He Drinks Now Most Nights With the TV On

And all the house lights left up bright.

Happy  New Year.

“I’m gonna blow this damn candle out.”

“Holidays are hard on some guys.”

(I stole that line from a favorite movie of mine, loosely based on a wonderful play by some guy: “Sexual Perversity in Chicago” which I first saw in the Sinai, and then saw it… wait for it… in Chicago.

When I saw the movie in Shy – Town, It had been bastardized into… “About Last Night.”

“Travesty” as a word…

“Cynical and drunk?”

“May-hap: C’est moi?”

“Huh?”

“What did he say?”

*******

Honestly, when it comes down to it, we all die alone… boring someone in some dark café.

“Jesus Christ! Lance! Some happy thoughts for the New Year?”

“Naw, been there…”

“You’re either too stupid to die, or too stupid to live.”

“Yes. Both.”

I like to think that I only write for me.

That is some vain fantasy. Or just a pleasant fiction.

I write to get bed, er… read.

I do.

I really do.

I am a “writer”

Or, at least, I think of me in that way.

And I love commas.

And I edit as I go.

Someone once said of “Lord Ernest” (Hemingway),

Someone said he said, “Write Drunk. Edit Sober.”

Now, personally, I think that apocryphal, but what do I know?

Yet, I am going with it.

(at least the write drunk part)

Now, back to Joni:

“Love can be so sweet.”

“Go look at your eyes.”

“Drink up now. It’s gettin’ on time to close.”

Some footnote:

Oh, and by the way, The Last time I saw Richard was Great Lakes, Recruit Training Command, ’86,  and he told me… something about staying alive while with the Navy SEALs in SO CAL, just before he went to Florida and committed suicide,  because He could not handle the Pressure that was (then) the U.S. Navy Nuclear Submarine Program. Thank God I was in Coronado with the SEALs.

And So Safe

So safe.

I miss Richard.

He was braver than me.

And nobody ever committed suicide while at BUD/s (Navy SEAL) training: we were just all too busy, you see, just ‘busily’ trying to stay the fuck alive.

“Richard got married to a figure-skater–post-humorlessly.”

Somehow, I live.

His name was “Richard” and he was a real person.

Yeah, I left  out the tag line (on purpose):

“when you gonna get back on your feet?”

 

 

**********

 

 

If you happenstance to swerve into this blog, and catch yourself saying,

“Gee! This guy is cool.”

Don’t.

(Just don’t.)

But if’n you do, Do not then… follow the comments.

Just don’t fuckin’ do it. 

Save some:  them, them the good memories.

And walk on by.

(You just knew I had to.)

 

I Guess Buffalo Ain’t Gear’d for Me and Paul

I thought Nashville was the roughest, but then, I landed in Memphis…

Fuck Memphis and fuck Elvis.

I am a Texan.

Ya know… Life can be funny…

Real Funny.

“Just do’t leave nothin” in your clothes////

Missing The Most Interesting Man In Iraq

Bob (The Most Interesting Man in Iraq) is my life-long frin…

I miss his dumb ass (and ‘dumb-ass’ is a term of endearment where I come from)

If one is lucky, really lucky, one meets maybe one, two, or  three or four people in life that transcend funny.

Bob is one such ‘transcendent’ lucky for me.

He saved my fragile sanity.

**************

My mechanic (Of Parsons Mechanic fame) came by to have some ‘chat’ with me:

Bob

“Way’ll… I have a natch’ral disaster on my hands.”

“Ok Bob,” I said, “I’m ‘bout to bust with anticipation.”

“Yep. A natch’ral disaster.”

“You mentioned that already.”

“A real-life natch’ral calamity.”

“Do I have time to go to chow while you go through your preamble?”

Ignoring me, he continued, “That Six Kay (‘6K’ as in six thousand pound lifting capacity) forklift is all a-pieces. hamorr’agin’ parts all over th’ place. The Boys (Filipino mechanics times two) tol’ me it was the fuel injector pump. So, I kin’ly smiled and said ‘Okaaay…,’ and let ‘em go at it. They need ta learn how ta fix thangs without me onct in ah’while. Well,  they dun got tha’ forklift tore all ta pieces.  Now, I dun give ‘em all mornin’ to dick ‘round with it, an’ I’m gonna give ‘em all this aftr’noon to dick ‘round with it some more. Then first thing tomorra, I’m gonna ask ‘em, ‘Boys, how come that forklift ain’t a-workin’ this fine morning?’”

