There was a time when I drank a little bit. Jack Daniels was my whiskey of choice. I’d usually start out with a pint of Old 7. By the end of the night I’d drank three or four. Never was one to consume anything in moderation. Not speed, cocaine or alcohol of any kind. They say it has to do with having an addictive personality. Truthfully,  I don’t know. What I do know is, I like to get high. When you party with me, we’re going to roll until the wheels fall off! Drink un­til the well runs dry. Don’t so much care for booze these days. But when I used to get the urge to tie one on, I drank Jack Black right out of the bottle tossing the lid into the breeze. This is a blog about one of those nights after the bar closed. Smashed on liquor and trashed on methamphetamine, my friend Steve Young and I left the Stagedoor and headed to an old friend’s house in Moffet. Little did we know,  the guy we were going to see was just as fucked up, or maybe worse, than we were.

Walking up to the gate with a sign that read, “To Hell With the Dog! Beware of Owner!” I immediately became skeptical. Especially since the pit bull on the chain was chomping at the bit to take a bite out of our drunk asses. “Vaughn! Vaughn! Come out here and get this goddamn dog before he eats our ass alive!” Steve yelled toward the porch. Stepping from the doorway of the old run-down shack came Roger Vaughn, ex-Vietnam Vet, and he was wearing two .9mm automatic pistols in a shoulder holster. “Young? Steve Young? That you? Why I’ll be goddamned! Come on in here boy!” Sidestepping the length of the pit’s chain, we proceeded into the front room of the house. “What’s up Tripper? Long time no see. Last time was in the Sebastian County Jail, wasn’t it?” “Yeah, Rog’. You doin’ alright man?” I asked.   “Couldn’t be better! You boys sit down. Wanna beer?” Watching crazy one-eyed Roger walk toward an old refrigerator in the corner, I noticed what looked to be several bullet holes in the wall, plastic and glass all over the floor.

After a beer and a shot or two of Jack, Roger asked Steve if he’d brought his pistol. Steve then took out his 2-shot .38 derringer from his boot and an Army issue .45 automatic from his waistband in back. Sitting on a shelf along­side the icebox was nine of those little drinky birds that bob up and down. You know the kind? The ones with the stupid little faces and red tophats? Apparently there used to be twelve but Roger had already blown three of them away—their mangled bodies strewed about the old wooden floor near the base of the kitchen table. “Bet you ten bucks you can’t hit one of them birds with that derringer first try,” Roger said to Steve. “Are you sure you want me shootin’  shit up in your house man?” asked Steve. “Fuck it!” he replied. “Go ahead. Hell, I do it all the time!” Taking a swig from the bottle of J.D., Steve expertly aimed his little 2-shot pistolo at one of the drinky birds, pulled back the hammer, and pulled the trigger.    “Missed the damn bird all the way!” Roger announced laughing his crazy ass off. “Now watch this,” said one-eyed Rog’. Quick drawing his .45 he blasted the first drinky bird on the shelf to bits. And believe me, that little bastard never drank another drop ever again.

My ears ringing from the gunshot blasts and the pit bull barking like mad on his chain just outside the door, I briefly wondered if the Moffet Police might show up. But then again I thought … this is Moffet.  And there’s only one pig and he’s probably home drunk or in bed. Next thing I know, Roger’s pulled out a hammerless .380 from his front pocket and is blowing away a few more plastic birds. Laughing hysterically, both Roger and Big Steve seemed to be having a blast. Me? I just had a headache from all the loud noise.    “Ever shoot a flamingo, Steve?” asked Roger.  “Because I got some more shit out here in the backyard that’d make good targets. C’mon. Follow me!” Before walking through the back hallway of the house, Roger tossed me his .380 and said, “Here Trip. You might need this. After all, these goddamned pink birds can be some pretty mean mother fuckers. Wouldn’t want you to go out there unarmed.” Drunk as a dog I found myself wondering … does this fucker really have flamingos in his yard and he wants us to shoot them the fuck up? Or maybe it’s that he just has one wheel stuck in the mud. You just never knew about crazy fuckers from eastern Oklahoma. It could be both.

