3 – Blog a19 – Tar River Tavern

Hippie’s hymn is enough to calm down the crowd which begins to pick themselves up. The linemen come jogging back. Everyone gets out of their way.
“Get those boys a beer,” I order the bartenders, who promptly comply.
Everyone is catching their breath, including us. Robby comes in through the back door and sits at his drum kit. Those who can see him cheer. He raises his drum sticks in acknowledgment.
“Now you know that Robby spends most of his time playing Peter Pan. This song’s is how a teenager gets away with everything. It’s called ‘Sneakin’ Around.”

“Sneaking around
Never been caught
All over town
Better than not.

Thrill’s in the chase
No time to waste
Folks on my case
All is in haste.

Waiting’s the worst
You were my first
I need you now
We’re on the prowl.

Back of an alley
Sprawled in the dirt
No time to dally
Who will cum first.

shaka shaka love?
‘shaka shaka love shaka shaka
Shaka shaka love shaka shaka.”

The girls love it and start dancing to the chorus which we repeat over and over. We’re back to normal
“This song’s about all the evil things Robby did to Michael,” Jack confesses, causing the two drummers to do competing rolls and flairs.
“Look Before You Leap,” Jack shouts.

set you’re your buddy on fire,
Better buy a rug.
send your friends to hell,
Better get a priest.
Beat up a bully,
Better get a gun.

Look before you leap
Better to say no
End up in the shit heap
No place to go.

Leap, leap, leap
You fuckin’ freak
Leap, leap, leap
Strip and streak.”

Beat up your friend
Get new friends
Steal a new car
You won’t get far
Rape some sweet lass
A beating comes fast

Look before you leap
Better to say no
End up in the shit heap
No place to go.

Leap, leap, leap
You fuckin’ freak
Leap, leap, leap
Strip and streak.”

Before we finish, Robby and Michael begin berating each other. Michael leaps up and chases Robby around the room with his drum sticks, swearing to get even. Robby is easily staying ahead of Michael, but two hillbillies get in his way and catch him. Michael starts beating rolls on his head, until the linemen rescue Robby. We keep playing without a drum beat.
“Well, now you know what it’s like to grow up in South Florida. Y’all can’t get no further South than that, less’n you go to Cuba. And that ain’t the South.”
We do our ‘South Florida’ song.

‘Go deep to the South
When you can go no more
Find our city to make a score
Come to our cool house

We bewilder with our drug
Whether it be love
Or just need of a hug
We’re free to meet the need

Miami’s here to serve
keeps you safe and sound
Southern man beats you down
That’s what you deserve

Miami drug
Life too rough?
Take the time
Follow our sign

Girls are free
Always please
Jack your shit
Get into it.’

To end the set, we explain what we think about drugs:


I take drugs but I don’t understand

How you let things get so out of hand

It’s no fun to be a bore

Hanging around for you to score

When you’re high stay close to me

Teach me to fly & how to be free

Please don’t cry, its only the drug

You won’t die, just give me a hug

Heroin & cocaine make a speed ball

Dilaudin or codeine soften the fall

Thorazine puts you away for awhile

Acid & beer will make you smile

Needles give hep, death & the flu

For that rush that’s what you must do

Crystal meth is the best

But forget about sex

Whiskey & ‘ludes make me real rude

Acid & pot will make your brain rot

PCP takes you away from me

Red & beers chase away the fears

Do you still love me or is it the drugs

I love the sex but I need your hugs

Together we are happy, apart I am sad

Without a connection we always go mad

Copyright MIB Tar Larner 1981

We walk off as people cheer. Miami is still not the South, but we feel that we are. We do not figure on an encore, but our loyal Denver fans keep clapping, so we come back on stage.
“You still here Cheryl Ann?” I speak into the mic. I see a hand waving from the back.
“Bring that lovely sister of yours and get up here. We’ll do your song.”
They run up, or at least, waddle in Lee Ann’s case. I am sure glad that is not Scott’s or my baby.
“What song?” they ask.
“Like last year, at the sock hop. Chewin’ Gum.
They break out in big smiles and step up to the mike with Jack. I tell everyone ‘Does your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor.’

