The Daily Lenny: White and Black
Previous Chapters Here:
I went through the plan with Kim in great detail for what was to happen once he and John landed. He was not to look for me, shout, or do anything that might look unusual. It was going to look unusual enough just having a private plane touching down behind the sheriff’s headquarters. I made Kim repeat all the steps back to me about a million times. John assured me he could land the plane and stop quickly. He and Kim would throw the duffel bags out and Kim and I could have them in the car in less than thirty seconds. John would begin his take off as soon as the last bag left the plane.
Total time on the ground: less than one minute. “Beautiful. I hoped it actually turns out that way,” I remember saying to them both. If you’re wondering what happened to Kirk, well he’d had enough of the Lance and Kim Show, and decided to hang it up. No problem; we really didn’t need him anyway. Ditto for Joe after his release from hospital and we returned his car to him.
The day before the flight, I made Kim take the Impala to the shop and purchase new tires. He balked at this, but I explained to him that I did not want to be driving around Lake Charles with over a hundred pounds of pot and have a blowout. He took the car and bought the tires. I had satisfied myself that all was in order and had made several final recons of the landing site just to make sure someone had not decided to begin a construction project in the middle of my runway. No one had. We were set.
And truthfully I was inspired by a post I read over yonder at
We were talking about optimism.
Well Sharon was but it got me to thinking.
Anyhow, I had this post develop in my head. A post about good and bad. A post about optimism and pessimism. A post about Human Decency.
Then I promised me: I Promised me I would not post it because it might sound too preachy, but when we fall away from stating the obvious, because “it has been said too many times before,” well then we forget. And dammit! Some of us need reminding from time to time.
So, here it is:
No Preacher: me.
But I love this movie.
Here are some links, if ya wanna read some scholarly shit:
There were a few other escapades no less bizarre during this time, but I won’t recount them here. Like the infamous naked, midnight go-cart ride over and through some very nicely landscaped yards of the Lake Charles rich and famous. Well, rich anyway… “Don’t start Lance. Get on with the pot smuggling story.”
After several more ‘adventures’ as described above, Kim and I decided we needed to go to McAllen to expedite things with the Mexicans. We took our partner Kirk with us for balance and also because he had some friends in San Antonio we could hang out with before we drove south to McAllen. We ended up staying in San Antonio for several weeks before making our way south. Long story why and not particularly exciting, so I’ll skip it.
We arrived in McAllen late one sultry Saturday night and having nothing better to do until morning when we were to hook up with Pablo, we decided to drive into Mexico and visit ‘Boy’s Town’ in Reynosa. Kim had been there before and told us how the deal worked:
“Before we go, we have to make sure the car is clean. No pot, no guns, no nothing. If we get busted they will put us in jail for a w-h-i-l-e.”
This actress, Felicia ‘Snoop’ Pearson strode & stole the show, ’bout season Four.
Stephen King called her character “perhaps the most terrifying female villain to ever appear in a television series.”
I love her!
OK. ‘Love’ may be too strong a word:
But, I really really like her.
This is very early Lenny: before he hit his stride, but since I am going to continue to subject any willing readers, I thought I would mix things up a bit, not going for the low-fruit, which is the really great edgy shit he did years later.
This one is from the Steve Allen Show, which I believe I had mentioned in an earlier post.
It is not too bad, although it is not representative of the Lenny most know (and love). But you can experience the wonder of the evolution of Bruce without his having to use profanity, which I still protest he always used sparingly and never gratuitously.
(I like it more when he talks ‘dirty’, I must confess. Hahahha)
This is the mark of a great comic.
Happy Thursday Y’all.
P.S. You must give credit to Steve Allen, and people like Tommy Smothers (http://www.dailykos.com/story/2013/12/22/1264780/-When-the-Smothers-Brothers-Got-Censored) who, back in that day caught a lot of shit for their TV shows. My hat (if I wore one) would be off to the THEM Too.
Sharon has kindly put up this wonderful art and fact sheet about Louisiana and just in time for my posts about my misadventures in Lake Charles
Quite certain it is coincidental. But it serves well. Check out her beautiful work. She has a Texan Version (which is of course MY Favorite)
Thank you Sharon.
Then there is this
The first sign that you are a tourist in New Orleans is if you pronounce it as N’awlins. Locals actually pronounce the city name as New Awlins. That would totally be me, though I will try not to make that mistake on my next visit. 😉
I do not know a lot about Louisiana other than the French Quarter and the Art’s District in New Orleans. I am pretty much all about the food and art. I like both to be bold and colorful. And the food spicy and hot! This great city does not disappoint in either of those areas. Next time, I’d like to see more of the Garden District and Algiers. You will not find me at Mardi Gras as I tend to shy away from large crowds of drunk people. That’s just me.
Some interesting facts about Louisiana:
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So, we snuck all the way back down to the storage room and just as we had finished getting ‘dressed’, we got busted. Appearing in front of us, blocking the exit, was this security guard, a very bulky and tall black man.
“What’re you boys doing in here?”
“Uh…we’re here to see our friend.”
“Your friend ain’t here.” (This much I knew)
“Uh…we got lost.”
The fact that we were dressed as hospital orderlies didn’t seem to amuse him. I deduced this instinctively and immediately. I decided “The Truth” would be our only best hope.
I explained we just wanted to come visit our friend who had been very sick and that, yes, we had been drinking a little, and yes we are sorry, but could you please take us to his room so we can say hello and then split, quietly.
Thank God he quickly developed a sense of humor and he did exactly that. He took us up to the room, left, and while we were visiting with Joe, the guard apparently found our bottle of wine in the storage room and actually brought it to us! I almost fell out of the chair I was sitting in. He brought us that wine. Unbelievable.
We stayed way too long in Joe’s room and realized it was now daylight when the nurse came in. We were just as drunk as when we had arrived hours earlier, and now didn’t have the dark of night conceal our escape. This was a bad situation. Our friendly night shift security guard was long since gone and we had to pull ourselves together long enough to get away without being arrested. In spite of all that, it really should have been easy.
But it wasn’t.
We left Joe’s room and did just fine until we exited the elevator on the ground floor. There were people everywhere! Kim decided a song was in order, so as I was helping him walk, our arms over each other’s shoulders, best-buddy-like, he burst into song. Perfect. I couldn’t make him shut up. People, who up until that point had been ignoring us, starting staring, pointing, and laughing. I hustled us out of there as quickly as possible, but I was certain there must have been someone who was not particularly amused by our antics. The police were bound to be summoned.
Once we got outside (mind you, we were dressed in gym shorts and t-shirts from the night before and really stuck out amongst all the hospital staff coming in from the parking area dressed for respectable work), I stopped holding onto Kim and turned to look for our car, actually Joe’s car, a Monte Carlo. We had ‘borrowed’ it while he was near death in the hospital; didn’t think he would be needing it anytime soon…if ever.
I could not for the life of me spot the damn car now that the parking lot was full and of course I couldn’t remember anything about where we had parked the night before. I turned back to ask Kim if he remembered, but he was gone!
I knew I had to get away from the entrance to the hospital quickly and find the damn car. I started walking all around the perimeter of the parking lot, looking now simultaneously for the car, Kim, and the cops. I turned a corner and saw a security guard. He spotted me and began pointing and yelling. I lit out in the direction I had come from and was really hauling ass. Directly in front of me was Kim, running just as full-force but directly toward me. And he was Naked!
