There are certainly pluses to small-town living. There is a comfort level with being part of a community, being recognized and welcomed by name when you are out and about. The downside that goes with that familiarity is that everyone knows your business, or at least they think they do. And then there are the rotten few who spread lies and rumors intended to disparage you and undermine the perception of your character. That impact is exacerbated in a place where talk is cheap, and people tend to believe whatever they hear. Or so it would appear.

I’m far from a saint, but I’m not ashamed of who I am and what I do. I don’t like to talk or appear to be bragging about some of my charity projects, but I’m proud to be making at least some difference in the lives I’m able to touch. But for whatever reason, doing good deeds doesn’t seem to be of interest to the folks who engage in malicious gossip. Go figure.

I guess what generated this rant was learning that these unfounded stories have had negative impacts on how I’m perceived and the way I’m treated by some people. I chatted with Lydell on Messenger for the first time in several days this morning. She told me she had given me the cold shoulder because someone had told her I had a girlfriend. I told her that someone had lied to her. The fact that she chose to believe that lie rather than ask me about it is probably a clear indication that our “relationship” was doomed to failure before it ever really began.

My friend “Judy” treated me to lunch yesterday. It was her way of saying thanks upon receiving her first payday from a job she got because I purchased the required laptop for her. Over the course of our conversation, the topic of Lydell came up (she wanted to know what happened), and then Judy told me that when we first met, she had been warned that I had “girlfriends” in every bar in town. She admitted that put her off the idea of dating me.

I guess truth and innocence don’t come into play when it ruins a good story. It seems shameful that people accept the lies without even making a cursory attempt to ascertain the truth. Again, I don’t claim to be an angel, but I don’t cheat, and I don’t lie. I hang out in bars, and I buy some lady drinks. Maybe I engage in some “flirty” chitchat, but I’m not grabbing ass or paying to fuck a bargirl. Back when I last had a girlfriend, I ended my “friends with benefits” project and didn’t even accept massages from the mountain friend I support. It just sucks to have potential relationships destroyed based on lies and rumors, but that’s the way things seem to go in my little town.

In other news, I got fired from Xoom, a money transfer service I regularly use. It started when a $500. transfer intended to fund a charity project for a native Aeta village in Olongapo was rejected. The rejection notice asked me to provide additional information regarding the recipient and the purpose of the transaction. I provided the requested information, assuming the problem would be resolved. Okay, I get it. Maintaining security and avoiding fraudulent transfers is a legitimate concern. I was astounded when I received this email:

Based on a thorough review of your transactions and/or your recipient’s transactions, we have decided to close your Xoom account.

No warning. No appeal. Just canceled. It’s a shame, too, because I used Xoom regularly to pay my helper and for sending money to other individuals “experiencing emergencies.” It just seems extreme to eliminate my account in response to my inquiry. Well, I guess they can do what they want, but damn.

It’s Friday, and that means another SOB experience is on tap, this time at Voodoo Lounge.

Max is looking for a niche, or void to be filled, in the Barretto market. There are no discos or dance clubs here presently, so this is a test run to see if he can generate any interest. Discos are not my thing, and as an old fucker, I’m not the target audience anyway. But I’m going to check it out as a show of support. It will be interesting to see if some of the locals want to hang out amongst the foreigners. Good luck to Max! He’s put a lot of hard work into pulling this together, and as he says, it will be, if nothing else, educational.

And that’s the news from here today.

Had a nice threesome yesterday with Scott and Martin. I’m talking about hiking, you pervs! Only three Wednesday Walkers were in attendance, so we rode out to Naugsol in Scott’s car, then hoofed it to Tibag and back. We only make it out this way once or twice a year, and I always enjoy it. There is just something about this area that resonates with me for some reason. Other than it being out in the middle of fucking nowhere with nothing to do, no bars, and no other foreigners, I could almost fantasize about living the life of a Tibagger. But not for long. Pictures from the adventure at the end of this post.

My feeding plans for HIdeaway were stymied when I discovered that the Jewel restaurant is closed on Wednesdays. So, it was chicken, pork, and rice takeout from one of the shops on the highway instead. I baked the brownies, of course.

I finished the night at Queen Victoria again and shared a drink with my Irish friend. And I discovered something interesting about her that I hadn’t noticed when we first met.

Oh, and speaking of women, I forgot to post a picture of the one I met at Royal yesterday.

Welp, we are full on into the holiday season now, and I’ve definitely got the spirit.