I have to play a couple of lines like a banjo before the rest of the band remembers the novelty hit.

‘Oh me oh my oh you
Whatever shall I do?
The question is peculiar
I’d give a lot of dough
If only I could know
The answer to my question
Is it yes or is it no?

Does your chewing gum lose its flavour
On the bedpost overnight
If your mother says don’t chew it
Do you swallow it in spite
Can you catch it on your tonsils
Can you heave it left and right
Does your chewing gum lose its flavour
On the bedpost overnight
Oh-me, oh-my, oh-you
Whatever shall I do
Hallelujah, the question is peculiar
I’d give a lot of dough
If only I could know
The answer to my question
Is it yes or is it no
Does your chewing gum lose its flavour
On the bedpost overnight
If your mother says don’t chew it
Do you swallow it in spite
Can you catch it on your tonsils
Can you heave it left and right
Does your chewing gum lose its flavour
On the bedpost overnight.’

Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Everyone cheers and we are done. Mr. Big Boss comes up, slapping me on the back, with his pitch on how much we earned.
“You boys done right fine. We even ran out of beer by the end. Jake told me you git these hillbillies drinking, but now I seen it. I figured your 23% cut is $400,” as he slaps the Jackson on the bar.
I do not even look at it. “I guess we’re not coming back tomorra nite,” I state.
“We wants ya back. I’s countin’ on it.”
“Well, come up with an honest split and we will.”
“You seem mighty young ta be horse tradin’.”
I squeeze the beer out of my tee-shirt, “That’s yer profits for tomorra goin’ down the drain.”
“Now, hold on, boy. You sayin’ we’s cheatin’ you boys.”
“As you said, it’s all about horse tradin.’”
“What y’all think the split should be?” I have him backing down.
“Well, Jake paid us $1000 when we sold out his beer supply, but you let all our friends in for free, so we’ll take $900.”
“How’s ‘bout $600?”
“Naw, how ‘bout we just walk away and tell our friends why?”
“Don’t be threatenin’ me, boy.”
“I gave y’all a fair discount on the agreed 23%, what’s the complaint?”
“You boys think you’re slick coming from Miami and tellin’ us’n how to run our biznuss.”
“$900 and no one knows you got slicked.”
He looks at me and laughs. “That’s fair, but you promise not a word, even when I tells ‘em you walked away with nothin.’”
“I ain’t got no problem with my reputation hereabouts. Let’s shake.”
I put out my hand. He slaps the additional twenties into it, looks me in the eye, and shakes my hand.
We both laugh.
“See ya, tomorra,” I said. “My people won’t be heah ‘cause they’s dead broke now. But they’s sure ta git the word out and draw you a payin’ crowd. No need to skip the cover charge.”
“Well, thank yee for tellin’ me how ta run my biznuss.”

Everyone is out back. Jack runs up to me, looking hurt. “I’m so sorry I got drunk. You gonna let Robby be the singer now? That’s what he’s saying.”
“That boy’ll abuse you as much as you let him. You really think it matters you got wasted? We just carried on.”
We both sing the Kansas’ song:

“Carry on my wayward son,
For there’ll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don’t you cry no more”

Songwriters: Livgren, Kerry A
© Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

The whole crowd listens, shocked when Jack unconsciously kisses me.
“We knew it,” they all yell and then cheer. Maybe even hillbillies can deal, when you are open and honest. Or, maybe all the free pot won them over.

Everything is loaded, especially all the band members. The Uncles toot their horns and back we go to the hotel. Just as we leave, the bartenders come out with nine wrapped BBQ dinners. There were several large bones for Max, who passed out long ago.
“Ya ain’t gonna find no restaurants open ‘round heah abouts at this hour. Y’all look right scrawny to miss dinner.”

I notice Floyd and Wayne do not wait to get back before digging in. The rest of us follow suit, tossing the empty containers into the countryside as we drive to Mount Holly. I set aside $40 for a thorough cleaning and waxing of the convertibles. At the motel, Floyd goes in with Robby and the straight guys. Wayne hangs back until we invite him into our room.