“I’m hip Let’s keep it real.”

“Your ‘personnel management style’ is showing Bob,” I said.

“Yeah, whatever… An’ tomorra’s Thursday. An’ day after that’s Friday. An’ I ain’t doin’ nothin’ on Friday. Tomorra, we gonna start our dee-cent inta th’ day off.”

“Kinda start slowin’ ‘er down ‘round mid-noon time, eh?” I said. (I can do ‘Southern’ just as slick as you please when I want to.)

“X-actly. We start double-clutchin’ and dee-celeratin’ an’ bring her in nice and slow like.”

“And what about my forklift?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“She’s all ‘In’shalah’d’ out Boss.”

“Dead in the water?”

“Tits up.”

“Broke dick?”

“Send her saddle home.”

“I need to call Baghdad?”

“She ain’t lookin’ none too fav’erble.”

“Call HQ an’ tell ‘em we need another forklift?”

“Now, jes hol’ on. Doan git ‘em all wadded jes yet.”

“Ok. I got it. Thanks.”

“We’re Parsons’ Mechanics an’ jes watch how we roll,” he said on his way out the door.

I love my job.

I have a “Ten Kay” forklift that still works. So I should be alright for now. Besides, Bob just  loves the drama and we do this little dance everytime there is a crisis in the motor pool. If I were a betting man (And actually I am) I’d wager two of my pay checks that come Friday if that 6K forklift is still down, he’ll be out there bright and early with his boys working on it until it is repaired even if it means giving up his day off. I’ve seen him do that already too many times over the past year and a half he has worked for me. There is no man made of better stuff. An’ he sure do entertain. Yessir, he certainly does. And I’d never have been able to keep the operation afloat without him.

I love all my crew and wouldn’t trade a single one of them for a pile of cash money or a case of Johnny Walker Black with the authorization to drink it.

This song is dedicated to Bob, wherever he may be:

OK: Ed. Note:

Y’all gotta love how ‘Texan’ this vid is—look at the ‘ensign‘-Texan Flags-behind the sage, er…stage.

(and if you look really close–for you guitar players out there–you will notice the hole in the guitar. Willie tells some stories ’bout the gee-tar. He tells one about a drunken party with Leon Russell in a hotel room, when Leon almost broke it. Willie, in classic form, invited Leon to stop touching that guitar.)

When I am coherent, I may write about that.

And then there is this:

Willie sang, “At the airport in Milwaukee…”

Lenny

Lima

on that: Milwaukeeeee!

Audio Player

 

This is My Blog, and I’m Stickin’ To It

Now, that header is probably un (in?) appropriate.

But.

Guess what?

I paid good money for this, this, this, ability to write shit no one really wants to read.

So There!

I post what thrills me.

Someday, when I am old… I will look back and smile.

And say,

“Jesus Christ Lance! How many people did you piss off?”

And I will probably reply:

“All of them.”

 

It’s Thursday SomeWhere

I love this post.

(not sure why)

*************

‘Three-Nine-Six-One-Three Bruning Street Fremont California: 1966-1968’

Funny how I still remember the street address when I cannot remember my mother’s birthday, or what I had for Sunday Supper last week, or my second wife’s maiden name, or who won the World Series last year.

All the houses on Bruning Street were brand new. And they were all alike. But their alikeness did not dampen my spirits, especially since mom and I had left the moldy old garage apartment across town. I had finally escaped that place and the Ghost of that Murdered Turkey.

Seems the entire neighborhood moved in on the same summer weekend: Floodgates opened—lots of activity—trucks coming and going, grown-ups schlepping boxes, kids (potential buddies?) playing and yellin’ and runnin’ wild, dogs untethered, barking, yipping, yapping, chasing. Just general mayhem all around: very excited we all were to be living the American Dream. Norman Rockwell should have been there.

