” This surprised me so much, that the kid thought I was white, I started laughing. That is when one of the boys hit me from behind and knocked me off the bike. I know the answer to that one. I came up swinging, hitting one and then another trying to get out of the circle of Indians. I fought pretty well for a little kid, but some of those boys were several years older than me and they beat the living shit out of me. They took my bike and dragged me and the bike into the woods near the road. I don’t know how far into the woods we went, but it felt like a long way. I tried to tell them I was an Indian, just like them. I was told Indians don’t have blue eyes, so I was just another lying white kid. We got to a path in the woods and one of the kids found some rope. I got tied up. They went off a little way and talked for a few minutes. Nothing good will ever come out of a group of grade school boys in a conference. A couple of them took off. Every time I tried to talk or move somebody would kick or hit me. I thought the worst thing they could do was beat me up and my father beat me worse than they did. I was wrong.

The two kids that had left came back with a couple of shovels and a coup stick. I laid there watching them dig a hole. A deep hole, just a bit bigger around than me. I wasn’t sure what the hole was for but I had a sneaking suspicion I wasn’t going to like it. I started struggling trying to loosen the rope. It didn’t do any good. I was dragged over to the hole and lowered in until my feet touched. Then those kids did something I had not even thought of. They started shoveling the dirt back in around me. There is something liberating about thinking you are about to be buried alive. It removes all sense of shame and inhibitions. I peed myself and started screaming for my Mom and begging them to stop. The oldest kid laughed and told me they weren’t going to bury me, they were just going to play a game. He wasn’t lying. They stopped burying me at neck deep. This was just at ground level. Right next to the path. Then I saw one of them on my bike. And I suddenly knew what the coup stick was for.

A coup stick is a wood club an inch or so across with a round head carved into one end. In the old days Indians would ride up to their enemies and hit them with the coup stick. It wasn’t to hurt the enemies so much as to show your skill and courage at getting so close to them. The kid on the bike had a coup stick. He rode at me and went whizzing by. Just as he went by he popped me on the back of the head with the coup stick. I saw stars. The rest of the bunch took turns doing their best to hit me as they went by. If they missed the others would laugh and howl, making fun of the kid with the bad aim. Only one missed more than twice. The one that missed twice is the last one I remember. His third try, he went for my face. I saw it coming and couldn’t move enough to make him miss. That is the last thing I knew until something woke me up, still buried, in the dark.

I woke, thinking I had been dreaming. That’s when I found I couldn’t move. That is also when I heard something coming. Something that was making a lot of noise. Something growelingSomething that wasn’t afraid of the dark. Something that was worse than anything it might meet in the dark. I was afraid to say anything. It might have been one of those Indian kids. I thought I was really scared then. I was wrong. I was oh so wrong.

That is when I heard growling. You have no idea what pure fear feels like until you realize something is coming. Something very big. Something growling. Something hungry. Something that might just eat you alive from the face down. And there is nothing you can do about it. That will put some air in your lungs. I screamed at the top of my little leather lungs. I screamed and kept screaming as a pack of big dogs came up around me. Between screams, I heard a man yell, “He’s over here! The kid is over here!” The man came running up the path. His voice had made me stop screaming for a moment just as he came around a turn and saw me in the light of a lantern he was carrying. The man turned and threw up. I heard Pop tell somebody later that the guy thought he was a few seconds late when he saw my head sitting, covered in blood on the side of the path. I yelled for him to help me and damn near scared him to death. More men showed up and they dug me out and untied me. The bunch of men looking for me included my father. It was one of the few times I ever saw Pop really scared for me.

Eventually, I got to where I could be left alone for a few minutes without thinking I was hearing someone coming after me. I would go into a complete panic attack, yelling and hitting, biting and screaming until I realized I wasn’t in danger. I got over the fear of darkness pretty quick. The darkness was when I was rescued. Darkness became an old and trusted friend. I never did get over the fear and distrust of dogs though. I know intellectually that the dogs are how the searchers found me. And that the dogs were licking me because they were happy to see me. But somewhere, deep inside, I hear that growling and barking and my inner mind tells me that I am about to be eaten alive.

Experiences like that one are liable to leave a mark on a kid who is six or seven years old. They either toughen you up or you end up buying a Mercedes for a shrink. I did both.