Casper signs, ‘What’s he want?’
I cannot remember if I told Casper about my faux rape the previous summer, so I sign back the details. The thought of another bottom excites him. Always ready for another orgasm, our friendly ghost.

Wayne takes the middle of the bed, propping himself up against the headboard. Hard to tell what he is thinking: revenge for being bottomed, yearning for it, or just happy to be with us. Jack seems oblivious to his intentions, enjoying his folksy humor.
“You boys ain’t shy, I give ya that.”
“I remember after you won that drag race, y’all wasn’t all that shy yerself,” I counter.
Casper is checking him for any reaction to his presence. It doesn’t appear he is too open to the spiritual. Jack and I prop ourselves up at the foot of the bed.
“Floyd’s took a likin’ to yer buddy Robby. They seem like two peas in a pod.”
“Well, not as much as we are right here,” as I wiggled my toe into his ribs, tickling him. Instead of moving away, he dives for me. I move to put myself between him and Jack. As we squirm around, all of us start getting hard. When he sticks his head between my legs, Jack reaches over and sticks his hand down Wayne’s grease-stained jeans. We now know there is no need to be greased up. Casper moves in on Jack’s dick, so all of us are going at it.
“Ya gots ta fight me, or I ain’t getting off,” he begs. Hillbilly repression. We are tumbling all over each other when the bed collapses with a crash. Luckily we are on the lower floor of the motel. No one knocks on the door to complain. Wayne is totally into the wrestling and grappling, in place of actual sex. I decide to kiss Jack, to get his reaction, which is to move away. He wants it rough and not too intimate. Taking a breather, I pull out a joint and we toke up. I know this will ramp up Jack’s engine. Soon he has Wayne’s head against the headboard, begging for mercy. We have a double-decker fuck sandwich going on. Jack gives no quarter and gets Wayne’s jeans and shorts off and legs up in the air, propped on his shoulders. Jack teases him with the tip of his hose. Wayne begs for it. When Jack finally thrusts into him, I am poised to nail Jack. As he slides inside Wayne, Jack suddenly is impaled from behind by me, pushing him further into Wayne. That boy is screaming from the double thrust, obviously more than he can take. Jack tries to withdraw, but I thrust again, pushing him back inside Wayne. The boy is whimpering with the pain, begging for mercy now.  We are relentless until his whimpers became higher pitched and his pain changes to stimulation. Our double action has him cumming way too soon. His ass clenches Jack so tightly that he is also ready to climax. I pull us both off of Wayne. It’s my turn to make Jack whimper. Casper finally sees his opening and rolls Jack and me on top of him, replacing Wayne as receptacle. Wayne cannot figure what is happening with Jack, but it excites him enough to get his dick going again. He moves behind me and takes his revenge on my ass. We have a double-decker fuck sandwich going on. Jack is stuck in the middle with my thrusts bringing him to quick climax into Casper who stays beneath Jack as a cushion to my and Wayne’s syncopated fucking. Finally we are all done and fall apart I hear a yee-haw from the front window. Robby and Floyd are peering through a crack where the curtain had been pulled back. Someone sabotaged our privacy. We run out butt-ass naked to chase them away, swinging our dicks as threats to their manhood. Perhaps it is just watching that gets Robby off. I remember Floyd’s ride on me as pretty thorough. We run back inside and collapse on the broken bed. We huddle up with me in the middle. 