He continued to head toward me, laughing and almost tripping on something as he ran. I had lost my sense of humor and did nothing to acknowledge his impromptu streaking other than to point back over my shoulder at the security guards or cops I was certain were right behind me. They must have been, because Kim’s smile disappeared instantly as he flew past me. I didn’t even risk turning around to see if he had run straight into them. I just kept running, now looking only for the car. I planned to find Kim again later. If I could.
I rounded another corner of the building and stopped under a little side entrance-way to look about and catch my breath. There appeared to be no one chasing me now. I figured once they saw Kim, running bare-ass naked through their parking lot at 7 a.m. on a weekday, I had become just a mediocre prize and they must now be focused solely on him.
As I stood there, panting, I looked up and saw The Car! It was parked under some trees kind of off by itself and a more beautiful sight I had not seen in some time. I walked briskly to it as I pulled out the keys, hopped in and started trying to navigate to the exit. I found it, but there was one of those wooden barriers across the road and one of those boxes you slide a card into. I did not recall that being there the night before and I certainly didn’t have a fucking card to slide into the box. So I simply drove through the barricade.
Having secured the car, I started driving around the hospital looking for Kim, while also looking for flashing lights and cop cars. No Kim to be seen. By the time I had made three laps around the hospital road I was about to give up and go home to give John the happy news that we might have to come up with some bail money. As I was driving on the road behind the building, (a narrow service road with the hospital on the left and a cemetery on the right) I saw that red ginger afro pop up from behind a tombstone. I stopped the car, leaned over, opened the passenger side door just in time for Kim to hurl himself in (He had put his clothes back on at this point).
I saw two police cars directly in front of us as they turned onto our road, but at least 40 yards away.
“Step on it!” He yelled.
Remaining calm, or at least trying to, I said, “Hold on. They’re looking for two guys on foot. If I don’t make any sudden moves, they’ll probably ignore us. Get down on the floor board and hang tight.”
I drove straight ahead slowly toward the cops and pulled onto a service entryway, allowing them to pass. As soon as they did, I pulled back out and drove off, pretty as you please.
“Well, that was slick, Mr. Cool,” Kim said as he positioned himself back in the seat.
“You’re welcome Asshole.”
“Let’s just go home now, can we?”
“Roger that,” as I stepped on the gas.
With Thanks to my Friend, LauraALord (http://historyofawoman.com/) for reminding me it’s OK to Throw-Back.
I raised a raccoon once. His name was Leroy, Leroy Rastus. Raised him from a cub I did.
His eyes were recently newly opened and I fed him from a baby bottle. A local rancher in Honey Grove had killed his mama while Coon-Hunting one night and he brought all her cubs home. The next day he adopted them out to several local high school kids. Peanut adopted Leroy’s sister. Another kid adopted his brother. There may have been one or two more siblings, but I don’t recall. Leroy’s adoption experiences were somewhat more transitory. First he was taken by Kim. Kim got bored with him and gave him to my step-sister Madelyn. She thought he was just the coolest thing ever!
For about three days…
His coolness factor, having for her it seems, a very short half-life. I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse for her coon: Cash Money. Money’s coolness factor has no half-life. She was only too happy to surrender Leroy to my care for the tidy sum of thirty-five bucks. Quite tidy indeed to an unemployed High School girl in 1974.
I kept Leroy in my bedroom on the third floor of my father’s house. He had an annoying habit of climbing onto my bed, tunneling under the covers and chewing on my toes. Baby raccoons have very sharp teeth. I tried locking him in my closet, but he would wail so loudly that I just could not leave him there. Needless to say my school work suffered due to lack of sleep during that first month or so with Leroy. And it’s also needless to say that what I just wrote above is bullshit. My school work suffered mostly from my laissez faire philosophy regarding high school, but it’s nice to have someone to blame other than myself.
Why Do I do that? It is so fucking stupid. There is really nothing clever there. It is just picking low fruit. (Difficult for ‘The Smartest Man in the Room‘ to Admit…)
Here is a vow to all who read me: I will refrain, in the future, from using, stupid, cute, puns, –and commas)
But I love commas.
Gonna be difficult, to abandon, them, them, commas.
This is how I speak: Sometimes I even say… “Well, this is this and that is that..(pregnant pause) comma.” I just throw it in there, as I cannot ‘write’ it at the time. Granted, I get some dumb looks, but it amuses me…”
“Hey Mavis! Come over he’ah! This Boy speaks punkuation! Y’all aint gonna b’leave this shit! Hey Boy! speak me sum mo’ grammers.”
Yep. Gonna be difficult to leave the commas.
(We shall discuss ellipsis… tomorrow…)
Will probably delete this tomorrow…
“Write Drunk: Edit Sober.”
–Hemingway (probably apocryphal)
(I’m down with the first; it’s the second I seem to struggle against)
However, I do hope some of you out there enjoy Lenny Bruce.
Jest Saying, In jest.
Let me know
Before I turn me into a newt.
Yeah, I know: acquired taste, but I just cannot help myself.
And I do find me, ashamed of me.
Previous chapters here:
Barbara was no dummy, and she really didn’t want to know, nor did she care about what her husband was doing with me and Kim, and she genuinely liked me and Gerry, although she could not stand Kim, mainly because he was not good with animals, especially Charley-the-cougar, not to mention she just didn’t like his arrogant personality.
Barbara was a vivacious redhead, bright green eyes, slightly stocky, about five-seven. And she had a temper. Best not to fuck with Barbara. Her husband loves telling a story on her. While she was still working the oil rigs and had just started dating John, they went out to eat one evening after flying in from a rig. The establishment was just a hole-in-the wall bar on the coast. Barbara ordered a double cheeseburger, an order of fries, an order of onion rings and a pitcher of Budweiser. (“That Gal can put away some groceries!” John would say.)
They were seated at the bar, John on the left and another roughneck on the right of Barb. When the food arrived and Barbara was flooding her fries and onion rings with ketchup, the roughneck (who should have known better), thought he’d fuck with Barbara. He picked up her cheeseburger and feigned taking a bite.
“Look you son-of-bitch,” she said, “Put my burger back on my plate right goddamn now.”
The guy switched the burger to his right hand and said, “Or what Barb?” He had his left hand resting on the bar top.
In a flash Barbara grabbed her fork and stabbed the guy’s hand, damn near nailing it to the bar.
“Or that!” She said.
The burger fell to the bar top unharmed.
Having come to the agreement with the Mexicans, all we had to do was wait for them to prepare the shipment for pickup. John and Kim would fly to McAllen, pick up the marijuana (125 pounds) and fly it back to Lake Charles where I would be waiting with the Impala to transfer it from the plane. We could not find a good landing zone in Lake Charles after several days of diligent searching and heated debate between me and Kim. Out of necessity I decided we would land the plane behind the Calcasieu Parish Sheriff’s department. There was a very large empty field there, nice and flat and good enough John said to land on. Now, you may wonder why land right in the backyard of The Law, but actually it made good sense. No one in his right mind would try to land a plane full of pot behind the Sheriff’s Department. No one except us. They would never suspect a thing. (I hoped not anyway).
Everything was ready on our end. It was now mid-summer. We waited for word from our boys in McAllen/Reynosa.
We had several telephone conversations with Pablo during this time and he kept assuring us that things would be just fine; just a little longer… perhaps mañana …
Things were beginning to become unbearable around the house for Barbara. She did not understand (and rightly so) why Kim and Gerry and I were living there and not working (Me and Kim anyway)–just hanging out—waiting on some ‘business deal’ to come through.
