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The young fieldfare has just left its nest for the first time - shortly after I took the photo it flew the first meters. The old fieldfare had observed this from a safe distance and then flew to the young and first lured them into a safer hiding place (bushes). Unfortunately I couldn't follow anymore. But there were still 3 young in the nest, all of which left their nest one after the other the next day. They were all received in the same way by the old fieldfare.
Rouen (France) - Convergence des luttes ce samedi 11 février 2023, où plus de 20.000 manifestants opposés au recul de l’âge de la retraite ont défilé dans les rues de la capitale normande. Ces jeunes sympathiques punks ont tenu à se joindre au mouvement de protestation. Non qu’ils soient particulièrement inquiets pour leur propre fin de carrière, puisque ce mouvement proche des milieux anarchistes n’a pas de caisse de retraite. Ils ne se font aucune illusion sur leur avenir et leur mot d’ordre reste « No future ». Ce n’est pas une raison pour ne pas être solidaire d’un mouvement protestataire d’ampleur.
• Je note que ces jeunes punks ont un sens inné de la mise en scène et savent prendre la pose.
Punks in protest
Rouen (France) - Convergence of struggles this Saturday, February 11, 2023, where more than 20,000 demonstrators opposed to raising the retirement age marched through the streets of the Normandy capital. These friendly young punks made a point of joining the protest movement. Not that they are particularly worried about their own retirement since this movement close to anarchist circles has no pension fund. They have no illusions about their future and their motto remains "No future". This is not a reason not to be in solidarity with a major protest movement.
• I note that these young punks have an innate sense of staging and know how to strike a pose.
I have been a scanning fool lately trying to get some older stuff digitalized before they turn to dust. And since some of the young punks on here like to say I am "older than dirt" that means my slides are aging too. I have noticed the blue skies on a few Ektachromes getting lighter so I figured I'd better pick up the pace.
Here a westbound Milwaukee Road freight has finished pounding across the BN diamond at Savanna. I was a junior in high school at this time and grew up about 45 miles from here. It was such a great place to visit back then.
vandel
Didn't know her first name, fucked her on the first date
Breaking down that cocaine, vampires stay awake
She said I'm insane, yeah, I know you like that
Give it to me right now, I'ma give it right back
GothBoi, blood dripping in the club light
Switchblade cut coke, give a bitch lines
GothBoiClique, I don't give a fuck, bitch
Young punk bitch, fucking on a drunk bitch
New LeLutka Head SIWA @ Velour Mall
Sony CyberShot DSC-RX 100
Carl Zeiss Vario-Sonnar T* 1.8-4.9/10.4-37.1
© Norbert Peter
All rights reserved ©
Scathophaga stercoraria (yellow dung fly) on a mound of dung ....making more dung flies.
The Clash - All the Young Punks
Today's edition of Berkshire & Eastern's (or CSX's? Or maybe NS's? Who the hell knows anymore?) B101 left Ayer with a proper leader for a change. Since I had already earmarked today to mount an attempt at chasing this train out the West End, I was not going to miss this one.
Despite it being a Thursday afternoon, we had a party crowd, including here at Zoar. Since The Brick visited yesterday, the whole West End was down to 10mph again, so the chase was tantamount to fishing with dynamite, at least until the sun went down.
Hey Tim Stockwell, remember when we used to be the young punks on the West End? I was the oldest guy out there today.
BN westbound freight from Alliance to Sterling behind SD40-2, C30-7 (6793-5539)...stock cars are probably carrying ties, although the BN was still carrying livestock during that first couple of winters that I worked in Alliance. According to the older guys (they were greatly outnumbered by us young punks), the livestock and sugar beet rushes in the Autumn were the way to fatten the paycheck, or even to make a paycheck at all.