“I been needin’ that for a few months now,” Wayne confesses.
“You don’t have a girlfriend?” Jack asks.
“Hell no, I ain’t nothin’ but a grease monkey to them girls.”
Jack and I look at each other. The grease marks are all over us.
“Well, ya shure left yer mark on us’n,” I josh.
He squeezes me real good. “I’d be in love wid ya if I weren’t such a fag hater.”
I kiss him on the forehead. He shies away. I cuddle with Jack and soon we are asleep. In the morning, Wayne is cuddled up with us. It takes a long shower to get all the grease off. We finally go out looking for a breakfast restaurant. The other room is already there. Robby needles us about our private  after-show party. Floyd is smugly grinning at Wayne. Wayne surprises us by grabbing both Jack and me and giving us a big hug. Kissing is still off-limits. The others all whistle.
“Another one bites the dust,” Floyd complains.
I change the subject, “Hey, Cheryl Ann wants to fatten us up with a Southern fried chicken picnic at their place this noon. Y’all best not load up on grits this morning.”
“What is it with you two?” Michael wants to know.
“Let’s just say that her sister’s pregnancy was more the just a surprise until I learned she ain’t due ’til June.”
“You were doing her sister?”
“I never kiss and tell.”
“It ain’t the sister who’s got the hots for this boy,” Wayne brags.
“The sheriff’s wife?” everyone concludes.
“You boys got too much imagination. Maybe just Jack and I’ll go get our fill of that fried chicken.”
“You boys is roosters, they’s the hens.”

Nobody wants to miss the picnic. We expect to be the only guests. Not in Denver. Hospitality means everyone is invited. It feels like a Tom Sawyer moment. We are local celebrities with word of the previous night’s performance having spread to every hill and holler. Sheriff Tom is the local godfather. He puts on a big spread. All the band wants is the fried chicken. I want to socialize with the Ann sisters. In ways they know me better than anyone else, at least in a carnal sense. Spring has come to North Carolina, making it a great day for a community picnic. The girls take me for a walk, wanting gossip about Scott, just to bring back those crazy feelings we all felt. They both have an arm around my waist as we wander through the fields with spring flowers popping up. I’m hoping that they were experiencing spring friskiness, but it seems they just want to feel close again.
“Y’all weren’t just playin’ with us poor hillbilly girls, now was you?” Lee Ann plaintively asks.
I pull her into a hug. “We was too young to be playing. Them times was the highlights of our lives,” I assure her.
“My, y’all has learned how to charm a lady since then.”
It is just nine months ago but it seems like ages. “Y’all okay with havin’ a baby, Lee Ann?”
“Don’t git my hormones a’goin’.”
“Well, if’n it’s a girl, she’ll be the prettiest thing.”
“I wish I could eat you up,” Lee Ann concludes.
“Speakin’ of eating. How’d ya git so skinny, boy?”
“I got injured and started hangin’ out with these pot-headed retards. All the swimmin’ muscle just melted away.”
“Be sure to take some extra chicken with y’all. Ain’t nothing like Southern fried chicken to put meat on yer bones.”
We all sit and contemplate all the changes since we were all runnin’ around wild together.
“Why’d you and Scott fall out. Was it over a girl?”
“Pretty much. He just seemed to lose interest in me after he started sleeping with one of our friends.”
“Broke yer heart, didn’t it, honey,” Cheryl Ann grabs my hand.
“Pretty much threw me off my game. I got so distracted I was injured. Then I started smokin’ pot with Robby and the gang. Scott cursed me for being lowdown.”
“We both knew you liked each other as much as you liked us,” Cheryl Ann reveals. “You was holdin’ hands while you both did us. It weren’t no big shock. You boys were too cute.”
“Just a scrawny white boy now.”
“Well, you was sweet and innocent then. That cain’t ever last. I’m so proud you brought yer boys to play fer us. Y’all’s still sweet.”
They both kiss me on the cheek. I can’t help but pull them backwards. We have a real make out session for 30 seconds.”
“You sneaky little weasel,” they both cry, before getting up and running away.
I lay there staring at the sky. I am past the time when I can think of this as the way to live, free and careless. Jack comes over and lays with me.
“You want to stay, don’tcha?” he accuses me.
“And lose you?” I pull him close. We have a real make out session. Splendor in the grass.

