"Gamblers and drinkers, and rowdies, oh my!"
"Gamblers and drinkers, and rowdies, oh my!"
"Gamblers and drinkers, and rowdies, oh my!"
—Dorothy Gale
Both volumes of 'My Rough & Rowdy Ways, were released by the Yazoo Records label on October 20, 1998. It was produced and remastered by Richard Nevins.
This collection of folk, blues, and traditional country music brings to life the "rough and rowdy" spirit of "Old-Timey" music, focusing on the darker or more rebellious side of folk traditions.
These recordings have a certain charm to them, and they’re a lot of fun to listen to.
Betcha a certain Mr. Zimmerman has these two sets.
These recordings have a certain charm to them, and they’re a lot of fun to listen to.
Betcha a certain Mr. Zimmerman has these two sets.
For the Freeload, tells us about friends you have or had who were decidedly rough and or rowdy.
Being a decidedly non-dramatic cat meself, I avoid/ed folks like you describe, so I've no tale to tell.
ReplyDeleteBut I'm very much looking forward to this collection of music, so thank you much, Babs!
C in California
PS Maybe you can make up for my deficit with more stories of 'The Grease'?!?!
I try to avoid those folks too, but sometimes they're thrust upon us.
DeleteI second the call for "The Grease" stories--does she know she has a cult following on your blog? Y'all are a dynamic duo.
ReplyDeleteBetween growing up in South Louisiana and spending some 37 years in Texas, there have been a few, but interestingly, the roughest and the rowdiest were in my brief stint in Madrid and during my Minnesota years. In Madrid there was an Olympic swimmer who drank prodigious amounts of wine, loved to dance and sing LOUDLY (especially to "Jota Jota Kali"), and tump over the tables of the fascists at El Retiro. He was a thing.
In grad school there was an enormous fellow who had been a defensive lineman (in US football) at Texas Christian University who was getting a PhD in Political Theory. What's more than prodigious? Colossal, gargantuan, tremendous, stupendous, monumental? He had figured out, he claimed, that given his size he could never be legally drunk and had convinced at least one officer who had stopped him on his enormous Harley this was so. A true gentle giant, obsessed with Marx, and could, as he once did to me (6'2", 225 lbs) in a fury, lift you up with one hand and chuck you across the room. Shortly after our first daughter was born he appeared one day at the door, pulled a hideous doll out of his leather jacket, and fled on his bike. He loved to carry her around in one of his enormous hands. He later became a lawyer, ended up in Alaska where he had some, uhm, run-ins, and died young (of drink), ever the life of any party he was at.
The Grease has no idea.
DeleteNice suggestion from C, and I'll bet that Babs has other stories. I guess I have a few rowdy friends (see my story about when all the LAPD units on duty were trying to stop a "burglary"), but the only character who fits rough and rowdy was an old boss, who shall remain anonymous.
ReplyDeleteHe was a pharmacist, and needed someone to deliver prescriptions for his small pharmacy in a small medical office building. It was the summer after high school, I was 17 and had access to my parent's Renault, and I liked to drive. The job was a good learning experience for me, but the very occasional visits to the pharmacist's home...
He was bent, and had a scam with one of the doctors to steal Qualuudes. He also had a massive appetite for street cocaine, and I will admit that I partook when he showed me the first Hot Tuna album covered with a mound of the stuff. He then nodded out, which is a trick on coke ... but he might have had additional substances in him ;^)
He was sitting on the floor in front of the LP, and I thoughtfully got a pillow behind him and eased him down. I then left and returned to suburban normalcy. However, when I returned to work the next week, I learned that you always uncrossed someone's legs in that situation -- when he finally woke up, it took a lot of massage from his ex-wife for his legs to function again.
Maybe Babs was savvy enough at 17 to know that kind of thing?
