Months before the events inked here, here, here, and here, I found myself in Paris (actually two Paris’s—One Texan—One French). Confus’d yet? Stand by: it grows worse(r)
Let’s back up a mite (mites are hard to back up by the way, militarily that is: damn small and damn slippery, them mites… and they tend to mite-bite one, usually on one’s ass)
We call that “Green on Blue” and if you are following the recent news cycle, you will surely know that, that is inappropriate. But that is just how I roll. Fuck Afghanistan and their pretended bullshit “We gonna take over security of our country…” Won’t happen. But after ten plus years there (and some several months there by me, after Iraq–got ‘liberated’–now there is yet another joke, I can speak to the idiocy that is ‘our’ foreign fallacy.
I was in Sinai, 1978 (if memory serves), and I received a letter from my step-sis. This was not unusual back in those days, as we were still ‘speaking’. She sent me a rather long and boring letter regarding Honey Grove and all the ‘Happenings’ thereabouts. The letter was indeed ‘boring’ until I got to her ‘PS’. It read and I quote (loosely), “By the way, R is marrying J. Jesus-Beezus!”
This was, to me, devastation by way of bad, unspeakable news!
‘How could she?! She was MINE. Mine to mine and to have and to hold… just as soon as I finished with my wanderlust. How dare she?!” How DARE she?!
What to do?
Well, I had some R&R time ‘on the books’ so I hopped on a freighter (airplane), and flew back to Texas, ostensibly to break up the marriage, just like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. Problem was, was that I screwed up the dates and the logistics, and arrived not in time to bust up the wedding, but just in time to see the happy couple speeding off fast to Waco and their honeymoon…
Shit!
Never having been more depressed at missing a rendezvous, what to do? Rebound Son! Rebound!
So, I sought out Janet. Let’s call it a ‘bank shot rebound.’ I knew she was working at the Hopkins Lamar (See? To this day, I never know which county I am in) County Courthouse as a probation officer, so I timed (this time, my timing was spot on) my entrance during her lunch break: Intercepted her coming down the stairs of the courthouse.
“Hey Janet!”
“Lance?”
“C’est moi! How’s Trix?”
“You are supposed to be in Egypt,” she said.
“I escaped,” I said. “Wanna have lunch?”
“Uh… Sure. Why not?” (Why not indeed)
We went to lunch. Then she took the rest of the day. We went to her apartment and drank gin. Later that eve, after I had regaled her with fantastical tales of the Middle of the East, she took a drag from her Virginia Slim and asked, “So are you gonna fuck me tonight, or what?”
I said, “No Ma’am; I am gonna make love to you—something I should have done five years ago.”
So we did—I did—make love to her.
The problem now became that I had a plane to catch to that other Paris: that one in France. The other part of the problem was that my plane was waiting in Houston. I was about five hours at seventy miles per hour away from my Air France plane at Houston Intercontinental. I had to go. Now.
I hit the road to Houston, not really wanting to go, but I had promised my buddy, Bart, Black Bart, that I would meet him in Paris on such and such a day. Naturally, I ended up missing my flight and arrived Paree a day late. On the taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle airport, we drove under a bridge and the taxi car lost its windshield to a lone rifle shot. (my theory) “Terrorist?” I asked the cabby? (en français).
“Merde!” Was all he said, as he dodged the flying glass. (true story). I did not care anyhow, but this rather happenstance occurrence did not bode well for my first day in Gay Paree…
“There’s my hotel!” I exclaimed as he had managed to (somehow) keep driving.
I paid him off, got out of his now mangled, windshield-less cab and made my way into the cheap hotel lobby. Went up to my room, dropped my shit; then went looking for my buddy. Found him at last sitting on his rack, rather sullen in mood. I checked out his room. It had a wonderful view of the Eiffel Tower.
“So Bart,” I asked finally, “What have you done here in The City of Light for twenty-four hours?”
“You see that tower there?” he asked, pointing to the window.
“Yep,” I said. “That would be the Eiffel Tower.”
“Well, since you didn’t show, I went out on my own… and hey! Ya know, they don’t speak English here? I went out on my own. (You mentioned that) Walked over to that tower, looked up at it—kicked it—and said to myself, ‘Yep. That there Bartamus, that there is the Eiffel Tower. Then I came back here and took a nap. And would you please tell that France Maid that I do not want no fuckin’ breakfast? She wakes me up in the fucking morning with her biscuits (‘croissants’ Asshole) and lousy coffee.”
“Sure Bart,” I said. “I will post a note, en français on yer door.”
“You speak France?”
“Yep.”
“Well Hot Damn then! You be Bogey. I’ll be Bacall.” (of course)
“I weren’t able to bust up the wedding.”
“What?”
“The Wedding.”
“Oh you mean between R and J?”