Painted in 1996 with Monk, Bates and I believe Faze, as well but I think he painted a little ways down from us. This was painted in some abondon factory in Copenhagen, Denmark. This was based off of a pen sketch that I had done while on the 7 hour plane ride from over seas. Bates had the idea for us all to rock silvers so we could get done faster. He was working on painting the inside of a Hospital at the time and was pretty busy and burnt out from painting. I'm sure hosting two crazy Americans was a little tiring, too. He was a very gracious host and we had a great time while over there. I remember asking Monk if he wanted to paint in the middle next to Bates and he was like, "No, why don't you, you guys seem to have been hitting it off as friends." Which was true. Over the course of the 2 weeks we were there, we got along really well. I think it was my outgoing attitude and freespirit that made Bates take a liking to me. Plus, Monk, as down to do anything and as brave as he was, came off a little shy and reserved. Bates was a few years older then us and him and I bonded on some crazy, real life, good time fun, shit. It was like hanging with your cool older brother's friend. Not to play myself out too hard but it was quite a big deal for a young punk like myself to make it out to Europe and paint with one of Europe's finest in the game. Shit, I was living in a small metropolitian city in Minnesota. That was a huge accomplishment. I really owe it all to my main Homie, Monk, too. I would have never had the guts to call up a super famous writer and complete stranger from another country and ask if I could stay at his crib, get a graffiti tour of the city and paint walls with him. It's just not something I could have brought myself to do. Atleast at that point in my life. Nowadays, I probably could. The crazy thing about this little production, Bates rocked this pretty simple but dope style, letter piece, to the left of me. When we got close to finishing, he ended up completely filling in all the letters and the negative space between the letters and just did some text inside it that read, B-A-T-E-S, spaced out. I didn't understand it. His piece looked so fresh. Either way, it looked fresh. I didn't get it but I think he might have been having a personal struggle that day with style because next to his piece he wrote, "The Good, The Bad and the Ugly". I thought it was super fresh both ways and the idea to do that was real innovative to me. Still, I enjoyed just the chance to get up with the Danish Homie. Hopefully, someday we will get the chance to do it again. Great times!
I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A COMPULSIVE DRAWER. I would declare war on every blank area left on notebooks, desks, chalk-boards and school walls. My teachers never appreciated this, but I did win recognition among the other kids. But I was independent and pretty much a loner. I rarely communicated verbally, but I never failed to communicate by using my favourite language: images.
Luckily for me, it was my grandparents who practically raised me, instilling in me all the values I retain to this day. But even though my grandparents offered material and emotional support, I felt abandoned. It was a pain that was muted and sometimes battered into submission, but it invariably came to surface. Plus I sensed that there was something else, a much more disturbing truth that lay at the core of the adult world. Being much too young to identify it, it remained a frustrated inarticulate feeling. But there was something clearly evident in my drawings that expressed those feelings. My talent for drawing, my attention to detail, and above all, my grotesque sense of humor were obvious in the drawings.
By the age of eight, whatever I had lodged in the back of my mind came forward in a blurry approximation in art. It was art that rescued me. Many of the drawings had an underlying dark tone. The drawings gave my incoherent inner world some form of expression and substance, however crudely rendered. Grown-ups had a profound effect on my artistic development, but not in a way they would have approved. I began to observe and to judge people, making evaluations about their nature and characters. This, too, found its way in my drawings. One could see from the progression of drawings a groping and developing maturity. It was a discovery and odyssey of self.
A teacher observed one of my drawings, and obviously dismayed, he asked: “What is the matter Victor?”
I answered: “What is the matter with everybody else?”
A conscious awareness of the adult world came into sharper focus: my overall impression of adults was that they were bogus liars and hypocrites, saying not what they thought, but rather what they believed would serve some particular purpose, some hidden agenda. Everybody came armed with two faces. It seemed to me that the world thrived on bullshit, hypocrisy and lies. I noted a desperate whoring after status, an irrational and pathetic desire to “beat the Jones” followed up by saccharine sentimentality by mealy-mouthed charlatans—and all of it showcased to the people they themselves loathed. Lies, backstabbing, deception, two-faces, malice and hypocrisy was the currency of exchange in the adult world. And so I took a profound disliking to most people I came across. I could sense the spiritual emptiness and viciousness within them. I wanted to like and admire people but I rarely came across anyone who was worthy of it. The only noted exceptions were my grandparents.
I HAD TURNED SIXTEEN JUST A FEW MONTHS before the holidays. Christmas brought distant relatives and immediate family together at the Pross household. For me, people were bad enough on their own but it became worse when they assembled together under the same roof. It was on such occasions that fully demonstrated the insanity and phoniness of these people. I would scan the large living room absorbing the adults sitting on the couches and chairs, each one looking anxious and distant. They were tipsy on day-long benders of Bloody Caesars, making efforts to appear jovial. There was a constant display of smiley backslapping and “Merry Christmases” by people who maligned one another the moment backs were turned. There was an unvarying spectacle of petty bickering over trivia and the sudden surfacing of years-long resentments best forgotten. All the forms of human flaws and ugliness to be found in the world---a world which insists on being imperfect—were on display before the eyes of the juvenile artist.