I ended up seeing a shrink for a few months when after I was found. Apparently, I was a tad disturbed by being the guest of honor at this particular butt kicking. Go figure. Anyhow, I ended up seeing one of those state funded doctors. One of those guys that isn’t quite good enough for private practice. It didn’t take long to figure out what he wanted to hear. So that is what I told him. He would nod his head when I told him something he wanted to hear. He would stare, shake his head or purse his lips if I said something wrong. Pretty soon I was his star patient. I was his prize cure. After dealing with Pop, that shrink was easy to fool. Not to say El Shrinko didn’t help me. He might have. I just don’t know. After all, I was a little kid when I saw him. And I did learn a lot from the experience. I’m not sure how much of it I got from the good doctor and how much I figured out for myself.

I learned that taking a shortcut is not always the fastest way to get where you are going.

I learned that not everybody you think is your friend, is your friend. And that no matter how tough you are, you are going to lose some fights.

And that running away is sometimes the very best choice.

And that calling on family doesn’t always mean anyone is going to answer.

And that darkness is not always a bad thing.

I even learned that Pop cared about me. That last one is the hardest to believe out of this whole mess.

The biggest single thing I learned while telling that shrink what he wanted to hear was how to lie. I learned how to tell a lie in such a way as to cater to the preconceived notions he already had of me. I learned how to spin a tale that, while having absolutely no basis in reality, sounded more convincing than the actual facts. And I learned that, if you add in just enough verifiable facts, people will believe anything. Almost as important, I learned that you can tell the absolute “God’s Honest Truth” in such a way that nobody will believe a word of it. These, my friends, are handy skills to have even for an honest man. Not that I have ever really been guilty of that particular abomination.

That little side trip down the rough part of reality was one of the pivotal points in my life. It gave me something and it took something in return. I learned to be tough, to rely on myself and to never be the second best armed individual in a fight. All it cost me was a big chunk of trust and a large part of my soul. It seems that somewhere between stopping to ask for help and adulthood, I lost most of my sense of compassion, the capability to completely trust anyone and the ability to love anyone so much that I can’t walk away from them and never look back. All in all, I believe I came up on the short end of the stick.

As soon as the shrink released me as cured, Pop moved us to Texas and got a job. He had our names stricken from the tribal rolls so the Texans couldn’t discriminate against us because we were Indians. Then it turned out Texas doesn’t have enough Indians to make discriminating against them any fun anyway. Texas did, however, have more than it’s share of Mexicans. So Texans treated Mexicans like Oklahoma treated Indians. Seems when Texans played Cowboys and Indians, they played for keeps.

In the end I think the one thing those Indian kids took from me was my humanity. I don’t even have enough left to feel bad about that. You might want to keep that in mind if I ever offer to take you down a path you normally wouldn’t take.

Editors note. There is one more thing. If you ever find yourself down one of those dark paths in the middle of the night, dancing with the Devil; look around and check to see who is leading. It might not be the answer you are looking for.

On being unmasked

There were things that Big Earl had said and done in his time that, in retrospect, he should have thought through first. Things like telling a kid holding a switchblade in a bar, “You aren’t that dumb.” Or saying, “We don’t need to test the brakes, I know exactly what I am doing.” Perhaps his all time favorite, “I will go skydiving with you when you have a parachute that is guaranteed to hold my weight.” In each case, what he said ended up having totally different results than he expected.

Big Earl had agreed to meet his third wife, the future ex-Mrs. Earl, in Las Vegas for a three day weekend of gambling and general frivolity. Earl had been working in Los Angeles for a couple of years and the problems between the two of them had faded some with the time apart. As a result he wasn’t quite as sharp as normal when around her. He even thought they might be able to live together after the LA job ended. In other words, he went to Vegas in a state of mind that had no basis in reality. It wasn’t like he had not been warned. A buddy of his that knew the future ex-darlin’ told him, “If you are going into a cage with a hungry lion, do not wear a suit made of steaks.” Sometimes even Big Earl just can’t take a hint.