“Yep. That one, you moron.”
“Yer better off,” he said.
“OK. Then why am I so depressed?”
“Dunno. Did you have any other adventures while you were back In-The-World?”
“Matter of fact, I did. I hooked up with Janet.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nope. No bullshit. Why I missed my flight, in fact.”
“Well, I was just about pissed off at you, but now I unnerstand.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“Hey!” he said. “Let’s smoke a bowl and you can tell me all about it while we go and kick this town in the ass.”
“Light her up,” I said. We smoked and drank and then off we went stoned and semi-drunk and in Paris (France) Just two more ugly Americans (Texans)
Now Y’all…
I hesitated while choosing the vid to represent this post. Then I swerved onto this one below. It is somewhat depressing, yeah. But, but… This is how I see my life ending up. I hope you will take the time to watch, listen, and comment.
Just so happens, I had one in my hip pocket. (I carry it about, you see? Just for occasions such as this)
I do believe the year was 1994, give or take. (10 years)
I was in a bad spot with my then-wife and my Girl-Friend who soon, someday soon, I hoped to become my next-wife.
Nevermind her name; this is irrelevant. After a few… well.
I was in this bad spot, you see. And I needed a flat-bed truck (for whatever reason), you see?
Now, the only one in possession of same was Peanut.
You see? (Because Peanut was always the one who did not ask questions, you see?) And why was that? Because I was also the only one who never asked.
Being poor of money and poor’er of excuse, I told my bride: “Honey, we need to see this man about a truck. Then we can get on with our lives.”
“Okay,” she said.
Off we went, she in her pretty sun-dress and me, looking for flatbed trucks in all them wrong places.
And then, after about eight miles of Bad Texas Road, we came upon a tree across the road you see, and a madman with a shotgun, you see; this madman was shooting at this young girl, you see, and this was embarrassing to me, you see, since the man wielding the shotgun could not hit shit, .. and his aim was lousy you see? And of course the girl was out of range, you see, and it did not matter to me, you see?
BECAUSE My Brother, PEANUT would never shoot an innocent girl on the wing.
You see?
You See?
You must have seen that coming.
Oh, that ‘other’ guy?
That Guy shooting at that girl?
What did we do with him?
Well, turns out, that was Peanut.
I had to forgive him. The girl was not harmed and I missed my brother.
Thus it ended….
That’s Tejas!
*************
STOP!
I cannot write this.
Maybe later.
Sorry. It has become rare that I just throw up a rough draft, you see?
(Yes, I know: they are all rough drafts)
This one may have some promise, however, since, like all Things Peanut, it is true.
*Of course if you want the answer to that burning behind the Grassy Knoll Question, you will have to listen to Lenny. (Listen below after you wade through some serious Lance Horseshit)
Or, I suppose you could just ask Lance, as his erstwhile step-mom worked for Jack (Ruby)
And if you, any of you, breath, yeah breath. A word to my also erstwhile step-sister… well, that breath, will be your last…
Sad Update: Madelyn
(And, as always, Everything I just typo’d, said, thought… well, it’s bullshit. I was born, rear’d an’ raised in California. Northern California. I have never even seen Texas. Just read about it all.)
Just to make up for all those “Thursday Throwbacks” I missed cashing in on during my recent ‘sabbatical’.
Yeah, I always considered ‘Throwback Thursdays’ something of a ‘gift.’ I mean, if I had nothing to write I could always dig down into those old archives, et voila! There ya go!
(In Some Truth: I just wanted to put up some Lenny Bruce–for Old Time’s Sake.)
And it kind of goes along with thatBrother Dave Postfrom a day or two ago. (See? There is some continuity to my mind)
Believe that? Really? Wanna buy a bridge? Cheap?
************
I generally spend about ten minutes ‘writing a post’. Then three minutes waiting on ‘spell check’ to remind me that I cannot spell ‘cat.’ Then two minutes (except for the upload wait) to upload photos/videos. One minute at the ‘final’ look. Then: Click that ‘publish’ button.
Done.
Rinse and repeat the next day. This bothers me. Why? Because, as all of us (may) feel, we can write so much better.
Alas, I am lazy. I just want to get it out there… Catch the likes; catch the comments. Fuck the quality! “They” know what I mean… Don’t they? I mean, they read me! Not too much need for exposition, ya? ‘They git it, eh?’
Just some musings from an amusing wanna-be writer/blogger. Take with some grain of salt. (And Comment), if you are of a mind to, and have an opinion on the ‘writing/blogging’ process.
Cheers, Lancers
“I have never had an original thought; I don’t live in a vacuum.”
–Lenny Bruce
And if this ain’t poignant for today… Well then. I do not know what is, or could be ‘is.’