In the backyard, fighting roosters and laying hens ran for cover knowing their nutcase owner was coming out to raise hell. Stepping in a huge bunch of chicken shit, I almost slipped and fell. “You owe me ten. Double or nothin’ says you can’t hit one of those pink freaks with that .45 with a hand over one eye!” said Roger. Looking toward the barn at the end of the lot, Steve saw nine of those plastic pink lawn flamingos and said, “You’re on mother fucker! But I tell you what. Let’s make it forty and I’ll bet I can annihilate three of those long-legged bitches before you can even shoot one!” And before Roger had a chance to respond,  Steve pulled his chrome-plated automatic and shot the fuck out of not three, but four pink flamingos sending their remains flying across the yard in bits! “Pay up mother fucker. It’s almost daylight and time for me and Trip to go.” Roger just laughed and laughed and laughed. Ears ringing and tripping on all the noise and flying debris, I looked at my best friend Steve and said, “Why you crazy fucker! Damn good shot for real!”

Still a bit paranoid that the cops, or maybe even an Oklahoma Highway Patrol might come along, I patted Steve on the shoulder and said, “We’d better go.” Suddenly, our host seemed to be offended. Raising one eyebrow and spitting a sucked-dry chaw of Redman on the ground at his feet, Roger Vaughn said, “What? I ain’t good enough company for you boys any more? Come back in the front room and let’s shoot up some more drinky birds! Hell, I’m just startin’ to have fun. Surely you guys can stay a little bit longer, can’t you?” Seeing Roger was all wild-eyed and toasted,  Steve said, “Okay Rog’. Just a couple more. Then we gotta kick rocks.” Soon as we hit the living room,  Steve popped in his extra clip and unloaded on the remainder of the top hat-wearing birds. What really made things bad was, Roger did the same with both of his nines. Never did think my ears were going to stop ringing after that. I was sure I suffered major hearing loss, not to mention nerve damage from putting up with these two gun-wielding maniacs.

All the way back across the Arkansas River Bridge, Steve spoke but I couldn’t hear a single word he said. I could see his lips moving but my hearing was G.O.N.E gone! To this day I think I have hearing loss due to that night. Smelling of speed, whiskey and gunpowder, I took a shower as soon as I got back to my motel room. The next day I went to the walk-in clinic on Rogers to get a few Valium because my nerves were shot. The Asian doctor gladly prescribed me a hundred blues just so long as I paid the $45 office call. Funny, but when I walked up to the cute little Vietnamese nurse standing at the receptionist window, there sat one of those stupid little drinky birds bobbing up and down getting a drink. Asking for a cup of water and tossing back six blue tens, I remember thinking to myself … I hope I never see one of those little top hat-wearing, big-eyed fuckers ever again. Good riddance to you bird! By the way, this blog is dedicated to my old friend Steven DeWayne Young who passed away last year.  I’m Tripper!    Better Days!

Something hit me like a ton of bricks today. And that something is … I’ve suddenly gotten old. October the 18th, 2008, is my birthday. I just hit “The Big 5-0″. Don’t really “feel” fifty. If the truth were to be told, I still “feel” 18. I would loved to have been able to celebrate with a full catered affair. You know, a big ass party, strippers from Baby Doll’s and lots and lots of booze.Instead, I’ll just lie here on my cold steel bunk, reminiscing and day­dreaming of better days passed.

I was born before the age of color TV, compact discs and certainly before the invent of PC’s and the Internet. All we had was black and white, record players and one of those old fashioned dial telephones to communicate with friends from across the United States. With all the new technology in the world today, I guess I really do feel a little bit old. Bunnies were small rabbits Grandpa had out back in a pen, not the Playboy variety. Grass was mowed, not smoked and gas for daddy’s lawnmower wasn’t an issue. Because it was one of those kind you pushed by hand.