To lighten the mood, somebody put a dance song on. I watched with keen interest as glasses were overturned by dancing feet and the coffee table was moved out of the way to make room. A frenzy of stimulation bubbled in the room and everyone’s voice rose imperceptibly in pitch. As far as I was concerned, it was a circus.
Each relative represented an unsavory social stereotype or archetype of one kind or another. They were caricatures. From the town’s busy body gossip-monger tyrant--to the dour spinster forever spouting on about “God’s wrath”--to the town’s fast-talking used car salesman who dressed like a big city pimp---to every other stereotype imaginable. It was all there. This was no less true when it came to Uncle Bernard, better known as “Bernie.” Sitting near the Christmas tree, I was observing him closely. He was the jet-set wannabe playboy type. He sported a dyed perm that looked as if had come straight off a Styrofoam head from 1973. Assuming himself a lady-killer, he actually had all the charm of a toupee made of straw dipped in black ink. With each attempt at a pickup he was invariably shot down. “Lesbian!” he would bellow at women who rejected him.
Sitting next to Bernie was my mother, Terry. She was immersed in conversation, laughing with a forced hilarity, her drink spilling over. There was something that troubled me about my mother. She was a woman who was so utterly self-absorbed, forever preoccupied with what others thought. My mother’s sense of personal value was crucially dependent on the image of herself as a glamorous beauty. At the age of thirty-eight, she was wont to ask for reassurances of her looks. “Do you think I have nice legs? I use to be a Go-Go dance, you know?” and “When was the last time you saw a woman as gorgeous as me—and at my age?” With each passing year she began to perceive every wrinkle on her face as a metaphysical menace. Taking aging as a threat to her identity, she plunged into a series of sexual relationships with men fifteen years her junior demanding fresh admiration to assuage her hollowness.
My mother’s constant need for validation annoyed me. I was nevertheless fascinated with human behavior. What I perceived in my mother was a definite narcissism, only I didn’t have the word for it at the age of sixteen. Spurred by mother’s conceit, I decided to try an experiment. I played upon her vanity by offering her a lavish compliment, just to see her reaction. My motive wasn’t flattery for flattery’s sake, it was a psychological experiment.
I tapped my mother on the shoulder, interrupting her conversation.
“Mom?”
My mother turned to me, clearly annoyed, her expression a fusion of wonder and irritation.
“Victor dear, can’t you see I’m talking to this nice gentleman?”
“But mom, I need to tell you something.”
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“I just wanted to say that…you look just like Marilyn Monroe.”
My mother took a deep intake of breathe. She clapped her hands in appreciation and snuggled her darling son into her arms. “Did you hear that?” she demanded of the guests. The room fell to a hushed silence. “What is it, Terry?” asked a guest. “My boy said I look like Marilyn Monroe. That’s my boy! Oh, he knows a good looking chick when he sees one!” My mother then let out an exuberant laugh, which itself was enough to draw attention. After a few more brandy-laced eggnogs, my mother became more of an embarrassment. She made damn well sure to tell new arrivals at the party what her son had said about her. It was a compliment that was warmly recalled by her for years to come. I had always regretted my causal flattery.
I appreciated the art of caricature more so than ever before. I enjoyed the spectacle of observing the reaction of anyone I nailed in a drawing. When people observed a grotesque drawing I had rendered of them—in dead-on accuracy---they would dissolve in self-consciousness. This had a clinical kind of fascination to me. Although one can be disconcerted at witnessing an open incision, I got some amazing glimpses of their guts. What came out of it was a deeply ingrained self-doubt. I knew my art had the power to reach people. “You are a sick guy, Pross,” said one of my displeased subjects. “How is it that I’m sick,” I responded, amazed by this sudden psychological evaluation. “The drawing portrays how you are—not me.”
Observing my mania for drawing, my grandfather decided to have a heart-to-heart chat with me. He entered my room as I sat at my desk, which was littered with sketchpads of drawings and half-ass watercolors.