D in California
I’ll go with rough. When I was a young lawyer working for a silk stocking firm in NO, they threw me into the construction litigation group, probably due to my size (I was easily the biggest person in the firm then). So, I get assigned to handle a file for an insurance company that wrote surety bonds (a type of financial guarantee) on several construction projects for a contractor named El-Tek. El-Tek was getting placed in default on several projects due to non-performance and unpaid bills. Had no idea who El-Tek was, other than what was in the file: owned by a Turk national by the name of Arman Melikyan. SOP was to write letters to the contractor asking to meet asap to discuss and also to all the owners on the projects asking them not to release any further payments of contract proceeds given the defaults. Got responses from all, but Melikyan. Telephone numbers I had for him went unanswered, and when I went, unannounced, to his office, it was locked with no one there. Hired a PI to dig into the guy. PI calls me about a week later, and almost as soon as we start to talk, my secretary buzzes in to advise that a Mr. Melikyan is at the reception area wanting to meet with me. I tell the PI that I will call him back and go to meet with the elusive Turk. Melikyan is a huge, barrel chested guy, 3 piece suit with no tie and gold chains around his neck. The otherwise intimidating vision is belied by a head of hair that looks like Larry Fine’s on a bad day. He’s with 2 other guys that supposedly work for him and, thankfully, are smaller than me. I grab a conference room and the 4 of us enter. I start giving them my typical opening line about how while I do not represent them, my client and them do have some common interests and I would like to explore those interests. All three sit silently and say nothing. I ask if they have any questions for me. Melikyan reaches for his briefcase, and pulls out one of the letters I had sent out, requesting no further contract proceeds to be released. He finally speaks and asks if I am the same pmac that signed the letter. I answer affirmatively and before I can explain why I wrote it, he blurts out, “Last person that fucked with my money is on a missing persons list.” So, I quickly get up, and state that the meeting is over, and unless they vacate the office within 2 minutes, law enforcement will be called. Melikyan balls up the letter and tosses it in my direction while all 3 of them proceed to exit.
ReplyDeleteShortly thereafter, I’m in a meeting with the firm’s partners and they are deciding how to handle this threat (interestingly, my personal safety was never once mentioned). Secretary walks into the meeting and hands me a note advising that the PI is on the phone and needs to speak with me NOW. I exit and grab the phone and he immediately shouts, “Don’t tell me you met with HIM!!!” I then get all the dirt on Melikyan – dirty beyond description. Has a PhD in chemical engineering from Michigan St, but apparently was using it to manufacture designer drugs. His construction company was washing the proceeds. Yeah, now I’m fucking scared.
Two days later, PI calls back, and asks me if I got his fax. Go retrieve it from the machine in the mailroom. Melikyan was busted by the feds and when they raided his office, he reached for a desk drawer, but was apprehended before he could open it. Inside the drawer was a loaded pistol with a silencer. He did 25 years of hard time, and upon his release was immediately deported to Turkey
Great stories D., pmac and Eric S. thanks for sharing!
ReplyDeleteI also avoid crazies, but my friend James did throw himself out a window (while very high on something) so he could fly over San Francisco. That was over 30 years ago. He still has a pretty bad limp and walks with a cane.
~ Jon in Cali
One of the rowdiest individuals I ever met was my husband Jerry’s roommate at Caltech, his name was Robert, and he was a 1960s skateboarding OG. To avoid confusion with other Roberts, Bobs and Bobby’s he was known as “Skateboard Rob”. He was a rich kid from Sacramento; his parents owned a supermarket chain, and was what we today call a "trustafarian". He always seemed to have a can of Olympia beer in his hand, and a cigarette dangling from his lips, as he terrorized everyone on campus with his skateboard, screaming, "Make a space…get outta my damn way….yeah you!".
ReplyDeleteThe roughest man I ever met, I only knew as “Big Niccolò” who was part of Denise The Grease’s father’s (that’s “Mr. Grease” to you) crew, as a “collector and enforcer”. For the most part, “Mr. Grease” conducted the family business in a “Members Only” club in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn. But sporadically a “one on one” took place at the Grease family’s residence, and that was where I first met “Big Niccolò”. When Denise The Grease got wind of a “one on one”, she and I would always sit on her stoop waiting for them to show up, as they’d always give us money.
