A great buzz hits the room with the jangle of guitar chords. The stage light now shines on Mr. Tiki Bob Aloha with his back to the rabble-rousers. As Bob turns abruptly in his black tuxedo and Ricky Nelson mask, the audience loses their nuts. . .
yes indeed and I'm talkin',
bout you and me,
I'm hopin' that you'll come back to me,
yeah-yeah. . . ."
By this time people are standing on tables and chairs and whistling and yelling profanities at Bob. He tosses the mask ~ lounge lizard doesn't even begin to describe his real face as he unabashedly belts out the refrain ~ eyes closed like the great teen idol Ricky Nelson -:
"What'cha gonna do when the well runs dry?
You gonna run away and hide?
I'm gonna run right by your side,
For you pretty baby I'll even die . . .
I'm walkin . . ."
"Woooooo," the rowdy Bunghobos scream above the racket of Jack's maniacal blenders ~ oblivious to the smelly wind blowing across Bingbang Cove ~ all joining in -:
"I'm walkin', yes indeed,
I'm talkin' bout you and me,
that you'll come back to me."
Backslaps and hugs all around as beaming Bob swaggers up to the bar for his quota beverage. "Give me a hot coffee grog with cream, Jack. I need a little eye opener."
"Sure," says the grinning toothless maw of Jack, one of the only two hideous maskless patrons who doesn't give a rat's ass what he looks like.
"Jack," yells Bob in a serious tone above the pulse and whirr of magic blenders, "what was it really like up at Big Sur with the ocean talking to you? Do you remember what it said?"
"Oh yeah," says Jack, "I remember every word."
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