Juan Corbett

It was the Winter I was hanging out around the west side of California when I meet Robert (Bob). At one of those typical West Hollywood parties, lots of hot crotch and silicone breasts. These parties have more pretty blonde people in one place than any other place on Earth. In the corner of the game room he is pick’n and grin’n a sweet six string, a handful of folks, half-ass paying attention to his impromptu performance.

I slide in sideways for a closer look see and to hear the boy. Is that Adrien Brody I ask my gal pal. “He gets that all the time, don’t mention it, he gets pissed”. Ok. I’m a big fan of all kinds of music. I can’t play any instrument and am in awe of those that can do it well. Bob played a couple of tunes then disappeared.

In the next two months there was a party happening every other day at someone’s house. A friend of a friend of friend, all were having parties, L.A. to Malibu and back again. During these weeks, months our paths crisscrossed and I became friendly with Robert or Bob, his friends called him Bobby, his stage name was Malibu Bobby.

There was this one Sunday night Bobby was having an invitation only performance at a East side dive. His new CD was dropping the following week, and a select few had the opportunity to hear his songs before they were in the stores. By chance I wrangled an invite for two, my lady friend and I had great seats in this tiny venue, a full house, not too crowded. A great sound system in this place, sorta like your whole body was inside a set of headphones. I was thinking this was a nice ending for my last night in California. I was ridin’ out east early thirty.

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Shoot-em up Sally

A big loud boom, another big boom shakes my tent, jolts me from my slumber, my heart is pounding. A few feet away, again boom–boom, followed by a giggle. I look at my watch its 4:15 AM, who is out there firing off high powered rounds? I’m in no hurry to find out, I’m a snug bug in a sleeping bag with a hang over. I chamber my trusty side arm just in case and roll over for forty more winks.

Just as I’m drifting back into darkness, again boom–boom. “Wakey wakey boys, hands off snakey”. Thats a women voice out there! What is a woman doing out here in the middle of nowhere, in a pasture at early thirty,? Its 4 in the freak’n morning. “Y’all get your tired asses-up, the coffees on.” I had to bounce out and see who this crazy lady was. What a fun way to start the day.

There she was, sitting in lawn chair with a double barrel shotgun across her lap, a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other. From the small campfire her grin lit up, “you must be Juan Corbett”. “Yes-um I am ma’am”. “and you must be Sally, the unfortunate lass to have married that hairy legged beast still sacked out in his tent”. We are laughing it up when Luke stumbles into the fire to join us. He introduces his new bride, she rises up out of the chair, extending a hand to shake. Wow, what a hand-shake that woman had, I’ll never forget it. I’ve shaken hands with some pretty big boys whose grip wasn’t this firm. With a grip like hers, you knew she could hang-on to any thing, for however long she wanted.

I was in Kansas to visit my old friend Luke, do a pheasant hunt and meet his new wife. He and I met at his family farm the night before to make camp. We stayed up way too late with a tall bottle of whisky catching up on the last couple of years. Had he mentioned his wife would join us in the morning? I didn’t think a lady would show at a camp-site, and before dawn. Especially one firing off a shotgun for grins and giggles. She made a memorable first impression on me.
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Her name was, or it sounded like “Hi-Lite,” or maybe it was the incredible hair coloring she had. Met her after a great roller-coaster ride in Sweden, she was a portrait sketch artist at the park. Drawing only in red pencil on brown paper (shopping bags), were like none I’d ever seen before. A sexual joviality about her that was hard to resist.

Sure, I have been heckled for admitting to liking some of Abba’s songs. So when a Abba reunion concert rumors were growing on the web I became curious. As a disinterested fan of theirs the buzz on the net was renewing my interest in their music. Its been said they are/were, “Sweden’s greatest musical gift to the world.” A once in a blue moon event was just a rumor, or not — a maybe happening? Reportedly at one of those out of the way places close to the seaport of Gothenburg.
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Down Alabama way in the heart of Dixie Land I met-up with Trixie. Through a friend of a friend we were introduced and took up correspondence over the internet. Had been talking with “Trixie” back and forth online for weeks and it was about time to get-on over for a face to face and look see in person.

I flew in to Birmingham about midnight a little hung-over from all the flight delays on the way. Headed to Trixie’s place out by the Talladega National Forest, (the East side of Birmingham.) She described her humble adobe as “contemporary redneck chic,” whatever that is, I couldn’t wait to see and her too. First I needed some wheels, found a nice new blue convertible Mustang in the long term parking lot — I might be able to return it before the owners knew it was gone. (grn) I’ll take real good care of it.

My first time in Alabama that night, as you might expect I got lost a couple of times on the way to her place, thank goodness for cell phones and compasses. Finally arrived around 2 AM to a gal sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair, with a five gallon bucket full of iced downed beers by her side. With out getting up, she hollowed, “get your ass out of that car and over here to give me a kiss, then you can have one of these here beers.” What was a boy to do but comply. Already, I had a new respect for her and liked her even more than before.
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I became interested in sailing a few moons ago when I saw Turner on TV in Newport, RI, a wee bit tipsy bragging about his team’s chances of winning the World Cup. In those days TT was prone to getting a little liquored up and letting his mouth overload his ass. Since I enjoy all kinds of racing from horses to lawnmowers, I might like sail boats too. That following year I went up that way to see what its all about.

Rolled Into Newport for the annual sailing regatta around brunch time. A week out, this Summer social event of the season had the streets littered with crowds of golden folk. The overwhelming smell of money, old and new was all around. Lots of pearly white teethed people milling about, every kind of pretty was here on the East Coast of America.

Starved and road-weary, I needed some grub ASAP. A hot bath, a cold shower, clean sheets and a shave to settle in for some rest was next on the agenda. Found a little cafe tucked in on a side street off the main drag. I usually don’t go into places with “bistro” is in the name, but damn-it I was so hungry, I was going in. Certainly I looked a little ruff and tumbled after twelve hours on the road with a steel haus between my legs. The aromas wafting out of this place hit me between the eyes when a smile overtook this beat-up traveler. Smelled like all kinds of good.
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On soft clean green sheets, cool fresh air kissing our cheeks. Smirks of contented happiness. Sweet dreams on pale green sheets was these. With the arrival of spring we looked forward to bluer skies, blooming flowers and the feel of a lush green grass under our feet. Bringing new hopes with them sweet dreams on those sheets. Warmth of the Sun through the windows, outside cold air calls. Feelings of restlessness and excitement filled us with the coming of spring. Bright colors around the corner. Bird songs in the air.
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