Grandfather picked up a sketch pad flipping through it. “You have a real talent there, my boy,” he said. A firm hand rested on my shoulder. “It would be a shame if that went to waste”
I smiled and lowered my head.
“There are a lot of people who always dump on me for drawing, granddaddy.”
He smiled. “When it comes to insults, consider the source---and also try to consider what you think may be their motivation.”
My grandfather put an encouraging arm around me, playfully mussing up my hair.
He pulled up a nearby chair and sat down next to me.
“Now listen to me,” he said with a pinch of gravity, “you have a talent, son—a very evident and rare talent, but you can’t expect it to do all the work for you. You have to hone and develop that talent. If you want to be an artist, it takes practice, practice, practice. It is about hard work. It’s not enough to have talent alone. You need to have a hunger. You understand?”
I smiled. “I need to be a hungry artist?”
“I’m serious, son.”
“I know. So am I”
“Good. That’s right, a hungry artist.”
“I am. It’s like a compulsion. I feel so good when I’m drawing. It lifts me up. I need to express what I have going on inside of me. I suppose that is a hunger.”
I paused for a moment. My grandfather looked at me, his clear blue eyes beaming. His smile conveyed immense admiration…and hope. “I love you, grandson.”
I couldn’t express in words the feeling that I felt so abundantly. The love and admiration I felt for this man was great, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him so for some reason. And so I simply smiled and look downward, hoping that this motion expressed what should have said with words.
Not everyone responded with agitation to the drawings of this teenage caricature artist. Sam Ferguson, the owner of the diner I frequented at the time, was blessed with a robust sense of humor. As he observed one of my renderings, he laughed with his whole body, his heavy-set frame shook like a bowl of Jell-O resting on the clothes dryer in final spin. “You are a crazy son of a bitch!” Gus hollowed. “How do you think of this stuff?” In the drawing, I had Gus lurched over a hot stove stirring the day’s soup special with beads of sweat dripping into the pot. In the background, one can see an unsuspecting customer slurping the broth, bellowing, ‘Gus, I love the extra flavor you added!’
“Come here, my boy,” Gus said, sliding a hamburger and fries over to me. “Here’s your payment for a job well done.”
“You’re paying me for that drawing…by feeding me?”
Gus looked astonished that I was astonished. “Of course! A man should be paid for his work. That drawing is hanging on my wall, and it gives me a great deal of pleasure.”
“It does.”
“You are very talented. Hey, I want to frame it and hang it up on my office wall. How much do you want for it?”
“You just paid me,” I answered, biting into the hamburger.
“No, not that, that’s a token payment, I’m talking about really paying you. That is a work of art we’re talking about!”
“I don’t know…”
“Here,” Gus said, taking my hand and slipping a hundred dollar bill into it.
“Hey man, are you serious—a hundred bucks!”
“Too little?”
“No, this is cool. Thanks Gus!”
“One day you are going to be a famous artist. People will be paying you a lot more than a measly hundred bucks. Hey, don’t think that I’m cheating you…I’m not a rich guy.”
“Come on, Gus, I know that. This is so cool, man. If only my grandfather could see this.”
I realized that I could temper my art with light-hearted humor, the gentle good wit that my grandfather imparted in me—along with the acerbic wit characteristic of Barry McConnell. It was here that this artist punk learned that caricature has both a dark and light face to it. I also learned that the caricatures I drew, and the people who inspired them, were not confined to the community where I lived. They circled the globe. It was to the wider culture that my focus turned. I had so much to learn and so much to express.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
**above photo is of my mother--Terry, my oldest brother--Robert, and Kevin (with his arm around me).
Turning around, we see the previously posted train heading into the town, which is a classic small town, old school railroading scene. Along the road, we see everything you needed for railfanning back then, including gas, a beer store, grill, motel, and the station (high black roof). Just before the station, there is a section house with MofW speeders that have just pulled in to clear up for train traffic.
In the very nice looking station there was still a operator that provided train info. And to a young punk as myself, best of all, the operator here (and some other ONR locations) wasn't just friendly, she was also drop dead gorgeous! One also has to love the loads of Appalachian real estate heading somewhere into the northern woodlands.