A House on Bruning Street Today

A House on Bruning Street

All the houses had small front yards, slightly larger back yards, but no fences. In fact not really proper yards yet. No lawns, just California clay, hard-packed and untenable.

This would soon be remedied. By today’s standards for suburbia the dwellings were quite modest. No McMansions these. Each house had three small bedrooms, one bathroom, smallish kitchen, tiny dining area, and small living room. That was it, but compared to our garage apartment, Mom and I had moved into the Taj Mahal. Everything smelled gloriously of fresh paint, fresh earth, and promise. I immediately picked a spot in the back yard for my garden. As a kid, I was never happier than when I was digging in the dirt, much to the chagrin of my much harried mother and my blatant hatred of regular bathing.

Continue reading

Ya Know… “I have not yet begun to defile myself.”

“Don’t jump and make trouble.”

 

https://texantales.com/2014/05/10/daily-lenny-people-dont-stay/

Awe Shit!

I was only funnin’.

 

I was a man once (SEALs)

As Peanut once said, “Much Man!”

Well, he, Peanut, said a lot.

“A tale of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

“If He Can’t Drive With a Broken Back, at least He Can Polish the Fender”

Ow!

Oops!

Here is the Billy Joel:

That (the above) is just a ‘working’ title.

What I reely want to write… is some more ‘autobiographical shit.

(Mostly about Las Vegas)

Yeah, we have been here b4.

Never mind.

Oh! The Billy Joel bit was from this here.

And yes!

I am too stupid to just go ahead and die.

Ya know…

I would make a good president.

Know why?

‘Cause I have been to MacDonald’s.

Look it up.

Ya know…

I have spent too many hours in airports behind Gomers.

Yeah.

Racist.

Gomers.

Behind them.

They smell.

Kuwait?

Baghdad?

Al Asad?

Cairo?

Paris?

Yep!

Waited in line.

Who needs a house out in HaKENsake?

 

 

That’s My Story (Spacemen from Mars took all of my money–I can play the game)

Proving (once again) That My Life Has a Sound-Track

(Yes, there will be more)

*heavy sigh*

Stand by for heavy rolls as this ship comes about.

(DDG 994)

DDG 994

images

Just a man I once had the honor of shaking hands with…

What’s that word? I think I’m eccentric.

–Oh yeah.

“Eccentric”

“The younger girls are so easy to trick”

Wizards and Lizards…

They all bite.

It’s kinda like fishing for shark: they bite, vociferously (sp)

Trust me on this one.

“In a hundred years, this all won’t matter.”

“Call me a liar; call me a writer… believe me or not.”

Mostly not.

“That’s my Story and I’m Stickin’ to It.”

Energy Crisis Revisit, Or if You Will: “Gas Lines Redux From the Seventies”

Or, if you will:

“The timing’s all wrong.”

Last Chance… Texico

A RePost

Why?

‘Cause I love Rickie Lee Jones.

That is why, oh, and yeah!  Because, to quote one long lost Texan Oilman: “Please Lord! Just gimme one more oil boom; I do promise I won’t fuck it up (this time).”

Texans actually used to say such words.

Here’s…. Rickie!

**********

Took the LaBomba  (at the behest of my Brit Better Half) today to the Kroger’s Gas Station to fuel her up, and as usual, I was in a hurry.

Texans have become far too urbanized in my humble opinion. But I have spent so much time overseas in places where impatience is a virtue (France comes immediately to mind), that I have lost that “Lovin’ Feelin’”

This was a rather long queue.

I sallied up behind two vehicles, replete with two consumers of fossil fuel.

Thought I:

“This may take just five minutes.”

Au contraire!

The first finished in a timely fashion.

The second…

Well,

He was fueling a Prius. (Is that a car? A real car? Bullshit!)

Said consumer proceeded to ‘fuel’ his little gay car. (Certainly the tank held no more than twelve gallons). This took five minutes.

Then. Then! He proceeded to spend twelve or fourteen minutes, oh so carefully, draining yet another half cup of petrol into the gas tank.

So, I am thinking: “This ain’t ‘The Last Chance Texaco’, Asshole.”