The waiting was killing me and Kim. The two of us, and with our history, just hanging out with nothing to do, was a recipe for all sorts of boredom induced mischief and it didn’t take long to become manifest.
One night as we were all leaving an Italian restaurant and heading toward the car parked out back, Kim says, “Hey Lance, Y’all wait up.”
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Just hang on a sec,” he said, as I saw him heading back over to the building and a small door off to the side.
As I watched him disappear into the building, uneasiness came over me. “Now what?” I whispered to myself.
Kim reappeared, or at least his head did from behind the door (Kim had red kinky hair and he kept it long in what could best be described as a ‘Ginger Afro.’) and motioned for me to have John bring the car around. After our car pulled up, I followed Kim back inside the building and discovered I was in a storage room of the restaurant. There must have been fifty cases of Italian wine. Just sitting there. With our names on every box. I don’t have to tell you the rest. One thing you may be curious about however, how did Kim know of the place and why wasn’t it locked? During the course of our meal, Kim had excused himself to go to the bathroom. He was gone for quite a while, but no one noticed (or cared). Apparently he had discovered the storage room entrance when he had gone to the bathroom, had gone in and broken the lock to the outside. After that everything else was a foregone conclusion in his mind and I didn’t chastise him about it either. Money was, after all, getting very tight and good wine is always appreciated.
During the long hot summer days Kim and I would play chess, watch Daytime TV (The Gong Show became our favorite and we never missed a single episode), go to the gym, play with the cougar, and otherwise just wait for John, Barbara, and Gerry to come home in the evenings. I hate to say it, but Kim and I had become ‘housewives’ to the other three. We just didn’t do any of the housewife stuff, although I did mow the yard from time to time. It was certainly a strange situation and actually, aside from the uncertainty of what we were waiting to do, it was a calm period in my life. Well, sorta…
Our friend and partner, Joe, had been stricken suddenly with some horrible medical malady and he damn near died. They put him in ICU at one of the hospitals in Lake Charles and as soon as he was well enough, Kim and I made plans to go for a visit. We finally got the go ahead late one afternoon, but just before we had planned to set out for the hospital we began drinking some more of the wine we had liberated from the Italian restaurant. Several things happened to delay our trip, not the least of which was about 3 bottles of good red wine. Along about midnight, we decided to go and visit Joe. We were slightly inebriated. Actually, we were shit-faced, but still full of the pent up energy from our ‘waiting game’ with the Mexicans.
We arrived at the hospital, carrying one of the bottles of wine we had not finished off, and as we were walking toward the main entrance it dawned on me that visiting hours were probably over for the night. I told Kim we would have to wait until morning to see Joe. He would have none of that, so I said, “Well, Einstein, what do you want to do, sneak into the hospital to see him?”
He did, in fact, intend to do just that. So, being the veterans we were of breaking into Honey Grove High School upon numerous occasions, we reconnoitered the building for access points and quickly found one that seemed suitable. We gained entrance to a room which was slightly below ground level. Turns out it was a storage room for hospital uniforms and scrubs. We made our way out of there and stealthily to the third floor where we knew Joe’s room was located. To that point, we had gone unnoticed and were quite proud of ourselves and we still had the wine we intended to share with Joe. As we were walking down the empty corridor counting down the room numbers looking for Joe’s we came upon something that made our hearts sink: There was a bloody nurse’s station just across from what we determined must be the room we sought. We did an about-face and hid behind a corner.
“Shit!” I said, “Now what?”
“Why don’t we just casually walk on in?” Kim said.
“Yeah, right. We’re drunk; we have a half-gallon of wine, and we’re Texans in Louisiana. Any more brilliant questions?”
Kim was quiet for a minute. I took a slow drink of wine from the bottle. Then he announced, “I got it! You remember that room we came into on the bottom floor?”
“Kim, no, no, No. Hell no!” I said, a little too loudly.
“Don’t you see? It’ll be perfect. We dress up like orderlies from the stuff in that room, you hide the wine underneath you outfit, and we’re good to go. We just waltz right on past those nurses. Easy.”
“Why do I have to carry the wine?” I asked, and by so doing, de-facto agreed to the foolish plan.
“You’re bigger than me. Easier for you to hide it.”
Stay tuned for Chapter Five tomorrow.
Thank you for reading
So we set about the business of selling marijuana in earnest while looking for a way to increase our volume to meet the ever-increasing demand in Lake Charles. The first order of business was to find a pilot. As I was the ‘behind-the-scenes-guy,’ Kim took on this assignment. I knew that if there were a candidate anywhere within one hundred miles, he would find him. Within two weeks, I was being introduced to John Byrd, who, along with his new bride, owned a pet shop in town. Barbara, (A veteran of the off-shore oil rigs—really. She was an ex-roughneck) ran the place. John was flying roughnecks back and forth to the oil rigs out in the Gulf of Mexico when they met. He was a three-tour Vietnam vet chopper pilot—First Cav—and he was bored. We, well Kim, had found our man, but Kim would not tell John anything about our business or his potential role in it until I had met him and given my blessing. At least, at this point, Kim was following my rules. This would change later.
We ‘hired’ John one night over beers, pizza, and loud music at one of the local hang-outs and our next task was to find a contact with contacts in Mexico who could turn us on (pun intended) to a supplier. South Louisiana and South Texas had no shortage of Mexicans (Generally referred to as “Meskins” in the Texas vernacular, but not by me, finding that a little too much “country when country wasn’t cool”) then or now, and it wasn’t too terribly long before we had our contact. His name was Pablo (I swear) and he lived with his family down around McAllen, on the southern Texas border. He also had family in Reynosa, Mexico which was just across the border from McAllen. Things were looking very good for us.
After we made all the contacts, had everything set up (too easy, in my mind), and were making plans to move forward, two things happened: Our local supply dried up and our money ran out. We were losing the apartment, the Harley, and some of Kim’s ‘good friends.’ The last didn’t upset me at all.
On the night before we were forced to move out, I sat down with Kim, our other two partners (the ones who had been living in the apartment with us), and while Kim’s girlfriend cooked supper and we drank, I explained to all the seriousness of our situation. No real need to explain to anyone other than Kim, but we were ‘a team’ and I wanted complete understanding and agreement from everyone for our path forward. Kim was still in denial over his ‘empire’ crumbling, or at least in bad need of repair. The only one missing from the meeting was our pilot, but I had already spoken to him, and since he was the oldest and most mature, I had no trouble with him understanding.
The path forward was a simple one: Joe would move back in with his parents (wealthy Lake Charles family), Kirk would move in with his girlfriend, and Kim, Gerry (Kim’s girlfriend with a “guy” moniker—never did ask her how that came about) and I would move in with John and Barbara. Gerry and Barbara had become instant fast friends the first time they met, so this was an easy deal and a no-brainer.
We would all lie low while Kim and I sorted out the mess and tried to convince the Mexicans to give us marijuana on credit. A lot of marijuana. In fact we figured the plane John was planning to lease could hold well over one-hundred pounds, so that was my goal. I probably don’t have to tell you that asking for one hundred pounds of pot on credit from Mexican drug dealers was ludicrous, but I have always been cursed with a little too much self-confidence and cock-eyed optimism and I just didn’t see how we could fail.
We made arrangements to fly Pablo and an associate from McAllen to Lake Charles for a ‘face-to-face.’ After they arrived, we took them over to John’s house for drinks and food (We had told Barbara we were bringing some friends over from Texas: ‘William and Paul’—Gerry already knew the score) and laid out the plans for our, certain to be, prosperous and profitable business venture, of course partnered up with them. They spoke English well enough for me to make them understand how very professional we were. Kim lathered on his charm and had them laughing and joking with us before it was all said and done, sealing the deal. Immediately after they left Barbara asked her husband, “How come William and Paul are ‘Mexican?’”