Alright, that pretty much covers the alcoholic portion of the day; here’s the walkaholic part:

It was another good day for an old man in paradise.

Tuesdays are pretty much my nothing day, by which I mean to say even more nothing than my other days. Grocery shopping replaces my morning walk, and that’s not a lot to blog about. Well, I did catch the scamming bastards not honoring the posted sale prices once again. These days I keep all the items that are marked down on the shelves in one place in my cart and watch as the cashier scans them. And sure enough, the full price rang up on all of them. It just seems to me this must be intentional. If you can make a big deal out of posting signs on the shelf showing the discount, you can sure as hell update the price in the scanner database. It pisses me off, and I’ve been warning my fellow Royal shoppers.

I came across an article confirming that when I say “y’all,” I speak the King’s English. Just wanted y’all to know that in case you were thinking I was just some cracker spouting redneck talk. Just sayin’ that dawg won’t hunt. Alrighty then, I’m fixin’ to let go of this subject and move on now.

Today’s Facebook memories carried me back to the final year of my working life.

I’m not sure what to make of this:

Saw this flower on today’s hike, and it reminded me of something.

Speaking of hiking, Scott shared a handy color code we can use when deciding on which trail to take.

Alright, this post isn’t totally without substance. I attended a birthday party yesterday at Alley Cats bar for owner Dean. I’m not going to try and sort out the pronouns, she was born a female, so I’ll say she and her. Knowing Dean, she won’t be offended. It’s been months since my last visit to Alley Cats, as I’ve had no reason to go since retiring from playing darts. But Dean messaged me an invite to her party, and I appreciated that. I’d been going to the bar three days a week (at least) for over four years, and she is the first person who even bothered to check in with me. That’s the difference between bar friends and real friends in a nutshell.

I guess I got a little forward and asked the waitress if she would give me some head.

A dart tournament followed the party, but I did not stay for that. Headed up the highway to a relatively new bar called Sloppy Joe’s and had a couple of beers there. I’ll do a Bars of Barretto review tomorrow.

I finished my night at Queen Victoria, where I met an Irish girl.

Bedtime rolled around, so I made my way back home. Alone. As usual. I’m thinking it is time to change my luck. We’ll see how that works out for me.

Time to shower up now and get ready for another night on the town. Those girls at Hideaway Bar aren’t going to feed themselves. That’s because they know I’m coming.

I had some unexpected company for my Sunday stroll. Bhel messaged me asking if she and a friend could join me. Me being me, I asked, “for an orgy?” But no, it was just the walk they were interested in. As it turned out, I may as well have been alone–the girls yakked in Tagalog the whole way, and most of the time, they were slow-poking fifty yards behind me. Not that I cared all that much, I was getting my steps in; that’s what matters.

I did the usual roundabout through the Naugsol valley, over to Govic, through Santa Monica, and back to Barretto–a little over 8K altogether.

I only took one photo during the hike; I’ve done it so many times there is really nothing new to see, but I had a glance into the future from my Govic highway vantage point.

We finished the hike at Sit-n-Bull, where I treated my companions to lunch.

I was in for a bit of a shock when I discovered that Bhel’s friend is a waitress at Sit-n-Bull. She knew me as a customer, but I didn’t recognize her at all. That’s a problem I have with my feeble brain these days–when I see someone outside of their usual context, I usually don’t recognize them. I get greeted by people on the street all the time, and I have no clue how they know me. Ah well, I’ve got the generic nod and “how ya been?” down pat these days.

In the afternoon, I prepared for my feeding day at Hideaway Bar by baking a chocolate cake. On the way there, I ordered a pizza at Shamboli’s and picked up a roast chicken at Chooks to Go.

I had a friendly chat with Gary, one of the Hideaway regulars. It turns out he reads my blog and claims to like it. Well, it is nice to have fans, but it does somewhat deflate the idea that I have some anonymity here. It’s okay; I’ll continue to call them as I see them; no turning back now!

I stopped by IDM and had a couple more beers with Martin and Chris. Yes, I bought Agnes a drink too. While there, I got a message from Lydell asking me where I was. I smilingly responded, “It Doesn’t Matter.” Unfortunately, she was familiar with the name and told me to enjoy myself at IDM. Oh, well.

