Ed. Note: 29 Aug:
It has been brought to my attention (by my anti-virus software, of which I do not squander money on—that one of these links is, well, poluted. So, please don’t follow any links (the other shit is safe). I apologize for giving you Ebola (if I did)
Breaking NEWS! 2017 All the links are now safe! Surf ON!
(Trust me: I used to be with the Government)
‘Lance’s Ramblings from his 115th Dream Stream’ (Sorry Bob)
“Call me if they die.”
‘Semi Conscientious Streams of Conscientiousness’
‘Nights in White Satin’ – that one makes no sense. That is why I put it in.
Or, last and least perhaps: “I have become my Grandfather, or How I became Andy Rooney in One Thousand Words or Less, an essay.”
Gentle Readers, it has not escaped my undying attention that I tend to lean heavily toward the overly-dramatic. The ‘trauma drama’ effect even. Call it a ‘crutch’ if you will.
Yep. Call it that.
This I do know. Therefore, I have (Through my magical powers derived from watching old re-runs of ‘Dragnet’—“Just the facts Ma’am. Just the facts.”—decided to ‘come on back down to Earth, Son’.
–Boz Scaggs: Lowdown)
My (solely appreciated) goal here is to present just ‘them’—just them facts.
I hope I am successful. For y’all’s sake.
When last we left our hero, he was leading his class to their first BUD/s workout. Well, you cannot really call it such: more like a medieval (‘I’m gonna get medieval on your ass’) torture session.
Even at zero five (‘Zero Dark Thirty?), The Grinder was a hot, miserable place to be, especially NOT designed for yoga or even step-up aerobics, and / or certainly not Pilates. (Gay Pirates?) No. ‘Twas Wasn’t. There is a reason they (Navy) call it ‘The Grinder.” You go ahead and figure out the obvious.
But this day I do not wanna write about Those Lazy Crazy Hazy Days of Summer…
I want to write about this:
I think. I think I am. Therefore I am… I think.
–Moody Blues, With apologies to René Descartes
Now Y’all, much of that I wrote late last night. (Under Some Influence)
Didn’t publish. (Thank Baby Hey Zeus). But I woke up this morning
(Praise be to Allah—Ah Ha!) And you, yes you! (My Human Friends) were on my mind:
To MORE BAD News Stories. I shall list them below so that you may share in ‘The Misery’ That is OUR ‘New World’ (You may thank me later. Send cards and letters…)
- The Middle East is still throwing gasoline upon their (and our) raging fire
- There will probably never be closure nor justice for Michael Brown or his family
- Ebola is raging strong (But only in Africa: So, who cares, right? The WHO, that’s who)
- ISIS is our new (never heard of till yesterday) National Crisis & Clear and Present Danger (or new best friend for our Military Industrial Complex, off of which I tend to make MY living)—Much hand-wringing and soul searching over that one. NOT! Damn! Put me in Coach! I live for this shit!
- My dog has fleas… Fuckin’ fleas. Dogs!
- My British GF finds me… well, of late, she don’t (find me)
- I dreamt late last night about my favorite dead cat (Her name was Lucia and she was ‘The Cat From Hell’ and I miss her still—probably the only ‘real’ relationship I have ever had with ‘pussy.’)
- My blood pressure remains off the chart and I think I may have given myself diabetes: Type Duh
- I have been remiss in visiting and commenting on the blogs of my good friends
- Maybe I will just go and eat worms. Maybe I like to eat worms…
Now, Don’t let it bring you down, but that is how I woke up. (And I was happy to have woken up… for just-one-more-day…stay?)
There really is no point to this post. Let us just call it “Unconscious Stream of Consciousness”.
And I will most likely, delete it (and y’all know, I am quick on the mouse trigger when it comes to deletion: I see it as a form of… birth control. So read fast!)
Now to the ‘Meat of the Matter’:
I want to write about ‘The Age of Innocence’: The Seventies.
Yep. I tend to live in the glory that was Roaming… You may bail out here. Here, in fact here is your parachute. Be certain to locate the RIP Cord before you exit the plane: Just a word to some wise and hey!
For those of y’all who still remain, I want to write about Karen Carpenter. Not ‘The’ Karen Carpenter, but the Karen Carpenter that symbolized how I felt about the Seventies. Yeah, that one. Her.
I woke up with Karen Carpenter on my mind (and yes: I have posted about her recently, but I wanted to try to explain why now)
I woke up with Karen and sadly not in my bed, but in my mind.
Because… of the ‘Age of Innocents.’ I call her one. The first casualty of the sickness that guides us: This American Dream of having to be some other person. A person, in the spotlight who is …. Drumroll: PERFECT!
No one is perfect and certainly not me (though I am pretty close). Yet, no one is perfection. We cannot be. There is no God and if you believe that there is, you are about as far removed from ‘Perfection’ as a Human…
I should delete that sentence, as it is not Germane, nor German, to my point. Let me think on it…
Back to The Seventies: The Age of Innocents (I was innocent; were you? Probab’ly not.)…
I am running on empty now/here.
“I don’t know where I’m runnin’ now; I’m just runnin’ on…
I would like some thoughts on that/those. From you! And then, having received same, I will continue. Maybe.
Hook ‘em Horns
And P.S. I am sorry for stealing all the vid clips. I will (I promise) accolade y’all later–more later–but later)
And: to any readers I have left:
I am in some form of cryxis: I will be, as Shakespeare once wrote, “King Richard is himself again.” once be.
Or not: Yer choice.
Oh! And by the way… Jackson Browne was/is an asshole