John said without hesitation, “Honey, I suppose their parents are Mexican.”
“Oh,” was all she said.
With Permission Graciously Granted, I wish to Share This
The yellow rose represents the sun, warmth, and friendships.
Last night I had a dream about yellow roses growing up from a concrete slab. I reached out to them to admire their beauty. My immediate thought was of the magnificent hearts at the Cut-Throat Clubhouse and the care we have for each other. A new beginning beautifully hewn with delicate roses through our concrete prisons serves as a reminder that beauty springs from cold, dark places.
I am lost
At a loss
For real words
To express myself
Exactly the way
I really feel
Without the shedding
Of a tear
Ten thousand tears
A fountain flowing
The darkest hole
From the pain
That lives inside
A dream awakes
My darkened mind
Of yellow roses
At my side
In concrete slabs
In strength they grow
From tiny buds
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The apartment was a very busy place. I could not figure out who was actually living there and who was just hanging out. There were certainly a lot of people about all the time. Guys and gals would just come walking in at all hours as if they had been living there forever. The girls were all beautiful and of course all belonged to the sister sorority of Kappa Alpha. Naturally the guys were all KAs. I was the only ‘independent’ around, but they didn’t really seem to mind. (I think
Kim John told some of them that as soon as the fall semester began I was going to enroll in McNeese and pledge Kappa Alpha. He was shocked to find out a few weeks later that I had been telling all who asked me of this that No, I had no intention of pledging Kappa Alpha or any other fraternity, Not now, not ever.)
After I found a room which didn’t have too much of a lived-in look and got settled, I sought
Kim Jim out and began asking him what was the scam. There had to be a scam because no way could he afford to live in such a place. Not the Kim guy I knew. Not the Kim dude who hated hard work above all other things on Earth. No ma’am. There had to be a scam.
And there was, in spades.
Kim James and some of his roommates (I had finally figured out who actually lived in the apartment—two other guys full-time and some girls who drifted in and out, “short time”) were tending bar at the largest joint in town. A University hang-out of course. And of course they were skimming the till. One of the guys worked part-time during the day at a convenience store and whenever there was a need for groceries or booze, or gas, or toiletries, or whatever else they had in stock, Kim Bill and the Gang would just roll up, load up, and leave. Very convenient, this convenience store. They had embraced the promise of the ‘Cashless Society’ long before it would become popular years later. Call them ‘Pioneers’ in this regard.
That explained some of
Kim’s Bubba’s new found opulence, but not all. The take from the bar couldn’t possibly cover the rent, free food, booze, and gasoline notwithstanding. I confronted Kim James and told him that if I were going to remain in Lake Charles he must tell me everything that was going on. He had every intention of doing this and I knew it, but I also knew he wanted me to get a taste of the lifestyle for some days before he told me the whole deal. Kim Charles had never been difficult to figure out, at least for me, but then, I had known him since I first moved to Honey Grove years before. Backing up a little: Kim Sam and I had always flirted with, and engaged in, larceny during High School and had pulled many scams over the years. The practical jokes we played on Honey Grove ISD are legion (and legend) and still remembered to this day. There was the time late one night when we broke in and emptied all the books in all the lockers (almost 300 lockers) and piled them all in a long, narrow hallway running past the chemistry lab…took all the next day to sort them out. Classes cancelled… Kim Bart and Lance heroes (everyone knew who did it, but no one had any evidence)
Kim Jim and I had always been bad boys. We planted marijuana all over my grandfather’s 100 acres in Winnsboro one spring, dreaming of a bountiful harvest making us, by my calculations, at least one-hundred thousand dollars. Our crop failed however and we had to figure out another way to make money. Since I have never been afraid of hard work, I took to hauling hay, a respectable profession, but hot and dusty and brutal work. I loved it. I worked on ranches year round after school as well. Kim Buford would never have any part of hard, honest work, so he muddled about best he could, usually borrowing money from me whenever he was in need. But we were never ready to give up on the potential profits of the pot business. We just put it on hold for a few years.
Kim’s Paul’s reputation in Honey Grove had become, shall we say ‘tarnished’, he decided to move to Lake Charles and begin anew. Lake Charles was perfect. Big enough for one to blend in (The necessity of which Kim he never did fully understand, nor could he have, even if he did), yet small-town enough to feel like home. By the time I arrived he had established a thriving pot dealing business. He was making money. A lot of money. But he wanted more, and his suppliers were not able to keep up with his demand. He explained in great detail how his operation had come to be and where he wanted to take it. Kim Gabe always sought my counsel because he knew I would keep him out of jail. I was the anchor: the guy who would force him to recognize folly, even though he generally traveled through life wearing blinders. He wanted me to remain in Lake Charles and help him grow his business. Having no good prospects at the time (I had been trying in vain to get an overseas gig in Sinai for almost a year) I told him I would stay and help him. My only requirement was that he took my counsel and when I told him something was ill conceived, poorly planned, or just too dangerous, he would listen and follow my instructions, and never “get stuck on stupid.” He anxiously agreed.
There is too much more, if anyone would like to read.
“Any resemblance to persons living or dead should be plainly apparent to them and those who know them, especially if the author has been kind enough to have provided their real names and in some cases, their phone numbers. All events described herein actually happened, though on occasion the author has taken certain, very small liberties with chronology, because that is his right as an American. Warning: this story will [eventually] have drugs in it [specifically, Pot] read at your own annoyance.”
–Stolen From Various Sources while illegally surfing the internet using a U.S. Government Network and Computer
It was the Summer of ’77 and I had just dropped out of college (again). There was an old friend of mine from high school living in Lake Charles, and pretty much on a bet I loaded up my ’68 Chevy Impala and drove to Louisiana to look him up. Of course I had no idea where he lived in Lake Charles or what he was even doing there, but I knew
Kim John and I knew that he would not be difficult to find even in a town of over one-hundred-thousand. Really all I had to do was to find McNeese State University and ask around. For you see, Kim Jim/John was probably the most charismatic, outgoing, affable guy on Earth and I knew that even if he had only spent one week in Lake Charles, everyone would know him or know of him. He went to East Texas State in Commerce just long enough to pledge and become a Kappa Alpha. That was his only driving ambition in life: to become a KA like his big brother and hang out with the Brothers. I despised Greeks and all their ways. (Still today, these are not my favorite people. Kim James was my best friend, next to Peanut, and for many years before, even though we did not see eye-to-eye on many things and most especially, things Greek.)
It took me all of about 45 minutes to locate him once I arrived. He was living large in a beautiful apartment complex close to the university in the best apartment they had to offer: Two-story with four bedrooms, a large den/living room, three baths, a decent sized kitchen with a breakfast nook, a porch facing the pool—‘Classy” is all I could say when he showed me around. He had a stereo in every room (All of them ‘Marantz’ because years before I had told him “Marantz makes the best, (and most expensive) audio equipment you can buy”. He apparently never had forgotten that and I was properly impressed. Kim Jim always did his best it seems to impress me. To this day I am not sure why. It was just his way. Actually it was probably because I was the only one who really knew he was a fake and he knew that I knew. In addition to the large pool, there were two tennis courts, a game room, outdoor dining room, a sauna, and all the ‘beautiful’ people of McNeese lived there, or so it seemed to my small-town eyes. One of the upstairs rooms had a balcony overlooking the pool and the tennis courts. Wonderful.