July 1st is our birthday. Canada turned 148 this year. Still a young punk as countries go. I spent the day in the quaint little town of Lillooet, British Columbia, not far from where I live, tasting some fine wines at Ft. Berens' Winery, and, enjoying a rather spectacular view. Happy Birthday to Us. Cheers, everyone. :)
UP eastbound freight "RO" ("Rush Omaha") passes the crossover to BN headed by two SD40-2 (8034-8010.) The Union Pacific's "Julesburg Cutoff", from Julesburg, where the "Overland Route" mainline dipped briefly into Colorado from Nebraska, to LaSalle, where it connected with the Cheyenne/Laramie to Denver route, was still a hot railroad in 1980. Even after the "City of Denver" streamliner had passed into oblivion, the freight headed to Denver and its Rio Grande connection was thick and usually pretty fast, so the ABS single track mainline was not sleepy, and from Sterling to "Union" it also hosted BN traffic (almost all coal trains) on their way to and from a connection with the BN's own Chicago-Denver main at Brush. Surely that's where my train is headed, but first I must wait for the mighty "RO"behind its high-geared "fast forties" to clear this new crossover at the east end of our yard; after its passing we could hand operate the switches to enter Uncle Peter's territory and proceed to a crew change at the depot. This was done by verbal permission of the (usually cranky) EwePee operator at that depot. Up until recently we would have proceeded down our mainline where that coal empty is presently blocking our way, so I'm sure that the EwePee and the BN had agreed that - for a reasonable price, naturally - a simple crossover could enable more flexibility, not to mention the chance to get us young punks off their railroad faster.
From my student engineer days, this time on westbound coal hoppers, in the siding to meet eastbound freight #74. Leaning from our cab is Engineer "Red" Austin, one of the finest gentlemen I've ever had the privilege to learn from. From the perspective I've gained with age, I now understand why these older guys would have been a little cranky - or REAL cranky (we only had a couple of those) - as they struggled for so many years to hold a year-round job, only to find a whole lot of young punks - like me - ease into a year-round job with promotion almost overnight. Most of them were kind and patient, and Red was tops in that group. As I recall, he was training two of us "piglets" that day! He evidently wants to have a word with Mike Dafney, the engineer on 74, who also has a student with him. Mike became the Mayor of Alliance, Nebr., after I moved to Wisconsin.
I know I'm old, but sometimes I'm reminded in a particularly acute way.
Laura and I are shooting, the dam is quiet, it's a perfectly overcast day, the best kind at the dam, which usually sees, true story, too much sun.
We're shooting, laughing it up, and all of a sudden here are two young punks walking up to us at a leisurely pace, these young bastards with no care in the world and infused with strong auras of individuality, despite the fact they're basically wearing Punk Uniforms, as dictated by something they saw or read.
And they're laid back, been hiking all morning, looking for a giant cross you can see from the 101 freeway in the Cahuenga pass, a cross I've seen for decades, a cross that's always kind of irked me, not attached to a church, just put up on the hill so that everyone would see it, architectural proselytization.
I tell 'em there's no public road up there, you'd have to walk right up the mountain, which would require more than a bit of tresspassing and law-breaking.
Which they nod their heads and and get right down to doing.
At which point I realize I'm old. Because I'm jealous. Jealous of that specific kind of freedom, the freedom of believing there are no serious consequences to my actions, and if through some great series of bad luck dominoes falling, I can always squirm my way out.
Magnifient bastards, I hope they found that fucking cross.
Portraits of and old friend of mine in the place we used to get wasted when we were young punks.
Thanks to Daria
We at Creative Tempest discovered Mear One as young punks, who were first realizing that we wanted to make art for a living. He was a major influence on us then and continues to inspire us now. We thought it was only fitting that our first major influence would also be our first post on this blog where we aim to post the web’s most inspiring artists that we love. Find out more at www.creativetempest.com
It looks like I worked on the work train (how appropriate) at Mitchell, and probably deadheaded back home to Alliance. Once back to "the Big A" I found a loaded welded rail train ready to leave and followed it east of town into the Sandhills. It probably loaded its rail at the plant in Laurel, Montana, and was taking it to any number of projects on the Alliance or Nebraska Division, although it appears that welded rail has already replaced the 112lb. jointed rail here. The power is a U25b and F7b (5422-741), and probably also came from Laurel as F-units hardly ever made an appearance on the Alliance Division, although my short time in Edgemont included a call for the local #368 and the lead unit was an F-unit. No camera, of course, or being a newby I didn't feel free to use it. I soon learned that the "rails" here were a mix of a few older and seasoned men, with young punks like me, and most everyone was pretty tolerant. The enthusiastic wave is from the guy who was head brakeman on the first train I rode out of Alliance on a student run, precisely one month before this date. He was from southeast Missouri and I recall he had worked for the Frisco; like so many of us and for the same reason he had arrived at the Land of Opportunity.