Off he drove to Sin City. He got there a few hours before his wife’s flight from Texas. The two had a great room at “Caesars” and Big Earl had made arrangements for dinner reservations and a couple of shows. When her flight got in Earl picked her up and the game was afoot. She was actually happy to be there. She was laughing and suitably impressed by the room and all the preparations he had made. She actually reminded him of the girl he had dated all those years before. Of course he had forgotten that what she really loved was gambling. She never met a casino that she didn’t like. That was why she was so happy. Earl had brought a couple of grand to play with. She wanted half and things going so well he gave it up. It never occurred to him that she might have had her own money. Not that Earl would ever see a dime of that.

Off the happy couple went on a quick trip down the Strip to see what was new and to decide where to start throwing money at the Gambling Gods. They hit several casinos and were doing pretty well. Earl was several hundred up and ready for the nights entertainment. The entertainment had just turned the corner into new territory for Las Vegas.

Vegas had begun their latest expansion at that time and Treasure Island had a new show from “Cirque du Soliel” that Big Earl just had to see. “Mystere” was expensive, but Earl knew from seeing some of the touring shows it would be good. It wasn’t good. Good doesn’t come near it. Great doesn’t describe it. Fantastic might just be skirting the bottom edge of that show. He was blown away. His sweetie was completely blown away. So much so that she went completely out of character and took him back to their room and jumped his bones. Earl hadn’t had sex like that with any of his wives in years. She lost it so completely that just at the climax of the evening, so to speak, she called him by another guy’s name. Things being in the short rows, it seemed to be the wrong time to question her. And the next thing Earl knew he woke up in the middle of the night and she was gone.

Turned out she wasn’t ready to stop gambling so she had gone out while Earl was asleep. What woke him was her unlocking the door and coming back into the room. She didn’t realize he was awake. He watched her put a roll of money in her makeup bag. Then she got undressed and slid into bed. Earl acted like she had just waked him up getting under the covers. He asked her where she had gone and she told me she said she went gambling down in “Caesar’s” casino. She claimed she had lost everything he had given her and could she have the money Earl had won over his grand. All the while reaching down and waking up the only part of him that was still asleep. A little later in the midst of a good blow job he promised her the winnings.

Now he knew that he sounded like a real sucker. She called him by someone else’s name during sex. She hid winnings from him and then asked for more money. Money that Earl had won. You would be right thinking that he was being stupid. Earl was a sucker. In retrospect, he should have dropped her on the spot, filed for a Vegas divorce and gone on with his life. It didn’t happen. He was incredibly stupid.

She, on the other hand, thought the trip was going great. She had him fooled about her boyfriend, she was getting money and Earl was paying all the bills. Life, for her, could hardly get better. Different perspectives produce two entirely different viewpoints.

Big Earl gave her the winnings, not because she needed them or earned them, but because he had promised. Big Earl never broke promises. Not then, not now, not ever. She got the winnings and off they went on another day of spending his money like drunken sailors. They ended up back at the hotel an hour or so before they were supposed to be at the “Follies” show. One of the best all time topless revues in a town that used to run on topless showgirls. Earl was thinking he only had to finish that night, dump the lying bitch off at the airport and be on his merry way the next morning. He had won enough to make a hooker stop in Pahrump, Nevada, on the way back to LA. Things were going pretty good, considering.

Earl had showered, dressed and was ready to go. She just had to get her purse, check the mirror and they were out for the evening. Visions of dancing mammaries were front and center in Big Earl’s mind. He had put his hand on the door handle and let his guard down for a second. He wasn’t thinking. She had been talking all through the time they were getting ready. About how great this trip was. About how they seemed to be getting along like when they were first married. Just yammering like words were about to be limited. Earl was only half listening. That was when she said the magic words, “Why don’t we come back next year on our twentieth anniversary and renew our vows?”

Big Earl’s brain caught the words. Unfortunately it was not quick enough. The dancing mammaries were running interference for rational thought. When a man’s brain is in neutral, like with the dancing mammaries, he may accidentally speak the truth. Any man’s mouth, if not filtered through a defense mechanism like the brain, could unfortunately actually answer the question a woman asked. No matter what the ensuing results may be. So while Big Earl’s brain was trying to pick the correct answer out of all the old standards that every married man keeps for emergencies, (I am amazed that we think so much alike), (Great, just remind me in time to make the reservations), (Baby, you are the best), his mouth spoke the truth,
“Not if you put a fucking gun to my head!!!”