Against my better judgment, I will continue this story, if I get just one request. It is rather long…
Someone let me know, but be not hasty in your remarks, as this one could land that fictional character in prison.
Is the prose worth it?
Well, the story is just that good, so I suppose so, since the author will be the one to do the hard time.
I never gave two shits for the heat anyhow…
Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid
Step out of line, the man come and take you away
“Problem? I haven’t got a problem. I’ve got fucking problems. Plural.”
-Tim Roth (I think)
But for my purpose here tonight, I wish to discuss just the one. (It is My Blog after all, ain’t it?)
My ‘Tonight’s Problem’ concerns the fascination I hold for Lenny Bruce.
Now, for those of you who care not for Lenny, check out some of my other stuff which is about as far removed from Lenny as one could ever get: On a jet ski—or on a plane—or on a train—or in an automobile, or on an underwater water ski–actually a prototype that never went anywhere important.
For the rest of you who graciously humor me, here goes:
I am posting this video simply because it is the only one out there of Lenny before he died. And in point of fact, the only one ever done, aside from his very early days before he hit his stride (shit like Steve Allen, etc). This is most definitely not Lenny at his best.
One commenter on YouTube summed it up nicely:
“Just for starters, this isn’t Lenny at his peak…he’s just rushing through his most famous bits, like so many classic rock bands do with THEIR greatest hits…At this point in Time, he had about a year to live…there aren’t enuff characters remaining for me to list all the comics who owe their careers to Lenny…”
–Andrew Geshen (Via YouTube)
Honestly, I can not say it better than Mr. Geshen did above.
What I can say is this:
And admitting that should make all the difference.
Please watch and comment, if you want to.
P.S. I would be doing a disservice, and remiss, if I did not include the last two minutes of his act:
“I never met a Dyke I didn’t like.”
And ya know what? Neither did I, now that I ponder on it.
The Malaysian Prime Minister, in a gut wrenching announcement this morning announced what we all feared: The Plane Ended its Flight Somewhere Over the Indian Ocean.
What is CNN doing all day?
Showing over and over the video of the shattered families. One shot of a woman wailing, prostrate on the floor. Another shot of a woman being carried out on a stretcher. And on and on ad nauseam.
All I can say is What The Fuck CNN!?
Pretty sure Fox is doing the same, but I have not tuned into them.
*Yiddish for Embittered; bitter person
Thank You for stopping by and listening.
More Lenny Here:
You can generally count on having most public places all to yourself on Sunday Mornings:
Public places like Parks, Gyms, Grocery Stores, Home Despot, Wal*Mart, Waffle Mouse, Beer Stores. Just a few of my favorite Sunday Morning Venues.
Of course with the beer stores, you pretty much have to get there right at the Crack of Noon, as most Southern States won’t allow them to open until then (or sell their most important inventory at any rate). But if you hang out in the parking lot just before, you can always beat the crowd.
Just be sure to park real close to the door. Oh and be damn sure to wear those Nike’s.
Where my thesis falls apart is with the Golf Course, which is an entirely Different Church, which will always be holding Early Mass.
(What’s Wrong With Those People?)
And Y’all might wanna check out Kris An’ Rita
And while on the subject: Me and Paul
Please stay tuned for frequent new posts on this Theme.
It will probably tack back and forth all over the Texas Map (and Timeline)
I like Critters
And Crud Eaters
And Cats, especially Big Cats
I was living in Lake Charles with one of my best friends from high school, his Girl Friend, a Vietnam Vet (who did three tours with the First Cav as a chopper pilot), and his wife. The husband and wife owned a pet shop. The wife ran the place and the husband flew roughnecks back and forth to offshore oil rigs.
One day the wife, let’s call her Barbara, since that was her name, brought home a cougar. She had named him Charley and he was the size of a large house-cat. It was love at first sight for me as Charley was the only pussy I had yet seen or would see, turns out, during the entire six or so months I spent in Lake Charles.
Charley and I started sleeping together since the other two beds in the house already had reached capacity and since I was so very good with animals and since I really wanted a roommate. Therefore I took over the care and feeding and raising of Charley the young ‘un Cougar.
Charley grew rapidly on a steady diet of raw hamburger, flank steak, catfish, eggs, tennis shoes, and the occasional Budweiser. We would wrestle and play tug of war for several hours every day. The house had a long narrow hallway leading to the three bedrooms. Our favorite game was “Charley The Flying Cougar.” I placed an ottoman at the entrance to the hallway and Charley would stand at the other end. On my cue he would race down the hallway and Mary-Lou-Retton-Like, hit the ottoman like a launch pad seriously becoming airborne and landing on my shoulders.
We continued refining this sport even after he had grown to about a hundred pounds. Of course at that point when he hit my shoulders we both tumbled to the floor. He was always gentle with me and I never felt his claws or his teeth. Sorry to say I cannot say the same for my old high school buddy. He just did not understand animals. When Charley was still house-cat size he would play too roughly with him.
So, I warned my buddy one day, “You’re gonna make that cat hate you, and when he grows up he’s gonna seriously tear you a new asshole, Asshole.”
“Naw, he likes it.”
“Okay, but you’ve been warned.”
Sure as shit, couple of months later, said high school buddy got his ass handed to him by Charley. Buddy only bled for a little while, but that ended their relationship as far as ‘heavy petting’ was concerned. When Charley got to be upwards of 120 pounds he started taking his half of our bed out of the middle. Barbara suggested we make a bed for him in the garage, and since I was not getting enough sleep anymore, I concurred. She brought home the biggest doggy bed she had in her shop and we laid it out for Charley in the garage along with his favorite toys, food and water dish and a small portable radio thinking he might get a little lonely at night.
‘That radio will keep him happy,” Barbara said.
That night we put him to bed in the garage just before we all retired; he was fine. For about thirty-five minutes. Then the Cougar Wails began. If you have never heard a hundred-twenty-pound cougar cry late at night, well you have missed something of nature. Everyone got out of bed and Barbara said, “Let’s just let him cry for a bit. I’m sure he’ll give up and go to sleep.”
About an hour and two bottles of wine later… We all gave up. Charley just would not shut up. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Please let him in Barb,” I said
She opened the door. Charley came bolting in; knocked me down, pinned me on the floor with his big paws on my shoulders, licked my face, then ran into our room and jumped into the middle of our bed.
“Well, we tried. Goodnight y’all,” I said as I picked myself up and headed in to join Charley.
Barbara had provided a collar and leash for Charley and we used to have great fun taking him out to the night clubs in Lake Charles. (Lake Charles was a really cool town back then, and Louisiana folks really did not seem to find it at all strange when someone walked into a bar with a cougar. But I will say this: when we did, the crowds always parted, making it very easy to belly-up to the bar. Charley became a regular guest at our most–frequent hangouts.
And he was the most awesome chick magnet in Calcasieu Parish.
But I still never managed to get laid in that town—very puzzling to me—but I did have a theory:
Since all the places we hung out were Greek Joints (My high school buddy was a Kappa Alpha, and insisted we only hang out with the ‘Brothers’ an’ ‘Sisters’), and since I was an ‘Independent’ and actually despised everything “Greek,” there was just no way any self-respecting sorority girl was gonna give it up for me, Cougar or no Cougar.
“Well, screw ‘em,” I finally decided. (Although, I was a little disappointed, ‘cause I found some of girls very appealing & screw-able in demeanor.)