On this one particular day, a big black Cadillac pulled up, the driver got walked around the car and opened the door, and out got “Big Niccolò”, who nodded at his driver, and told sternly him "Wait in the car.". “Big Niccolò” was probably 350lbs, and immaculately dressed. He smiled at us, and The Grease said, “Big Niccolò! Hawaya’?” They kissed each other cheeks twice, and she then said “This is my best friend Babs”. “Big Niccolò” held his hand towards me, I thought he wanted to shake hands, but he took my hand and gently kissed it. Up close his face was a mess, and was quite scary, latter I found out it bore the scars of World War II hand-to-hand combat. He then gave us twenty dollars each which was a lot of money in 1959/60. Before he went into the house “The Grease” asked him, “Can I rub your belly for good luck?” “Big Niccolò” laughed unbutton his jacket, she rubbed his belly and said “My God, Niccolò, you gotta cut down on the meatballs.” To which he replied, “If I did, I wouldn’t be Big Niccolò anymore.”, he looked at me and winked.
Over the next few years I met “Big Niccolò” many times, he always remembered my name, and he would always joke around with me saying things like, “When are you gonna take me away from all of this” and “When we’re married…”. The Grease used to laugh and tell me, “He wants to diddle you…good luck finding his 'saw-seech' (Italian-American for sausage) between those rolls of fat.” We both went into hysterics.
Once I overheard The Grease’s brother, Vinny “The One” talking to “Mr. Grease”, telling him he told “Big Niccolò”, to arrange “a shaving accident on a flight of stairs”, for someone who owed him money. That sent a shiver down my spine.
One day in 1963 “Big Niccolò” vanished without a trace…
Babs, you say you live in a button factory, but I'm beginning to think that's a covert name for a witness protection hang-out...
DeletePlease keep the stories coming!!
The other day my doorbell rang, and it was two guys from the Jehovah's Witnesses Protection Program, I politely declined.
DeleteLOL!!!!
Deletethat's kinda amazing. As is pmac's story and this one might ring a bell with him. Not far from where I lived, out Highland Road about 5 miles south of LSU, there was a place called Vince's, run by Mr. Vince. It was a corner store and behind an office door a bit more. There was much speculation about what was behind that office door, but it was said to be palatial, unlike the dimly lit convenience store. I knew my father, a professor, knew Mr. Vince, but did not know how or why and, tbh, was to stupid to wonder. Anyway, when I was probably 16, one of the myriad, all-related Italian kids in the neighborhood came up to me at school and told me Mr. Vince wanted to talk to me. I should go to the store and knock on the door. That day. I was confused, left school, and went to the store and knocked. Inside was a plain room, Mr. Vince with a cigar in his mouth behind a large plain wooden table scattered with papers and money. He took his cigar out, pointed at me, and asked if I was my father's kid. I said yes sir. He told me I had a future, unlike the idiots I hung out with, to stay out of trouble, to not do stupid things, and did I understand. I said yes sir. He put his cigar back in his mouth and went back to his papers. It was clear he was done and I left.
ReplyDeleteSmall town, small potatoes next to “Big Niccolò,” but it made an impression. Which is not to say I didn't still do stupid things and get in trouble...but I also heard him.
Vince's - where everyone took the LSU sanctioned bar exam study courses. Can't make that up!
DeleteEric will get a kick out of this extra Melikyan nugget. He was sent to a pretty bad fed pen in upstate NY. But, he apparently convinced the feds that he had dirt on the infamous La gov, Edwin Edwards. So, about 5 years into his sentence, he gets sent back to Baton Rouge to ostensibly testify before a grand jury that was investigating Edwards. Heard from more than one source that even Melikyan had his limits and when he got in front of the grand jury he pulled a Sgt Schultz routine and claimed that he knew nothing. Back to upstate NY and back to serving every single day of the term he was given.
Love it. Edwards was such a dawg. He had a thing for my mom...also his whole run against David Duke--the crook or the hood. Thankfully the crook won...
DeleteMelikyan was somehow involved in the first Edwards' trial with the certificates of need and the hospitals scheme. A friend of mine went with his girlfriend to one of Edwards' fundraiser parties, and he left alone and his date wound up in Edwards' hotel suite. Still get a chuckle from Edwards' old line about the only way he would lose an election is if they had photos of him in bed with either a live boy or a dead woman.