I decided to surprise Lydell with a visit to Snackbar. Turns out, the surprise was on me. She didn’t seem particularly excited to see me, but when I bought her a drink, she dutifully sat down next to me. And ignored me. Damn, I wish she cared about me as much as she seemed to love her phone. Anyway, I haven’t really said much about our “relationship” here because I don’t really have a clue what she is thinking and feeling. But I took her actions last night to be a clear indication that I am wasting my time. So, I’ll act accordingly and waste my time on someone else.

Oh, as I walked down the highway on my way to Snackbar, I encountered not one but two street-walking prostitutes. That’s something you rarely see in Barretto. They were actually both pretty cute, but I wasn’t tempted. When you bring a freelancing stranger into your home, nothing good comes of it. If I were going to go that route, I’d get a hotel room to take care of business. Much safer, though, to just take a girl out of the bar where there is some accountability for their behavior, not to mention the STD tests they are required to get on a regular basis.

I guess thinking about that Real McCoys television show got me wondering about where I was when I watched it way back then. And in a mind-boggling revelation, I actually remembered my address: 6152 Chickasaw Drive, Westminster, CA 92683. We lived in a subdivision called Indian Village (all the streets were named after Native American tribes). I’d never Googled an address before, but by golly, when I did, I found this:

I decided to look up the first house I purchased as a young father of two back in 1980.

So bizarre that I can’t remember things that matter, but useless info like old addresses is readily accessible. Maybe it’s a vestige of my long-ago life as a letter carrier.

And here I am on the other side of the world.

Sometimes life can be a beach. Or at least a beach bar. Several weeks ago, a surge brought on by a tropical storm destroyed one of my Baloy hangouts. It’s been rebuilt now and last night was the grand re-opening. My original plan was just to have a couple of beers, wish them well, and move on. Then my pal Ron showed up, and all bets were off. Plus, McCoy’s doesn’t serve San Miguel Zero, so I was drinking light beers (5% alcohol versus the 3% I’m used to). Let’s just say I got a little more buzzed than usual.

The new McCoy’s is much nicer and built to withstand future storms (the main bar area is elevated about three feet off the ground). It caters to a predominately Filipino crowd (I think Ron and I were the only white folks in attendance last night), and it has a nice laid-back vibe. Except when they play the damn videoke at high volume, which thankfully wasn’t happening last night. It’s the best beach bar in town because it is one of the few that are actually on the beach. I’ll make it a point to visit now and then when I want to chill and watch the sun go down.

After I left McCoy’s, I made a quick stop at Snackbar on my way back home.

I had something sweet waiting for me at home, too.

It was a pretty good day, all and all: new views and a new place to hang out. One more bar to add to the mix, although Baloy is a bit off my beaten path.

Am I the only one old enough to remember watching The Real McCoys on television? It aired from 1957-1963, so I was probably five or six when I first saw it.

The Friday group hike turned out to be more of an adventure than I anticipated. There were only four of us in attendance, so I led the group. My plan was to walk out through the Naugsol valley, then up the hill where the Virgin Mary statue is located, and finish on Rizal Extension. Except not much went according to plan. The valley road was flooded, which is unusual for this time of year. Finding a workaround proved more challenging than anticipated, but we eventually did find the intended path again and began our climb upwards. Except somewhere on the way up, we took a wrong turn. We found ourselves on the wrong side of a fence but eventually managed to make our escape.

Did the long march down Rizal Extension and then stopped in at Pugon Corner for a grilled meat lunch.

I’ll share the hike photos at the end of this post.

Another nice SOB last night. Wet Spot is probably the largest venue, and the place was packed; I didn’t see an empty seat. The people sitting around me were strangers but friendly. Introductions were made, and it turns out that they are all Alta Vista residents. The guy sitting next to me will actually be a next-door neighbor when I make the move to the Blue House in March.

I was lamenting not having a drinking partner for the show last night. Joy from Alaska came in and said hello, but it quickly became apparent that she already had a drink buddy lined up. As I sat there stewing in my loneliness, the Wet Spot dancers (the regular ones, not the competition team) came off the stage. One of them said, “Hello, John,” as she passed by my table. I didn’t recognize her, but damn, it seemed like the bar gods were interceding on my behalf, so I jumped up and went in search of this mystery woman. I was very surprised to see it was Aine, a gal I hadn’t seen in the bar for a couple of months.

I brought her back to my table and plied her with drinks while asking what happened to the man who “rescued” her from the bar earlier this year. Aine said he had taken her to Singapore, and after living there for two months, they returned to Manila. She said she left him because he was “crazy.” I responded in my usual caring fashion, “so are you.” She just laughed. Anyway, it was good to see her again and share an evening together.