Vid Credit: KOUJI328I

“Get on wid it and get the fuck outta my way!”

It took all the fiber of my being to refrain from getting out of my Gas Guzzler SUV and knock him right on his ass. Right before I asked him if he were an idiot or just plain stupid, or both (At this point there were no less than four vehicles behind us, waiting…)

But I just sat there, fuming (no pun)

You see? I really have mellowed and  matured. (Proud of me?)

Cheers,

Lancers

FeedBack:

Do you ever experience queue Rage?

Do morons piss you off?

Do I piss you off?

And, yes: I really am in love with Rickie Lee.

And that, that! will piss no one off.

Except maybe some women who still call me… ‘friend’

“Lance, you have always been star-struck.”

Some GF actually said this to me, back in the day. Can you imagine?

(‘Tis true; I must confess)

“Don’t Rain Rust on my Parade”*

“Petty Officer Marcom! Your fifty cals are rusty!”

I must admit; yes, they were. I tried so hard to keep ahead of the rust, but here I found myself between the second half of a six-month, round-the-whurl-WestPac deployment, and somewhere just off the coast of Somalia. Yes, rust was my enemy, and never my friend—the machine guns were always mounted while we (The USS Callaghan DDG 994, full cast and crew) were Haze-Gray and Underway. Yes, always mounted. And subject to rust. Rust Relentless. Relentless She Be: That Sea.

My professional life was to be found somewhere in those machine guns.

The Navy had a solution though. They provided canvas covers to cover those guns and make them safe from the rust. Alas, those canvas covers had seen better days, probably back when Pearl Harbor was just an ordinary Naval Base.

While scrubbing the Indian Ocean rust off’n the fifty-cals one morning I hatched a plan. Knowing full well we were soon to pull into Mombasa, Kenya, I saved my money. Once in Mombasa, I would smuggle one of the moth infected, jig saw, ‘holy’ canvas shards off the ship. I would rent a taxi and find a leather shop in Mombasa and commission new covers for my fifty caliber machine guns.

And This is exactly what I did, and to the amazement and astonishment of my Senior Chief Petty Officer and my Department Head (almost a Navy Commander… he kinda looked like JFK, now that I think on it—I did not like him, but he respected me—not sure why…)

The next time they inspected my Fifty Cals, they were pristine! (They did not take notice nor time to notice that the canvas covers were not exactly Haze-Gray Naval Gray–No, more like Third-World-Rustic.  And I was so desirous that they did NOT notice, but my Master Chief did notice, yet, never ever voicing his ‘inner thoughts’ in front of what he referred to as “Shit Birds” — ‘Officers’ — Never let on.

And I should have been cognizant of this, yet I was somewhat giddy after my .50 Cals had finally passed inspection, that I did not stop to think that anyone, not even Master Chief had seen through my ruse. I was drunk with my own cleverness and lying in my rack, congratulating me.

(Now, you must realize how the Military Mind works. I was my Ship’s Armor All–Armorer– IN Charge of All The Ship’s Small Arms! I was a Gunner’s Mate 3rd Class! Freshly rocked out of SEAL Training and trying to regain what little was left of my  pride.)

And I loved and Respected My Master Chief. Did not ever want to become an embarrassment to him, nor to my Fellow Gunner’s Mates who worked on the “Big Guns”.

And even more important, (anyone who has ever ‘Served’ will know this), the Military is Run on Fear: “Oh God, Please Don’t Let Me Fuck UP!”

That kind of fear.

Well, as I was lying in my rack just before Taps with my little blue ‘privacy’ curtain drawn, someone abruptly jerked back the curtain.

Yep.

Master Chief Anderson

“Son, tell me where you found those brand new gun covers.”

Trying to try to my side and find an elbow to lean to, I half-coughed out, “Master Chief, I had them made while we were in Mombasa.”

“I see”, was all he said, as he yanked my curtain back shut.

I did not sleep that night. For you see, I knew I had broken Naval Regs by doing something not-in-the Naval Seaman’s Bible–The Blue Book–The book I had been made to almost memorize while at Recruit Training Command, i.e. boot camp. I had broken the rules.