If I could have just found Farrah… We had Cougars-in-Common.
Summer turned to fall and one day my buddy and I had to leave Lake Charles in a hurry (for reasons I cannot disclose until I check the ‘statute of limitations’), and head back to Texas. I hated to leave Charley and my other good friends, but I had a mind to leave the U.S. altogether and there was just no way I could take Charley with me.
I reapplied for the Sinai Field Mission gig I had wanted ever since I was eighteen and had first heard of it. As luck would have it, they agreed to hire me (Since by then I met their minimum age requirement of twenty).
About a week later, Halloween 1977, I arrived in the middle of the Sinai Desert.
Lance is insane.
Lance is just drunk
Lance is suffering
Lance has PTSD
Lance has seen some shit
Lance has lived in some shit-holes
Lance will die for our sins
Lance is just… well, ‘Lance’. We must make allowances…
‘Cuz we love Lance
I have heard this shit all my life.
Here is a clue and a nickel:
I am a happy camper.
(Okay: You can claim the nickle on your way out)
I love it that some of y’all read my stuff and suffer to visit here.
That, that, That! Is a ‘no-shitter’
‘Till best we meet,
Now, it will be stuck in yours.
From the Great Mini-Series
And Tom Waits for no Man.
And then there is this:
Just another bit Spike Lee…
Who I think is awesome. (wanna argue? I know Spike can be very polarizing)
Comment box below is open for business. Wail Away!
Yet, even given that, one, (all y’all) must admit: Spike is one helluva film maker
“What’re ya doin’ Saturday night?”
“What about Friday Night?”
Kindly commented on my Post, “Street Where I Lived”
“If you really want to have fun, go to Google Earth or Google Street View and look up all your old homes. I did it and found every place I ever lived, took a screen shot, and saved them for posterity, of which there will be none……..lol”
I smartly replied,
“That is an excellent idea.
No posterity for me either. After four marriages, still no children. Just never seemed to get around to it.
Thank you Russel for stopping by and reading.
Then…few days later… I said,
“OK, so I went Google Earth Trolling… Most of the places I have ever lived are toxic waste sites now, they got the Bio-hazard signs up an’ ever’thang.
I need to focus on my future, If I have one.
Thanks for the suggestion
Okay. Here is my point, (If’n I have one):
How many y’all Google Map your old habiliments?
Trust me on this: Do NOT do it!
Peach out, (but save the square bales for me)
I recently posted a post, lamenting shit of my-so-called-life.
I take it all back.
My life is rich.
My life, is loved
Loved beyond recognition
‘I don’t often love, but when I do, I do… I do drink it up.’
‘Stay thirsty, My Friends.’
My life has been full of great music, great people, great loves, and great places and sparking (and sparkling) palaces.
Won’t trade it
‘Life is a Just A Tire Swing’. (I love the ‘raw nature’ of this video)
(This was Rocket Tom’s favorite, by the way)
I do miss him, and his wisdom.
We love You Molly!
“If you could see me now….”
We need you now more than ever Molly.
You Texan Bitch!
“There’ a lot to like there”
Related: Kinky Friedman
Fer the res’ of all y’all who were unlucky enuff to not be born’d in This-Great-Land, Way’ll, Please watch an’ enjoy.
I love all y’all (even all y’all Yankees)
“Aren’t you scared the Lord will hit you with a light-en-ing bolt?”
“I figger if he did, He’d know what He was doin’. I’d just ride it wherever it took me.”
(“Me no Alamo”)
“According to Texas legend, in 1836, when Sam Houston, master of the strategic retreat,
and the Texan Army finally allowed Santa Anna and the Mexicans to catch up with them, the Texans waded into the sleeping Mexicans at San Jacinto, yelling, “Remember the Alamo! Remember Goliad!” while filleting Mexicans left and right with their bayonets. The panicked Mexicans tried to scramble away, screaming, “Me no Alamo, me no Goliad!” It has come to mean, “Hey, don’t blame me. I didn’t do it.”
“All the stuff I report in this book happened. I didn’t make up any of it.”
“Me no Alamo.”
From her wonderful book: “Molly Ivins Can’t Say That, Can She?”
Yer Ass Off
Here is a no shitter story:
I talked to my “ever-so-cool” step-sister back in the Seventies about this song.
She said to me,
“Lance, what does this song mean to you?”
I said (thirteen years old), I said, it is about some dude carrying his brother out of a war zone in a desert, and some guy comes up and says, ‘Is he heavy?’
And the dude says, “No. He’s my brother.”
My step-sister just left me there, all alone, wondering why I was not cool.
Y’all know, those of ya who ‘know’ me.
I live for your ‘likes’
I live for comments to continue whatever conversations…
But, of late, I have received some ‘instant likes’
From people I follow.
How does this happen?
I post something, and I get instant ‘like’
This is bullshit.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but, one should ponder:
I do not ‘like’ posts I have not read.
Please do not ‘like’ shit you have not read.
Just for the sake of ‘liking’
This does not impress me.
Picking up from the last half-chapter…
Matt, Rogers, and I were in Viva Young. I had been smitten.
But the smite –her was elusive, so Matt and I retired to the pool tables. Me hoping to fleece him outta some beer money. He hoping for good conversation and Lance Good Wolf-Ticket talk.
We both got what we wanted, until…
Until Pain walked in.
Pain (his real name) was my roommate back when I was in BUD/s Class 140. Pain was a pain in the ass. He was a tow-head boy, weighing in at about 150. All attitude. Bad attitude. He reminded me of Peanut, without the good to outweigh the bad. I did not like his style.
One of My Girls, (yes they were ‘mine’—this was My Bar, wasn’t it?) brought me a beer and said,
“Hey! Dat guy just walk in, he Na-bee Seal.”
“Yes Honey. I know him.”
“He yor frien?”
“Nope. He is trouble, and thanks for the beer.”
Still holding my pool cue, I walked over to Pain.
“Hey Pain!” I said. “How’s it hangin’?”
“Hey Ya. Uh… don’t I know you from somewhere? Oh yeah; Buds. Back in ’86.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Class one forty. You were my roommate for a spell, until you got kicked out for smacking my other roommate upside the head.”
“Yeah he was an idiot.”
“Don’t think so. He was my Friend.”
“What was yer name? Mark… something or other… Mark..um…?”
“Yeah, that’s right: Marcom.”
“You rocked out didn’t ya?”
“Yeah, I rocked out. Got hurt. Apparently you made it. In SEALs.”
“Yeah, I didn’t rock out.”
“Good for you.”
“No Pain, I do not. What I want is for you to take your ass outta here. You see, this bar is for ‘Black Shoe Sailors’—Fleet Sailors. This is MY bar, and we don’t really want all you prima-donnas hangin’ out here. This is a private bar—my bar—So… mosey on on.”
“I go where I please. Fuck you!”
“Excuse me, but this ain’t your kind of place. This place is not big enuff to house your Navy SEAL ego; I suggest you amble on down to The California Club on Magsaysay. They have high ceilings and lots of bar girls. You will be welcomed there.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
By this point, I had reversed my grip on the pool cue, and turned it into a baseball bat. Matt came up to my shoulder and whispered,
“Lance, don’t do it.”
I had forty pounds on Pain. I could take him without the pool stick.
Mama-San, ever astute, came up to me and said,
“Sailor Man, you may need to sit down.”
I said, “Mama-San, Not until this asshole leaves.”
She said, “Okay, but you gonna fix the furniture.”