Take a listen: All Policemans in NYC might even appreciate. (If they can read, that is)
About an hour ago I ended ‘My Watch’ of all four seasons and all episodes of “Game of Thrones”—Took me all of three days to get through it, soup to nuts, but I really had nothing better to do anyhow.
Certainly there are quite a lot of rabid fans out there belonging to “Game of Thrones” and this I do not deny, and I may even count myself among their numbers now, but…
And my intent here is certainly not to rain upon anyone’s parade. However I must admit that a few years ago I was curious to understand “Why all the hype?”, so I went to my Amazon dot com and purchased the first Season.
And I Tried, Ever So Hard, to get “Into” it.
Fail.
Major Fail.
Got bored pretty much instantly with the show.
I am no prude (and anyone who has read even ten percent of my blog posts should know this), but what turned me off almost immediately was all the HBO gratuitous sex and violence. I don’t need to see people fucking every ten minutes to understand the dynamics of ‘intimate’ relationships.
And even though all the fight scenes were Oh So most ‘tastefully’ done, and pretty much well-choreographed, every once in a while, I would rather just hear the severed head hit the ground, rather than have to see it.
“Trust me HBO”: These kinds of graphics do not interest me, even though upon occasion we, as audience, might need to see them… but for the most part we do not. (Actually, I am speaking only for myself. You do you.)
My opinions are generally not worth a cup of warm spit.
If I want pornography and / or snuff films, I can certainly find them outside the realm of ‘Serious Drama.’ In other words, when I want porn, I want porn; when I want good literature or drama, I want good lit or drama. Not to say that the two are mutually exclusive, but a preponderance of one over the other is a waste of time. Just a waste of time (and film).
If you would like to explore a decent contemporary, well-done balance, take a look at Polanski’s “Macbeth” for a start,
Then perhaps, even Zeffirelli’s “Hamlet”
(if you want to get into all that Oedipus and violence stuff).
Or…
Branagh’s “Henry V”
***
The thing that never rang true for me in “Game of Thrones” was the silly justification that “For One Thousand Years, The Men of “Lannis-Sister” Always Had Sex with Their sisters.”
Or Whatever…
In short, I have just now finished, as I did preamble, the Entire Series up-to-date. And, I would be less than honest if I said I could have easily stopped watching.
There are some intriguing characters to be certain, and some plot twists, or at least some of those, “Oh my fucking God! I did not see that one coming!” moments.
After watching all four seasons however, there are only two characters I take away and hold dearest to my heart and interest. And even truly care about.
It will probably be extremely easy for y’all to tell me which ones they are…
That is, if y’all know me at all.
(Or, at least, if I follow that typical male, raised-on-video-games cliché)
Now That, That above is a joke. I hope you know that.
Here is a ‘clue’ for one of them. Hahaha!
Let me know what you think / thought of “Game of Thrones.” I would be very interested to hear. (And Yes. I know: I am so very late to the party)
Story of my life…
Cheers,
Lance
P.S. And if you can guess my two most favorite characters, I will send you two Dinars, Silver.
And a “Mickey Mouse pencil sharpener.”
(Stolen line from the film, “About Last Night.”)
And, if you are a fan of the series, I would be most interested to hear which two characters you favor above the others…
Now some might say Brother Dave was a racist and they would probably be right, but I am posting these bits because I love the way he talks politics and specifically about “Daddy Bird.” I really don’t think Bro Dave was racist in his heart. Most things he said were tongue-in-cheek, but that is just my opinion.
“See? I don’t drink alcohol, ’cause I don’t want no fat liver… but that ain’t no testimony. You may have your liver to do as you please.”
“But you talk so much politics!” I’m sick and tired of politics!”
(Yes, I know. All y’all been waiting with baited breath, no pun, for this post)
The problem really isn’t the tooth per se. It’s the rebar that the dentist pounded into it some years back. The tooth even then was pretty much gone and I had not the time nor inclination (nor money) to have a root canal, so I just told him to patch it up and let me get on with it.
He sank that rebar into my tooth and tried to build something around it.
Worked great.
Until a few days ago when all the ‘tooth’ fell away and I was left with just the rebar, sticking up and shredding the underside of my tongue every time I tried to swallow.
Which is problematic for someone who likes to drink. (But never fear: I found a work-around: A straw.)
I tried to file it down with a file from one of those toe-nail clippers.
No dice.
Then I found a pair of dikes and while holding a small flashlight in one hand and the dikes in the other, went at it.
No dice.
Just could not find a proper purchase.
And by the way, to quote Lenny quoting Will Rogers:
“I never met a dyke I didn’t like.”
Anyway…
The rebar remains.
And it is painfully reminding me that I should invest more in my oral hygiene.
You will have to scroll to the very end of the clip to get the great line, but I highly recommend you watch the entire bit, just for entertainment.