Some of my earliest memories as a young boy was my mother teaching me to tie my shoes, buying sodas at the barber shop for a dime and watching JFK’s funeral on TV. Oh how everyone in the Mansell family cried the day President Kennedy was assassinated. I’d just barely turned 5 years old. At age 6, the Beatles came to the U.S. and appeared on the Ed Sullivan show. At 7 there was a huge anti-Vietnam war march On Washington D.C. and a couple of months before I turned 11, an astronaut named Neil Armstrong set foot on the face of the moon. And yeah, I’m old enough that I remember it all.

At 12 I got my first pair of bell bottom jeans, I discovered the Edgar Winter group on 8-track and I french kissed my first girl. It was 1970 and I was starting to realize my body was changing; I was definitely well on my way to becoming a man. Even though I loved my family, I remember thinking to myself … man I can’t wait to grow up so I can get a job and move out on my own! I made good grades in school, I loved my country and I dreamed of buying my very first motorcycle. Peter Fonda in “Easy Rider” was my idol and I had a crush on Sally Struthers after sneaking into the movie theater to see “Five Easy Pieces,” rated R.

Yeah, I miss being a little kid. What’s the big attraction in being a grown up anyway? When I was young, I wanted to be an adult. And now that I’m an adult, all I want to do is be a kid again. Another thing, I used to wonder why all old guys chased young girls. Hell, when I was young, I always wanted an older woman. But now that I’m old, I see why old men want young girls for mates because they make them “feel” young again. I just wish I could go back to age 12, knowing what I know now, and start all over again. I guarantee you one thing. I would not be where I am today. I’d be free, have a job and be happily married for real!

As it stands today, my knees are starting to buckle and my pants won’t zip. I’m set in my ways and “good morning” is an oxymoron. My eyesight is going, my hearing sucks and a rocking chair is starting to look pretty darn good. Where women are concerned, well I just hope I’ll still remember how to have sex when I get out. Because I have exactly six more birthdays to serve in federal prison before they let me leave. All I can say is … thank God for industrial strength Viagra and women who like to ride reverse cowgirl! And surely the girls will still want me. Right? Who the hell knows!

Wish I’d never started drinking, smoking weed and doing drugs. All which led to my present situation of course. My kidneys have suffered and so have my lungs, and even my back from doing all that time in the state joint hoeing in the fields. Should have stayed in school, studied hard and went to college instead of choosing to attend the school of hard knocks. I should have listened to my grandma and pursued a career in music or became a doctor, lawyer or joined the military. Well, maybe not a lawyer. All those guys are crooked as hell. After age 12, shit just seemed to go downhill. Know what I mean?

Despite all my shortcomings however, I really don’t feel too bad about the way I lived my life. Sure, there are some regrets. But all in all, I had a hell of a lot of fun. I did stuff a lot of people will never get to do and I’ve met people I might never have met hadn’t I lived the lifestyle I chose to live.Like you for instance. All my friends and readers here on MySpace. With tears in my eyes I can honestly say to you all … turning the big 5-0 hasn’t been that bad after all, thanks to real friends! That is one thing I’m just fully understanding in life now, and I’m the big 5-0. I’m Tripper! Better Days and upcoming birthdays to all!

So in the end, was it worth it? Jesus Christ. How irreparably changed my life has become. It’s always the last day of summer and I’ve been left out in the cold with no door to get back in. I’ll grant you I’ve had more than my share of poignant moments. Life passes most people by while they’re making grand plans for it. Throughout my lifetime, I’ve left pieces of my heart here and there. And now, there’s almost not enough to stay alive. But I force a smile, knowing that my ambition far exceeded my talent. There are no more white horses or pretty ladies at my door..