DeleteWhen I was performing with my band i often had a plastic Jack daniels bottle filled with cold tea and honey. One day we were doing a free festival and some of the motor bikers came to the stage, and the most awkward of them jumped on stage to shout some abuse for a minute or two, the band kept playing and I let him do whatever he wanted to do. Finally I had a sip of my innocent homebrew, put it down again and he saw from the corner of his eye the brand. So he took the bottle, put it to his lips, took a giant gulp and spat it out over the crowd. "Teetotal" I said in the mike. He was not amused and went off stage. After the gig I was walking around, selling our 7" when he saw me. Within 5 seconds I was pulled back by security, and when I was in the dressing room they worringly shouted that I had no idea who or what I was messing with. Indeed I did not, and I did not want to find out. Through the back door we got escorted out to our van. very quietly, very quickly
ReplyDeleteToo many to count, but I'll pick Zim. Zim was from Longuyland. He came out to San Francisco; had to skip town, then New York got to hot and he came back to the City.
ReplyDeleteWe're over at the Bernal Heights attic where we were holed up. I hadn't seen Zim in a year...and he's...beaten to shit. I mean black, blue, red bruises of all colors, two black eyes, bloody knuckles. We're all not saying anything about it until my pal John said "What the fuck happened to you, Zim?" and the story spilled out.
They were drinking in a South San Francisco ("The Industrial City") bar. One loudmouth thing led to another, and Zim's agreed to go bare-knuckles in a boxing match down in the basement where they usually hold cockfights.
Zim won. The kicker was his buddies...the guys he went to the bar with....lost $1,800.00 betting against Zim.
I didn't see him again until he turned up in 1991 and he hit me up for $50.00. I call his sister back in New York because I was pretty sure I knew what was up, and yeah, she said he was gonna use the money to cop some heroin. I put some homemade spaghetti in a Tupperware container, met him at the train station carrying my six-month old son, gave him the money and the meal and said, "Don't call me again, I can't do this shit anymore."
I never saw him again.
A few years later someone shot him and dumped his body in a river back east.
Given my life has been quite sedate for several decades now (and for a good part of it I worked in the UK's criminal justice system) there is not much to relate albeit some of my former colleagues were rather colourful. So its probably best I talk about my teen years
ReplyDeleteGrowing up in the 1970's in a smallish seaside town in the UK, rowdy behaviour and heavy (under age) drinking was simply a normal part of life (not that I have ever been someone to get involved in violence) but I knew plenty who did. You could guarantee that fights would break out in the local popular pubs and night clubs pretty much every weekend so you grew up knowing your fair share of rowdy individuals. The combination of pop culture and football (soccer) culture at the time made such rowdiness almost mandatory. Combine that with the lax drinking culture (I started going into pubs with my mates at 15 and clubs at 16) and it made for interesting times.
For example KC and the Sunshine band were playing at a local ballroom venue and after the band's set had finished a lot of the girls who had gone to see them (it was well attended) suddenly seemed to go home (it was 9.30pm or so) leaving a preponderance of young well oiled males with nothing much to do and within 15 minutes about 5 fights started in different areas of the ballroom and all converged into the centre where around fifty punters started knocking seven bells out of each other with the bouncers trying to herd them up the stairs from the dance area and stage out of the doors. It was surreal like watching one of those Tom & Jerry cartoon fights were Butch and Tom get into it.
Then there was another fight where a group of lads from my old school got the better of some other guys after some disagreement at one of our regular haunts. Sadly though the other group didn't get the message and came back for three or four times more just to get sorted out three or four times more as well.
Then there was a school mate of mine (we were dating girls that were best friends) who after I lost touch with him got into more and more trouble (his older brother had got himself locked up) and ended up mixing with a gang that were involved in armed robbery and currency counterfeiting. One even ended up doing life for murder. Serious criminals.
I last heard that friend had 'disappeared' on a 'fishing trip' in the Channel but then he was still only in his early 20's. As I say knowing people from different backgrounds was normal life back then. I could go on.
Of course on the other hand I could wax lyrical about the Olympic Gold Medallist, that I went to school with or that the school was the Alma Mater of a former UK Prime Minister. It was a very eclectic place.
And then there is my new wave and Mod years......
Well, I was told by a former bouncer at The Armadillo World Headquarters that the bouncers wandering around always wore large hats & the hats were stuffed with bar towels, apparently came in handy more than once. Sounds like there were plenty of bar fights back in the good ol days.