Standing two heads high over him, I turned back to Pain, “You need to leave Son.”
“Maybe I will check out that California Club after all.” He said. And left.
The Jar Heads on the other side of the bar applauded. One said,
“Great job! Squiddy! That guy is an asshole. Seen him around town.”
“Thanks!” I said. Then yelled, “Hey! Mama-San! Bring me a beer! I just saw my life flash in front of me!” (Not really. I fear no man, but it makes for good prose, eh?)
Pain was actually a good guy. But an asshole. Certainly I can relate, being same.
This spontaneous post is a follow up to the frivolous one below
Hello Minefield in the Sand
Is this place at your command?
Can I live here just a while?
Can I pass your sweet, sweet style?
Not old enuff now to change my ways
When so many died here
Is this your plan?
It’s the problem with you
That makes me wanna go insane
So many innocent doan wanna play yer game
Hello dead one in the dust
You died because of us
Your band did not begin to rust
I guess it was all the sin I had
To trust a walk that didn’t seem bad
Holding out now, to change some things
Just some water; do that seem strange?
I was hoping that you’d turn bad
Go away now, I’d be not sad
But you hang around…
To kill my kids
You make me feel angry, but not like this
Purple blood on a sand background
With so much about you,
You’ll never be found…
Too many people die still today from landmines meant to kill combatants in so many older, forgotten wars.
There is sand in the Sinai Desert. Lots of sand. There is wind in the Sinai Desert. Lots of wind. There are landmines in the Sinai Desert. Lots of landmines, some dating back to the ’56 war. Most of them are still functional.
When wind and sand collide, the sand moves. In waves. The sand does not respect manmade things. Manmade things such as roads or landmarks, or mine fields. Sand does not care if it inconveniences you. Or puts your life in danger. Sand has no conscience and actually does not give two shits about you or me, or anyone or anything.
Sand is just sand.
These truths about sand were to become blatantly obvious to me one day back in 1978. I was driving my Chevy Van Passenger Vehicle to the Suez Canal to rendezvous with a similar R&R vehicle coming from Cairo. My vehicle was loaded with ten passengers, all very happy to be headed out on R&R. It was my simple job to get them to the rendezvous point so they could take the little boat across the canal, climb into the other van and head on to Cairo and their scheduled flights back to The Real World.
From SFM Base Camp to Suez is about thirty klicks.
Travel time on average, an hour and change, depending on how long the Egyptians wanted to detain me at the check points along the way. I always brought along some packs of Marlboros to provide them when they insisted on ‘baksheesh’. No big deal. I could afford the bribe. Hell, in our little BX (Base Exchange) cigarettes were three bucks a carton.
This particular day back in ’78 was a day after a particularly savage sand storm. The roads to Suez are passable most days. And safe. Off-roading is not safe.
Stay on the pavement. I can compare it to the line from Apocalypse Now: “Never get out of the boat.”
As I drew closer and closer to the canal the roads began to get more and more difficult to discern. Now mind you, I had made the canal run many, many times, but I am a guy who can get lost in his own hometown of Honey Grove Texas, Population 1800. This is a small town, not too many ways to get lost, unless you are real creative. I am real creative.
I came to a point whereby I just could no longer make out the paved road. I took a turn in the general direction of the canal, hoping to pick up the road again after a few minutes. As I was bumping along I noticed one of those landmine signs:
So did my passengers.
They freaked. I suppose this could be considered a normal reaction. They all started jabbering at once. I invited them to shut the hell up, and then I calmly backed the fuck out of the mine field, carefully retracing my inbound route.
Once I got back to the spot where I had obviously taken a wrong turn, I took the other turn and eventually made it to Suez. Picked up the inbound passengers and didn’t even have any shit to clean up in my vehicle, but I think at least one of my passengers had shit his pants.
Now all I had to do was make it back to Base Camp without any more drama. I gave it fifty-fifty.
More to come on SFM
Thanks for reading.
This below was inspired by a post from a blogger I much admire: Abby of Abby Has Issues fame: writer, published author, blogger, self-described sarcastic (and inspiring–my words) wench.
This should be a very provocative question for all. Some ancient guy once said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”
I am rapidly approaching my sixth decade on this earth and have been (painfully) taking stock of all that I could call “My Life.” What good have I accomplished? What are the bad things I have done? How many ‘friends’ do I have? How many bridges have I nuked? (I generally do not ‘burn’ bridges; I have a tendency to shock and awe ‘em—obliterate ‘em) I have put my boots on the ground on every continent except South America. What has this taught me? A lot. Did I always use this knowledge gleaned? Most definitely not.
“Who am I?”
More and more I have come to the stark realization that I must sum me up with one word:
I am an asshole. I don’t want to be an asshole, pompous ass, arrogant ass, the smartest ass in the room, (which I obviously am… maybe once in ten or twenty tries 😉 ) I do not want to be any kind of ass, but that is my reality. I have made some friendships during my life which should have lasted forever, but didn’t: Mostly from my neglect. I have had some wonderfully loving relations with women, and actually married four of them. Each one of those relationships should have been a lasting euphoria, but I did not, could not, allow that. Wanderlust always took me away, eventually needing to ‘get outta town’, but with no malice, just gotta go… ‘This is the part where the cowboy rides away’–find some elusive spot half-way across the globe where I could ‘find’ ME, unencumbered by people who ‘love’ me and think they can help me.
Not sure if I have found me yet. And this is disconcerting, ‘cause I do fear the time for that is growing short. Writing helps, but I continue to struggle with:
“Who am I?”
I still don’t know.
As Abby broached the subject:
“How would you answer the question?”
Run with it, and drop in to read Abby: (and tell her I sent ya–I could use the publicity)
Cheers Y’all and Happy Monday.
Reblogged with permission.
I cannot say enough good shit about this post, so I will shut up and let y’all get to it.
I been thinkin’. It’s not my strong suit, but all my other suits are dirty. So’s this one, but it’s the cleanest dirty suit I’ve got. Oh, hey, what’s this in the pocket? Why, it’s a matchbook from the Tradewinds Hotel in lovely Fremantle, Western Australia. That’s how long it’s been since I did anything like thinkin’, I guess. I was last there in… holy shit, 1989. That must be, gosh, more fingers than I have. 25 years! Well, almost. It was late November, so call it twenty four point something years.
Math isn’t my strong suit, either. Which leads naturally to the question of what, precisely, is this heathen’s strong suit? The honest answer is that I truly do not know. I might not even have one.
Just so it’s said, I am aware that “strong suit” refers to a hand of cards rather than garments. Irregardless, I’m not…
View original post 1,990 more words
We are all of us, complicated, yet worthy people.
We have our own foibles, our own agendas.
We are worthy.
Honestly, I am fresh out (of agendas)
Yet here I am chastising you for having same.
Worth is just a worthless word to me.
I know this now.
This post will self-destruct in ten minutes, as it is just a worthless rant.
And most sincerely, not worth a cup of spit.
Catch Y’all manana.
–Lance, Your Worthy Servant.
P.S. I think what my worthless diatribe was trying so eloquently to say… was that I love my fellow writer community. We all have worth. (Well except for that worthless schmuck who don’t like Lenny Bruce… and ya know I am even just kidding on that)
I want to write a post about this photo.
It is the first sign I saw in ’05 when arriving in Basra, Iraq.
Gave me pause.
“Ah the stories we could tell.”
Apologies to Jimmy Buffett.
I only have one question:
How come ev’er thang on CNN (or Fox, or MSNBC) is ‘Breaking News’?
