Babaloo
Desi was in prime before your time.
By ‘before your time’,
I mean exactly that.
Before your time.
This time in which you are meant to shine.
Your prime time.
And just what is it you’ve achieved compared to Desi?

Desi?
Desi could sing the words “Babaloo”,
beat a conga drum in accompaniment,
and convey a wild abandon that…
well… made women giddy.
Made ‘em
pa-show-nut!

See…
He had that big ol’ conga drum attached to a harness
and it would be just in front of his hips…
you know… right there.
And he would beat on his drum.
Wale on that sucker.
Flail his conga and yell
“babaloo!”
And women?...
Well women found this entertaining.
Go figure.

Of course this was a time before electric guitars.
Long before Hard Rock and
young men making fools of themselves playing
‘air guitar’.
Was there ever a time when young men played
‘air conga’?
Like… you know…
Hands at their crotch,
beating the hell outta some
imaginary object.
Say if I, at this moment,
did an homage to Desi
and commenced a little ‘air conga’ action,
would you get it?
I mean… would…
Would you be impressed?

Lucy was.
Not with me that is.
No. I wasn’t even born yet.
Didn’t have a conga to beat as it were.
No. Lucy saw Desi beat his conga once
whilst babalooing
and she…
she fell in love.

Lucy got herself a TV show
and put Desi on it.
Now bear in mind that Desi was a Cuban
but this was back before it was decreed that
we hate Cubans for being Cuban.
Still…
He had that brown skin.
Then again,
he had that huge conga and
knew how to use it and
ahem… was passionate about it, so…
So we as a nation let Lucy’s husband
be her TV husband as well.

And Desi?
Desi was in prime time.
Prime time TV.
Six odd years of it.
Unfortunately,
he went from being the man to being
Lucy’s husband.
“Who’s that?”
“Who’s that?! Why, that’s Lucy’s husband!”
Desi was living in a man’s man’s man’s world
but it wouldn’t be
no sorta prime time
without the loving of a particular woman.

Ah yes.
But there at the end of the Fifties,
Desi’s uncontained babalooing
got the better of him.
Lucy gave her hot conga man the boot.
Lo, but in Desi’s lifetime,
he saw his existence shift from
nothingness to prime time
and back to nothingness again.

Well no.
That’s not necessarily true.
For some fifty odd years, Desi
has been singing “babaloo” in reruns.
And me?
Ah, that “babaloo.”

Why,
now I pay homage to Desi almost every night.
Yes, in honor of Desi,
I whip my conga out
and beat forth a ferocious rhythm.
Unfortunately my
prime time doesn’t last too long.
Just like poor ol’ Desi,
it comes and it goes.
A quick
orgasmic spasm in this
babalooey spew of eternity.

©05 Jack Hubbell