ReplyDeleteIn 1982 I was building log cabins on the San Jose Trail on the west side of the Jemez mountains, opposite of Los Alamos, it's on the eastern side of the Jemez in New Mexico. The closest village was Regina, a gas station, with a small store, across the highway from a bar with a couple of pool tables. And a nearby sawmill. There was also a bar in Lindrith, New Mexico about 8 miles away, that had really great green chile cheesburgers.
I met an old timer named Will Earl at the Coon Holler Bar, he was shootin' pool and sorta toasted, but, to be honest I think he always half in the bag, always had a nearby flask or jug. Anyway, Will was 75 years old, 6'6" and probably the neighborhood of 250 lbs & generally no one you'd wanna mess with. His hands were gigantic & rough like 40 grit sandpaper.
When I met him he sounded like a ZZ Top song, he said that he'd been everywhere & done everything. I've always believed him. He would occasionally go into details. So, he was shootin' pool one evening and this youngish, small Hispanic fella comes in the bar, all hot & bothered, in a huff and accuses Will of bedding his wife & he wanted to go outside with Will for a gun fight. Will wears very thick, coke bottle bottom spectacles, his voice was deep like Phil Harris but gravelly rough like Mr.s Zimmerman these days & his volume was never loud & sometimes verged on a loud whisper. Will looks at the guy & sez, Well, if she's out there lookin' for it, I'm probably givin' it to her! Lemme buy you a beer. That was the end of that.
Will was a horse trader & likely a horse thief at some point. Will Earl was a millionaire several times in his life and of course had not a lot when I knew him. He lived in a small trailer a step down from Air Stream, on a 5 acre property that had 2 horses, a mule, a goat & the rest of the acreage was covered with all types of abandoned military weaponry & other formerly government property.
Will worked with Red Adair when they discovered the process of stopping oil well blowouts.
Will told stories of stealing 30 gallon oil drums in the jungles while in the Philippines.
He was full of stories and had either a great memory or at least a vivid imagination, probably a little of both I s'pose. Thanks Babs
AND thanks for all the great stories, what times we've seen, no?
Thanks Babs
Great stories from everyone, thanks!
ReplyDeleteLink
https://workupload.com/file/WaFqF8pDcU3
Bonus mystery surprise link. What will it be? The suspense while it downloads just might kill you…
https://workupload.com/file/xwvR5bsfvjh
Whotta treat--and clever as usual.
DeleteWhat a great collection of raconteurs you've assembled, Babs.
ReplyDeleteWonder where they came from?
DeleteAs usual, I'm a bit late at the party, apologies in advance...
ReplyDeleteBack in 1984, I was at the end of my trip in Pakistan and discovered that I couldn't continue to India due to their only land border at Amritsar being closed. A little earlier, the Indian army had removed Sikh separatists from the Golden Temple there, and the whole area was a mess... I gave up on India and decided to travel to Sri Lanka instead. Boarded a dreadful night train to Karachi, where I met a Moroccan backpacker (let's call him Ahmet, forgot his real name), he had the same idea, and we ended up on the same flight. On the plane, I met a British guy with whom I'd spent some time in North Pakistan earlier, nice surprise! After a few days in Colombo, we decided to take a bus to Kandy, but encountered problems at the bus station. A local suddenly started screaming at us that we had heroin and he would go to the police. I thought the man was mad and told him off... He returned a little later with 2 police guys, and we got arrested on the spot! They stopped a taxi(!) and off we went to the police station. I still thought that this situation was absolutely bonkers and explained our version to the Head of Police. He ignored me completely and ordered a body and luggage search... They found a tiny piece of hash in my wallet (souvenir from Pakistan, in the North it was smoked everywhere...) and a huge lump of the same in Ahmet's backpack, ouch, but no heroin though. My English buddy had nothing and was free to leave the station. Ahmet and I were supposed to go to jail, but no transport ever showed up, so we ended up sleeping on benches in the station. The next day we appeared in court and got sentenced for carrying illegal substances... We both received a fine, of which Ahmet's was considerably higher than mine. As he had virtually no money, he begged me to help him, which I did... Once outside and free again, he swore eternal friendship and to pay me back once he had sufficient funds... In hindsight, Ahmet probably made money by peddling dope and had tried to do something similar at that bus station... Unnecessary to say that he never paid back anything and disappeared from my life forever!
C'est la vie.
I've lived most of my life in rural Mississippi. It's the norm.
ReplyDelete