I chose not to go to the Aftermath event, and as I made my way up the highway, I encountered Jerry, the owner of Alaska Club. When he asked where I was going, what could I say except, “Alaska, of course.” Word on the street is that he hired several new dancers, so I needed to check out the scenery anyway.

I was the only customer when I arrived, so I got my pick of the litter. I liked the cut of this one’s jib:

Shortly after I arrived, a group of big spenders came in and took the remaining dancers off the stage for drinks. I had good timing for a change. It was past my bedtime, and I was in danger of exceeding my drinking capacity, so I paid my tab, tipped the girls, and caught a trike home. Not a bad Friday night, all in all.

To those hiking photos, then:

It turned out to be quite the adventure, but at least we didn’t get bored.

You can Relive it here if you like that kind of thing:

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange
A walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

I posted earlier today about my morning, so here’s how I spent the rest of the day.

Wednesday is my Hideaway Bar feeding expedition, so I baked up a batch of brownies and headed to John’s place for the grub–Korean style chicken wings for the girls and fish tacos for Joy. Since I was there, I decided to feed myself too.

Earlier in the day, John had posted this on Facebook:

Excuse me if you see me sleeping behind the bar. I am not well. I drown so I need to sleep sitting up. I got myself a lazyboy and pretty much live in it.

Still, I was shocked when I saw him; he looked terrible. I asked what was going on, and he said something about kidney and lung issues–coughing up blood. Because of the fluid in his lungs, he can’t lie down flat, hence the reclining chair behind the bar. Damn, I hope he gets well soon!

With my takeout orders in hand, I crossed the highway to Hideaway.

The brownies were more popular than usual with the girls. I used a different mix–no walnuts and extra chocolate. I guess that’s the way I’ll go in the future. Beers were drunk; ladies’ drinks were bought, and I even got a freebie beer from the manager.

While I was at Hideaway, I got a message from Lydell and decided to pay her a surprise visit at Snackbar. I did confirm before going that the f’n World Cup wasn’t being blared on the TV. Nothing against soccer; I just can’t handle the noise. Snackbar’s clientele mostly sits outside, and the sound system is inside. The last time I was there, I asked them to turn it down, and they did. A bit later, an outside customer came in and asked that it be turned back up. I was leaving anyway, but I’ll be glad when this “footie” shit is over.

Anyway, Snackbar seems to be doing well. Quite a few customers, and most surprisingly, it was about a 50-50 Filipino/Foreigner mix. The bars here are usually one way or the other. One Filipino table had most of the waitresses drinking with them, which meant I only had to buy for Lydell. Win!

A bit later, my friend “Judy” visited the bar and sat with Lydell and me at the table. When Lydell got up to serve a customer, she asked my opinion about something her friend was going through. It seems she discovered that the boyfriend was liking photos of pretty women on Instagram. My first reaction was, “big deal,” and then I went into a tirade about jealousy being all about poor self-esteem and unfounded accusations doing more damage to relationships than people realize; when I paused to catch my breath, I noticed “Judy” was crying. Damn, I did come down a little heavy, and she fessed up that she was talking about her boyfriend. Okay, well, I calmed down, and we had a more rational discussion about them talking through this issue. While I didn’t see anything wrong with merely liking someone’s posts, she could explain to him it bothered her, and perhaps he’d stop out of respect for her feelings. Then I bought her a beer.

This morning I sent her that “sociopathic” quote, and she responded that he had ended the relationship last night. Okay, well, good riddance then. She said she had been alone most of her life and could deal with it; she was just pissed at herself for believing in this guy. Hmm, welcome to my world. Anyway, she’s an amazing woman, and anyone would be lucky to have her.

Actually, I tried several months ago to the “the one.” Judy fits the description of the type of woman my commenters have encouraged me to find–older (she’s forty), intelligent, and doesn’t work in a bar (she does online recruiting). She is athletic and enjoys hiking, occasionally joining our group hikes. She’s adventurous and has traveled to several Asian countries unaccompanied and backpacked on her own. I was smitten the first time we met, but the attraction was sadly not mutual. I understand her perspective; I’m old and can’t give her the baby she desperately wants. That’s the way love is–you can feel the destiny, and they are feeling “not gonna be.” C’est la vie. (originally, I spelled the French phrase wrong, despite having looked it up. Thanks, Kev!)

That was my night. And I’m alright with it. You never know what might be waiting for you around the next corner.