(Updated Old Post–Added Some Bull-Shite) All Texan Lives Matter. I Have, Of Late, Lost All My Mirth and Have Become A Lonely, Sent… uh… Mental Old Fool. Some One Please Come And Put Me Down! “California on my Mind But Texas Always In My Heart” (And Word-Dee-Pressed is Still FUCKED UP! I Cannot Properly EDIT This Post!)


More Texas

Less California

Loved it. Hated it. Few decades ago I could truthfully say, “Hey! I’ve spent half my life in California.” (See This Or This)

Now I can say, “Hey! I’ve spent most of my life in Dangerous Desolate Places.” (Middle East &  East Texas) That worm did turn some. (Go Here or There)

As a Native Texan, I am supposed to always hate California and yes, Yes to all you Texans out there: I know this. I get it. Put the rope down.

Yet I more love than hate California.

In California I learned to appreciate music, art, science, literature, hippies, beaches and blondes. My first kiss was not in California, but I didn’t miss that milestone by much–In California.

In Texas I learned to appreciate drankin’ whiskey and beer , smokin’ dope, playin’ football, chasin’ cheerleaders, and Raisin’ Hell.

Arriving home to Texas late 1968 folks made fun of my ‘California Accent’ if there even is such a thing. (There were no Valley Girls in the Sixties as far as I know). My ‘accent’ was ‘just the way normal people talked’ as far as I was concerned. Texans sounded funny to me (Blasphemy!)

My Attitude Adjustment didn’t take long to take.

In California I was a Little League Baseball Star. In Texas no one gave two shits about baseball. I had to learn football. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, but I had all those baseball skills which were not worth a cup of spit in Texas.

I love Texas and don’t get me wrong. But once in a while, when I see a photo or a news bit showing San Francisco, or San Diego, or a beach, or a blonde… I hear this guy singing (See below)

(Funny Madelyn Aside: She caught me playin’ … and listenin’ to this on our beat up old record player. Both speakers wrapped over my head, She pulled them off and shouted,

“Fuck are you doin’ Lance?”

“I miss San Francisco.”

“Go  fuck yourself! We are Texans! And after you finish fucking yourself, go downstairs and set the table for supper,”

Sometimes I even hear this blonde singing:

And I tear up. (Just a little bit) but then I throw on some Bob Wills and Remember Who I am.

Bob Wills

And thus remembering, I go out and buy a case of Lone Star Long Necks and listen to this guy:

And I Thank The Spirit of Sam Houston I Am A Texan.

Mother Fuckin’ Fuck You WordPress!

Why Do You Insist On Making My Life More Difficult!

I Have Enuff Already Difficulties on My Own!

I do NOT Need Your Contribution!

AS MY ERSTWHILE Moroccan Lover once

(twice-thrice–many times)

Told me:

“Go to Fuck You!”

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