Tuesday night at the BBQ Pit Bar is different from Monday. It’s a full house. The only repeaters are the teen posse we sneak in. They are overwhelmed when we tell them to be the linemen/bouncers for us. With some trepidation, they cannot refuse. Southern pride insists they not wimp out. We agree not to do ‘Southern Man” until late in our opening set. Max is onstage as backup. We agree to put on a good show, not just get everyone riled up. We decide to use Iggy that night by mostly doing English metal and R&B. He comes on after the Neil Young/Lynyrd Skynyrd counterpoint. The crowd action has been at a fever pitch throughout the set, so only beer and epithets are flying our way. Iggy bursts through the crowd with that night’s followers.
“Hey, assholes,” he screams. “Ya got sumthin’ a-ginst American metal?”
“Ya got a request?” Jack replies.
“Yeah. Git off’n the stage and let me sing.”
All his buddies are going, “Yeah. Let ‘em sing.”
“Come up and make me.” Jack taunts Iggy.
He jumps up. They play tug-of-war with the mic. His followers try breaking through the linemen, but they are held back, with Max ready to pounce.
“Y’all want American?… or Brit?” Jack uses the mic to get a response.
“Amerikin’” is unanimous.
“Fuck you,” he throws the mic at Iggy.
The band is ready for ‘Search and Destroy.’

“I am the forgotten son,” Iggy announces and launches into the song. His fans are whooping and hollering, pushing the other patrons around and dominating the space in front of the band. The bouncers push back. Max growls and the line holds.
“This song’s for Max,” Iggy announces.

Max lifts his head at the sound of his name. Iggy pulls out one of his second-rate joints. Max bounds onto the stage, as Iggy lights up and gives him a shotgun. The crowd stops fighting and cheers Iggy’s audacity.
“Max, ‘I Wanna Be Your Bitch,” Iggy crows. The crowd howls. Max howls. Iggy takes the mic and gets on all fours and sings to our hero.

As we play the song, I see the owner and bouncers preparing to rush the stage to apprehend Iggy. Hoping that they only want to 86 him out of the bar, I hustle Max and him out the back door and into the De Soto with Uncle Tam.
Apparently the parking lot is neutral ground.
I come back on stage. “Looks like American metal has had its day.”

We jump into Roy Orbison’s ‘Runnin’ Scared,

“Just runnin scared each place we go
So afraid that he might show
Yeah, runnin scared, what would I do
If he came back and wanted you

Just runnin scared, feelin low
Runnin scared, you love him so
Just runnin scared, afraid to lose
If it came back which one would you choose”

Words and music by roy orbison and joe melson

“Arrest that boy. Smokin’ dope and dognapping. He’s a rebel.”

The crowd is stunned that we reach back to the 50s. We go off the stage to some applause and cries to free Iggy.

The owner comes over to us.
“I don’t know what yer tryin’ ta pull, but no more pot in my bar.”
I was going to argue that Iggy was not our fault, but let it drop.
“The next set is all our own songs.” I assert, “so it won’t be as crazy.”
“It betta not be. But the bar’s doin’ great, so I’ll let ya keep a’goin.’”
Money talks, pot laws walk.

We go outside and are surrounded as usual, with Robby sharing the weed. Iggy is off with his followers who see him as the hero in our encounter. I tell the teen bouncers we need them to be roadies after our set. In case we enrage the bar owner again, we’ll have to make a quick getaway. We promise that our own songs are not going work up the crowd as much as the covers. They look relieved.
“Y’all comin’ back?” they ask.
“Ya know, y’all make us feel like this is home, so don’t ya be sur-prised,” I answer, winking at Wayne. He just grins. Floyd is too busy with Robby to notice or care. They have something plotted, which must be to do with the monkey song. We do that song last.

When we’re set up again, Jack takes the mic, “Thanks for stickin’ around. That redneck was last seen hightailin’ it out the parking lot.”
“You want American music?” Jack taunts. “We’re good ol’ boys from South Florida. Can’t get more American‘n that. These are our songs, just for you. We’re False Gods.”

We rip into our eponymous theme song, slowing down the lyrics and going up tempo on the riffs between lines. People are swaying, then hopping. Several people holler out, “False Gods,” at the end.
“Y’all like sex?” Jack asks, getting a positive on that. We do the three sex songs in a row.
“How about love?” Not so much a response, so I come over to him. Jack sings with his arm around me. Not too many fag calls.
“We all is from Miami. Not many think it’s the real South, so here’s our argument that we’re all good ol’ boys.”

