" Ol' Webster Street Alameda "

Some of you ol' coots out there probably know who Dave Benzel is... an ol' foul mouthed proud as hell "cracker jack" sailor with the rightful tongue to speak the ol' forgotten language of good time sailor talk. Just the other day he was reminiscing to me about some of his favorite memories on ol' Webster Street in Alameda, California...

I keep no secrets from my wife. She knows I frequented the bars along Webster Street back in the early 90s' as long as I wasn't being a whore about it. Although she still insists some seventeen years later that something was going on while I was out there. This place was a throwback to the days of ole, littered with Chinese Diners & Dry Cleaners, Bars that sold cheap booze and tattoo parlors on every corner. It was full of fascinating visions where barmaids would fetch up drinks for drunken sailors while they adored all the local wenches.

You could find all types in this place. It had its own smell, taste and character. It was a place where inebriated sailors could enjoy themselves drowning in cheap liquor bottles while destroying karaoke songs full of laughter. On many occasions one of the local wenches would jump up on a table and perform a naughty little number of a strip tease for the clientele's enjoyment. Showing no inhibitions, they might shimmy their skirt up to show some G' string or pull there blouse down just enough to reveal their unclasped bra and a bit of nipple if your were watching close enough. It was funny how the bouncers always took their time rushing the little ladies off the table. I guess as long as it wasn't causing a raucous then everything panned out fairly well.

This was also a place where a sailor could spend all gaudamn night playing pool. Occasionally there would be a few hustlers watching as the sailors got all tanked up. Then they'd get squared up. Besides, Webster Street had always been known for parting sailors from their money. The pub owners sell alcohol at steep prices, the cabbies charge outlandish fees on and off base, and the hookers find ingenious ways to access a sailor’s bank account without actually having sex with them, suckers!

Even on base there was plenty of atmosphere to find trouble. One night I was at the Enlisted Club with a couple of the fellas when we got in an argument with some other patrons in the establishment. The bouncers were being pricks and kicked us all out over a few gaudamn verbal exchanges and it didn't seem all that fair in our drunken state.

One of the fellas recognized a Toyota truck on the side of the road and said it belonged to one of the bouncers that kicked us out. We managed to hop on the back end of the son-of-a-bitches bumper until we bounced the rear end of his truck all the way out into the center of the gaudamn road. Just as we got the damn truck into the road, shore patrol came running after us out towards the air field.

We managed to duck behind some maintenance gear and they never caught up to us. We did a lot of ducking and dodging trying to get back to the ship undetected from these son-of-a-bitches. Somehow we made it to the pier without getting caught. When I got back to the ship I was pretty lit and knew there was a good chance I might get sick from so much alcohol...

The next morning I woke up and realized I had that horrible taste in my mouth! But there was no mess on my rack and I had no recollection of getting up to use the head. When I was getting ready to put on my boondockers, I realized I had filled them up to the rim with last night's menu combined with some cheap booze... It was a good thing I had an extra pair. I ended up tossing the son-of-a-bitches over the side. I figured Davy Jones might need a pair of boots in the ol’ Skaloosh Locker.

Then there was the time at a local club at the water’s edge in Alameda called Denim and Diamonds. It was a country joint where they did a lot of this new thing called line dancing. All of the sudden it was this popular thing. It was like the electric slide on steroids. I never could get into it. I don’t mind getting out there and shaking my ass but it seemed too structured for me. Like I said it was like the electric slide on steroids and I was never fond of that one either.

And wouldn’t you know it? I got in another fight over my buddy Shawn’s purple pants at the Denim and Diamonds. Some dumb redneck son-of-a-bitch called him a sissy faggot and we got to pushing and shoving and the next thing we knew the bouncers were pulling us apart. Ironic as it may be the fella I got tangled up with happened to be some gaudamn airdale off the ship. After running into him a few times we ended up becoming friends over the course of a few months. I guess that is what being a shipmate is all about. We can beat the hell out of each other one day then turn around and have a beer and laugh about it the next.

Nowadays the ol' base on Alameda is pretty much a ghost town you can drive through as you please. The ol' buildings are deserted and rust'n out on the base. And it's hard to find any evidence of the ol' Webster Street as there aren't any signs of the Bohemian night life with hookers, barmaids, drunken sailors and knaves of the like roaming the gaudamn streets at night. It had been cleaned up and lined with new businesses over the past decade try'n to remake an area shed of its rough image. Full of high end restaurants and new downtown Main Street appeal it's nothing like it was back in the day.

But somewhere out there, somewhere on this earth, there has to be a an ol' head stall door panel weathered in piss stain with some barmaid's name whittled on it… Right beside, "For a good time call Jenny - 867-5309" written in ballpoint…The only remaining evidence of an old worn out, long ago "crackerjack" drunken sailor memory!!!