young man outside a convenience store. he and 2 buddies were trying to bum themselves a cigarette. I hadn't seen that hairstyle in 40 yrs.
A weapon for the war (against small waves) | the #young_punk
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jfan25: Gorgeous pic
DARE TO BE DIFFERENT .. a young Punk on streets of Dublin wearing a PJ's & a hoodie ..that is defiantly different ;-)
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A supercomputer strapped to a packmule drone. Some punks got their hands on this tech and made a friendly face for it to assist in illegal netrunning activity. The drone has 4 jacks and an on-board medical AI to monitor the conditions of the netrunners.
What happens when you run a complex computation or two? Your rig heats up, same as with humans. To ensure these young punks don't cook when surfing the web, they chill out in an ice bath, doubling as a cooler for their celebratory beverages.
It's been three weeks now since I photographed Maggie & Matt's wedding at the Strathern Historical Park in Simi Valley, Ca, but the memory lives on. We had a fantastical time and walked away with a lot of great images from their day.
This is a new technique that I'm trying that I've seen some of the blogs doing more of. Using the 2005 technique of Miniture Tilt-shift fake/lens blur, I'm intentionally creating old photos. I'm not sure why this technique is used, but I also can't be an old bump-on-the-log and sit back and let the younger generation dictate what does and doesn't work for modern wedding photography. So if you can't beat them, join them. But I've yet to see some of those young punk wedding 'togs that really know how to use remote flash very well. At least I got that going for me.
And YES, their photos are blogged on my new blog here!. Please take a look at the final product and feel free to comment.
Hello my friends todays painting is from one of my memories of Olongapo City, Philippines .my visit to Olongapo was special in many ways.Since I was in the navy at the time it was a chance to get the hell off the ship (U.S.S Callaghan DDG-994) google it haha I was a plankowner of that ship which meant I was part of the first crew on board which was a destroyer,anyway time to write about the the most exciting town in the Orient. The stories I heard about this place before even stepping foot off the ship were amazing,lets just say I was happy to be a single guy, this was my chance to experience what had become legendary - a night in Olongapo. For the bar owners it meant money, and lots of it. And for the Filipinos employed at the various clubs it meant not only income, but often the chance to meet the right guy and, if they were so disposed, to start the move eastward. the famous line of I love you Joe no sh&t take me back to the states was a line I heard almost every night, not me but some sailors actually got married to some very beautiful Filipino women, just walking down the streets would cause women to flock outside to you grabbing your arm like your some kind of rock star, to them you were rich, which is certainly not the case as everyone knows service men and women don't make jack squat really, but to them yes your rolling in the doe,its really a sad situation looking back on it the way alot of people and especially woman have to live but at the time being a young punk with a bunch of like minded navy men out to get drunk we were in heaven,at least in the minds of a bunch of young punks,another thing I remember is before you came into town you had to go over a little river known simply as the "Sh&t River." only a sailor could of thought up that name , but it was fairly appropriate given that raw sewage from the town was often dumped into it. Boys in little, flimsy boats beckoned from below the bridge, telling passers-by to throw pesos or centavos into the river. When a coin did get thrown, the boys would dive into the filth and somehow retrieve the coin. The navy eventually tried to discourage this practice by putting a fence along one side of the bridge. which is a good thing because no telling how many diseases one could get from such a practice,once in town and in a bar Most of the Filipinos who worked in bars, did not consider themselves prostitutes. In many ways this was true.