We do ‘South Florida.’ All the drug references get a good number of ‘Yeahs.’
“In order to survive there, we learned a bit about ‘Sneakin’ Around.’”
At the end of the song in the ‘shaka shaka love’ chorus, Hippie and I join Jack at the mic and use our guitars as probes, moving into the crowd and prodding girls to dance. We jump back and gave them space as they keep dancing while we repeat the chorus.
“We have our problems, mostly self-inflicted. We learned to ‘Look Before You Leap.’”

“Y’all’s nothin’ but fools:

Robby jumps up and beats on poor Michael while we describe all his prior abuses. Michael is a trooper and keeps up the beat.  At the end, Robby comes over and joins Jack for our finale, ‘Barefoot Boy’

“Barefooted boy
Makes a stand
To take his joy
Going hand to hand

Flying out free
Branch to branch
Through the trees
Reckless chance.”

“Free to be
A monkey like me

Ha ha ha
He he he
Haw haw haw
Chee chee chee”

They sing it twice through. At the end, Robby launches himself to the rafters, using the fire sprinkler pipes to go hand over hand around the room. Casper is right behind him. We keep playing and making monkey sounds. The surprise comes when Floyd launches himself from an amp and tries to catch Robby. It is no contest, as Robby taunts Floyd who doggedly pursues him. The crowd loves it throwing beer and anything they can find at the two boys. Finally, Floyd is exhausted and just hangs from the pipes. Robby and Casper come to tease him.   Once all of them were on the same pipe, it gives way from the ceiling, pulling down half the piping. The sprinklers go off. The crowd is soaked. Pandemonium breaks out. Everyone is running helter skelter. We grab all our instruments. The teen bouncers are already loading the drums and amps into the convertibles. Max is barking. Robby and Floyd are the last ones out the back door. We tear off and watch the mayhem continue in the parking lot. Including the teen bouncers, there are fifteen people in the two cars. Once we’re far enough away, we pull down a side road and park. Robby passes out the joints. Everyone chills. Of course that means Jack is all over me, to the astonishment of the local teens.
“Don’tcha mind him pervin’ on ya?” one of the bouncers asks.
“Only if he does it with anyone else,” I shock them. “You rather we drive ya home now?”
“Naw, jist sumthin’ to tell the girls ‘bout in school. Jist don’t y’all be showing us right now how ya do it.”
Jack turns to face them. When they see us both turned on, they decide it’s time to go.
Hippie confides, “It’s like this all the time.”
“Sick.” But they keep looking.

Sirens are heard going toward the bar. The teens say they live in the opposite direction, so we leave them off first, before their morals are too corrupted.
Wayne, at the wheel, takes back roads to Denver. The uncles decide they need to install seat belts in their classic pre-1964s. It is bitter-sweet saying goodbye to Wayne and Floyd.
“That weren’t better than a run but it was more laughs,” Wayne decides. He even hugs Jack and me, to Floyd’s disgust. Casper gives him a kiss, which startles him. He must have a heart after all. I am not feeling too bad about leaving him alone. I have a feeling his need to wrestle and tumble before getting it on is a trick he shares with Floyd. Denial can be rewarding.
“Ya sure y’all don’ wanna make a last stop at Sheriff Tom’s. I hear he’s a heavy sleeper,” Floyd teases us.
“I’m sure you know,” we tell him. He makes like he was going to hug Robby, but at the last second, pulls back.
“Psych,” he mocks us.

The Uncles have the tops up. They promise to find an all-night diner for our hamburger fix. Max barks for his pot fix. Robby pulls out another of his endless joints. We chatter about being hillbillies for life, until everyone settles in. Jack is the most settled in, with a hand on my cock. I tease him for hours and never cum. He is relentless. We are leaving the South. Next stop, New York City.

Next: https://timatswim.com/3-blog-a20-born-to-run/