Sometime mid morning the next day, I was summoned to the berth/office of  The Department Head of my Division, Lt. Commander ‘Kennedy’. Shitting bricks is too trite.

I was nervous.

I gave a hearty rap on the bulkhead door as I was trained to do in bootcamp…

“Enter!”

“Petty Officer 3rd Class Marcom Sir!”

“I know who you are Lance; sit down.”

(What??? Lance??? Sit Down???)

Mouth agape I sad down, speechless

“Son, Master Chief Anderson tells me you went out on your own, commissioned and paid for, with your own money, those .50 Cal Gun Covers. Is this true?”

“Yes, uh, yessir,” I stammered.

“Well, that shows some fine initiative. How much did you pay Son?”

“Un Sir. Doesn’t matter…. I just, well, the .50 Cals cost ten-thousand dollars each, and I thought…rust….an…”

“How much did you pay?!”

“250 Dollars Sir.”

Without saying a word he opened a little three lock box (OK; I made that up. It was only a one-lock box) that he had in a drawer and handed me two-hundred and fifty bucks.

I sat there a moment too long, still in shock, looking the bills in my hand…

“Petty Officer Marcom! You’re dismissed!”

Jumping up, some tears welling in my eyes, “Yessir!” As I saluted him and abruptly left his quarters, knocking some books off a shelf as I tried to hustle out…

 

 

 

 

 

 

I may continue this story, (or not). My time in Kenya was rather interesting though.

(Those bits I remember anyhow)

 

‘Naitivity’

Surely this is a word (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/naive)

Maybe not…

When I first  started this blog… (so many moons ago) I thought to myself, I thought: “Here is where I will write my Great American Novel” They will come. 

*alas*

“fruition” is just a word.

coming to same… is.. well… 

Forget You!

(Yep! oft-times, I revert to Peanut-speak he was, is,  the smartest dead man I know) 

have ever known…

I love (d) him. I miss him; He spelled it out.

Daily.

I miss him.

Marvelous much.

He and I, we heard (hearded) them chimes at midnight.

Yeah; I miss The  Pee-Nut.

(He died too soon)

he was a bull-rider….

“Blow, you old blue Norther”

He was my friend.

 

“Cynical… and drunk… and…. boring…”

Yeah: Nut would call me out that way (And No! Yes! He hated Joni Mitchell)

“Fucx you Peanut! I never cared one whit about your opinions!”  You asshole!

And yes, I know…  Judy Collins… But she got the words wrong. She said, “Northern” not “Norther”
Anyone who lives in Texas… know them difference.

Judy was… hot though, weren’t she??

Really hot.

I always forgave her (for her ‘hotness’)

 

“I’m gonna blow this damn candle out..”

See ya!

 

Bob Dylan & Me

Back in some day (mine) when I had been recently introduced to pot, I found me in my step-sister’s bedroom.

A guy came in (yes, he was a ‘guy’–older–I was twelve), and he pointed to a poster on the wall of my step-sis. (The poster was of Bob Dylan).

‘the guy’ asked me, rather demanded of me: “Do you know how Dylan writes his songs?”

“Nope,” I replied.

“He writes all the lyrics and then  cuts them out and then scatters them about and then pieces them back again and sends them off.

“Are you from England?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

And fuk YeaH!

I have read Melville. I have read “Moby Dick”

“Call me Ismael”

(Yes. I am too sensitive)

Never mind.

(Oh, and I murdered a turkey over this–never mind that it was five years hence–just details)

Life is Strange

Somewhere about five years ago, I was paid something in the region of $183,093 per year. Yep. To keep Y’all safe. Yep. To Keep Y’all safe.

Now, I am paid somewhere south of ten dollars per hour, to keep y’all’s packages safe.

The math don’t add up.

But… actually. It does.

Men (and wimmen) are paid according to…

Ya know what? I really do not want to write about this.

I love to write about my times in Iraq / Afghanistan / Egypt / Israel / Dubai / San Dog / …

Yeah.

Those are stories ppl want to read.

(I suppose)

“Lance, That Whore!”

Now. That is good fodder, ain’t it?

