Well today is the day I sail over to Oscar’s island. Oscar de Borcceri to give him his full name. I believe I mentioned how we met at Altamont. We had the internet porn business together in LA. Oscar's main star at the time was Johnny Wadd who had his penis insured by Lloyd’s of London for $14 million. Thirteen inches in repose. Like a bloody firehose it was.
I remember the first time I saw it. I'd been watching Johnny perform in Oscar's basement studio. Oscar introduced me and Johnny wandered over and stood in front of me. It just hung there. What was I supposed to do? Shake it? But I digress.
Anyway I didn’t hear from Oscar for a few years. Which didn't bother me at all. I was living in Spain and I got a tacky postcard from a place called Olongapo. ‘Get your ass over here.’ It said.
Why not I thought. So next thing I know I’m in the Philippines. Turns out Oscar had opened a bar in Ermita which was an area of clubs and bars in Manila. It got shut down in 1992 by Mayor Lim. Anyway for a few years it was, how shall I put this, a remarkable place.
The year
was 1984. I had put myaffairs in order and flown from Spain to Manila to
manage a bar for my friend Oscar. Oscar has half a dozen bars by the time
I get there.
My first impressions of Manila? Bloody horrible place. A run down American city surrounded by Asian slums. But perhaps my judgment was coloured by circumstances. I'd emerged from the airport into an oven and got attacked by taxi drivers, the streets were flooded, the taxi broke down. I hopped in and out of a few crowded jeepneys, somebody nicked my suitcase, I arrived soaked at a hotel with no electricity, the toilet was blocked and the phone didn’t work. The security guard carried a sawn off shotgun. 'Welcome to the Philippines sir.' he said. I thought bugger this for a lark. But in some strange way I liked it.
Next day I had a walk round Ermita. It was just a couple of streets really, hotels, bars, jeepneys, garbage and exhaust fumes.
My first impressions of Manila? Bloody horrible place. A run down American city surrounded by Asian slums. But perhaps my judgment was coloured by circumstances. I'd emerged from the airport into an oven and got attacked by taxi drivers, the streets were flooded, the taxi broke down. I hopped in and out of a few crowded jeepneys, somebody nicked my suitcase, I arrived soaked at a hotel with no electricity, the toilet was blocked and the phone didn’t work. The security guard carried a sawn off shotgun. 'Welcome to the Philippines sir.' he said. I thought bugger this for a lark. But in some strange way I liked it.
Next day I had a walk round Ermita. It was just a couple of streets really, hotels, bars, jeepneys, garbage and exhaust fumes.
I found Oscar easily enough. He was having his breakfast in Rosie's Diner.
To really appreciate the Ermita bar business you had to see one in daytime. Assuming somebody was good enough to open the door you came in off the street into a dark space of indeterminate dimensions. You could just make out a bar, chrome poles, empty bottles. The floor was covered with tissues, cigarette butts and broken glass. Figures were sleeping on vinyl banquettes. And there was always a sleepy girl with a towel on her head telling you to come back later.
It all looked quite different when the sun went down. With the neon buzzing and the music blaring Ermita was transformed into something wonderful to behold. There was magic and the smell of frangipani in the air...an exciting mixture of sleaze and anticipation (or shock and disgust depending on your point of view). Needless to say Oscar had no moral qualms about it.
And of course the ladies came out to dance.
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