I mean to say, that by its very definition, ‘News’ is new, ain’t it? That’s what makes it new ‘news’.
So, therefore, isn’t it all breaking? Or is it just breaking bad. Bad hype? The breaking news is not news to me. They have the same ‘breaking news’ going on for five hours. (I am specifically referring to this breaking news tragedy that we call the ‘Flight From Malaysia.”.
Where is the breaking news of all the victims?
If I see once more the projected flight path after the breaking news of the long prolonged flight path after the much delayed satellite pings…
I am stopping now.
End of rant.
I only hope for the best for the passengers on that flight, but I do fear the worst.
Since I am in “Peanut Mode” tonight, I thought I would post this excerpt from a very ‘early-in-my-blogging days’ post regarding same, in the vain hope some would read the bits in their entirety: Sharking, Campin’, Bow-Fishin’.
Seems to me we sometimes realize far too late the true value of friends had and lost.
There is a scene in “Tombstone” where Wyatt Earp hands a smallish book over to a bed-ridden Doc Holiday, entitled:
“My Friend: Doc Holiday.”
Here is to wishing Peanut could receive same from me.
Alas, he cannot.
Jimmy ‘Peanut’ Piland was a character like none other: Possessing a smallish frame, medium blond hair always askew and asunder, Paul Newman blue eyes, a perpetual boyish ‘possum’ grin, and a wiry build replete with a hard-wired energy. Yet looks can be somewhat deceiving: he was tough as nails and feared nothing, or no one. There was no Brahma bull he wouldn’t attempt to ride, no man he wouldn’t attempt to fight (if provoked—him usually doing the ‘provokin’—“That sonuvabitch done pissed me off…”), no tractor, truck, nor heavy machinery he wouldn’t attempt to operate, instructed or not. Good that he never had access to an airplane, for he would have, no doubt, tried to fly it.
And actually, he did fly, by and by.
It’s been a while since I have written about Peanut, but he has been on my mind of late. A few of us in Honey Grove during the Seventies, not being afraid of hard work and also not being afraid of making good money would haul hay during the summers, brutal hot honest work. This was back when those infernal ‘round bales’ were just making their appearance, threatening to put all the ‘square bale’ haulers out of business. (The bales were not geometrically square of course, but ‘rectangular bales’ just didn’t have a ring to it.)
Hauling hay was a two-man operation: one man would drive the truck guiding the hay loader along the rows of bales. The other would stand on the back of the flatbed and stack. Once the truck was loaded the duo would head to the barn (or more often than not, an old depression era house which served as a hay barn.) One guy would throw the bales off the truck and the other would drag and stack. Return to the hay field and repeat, but with the rolls reversed for fairness.
Generally, but not always, one guy would be the truck owner and the other just a hired hand. I was a hired hand behind a famous hay-hauler named Nubbin. He paid me a nickel a bale; not bad money considering hauling a thousand bales a day (our usual goal) would net me fifty bucks tax free. If we hauled in prairie grass fields (which always had bumble bees) he would pay me two cents extra to stack every load. Nubbin was frightened of bumble bees. I wasn’t.
If the ‘haul’ was from a hay field close to a proper drive through hay barn, we could sometimes haul fifteen hundred bales a day. But more often we had to drive a few miles and stack hay in an old house, dragging the bales through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, past the old bathroom, the wasp nests, dead skunks, eventually stacking hay in the back bedroom and filling up the place as we worked forward through what was once the pride and joy of some dirt farmer from the Dust Bowl days.
Peanut was hauling using his uncle Hungry’s truck. Hungry was the most celebrated hay hauler in North East Texas, a real legend. Even Nubbin would admit this. There was no man had hauled more hay than Hungry. Memory fails as to when Hungry actually hung up his hay hooks for the last time, but Peanut was eager to take up The Legend (and the truck).
A word about your average hay truck in the fleet back then: There were none younger than about Nineteen Forty Eight. Most had gone through a several overhauls or downright re-building with new engines—well new to the truck anyway–held together with spit and bailing wire, and they did just fine.
(Part Three Here)
So, a girl walks into a bar.
I walked over to Mama-San, “Hey who’s the new girl?”
“What new girl?”
“The one with the long brown hair,” I said.
“Goddam chew! They all have long brown hair. Where you think you are Sailor-Boy, Malibu?”
“No. I mean that girl,” I said, pointing.
“Oh ‘That Girl’” she said. “She is new, and don’t bother her.”
“Yes, I know she is new. That is my point, for fuck sake.”
“Leave her alone.”
“She reminds me of someone,” I said.
“Don’t we all? That is what we do here. We sell memories. We are in the memory business.”
(Yes yes, I know)
Will try to post it later this evening.
Another very moving and deep work by shesatstill.
Reblogged with permission.
Until Next Week…
The Ones Who Are ‘Glowing’
Take a listen.
Not sure what got into my head last night while penning this post, but please let me assure you and endeavor to clarify: It was all in good fun. Some of the comments I received made me feel as if my sentiments were not properly taken in the spirit they were (so carefully?) thought out and given: My fault of course due to my lack of communication skills. My point here is simply this: I do not judge folks and in fact, I do love all of humanity. I have always been pro-Every-Thing–just as long as your ‘ever’ thang’ don’t impose on my ever’ thang’. Or instill in me a desire to smack you with a dead fish.
I am pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, pro-black, pro-white, pro-red, pro-yellow, pro-brown, pro-albino, pro-short, pro-tall, pro-rich, (good for y’all), pro-North, pro-South, pro-poor, pro-homeless, pro-McMansion-ite, pro-freedom, pro-hippy, pro-military, pro-redneck, pro-freedom, pro-Texan, pro-Human.
Pretty much, as a species, I like us. (The occasional mass wars and genocide notewithstanding)
‘Live and let live’ That has always been me.
See, there I go again. Tripping over my…. Well, I do hope y’all understand. (Now I feel somewhat better. Hope it lasts.)
Searching for something poignant to blog, blather about.
My Muse is having a coffee…
Damn Muses! Caint trust ‘em. Caint shoot ‘em.
Caint kill ’em.
Pondering my life of last:
I swerved unto an idea:
“Post some more show tunes, Schmuck!”
Okay. Here is mine for today:
I am not gay
Yet, I can do some ‘gay’ things. I have done what some would consider gay things. I have exhibited what some in my close circle would perceive as ‘gayness’.
Mostly having to do with my fondness of Musicals.
Yep. I said it: Musicals.
Rodgers and Hammerstein.
Love them all.
Also love Bob Fosse.
Was he gay? Probably not.
I am not gay, not saying I harbor any animosity to the LGBT community; it is just that by watching and loving ‘Gay Things” I don’ wanna be lumped in with you.
But I do admire your courage.
Sincerely, I do.
You… rock on!
Power to ya!
Just leave me out.
My axes are my axes and for me, bigger to grind.
P.S. I am putting my Texan Citizenship on the line here…
But, I stand by me: I love humanity. All shapes, sizes, sexual preferences. All of us we call ‘human’.
We have thumbs, don’t we?
Let’s use them.
“Y’all: just sweeze on-shan-tay”
(Je parle français très bien, n’est-ce pas?)
Post Post Script:
I do think the Oscars were invented for him.
I am an arrogant Texan, but I love Lenny Bruce. A man just about as far from removed from Texan as one could ever be. (Except maybe George Bush the Elder)
Lenny was no friend to Texas or Texans
Please listen (and comment)
Bless Y’all Lenny…
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