Wanna read that? If I get one ‘yes’, I will write it. (Lord knows, there is much ‘fodder’ there…)

No one looks at the videos I steal, but I always include them anyhow…

I write…

I write some really esoteric shit.

Yep.

Do.

As any who follow… will have noticed… I do not have nor write/written much, of late.

There is a reason for this (yes; trust me)

The raison d’etre is, …

I have nothing to say (that, of course, is a lie)

but…

I have, (really have) been going over and deleting… a lot of my posts. (some of you may have noticed)

Why?

Well not to put too fine a point on it, but because they sucked.

That is it.

They sucked.

Here is some promise (which I will not ever be able to consummate…  I won’t post shit anymore that is irrelevant.

(Now, if you believe that… I have a bridge for sale…cheap)

PS The S. Crow vid is worth you five minutes of time. Check it out. (it is the link on the left)

-L

Gainful Employment, Part Duh

Preface:

Lance (LIFE) is An Angry Man. An Angry White Man.

Now. That (above) is just for fun

What means this?

Nothing.

Just thought I’d say it.

Why?

“Dunno.”

Read On.

(Oh! And One Last THING: If you do not follow the links, well, do not come back to me crying: “Lance! I don’t get it!”–Please don’t force me to be an asshole–I really hate that.)

I’ve been around the world (twice). Seen two white whales fuck. Seen the sun come up over many exotic venues. Been drunk at sunup looking at Kilimanjaro. Been sober at sunset watching Jews at the Wailing Wall, mostly wailing, them Jew (sic). Seen monkeys steal golf balls off the course at Subic Bay Naval Base. (A “gimme-drop” or a ‘mulligan’ in the local rule book) Heard the call-to-prayer while on my early a.m. runs in many Arab lands. Seen incomprehensible acts of bravery and also of coward-ness. Seen inspiring acts of kindness. Seen unbelievable acts of selfishness and cruelty. Seen some things that oh so briefly, made me want to believe in (a) God (those passed—quickly—trust me on this one folks).

Seen men die.

And seen men live.

Have made countless great friends. Friended them. Been friended. Been De-Friended.  Cannot say I can even know where any one of them are today, or if they are even still alive. Such has been my way in life… Suppose a selfish life (my take). Most who really know me would never say that. I have been called ‘Generous to a fault.’ I have also been called ‘conceited’ ‘arrogant’ ‘self-important’, ‘pompous’, ‘asshole’ et cetera, but one thing I have never been called is ‘cheap.’

I am proud of that.

In brief: “I have heard the chimes at midnight” with many good friends, however much I always seemed to cast them away, sorely by neglect. Friendship, I now know, requires tending, not unlike an aquarium or a garden. Next life… maybe.

I need not go on. Hell, most of us who attain some bit of longevity can attest to these experiences, or at least, reasonable facsimiles. Nothing unique about me here, but I have traveled a bit more than most and generally, I have taken some good mental notes.

Which kind of brings me to my point:

Jobs I Have Had: Weird Version (not in any particularly chronological order)

Walmart: I took a job at Walmart long after I had quit my regular job of almost ten years. My money had run out and I was living (by the good graces of my landlady—a friend) rent-free in Commerce, Amerika. My intent was to attain gainful employment in Iraq, so I had quit my regular job, just SOOO certain, given my previous ‘Overseas War-Zone Experience’ that I would be beating the HeadHunter’s offers away with a very large stick. Alas. No one seemed interested in hiring me to go to Iraq and risk my neck, (Even though I had made it abundantly clear in my cover letters that, ‘Beheading’ to me, is just a ‘scare word.’ No dice. No sale. No Job.

Strangest Aspect of working at Walmart:

Pajama Day. Yes Friends: on Pajama Day (Fridays as I do recall) a Walmart Associate could, if so desirous, wear pj’s work. Many did.

I did not.