There is nothing anyone can do for a man after that. The words are out there. You are unmasked. Your true feelings have leaped over any sense of self preservation and escaped. Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

The relationship lasted several more long, miserable years before just winding down to nothing. The marriage was over then and there.

An unwelcome surprise

(How a Junior Senator entered “Two Bubbas” Hall of Fame)

Most of you have had an unwelcome surprise or two in your life. I know I have had more than a few. Usually, said surprise results from expecting one thing and getting a totally different result. Sometimes the surprise is bigger than you had any reason to expect. In this case, a Junior Senator from the Gulf Coast’s surprise started out with waking up.

Waking up is not a surprise. The Junior Senator, hell let’s just call him JS, did it almost every day. This particular day was not going to be good. JS knew it before he opened his eyes. His head hurt and his eyes felt gummy. The inside of his mouth felt like the entire Russian Army had marched through it and took a dump while they went. JS’s nose was stopped up, but not enough to keep out a very ripe aroma. Something that smelled like a distillery located next to a cheap whorehouse. That and JS knew he wasn’t alone. Not unless he had learned the art of snoring in two part harmony before he woke up. JS lay there, head pounding, waiting to see if he was going to die. After a few minutes, he decided he wasn’t that lucky.

JS opened one eye just enough to see that he was not at his place. So far, so good. He decided to risk the other eye. It didn’t help. From what he could see, he had to be in a motel room. It was time to make the ultimate sacrifice. Up he sat. This was not the best idea he had ever had. His stomach reacted to the change in position by trying very hard to teach him the fine art of projectile vomiting. This was not JS’s first trip to the rodeo and he got everything under control. All it cost him was what felt like an aneurism. Sometime during this shindig JS realized he was naked.

Let’s tally up so far. JS had a hangover. JS was in a motel room he didn’t recognize. JS is naked. And he’s not alone. Oh yeah, he’s not alone. Time to investigate.

There were hints on the floor right in front of him. Clothes were everywhere. JS saw men’s shoes. Unfortunately they were not his shoes. This did not give him a warm snuggly. Fortunately he also saw a bra and two pairs of women’s panties in the piles of clothes. This, like it or not, was the time to look at the rest of the room.

JS turned around, and sure enough, he woke up in the same bed with two naked girls and a naked guy. The two girls were spooned up in the middle and the guy was face down with his head hanging over the far side of the bed. Considering how the room smelled JS had to assume it had been a long hard night for everyone involved. Sometimes words are so inadequate for the way things are.

JS headed in and drained the lizard. From lipstick on the love reptile he figured he must have had a pretty good time. Looking in the mirror he realized that he had some hickeys and bruises he didn’t recognize. After washing up, JS knew that he was going to live. He was not so sure about being re-elected. It was time to find out where he was and whether or not anyone knew him. JS found his clothes out of the mess in the floor. As he got dressed he seriously considered waking everyone up to find out what happened. The girl closest to him was a redhead. Since she was naked he knew she was a redhead from birth. The blond spooning up to her was incredibly cute even in sleep. The guy he could not tell much about. Other than the fact that, unless he had fallen asleep on an anaconda, he was waking up a happy camper. The Junior Senator passed on waking them up.

JS stepped out of the room onto one really hot parking lot. And almost ran right into Big Earl’s stubby little Cadillac convertible. Big Earl had the back seat of his 1959 Cadillac convertible cut out and grafted onto another 1959 Cadillac convertible. Big Earl gave that one to Bubba so he could carry most of his grandkids in one car. A car that was slightly longer than Earl’s marriage to his last ex-wife. After checking his pockets, JS found the car keys and a wad of cash. It was time to find a convenience store, get a drink and find out where the hell he was. He arbitrarily took a left out of the parking lot. Several turns later he was hopelessly lost. He finally found a gas station/convenience store.

JS walked into the store and headed straight for the cold drink section. He got a bottle of cold beer and headed back to pay. There were a stack of newspapers on the counter by the cash register. The most surprising thing was they were for McAlester, Oklahoma. The second most surprising thing was that they were Wednesday papers. Why, you might ask yourself, was JS surprised at McAlester papers? And why indeed was he surprised at the Wednesday paper? This all leads up to the unpleasant portion of our little surprise.