A bar fine worked like this: if a guy sat at a bar and got to talking to one of the girls behind the counter, he could ask her to leave the bar with him. The girl had the option of saying yes or no, though the bar owner or mama-san would often discourage refusals. Still, girls could, and did, refuse invitations by servicemen to go out on the town. This was one aspect of the barfine which distinguished it from prostitution. lucky for me Im a good looking guy and women would often want to pay me hahah sorry I guess I still have some of that navy jackass in me, just joking,any how
If the girl was agreeable, however, there would be a fine. Technically, you were not paying for the girl. In fact, the money you paid to the bar was to compensate the owner of the bar for the loss of the girl's work that night. This is because most of the girls worked for little or nothing other than tips. So if you wanted to deprive the bar of what was essentially free labor, you had to at least compensate the owner for the loss. Thus the "fine."
Granted, the girls did normally receive half of the fine. But this was merely a bonus paid by the bar to the girl for bringing it repeat business. Barfine amounts depended upon the bar. In the 1980's, barfines at the flashier places could go for as much as 500 or even 600 pesos a night - about $30 to $40 US. In the smaller bars fines averaged 400 pesos and sometimes even less. So what did a barfine get you? The only thing a patron was guaranteed was that the girl would be allowed to leave the bar with him. This came as a rude shock to some Olongapo newcomers, who assumed that the fine ensured him of a night of sex. It did not. True, the girls were highly encouraged by the bar owners to consent to sexual requests, and the girls themselves sometimes did so simply to ensure another barfine the next day, but the girls were not obligated to do anything. On most first "dates" the best you could hope for was a kiss, unless the girl was an unabashed "professional." Most were not, however. Most were girls from villages or other islands who served customers drinks most of the night, but who suffered the indignity of wearing a one piece bathing suit every hour or so in order to keep their jobs. They did this in order to make a few pesos for their family, and more often than not, in order to find a nice American guy who was marriage material so that she and her family might actually have a future of some kind. These Filipinos tended to cluster together in groups for safety and solace, If concrete relationships were established, a serviceman could sometimes buy a lifetime barfine from the bar. This would be a large, flat fee paid to the bar to ensure that the girl would always be available for the payee. Some of the girls liked this arrangement because of the implied commitment, and because it often served as an excuse on their part not to accept barfines from men they didn't find attractive. Note that a lifetime barfine did not necessarily prohibit the girl from accepting barfines from other men,especially if your ship pulled out even for a few days, and it did not carry over if the girl quit one bar and began working at another. Also, most of the girls were hopeless romantics. From the start most of them made it clear that they were not sexual partners. They were girlfriends, or "honey-ko's." You would take them dancing and out to eat and give them everything else which a girlfriend was due. She would meet your friends, and your friends' girlfriends, and you would take vacations together (for example, to Baguio). You might meet her family (usually an awkward affair).. Those pre-port fantasies of choosing a different girl every night would evaporate for most guys. If you decided to take out another girl, your own friends would question why you were "cheating" on your girlfriend, and you could bet that the "Filipino Network" was working at lightspeed to get word of your infidelity to the right parties. Despite their most stubborn efforts to remain a "playboy," sailors and Marines usually found themselves in relationships. Which implied - yes - commitment! It was a very humbling experience.
When the ships pulled out, that was a time of tears and promises. The girls who had found boyfriends would cry, the girls who had not welcomed the arrival of new ships and new hope. Promises were made by the sailors and Marines to come back, to write, to remain faithful...promises normally broken. Not always.Im pretty sure the navy no longer has a base there after many years and with the service men gone I have no idea how that place is now, after all even with all the crazy stuff that went on alot of money was pouring into that little city every night from servicemen around the world,
Nikkormat FT 2 (±1977) or maybe even a shot with the Zenith. as I sold my russian "tank' around this time for a Japanese piece of machinery.;)
a bunch of young punks on the way to Xanten, stopping for a bite to eat in a bus stop. somewhere between Kleve and Xanten, Germany
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DVD Twilight triplo - Sim, sim, sou viciada nisso!
Blush Pinch Me- Lindo, comprei na viagem passada, mas como não postei foto, apoveitei para postar agora, já usei várias vezes, nem precisa dizer que amei.
Sombras: Club e Young Punk.
FOLSOM STREET FAIR 2104 !
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One of the many NKP mechanics in Bellevue chews out the old head conductor.. which didn't go good for the young punk mechanic.. for almost shoving the 329 off of the end of the service track while spotting it for servicing. In reality this was a small photo shoot put on by the Mad River Railroad Museum in Bellevue.