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Weekend at Tapora

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More like weekend at Bernie's! Dedicated to all who were there. Tapora is a small sleepy village on the Kaipara Harbour in the North Island of New Zealand.

...until we showed up!

Like soldiers of fortune on the road to Baghdad we crossed the border into No Man's Land. On the convoy's eastern flanks... the Brynderwyn Hills, and a bridge too far as we led the first wave on north-west passage. From out of the Valley of Mizpah to the fires of perdition at the gates of Sodom, till at long last...Tapora on the Kaipara Harbour. Land of pixies, eunuchs, and banjo strummers - home to the Children of the Corn! Yet we were on a mission, and behold, "the Eagle had landed" or in our case...the Red Falcon! To crash and burn and rise from the ashes like the Phoenix - no, not the pub, Einstein - the great flamin mythical bird! And so the winds of folly did fan the salty sea air on nervous sheep and hayseed virgins! Soon night falls on the dunes - the Southern Cross is high in its galactic belt, and constellations of gods and sacred beasts gazed at by ancient Greeks and Babylonians shimmer in the heavens - the lights of all antiquity where the Valkyries ride! Well, I'm no ancient or student of planetary motion but I see a shootin star - I'm always seein stars! Thus with a beer shooter in my hand and a song in my heart I am wise to not much I fear; joyfully I am mute to Political Correctness and dumb to the ideology of Passive Resistance - Gandhi I'm not - more like Mau... yep, Chairman Skeet! Actually...more akin to Marx - Groucho, not Karl! Author of the Up Yours Manifesto, yes, and deaf to the bullshit of my own speak; but I'm cool and hip to mind over matter - if Skeet don't mind it don't matter! The cache of hooch is a target rich environment, and as the self-appointed quartermaster and rankin officer of this rabble I must do what I must, for Skeet is an "ideas man", and my master plan is a most cunnin one; to drink the merry lot till I need a stomach pump or a blood transfusion - whichever comes first. No, these are not the banks of the River Jordan, but I do hear a voice cryin in the wilderness...mine! And by the glow of the midnight sun conspire the fates to rid me of all conscience. When I can drink no more and waves upon the shore lull me to sleep, my clumsy death trap kiddy cot will toss me out in a pre-dawn stupor. And as the mornin light on the Kaipara breaks, so too my fuzzy disheveled head, where my runnin battle continues with the Earth's centrifugal force and gravitational pull; but not so my spirit and not so my mojo risin, and in my addlemania I dry ringin wet clothes from my baptism of sand and sea. The mudflats beckon yonder: Bugger! Kaipara Harbour at its low ebb - a remote ancestral place of myth and legend, those windswept shadowlands scar a bleak landscape. To me it feels like the dark side of the moon in a puff of phantasmagoric smoke - a dead man walkin - fallen in the dunes. Under cover of darkness... regiment covert Black Ops: left Base Camp HQ at 2100 hours - Stormin Norman Skeet Company! Cursed by the howlin wind more eye-rollin drunk than before dug in on the cold shiftin sands of Iwo Jima: bivouacked on the beachheads and coves of Guadalcanal under a great umbrella of stars. To seek out bow-legged women - make contact with the local frontier girls and summon them in the tall grass; but the blokes under my command had heads like gargoyles, so we had to Bug Out - bid a retreat lest toothless villagers wavin pitchforks appear. Hark...is that Deulin Banjos I hear! Returned to HQ and debriefed in our madness as the grunts frenzied on cockles, they nursed their wounds - I nursed a beer. Then out of nowhere enemy positions rained incomin shellfire upon the tin roof - stoned us with their hit and run cluster bombs and vanished like the voices in my head. Kiddin! No voices! Not psycho! But worse was to come at Camp Crystal Lake when my "Blood on the Tracks" tape self-destructed - the ghost of Dylan died. But there was an Idiot Wind blowin through our Shelter from the Storm, and in my cabin fever I did become, yep, Tangled up in Blue! Sunday: gravely low on hooch - more precious than Saddam's stolen gold. 'Twas then the plotters plotted on the windy Kaipara shore. The first casualty of war is the truth, but not this version of it - so shall it be written: with jellyfish in my jacket and mischief in my heart we were on a Mission from God... and as I rolled back the bedcovers I felt good and just cause. As I laid my slimy tentacled friend down the universe was in alignment, and with my Blues Brother and wheelman in sunglasses, like Jake and Elwood, we smoked that Monaro out of the "Deliverance" backwoods before insurrection in the ranks, and before them pig squealin mountain men showed up to take a bride! August 1994

Copyright © | Year Posted 2014




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Date: 5/4/2016 9:57:00 PM
Wow, what a story! I felt like I was watching it unfold as I read through it, so many great descriptions! Thank you for sharing this ;)
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