He had gone to Big Earl’s birthday party at “Two Bubbas’ Bar, Grill and Speed Shop”. That is on the beautiful Gulf Coast. “Two Bubbas” was close to eight hundred miles south and east of McAlester. And he had gone to the party early on a Friday night. When he got up that morning it was Wednesday. Somewhere along the line the Junior Senator had lost all, or part, of not one, not two, but five days. He tried to find the motel again to get some answers. He had no luck. He hadn’t looked at the sign when he left. He didn’t know the name of the place. He couldn’t even tell you what color it was. JS might have passed it three or four times trying to remember which one it was. There are times when you just aren’t going to get the information you want, no matter how hard you try.

He knew one person in McAlester. Big Earl’s Great-Grandfather, Poppa Park., worked as the night manager for a combination hotel and whorehouse known as the Co-Mar Hotel. JS headed to Poppa Park’s place. Poppa Park told him he had come by there a few nights before and tried to get a room. The Co-Mar Hotel was full but Poppa Park had told the Junior Senator to go down to the area by the new interstate and check out their availability. Since JS would have noticed the interstate, he guessed that another solution had popped up. Quite possibly one involving a couple of Poppa Park’s working girls.

JS remembered getting to the party on Friday night. He had brought a couple of gallons of home brew a constituent named Cooter had made. Cooter had asked JS to give it to Big Earl for his birthday. JS don’t remember anyone that looked like the redhead or blond at the party. He also didn’t remember leaving the party. He definitely didn’t remember a road trip to McAlester. Or picking up three people. He didn’t remember anything much about the days between Friday and his head pounding wake call up on Wednesday. What JS did remember was a bit like running porno clips through a shredder and watching the results through a fun house mirror.

The biggest fear JS had was somebody tapping him on the shoulder and threatening to expose the whole escapade to the public. But JS was a good Southern politician. If JS ended up being bought by the threat of being exposed, he would stay bought. Not like those Damn Yankee politicians who changed sides at the drop of a dollar.

So, JS decided to give that time up as a lost weekend, at least until the day somebody found it. He never did find out who those people were and how everyone ended up where they were. This was the start of a big cut down in alcohol consumption for a Southern Senator. As JS told Big Earl when he returned the Caddy, “When you can’t remember what you did or who you did it with, it is time to reassess your drinking.”

Big Earl told him it might just be that time since JS had left in Big Earl’s ride to pick up a couple of cases of tequila for the party. Nobody had known where JS had gone until Poppa Park called and told Big Earl that JS was on the way home. Big Earl got the whole story out of the Junior Senator. Earl never told anyone. If you have a Senator in your pocket, even a Junior Senator, you don’t take him out unless you have to.

Something way too small

Big Earl, while working in LA, used to live in a section of Long Beach, California, called Belmont Shore. A wonderful place to live. It was like being in a small town set down right by a wide, white sand beach. Everything you needed to live was within walking distance of his apartment. Five or six blocks to the south of his place was a cove known to the local teenage boys as “Horny Corners”. High school girls up to girls in their mid twenties would go down there to lie out and get even browner and more beautiful. The worst looking girl on that beach was about a six. And there seemed to be a contest to see who could get into the smallest bikini. Apparently the contest had gotten far enough along that butt floss and band aids were the largest suits allowed. Big Earl was from Texas and had seen some of the most gorgeous women on the planet since he was very young. That did not prepare him for the amount of pulchritude available on that small stretch of beach. He was in voyeur heaven.

This is not about that section of beach.

Big Earl used to take his laundry to a Laundromat in Seal Beach. That was the next beach town down from Belmont Shore. The Laundromat there had one distinct draw as far as Earl was concerned. He did laundry on Sundays and this place kept their television on whatever NFL game was being shown while he was there. Earl could keep up with his beloved Dallas Cowboys and get his skivvies clean at the same time. Winner. Then one day Big Earl lost all concentration on the game. A blond walked in carrying her dirty clothes. Not just blond, but a true Southern California, blue eyed, perfect lipped, big hootered, long legged, tight butted Goddess. She had on high heels, spray paint tight white, Daisy Duke short shorts and a Brazilian bikini top that just barely covered what were obviously happy nipples. Earl had to remind himself to breath. Earl had to admit it. He stared. Not just a covert look every so often. He put his chin in his hand; leaned over and stared so hard it is a wonder the Goddess didn’t burst into flame. After several minutes of Big Earl being embarrassingly blatant she walked over to him and said, “You’re staring.” Earl told her that a man like him had no chance of ever winning a woman who looked like her. And that he was just trying to memorize her before she left. Much to Big Earl’s surprise she found that funny. Bambi, the Goddesses name, ended up dating Earl for a while, but there is no accounting for taste.