George Jung

** Wanted to let you all know I talked with Tripper on the phone early this evening. He was utterly floored with all the cards. He got 45 cards on Friday. There are another 15 on the way from a few late stragglers. He said he is going to get a sweatshirt and stock his locker with food and hygiene, and get that new pair of reading glasses he’s been needing for so long. None of it possible without ALL of you. This turned out absolutely fantastic. I’m so proud of all of you readers and friends who took the time out of your day to send a card, a gift, a better days. Tripper very emotionally told me that this was the best birthday he’s ever had, and asked me to thank all of you that send cards. He will be doing a thank you blog very soon he says. He spent all day yesterday from mail call until he fell asleep looking through the cards, and then today re-reading them all. You did good guys, you really really did! Thank you from the bottom of my heart, it has meant a lot to me as well that you would all come together like this. Incredible!!

One more thing to ask of you. Tripper has never had a blog hit the number one spot in the life category (or any other category for that matter). Please pass this around, read it twice, tell your friends, let’s get this to number 1!! We have a hard act to beat with Miss Stephanie; she is usually always number 1. Thanks guys, thank you all! Be Good and Be Well………Tripper’s Rep, Nic

Just a short one … Drinking a cold one at the old Relay Station one Saturday afternoon, an old friend of mine came staggering through the door. “Hey Bull! You crazy old mother fucker! Where in the hell have you been?” “Just got back from the horse races Trip. Lost my license a while back so I had a friend drop me off at the bar.” said Bull. Sharing a few Michelob’s with my old pal, he told me how his construction company had recently folded and he’d pretty much lost all his money at Hot Springs earlier in the day. Several pretty girls were in the bar. Bull and I flirted with them all. One old boy shooting pool kept hating on us staring across the way. When he went to the restroom leaving his longneck Budweiser on the pool table, Bull walked over, pulled out his dick, and rubbed the head of it all over the bottle’s rim. When the guy came back, he took a big old swig of his beer. That’s when the girls standing around just laughed, and laughed and laughed! That’s the kind of crazy shit David Bull use to do. Never a lack of entertainment when he was around.

Suddenly, the bartender and bouncer got mad. Big Steve came over and said, Bull! I’m throwing you out! Finish your beer, get in your car and leave.” “But I don’t have a car Steve! I got dropped off!” said Bull. “Well, I don’t care,” said Steve. “Finish your beer and go!” Downing his last swallow and shaking my hand goodbye, Bull looked at the bouncer and said, “Guess you’ll have to call me a cab.” A few minutes later there was some kind of ruckus on old Greenwood road right in front of the bar. It was Bull and the cab driver fighting. I watched as Bull took a bumper jack away from the cabby and chased him down the road. After he ran away, Bull walked slowly around the cab meticulously knocking out every window. First the front windshield, then the back, then all the windows in all four doors. Soon after, someone called the cops and a Fort Smith black and white arrived. After a few minutes of arguing and the patrolman pulling his gun, Bull was cuffed and placed in the back seat and hauled away.

About a year later, I ran into David Bull in the Sebastian County Jail. “Last time I saw you, you were beatin’ the hell out of a cab driver and tearing up his fucking car! What happened Bull?” “He got smart with me Trip,” said Bull. “So I slapped him up side the head. That’s when he grew balls and got out and grabbed that bumper jack and tried to kick my ass. So, I took it away from him, run him down the road and commenced to destroying his cab. Then the cops came and took my drunk ass to jail.” “Did you have to stay in the pokey very long?” I asked my old buddy Bull. “Nope. Soon as I cleared book-in and made bond, I saw the same cop that arrested me and I asked him if he’d give me a ride. Had him take me right back to the Relay Station.” “Thought the bouncer just threw you out of there?” I asked. “He did. I drank a few beers before he noticed me. When he did, he came over and said, ‘Goddamnit Bull! I thought I just threw your drunk ass out of here! I saw what you did to that cab driver in the street. Now go on! Git! You gotta leave!’” “Damnit Steve!” said Bull. “You know I ain’t got no car!” “I don’t care,” said the bouncer. Bull finished his beer, sheepishly looked up and said, “Guess you’ll have to call me a cab.”