UPS: I currently work (seasonal) for UPS. As far as I know, there are no pajama days, but there seem to be ‘incoherent days.’ I have been showing up for now two weeks and I am as clueless today as I was on day one. If I were kind, I’d call it ‘organized chaos.’ Most of you who read me know I am not really one to spout euphemisms. No. Just ‘chaos’ will do for now. And gee! I really do hope all y’all get your parcels on-time. I truly do. Merry Christmas

 

SFM (Sinai Field Mission) Completely run by the US Department of State back in the Seventies…

Wow! I have written of the insanity that went on there. Hell! There is even a documentary film on it (completely bogus, but here is the link, if you do not believe me:

http://www.zipporah.com/films/30

Hay Hauling: Yep. A more insane occupation cannot be imagined (in The Seventies) Drunks mostly all of us hay-haulers. Peanut comes immediately to mind

 Navy SEALs: What can I say?

Worm Ranch: Worm Counter.

Yeah, I used to make a living… counting red-worms: Seventy-five cents a box. Good money. Dodge the alcoholic! (For that, I did not get paid extra—it was before OSHA doan cha know…?

Enuff!

More later.

Maybe

 

And don’t you know?

I am the reason God Made OK.

(Not really)

But…

I have a sense of the ludicrous.

THERE IS SOME RHYME AND REASON (YES ALL CAPS) THAT I LOVE KRIS:

HITS TOO CLOSE TO HOME)

DON’T IT?

Let The Buyer Beware

 

Daily Lenny

Yeah, I have pissed in a lot of sinks.

 Truly, I have.

gomer-1-and-gomette-2

 

“I know this goddamn life too well.”

-Janis

The Life of One Man

I really don’t have the energy (or the ‘want to’) to edit this…

Sorry.

***

(Broken down by decades)

Kinda…

57-60: Born

60-64: Awkward Years

65-68: Awareness

68-74: Lost virginity, Oh! And innocence

’74-’77: Self-Respect was an issue: High School, et al.

’77-80: Sinai Desert: lost loves (in the desert) came of age

‘80-‘85: Played at “making up for all the bad shit I did in ’77-80—failed.

’85-’90: Served my country (and served some wimmens)

’90-2004’: Worked a thankless job.

‘2004-2009’ Served my country again: This time in Iraq: So what??

2009-2011: Tried my hand at ‘House Husband—Step-Father—Fail.

2011-2012: Afghanistan

2012-til now: Adrift

Now, none of this makes sense to anyone but me, but, dear readers, I am working on a post (as always) to make some sense of it all.

Stray tuned…

–Lancer

And PS. Yeah, I know; this is self-serving, fore  for? no one reads anyhow…so… just for fun.

 Cheers,

L

Working on a new post, entitled “The Last Time I Saw Richard.”

Stay tuned.

(but do it quickly, ’cause “I’m gonna blow this damn candle out…”)

Peace.

 

“Calgon, Take Me Away!”

For some of y’all out there who may have wondered where the hell I’ve been lately…

Well, I have been endeavoring with gusto and, actually, extreme prejudice, to ‘reinvent’ me. You see, I want to be a ‘happier, gentler, kinder’ kind of blogger. I no longer want to post rants, though I do love to RANT.

*alas*

Below please find some Rant Links from My Past. I believe they are representative:

https://texantales.com/category/rants/

Anyhow, the frontal lobotomy and the Prozac, and the small furry kitten to pet, and the re-education classes (particularly loved Those!), have all done wonders for my mental frame-of-reference. Oh! And to whomever sent me that ‘Care-Package’ of Calgon-Bath-Oil-Beads… Gee thanks.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVLzkTuVmrw

They took me away. But too late, for ‘They’ had already taken me away… Nice try. I loved the sentiment anyhow.

If you happened to read my last post, you will have discovered that I have taken on some menial labor. Now: This is no disrespect to those who perform such. Au contraire! It is just a fact. And I did mention with accolades, how very much I enjoy it (menial labor).

The thing is, is, I am just in a slump—between gigs—gigs that ‘Take Me Away’ from all this, this, this 24 hour news cycle which always gets it wrong. (Yes: CNN, Fox, American BBC, American Al Jazeera: I am talking about you—and all the other ‘News Networks.’ Ad nauseam.)

I belong in War Zones; that is the only kind of Gainful Employment Venue I am well-suited for.

More to come…

Cheers.