This isn’t about that Laundromat either.

No, this little tale is about something that was too small on a Biblical scale. And it happened on the combination family beach/gay beach right at the end of Big Earl’s street. You have to understand about Southern California to know about the family beach/gay beach thing. Earl lived in the forth building from Ocean Boulevard on his street. On the other side of Ocean Boulevard was this great section of the long beach that the city was named for. And during the day families would take kids down there and have a great day at the beach. Then about sundown the families would all pack up and head back home to dinner and TV. That is when the gay population would head down to that section of beach. Why that particular section you might ask. Well it seems that facing west between Earl’s street and the next street south of his was one of the oldest gay bars in Southern California. And since that bar was there, the patron just naturally seemed comfortable on the beach right across the street from their bar. Everyone seemed to be fairly comfortable with the situation. The straights didn’t bother the gays and Lord knows the gays had no interest in the straights. And those folks that bat from both sides of the plate had a field day with their choices.

That is the section of beach we are talking about here.

Oh, one more little bit of information about the situation there. The local gay men seemed to almost have a uniform they wore to the beach. Damn near all of them wore Speedos. Now Speedos are not the largest suits in existence, and they don’t necessarily leave anything to the imagination. Given that, most of the guys were into staying fit and if they thought they looked good in those skimpy suits, more power to them.

Most of the guys did not mean all of the guys, however. So now we come to the heart of the matter.

Big Earl had walked up the beach to a little brewery about a half mile from his place. He had a few drinks and was headed back to the apartment before the beach had its evening sex change. There was a tall stone seawall between the beach and the road. Just before Earl got to where he was going to turn for home a guy came around the corner and headed Earl's way. It was still light. Earl could see way too well. This guy would have taken a good 5xl to 6xl shirt. If he had been wearing a shirt. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. He wasn’t wearing anything at all was Earl’s first thought. Then Earl saw something that is burned into his minds eye and refused to leave. The guy was wearing a black Speedo. God only knows where he found it. He may have had to have it made for him. Earl thought nothing could look worse. Earl was wrong. Speedo Man turned back to say something to his buddy behind him. Not only was it a Speedo, but it was a full fledged, butt floss, tee back Speedo. Not only that, but the guy had been waxed. All the hair on his chest and back was gone. His forearms and hands looked like he was wearing long furry gloves, but his back, chest and a truly enormous beer belly were clear.

Now friends there are certain things no straight man should ever have to look at. A 350 to 400 pound fur bearing man who has been waxed till he was shiny is one of those things. He looked like a tanned balloon with a tiny black rubber band on it. This was just wrong. There ought to be a law that if you can’t see your feet, you can’t wear a Speedo. That is wrong as two boys kissin’.

That is when Big Earl thought, “I think I just explained it to myself.”

Those two Bubbas

This going to be a blog about Big Earl and Bubba.



I know that starts out sounding like a redneck joke. It isn't. At least not necessarily, it's not. Bubba and Big Earl were the owners of "Two Bubbas Bar, Grill and Speed Shop". Two guys you would not think of as being friend material.



Bubba is a family man. He has a wife, daughters, son-in-laws, assorted grandkids and all the requisite Aunts, Uncles, Nieces, Nephews and parents that package comes with. Bubba is the one with common sense. He is the one that knows how to work on cars. He is the one that knows how to run a business. Bubba knows everyone and everyone likes Bubba.



Big Earl. Lets just say that Big Earl walks to the beat of a different tambala player. Big Earl believes marriage licenses have twenty mile effective range. He has been, at different times, a bouncer, a poet, an artist, an engineer, a chef, a dope dealer, a preacher, a writer, a comic and a driver. He claims to have never violated his own morals. He also says that the morals he got at birth are still in the original box, unopened and for sale if anybody needs a new set.



Lets face it. Most of the tales will be about Big Earl because bad guys are more interesting. And, as the poet once said, "Big Earl is a colorful character. Beware the man with a colorful past."