A poet of such piercing eloquence
But covered in misguided arrogance
He throws out the tweets
Then shits where he eats
Tainting once more, his relevance
Just because I like it:
A poet of such piercing eloquence
But covered in misguided arrogance
He throws out the tweets
Then shits where he eats
Tainting once more, his relevance
Just because I like it:
Dear Mister Kim
I’m at it again
Love you to pieces
You sack of raw feces
You think you’re King Kong
‘Cause you’ve got The Bomb
But remember Kong’s Fate
He fell from Emp’ State
Shot down from a ‘bye’-plane
Not even an eye strain
We shot his dumb ass
Took only one pass
Then he went splat
In flames he did tumble
No King of the Jungle
Your last act’s the same
We’re tired of your game
So here’s our fair warning
You will be in mourning
For loss of your State
And we’ll think that’s great
Goodbye North Korea
And that’s panacea
Our simple solution
To speed execution
No biplane comes knocking
Yet something more shocking
Is heading your way
You will rue the day
My rhyme’s now concluded
But don’t be deluded
The ending draws nigh
So say your goodbye
Your death’s coming soon
Mister Jong Un
“Lil Kim’s got the hydrogen bomb”
His news bitch announced in singsong
“He’ll mount it one day
“And launch it your way
“Then smartly fuck off to Hong Kong
There once was a boy name of Kim
Who decided to act on a whim
He launched a big bomb
In the direction of Guam
And that was the ending of him!
In a Loon we call Kim Jong Un
The World sees a silly buffoon
But he put up his Dukes
Oh Fuck me; They’re Nukes!
And The World is now singing new tunes!
(Apologies to Ogden Nash)
God in His wisdom let people die
God in His wisdom made them all fry
The People, they cried
Why Dear God Why?
God in His wisdom
All part of my Plan
Don’t ask me again
I am that I am
God in His wisdom
Boo Hoo and Boo Hoo
The People they cried,
Dear God, Oh Dear God,
Even We True?
God in His wisdom, Yes
God in His wisdom made sure we all knew
That God with His wisdom,
Is an Asshole
Tried and True Blue
And Jesus wept
Likes and Loves and Laughing Faces
Thumbs up Thumbs up
We’re off to the races!
A cheap thrill sensation
Brings joy and elation
With so much emoji
We’ll never be lonely
But cheap thrills ain’t lasting
A sugary crash
Just a quick flash
It’s comments we want
No matter the font
Comments are golden
They fling the door open
True comments auspicious
And very propitious
Writers need feedback
Not smiley Prozac
If compelled to emoji
Don’t do that only
Take some small time
Drop a thin dime
Make someone’s day
(RIP, My Old, Old, Old, Old Friend)
Barney’s not buyin’
The bullshit they’re tryin’
Space rock was his ending
Not God’s will unbending
They say the Big Bang
Just weren’t a real thang
They ‘know’ evolution’s
Not their solution
Yet science creates
Kids who think straight
It don’t take no sleuth
To find the true truth
Religion has pending
A major upending
Then faster than light
Their god turns to shite
*Sequel to ‘Lady Projection’*
She spoke through my window
Smile and hair still aglow
“Your poem made me cry”
Didn’t even ask her ‘why’
Maybe she’d been moved
Some little pain removed
Someone’s caring care
Had taken it to bear
For a moment
Or merely felt encouraged
Not to be discouraged
Or maybe just persuaded
To feel cautiously elated
Or maybe just contented
By thoughts I had presented
Or words that I had written
Had left her slightly smitten
For a moment
But suddenly I knew
None of it were true
Never could it be
She and me, me and she…
Red gave way to green
Had to leave the scene
The traffic left behind
Some sadness for my mind
Hard truth in the knowing
That simply bestowing
A poem wrapped in money
Makes me anybody’s Honey
For a moment
She had done up her hair
I’d seen her standing there
In rain and in shine
Holding up her sign
Almost a living fixture
A living breathing mixture
Of bad luck and circumstance
Bad luck and no finance
But today her hair done neat
Defiantly to speak
With smile upon her face
“I am the Human Race!”
And I became aware
Almost enough to care
Yet caring was my daring
So damn the horns a’blaring
Her sign read ‘Single Mother…’
Her look not like the others
‘Single mother—Laid off work’
(By some inhuman jerk?)
She’d braved the heat
The dusty street
Suffered callous faces
Eyes diverted other places
But today her auburn hair
Was shining everywhere
Bright and done up right
To cancel out her plight
But who would see her showing
Who would look with knowing
The care that she had taken
To be shunned and thus forsaken
Truer words not heard (in a while)
I wrote this as a counter to one of the most unintentionaly hilarious, misguided, and pretentious pieces of old bollocks it has ever been my misfortune to encounter in the language of Shakespeare.
The Art of Blogging by Danny SoZ
1: Write any old shit
2: Visit other blogs containing shit just as bad, or even worse, than your own literary effluent
3: Lavish the ‘writer’ with praise, so risibly over-the-top, they will begin to think you’re in the throes of orgasm
4: Wait a few hours for reciprocal bullshit
Danny Soz is the managing editor of The Dunning-Kruger Syndrome Gazette
Lance walks into his ‘physic’ therapist’s office and slumps down…
“Hello” too effusive psychotherapist says. “And how are WE today?”
“Shitty,” I answer.
“Oh no!!” he says. “We can never feel ‘shitty’, as you say. WE are always ‘happy’.”
“Fuck you,” I say.
“Mister Marcom. WE do not talk this Way.”
“Fuck you Doc, I talk this way AND I am paying you so I CAN talk this way.”
“OK, why then are you “shitty” as you call it?”
Leaning back… wondering how long this court – ordered bullshit must go on, I decide to hit him with it:
“I am shitty ‘cause I have written some good shit on my blog and no one is reading it.”
“Please do go on.”
“Well… there is that one about Southpark”
“You mean J.R.’s ranch?”
“Do you have a degree, Doc?”
“Of course, right over there on the wall, see it?”
“What’s it in, your degree?”
“Yeah, guess that makes some sense; knew it wasn’t in Pop Culture, Pops.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Let us get back to your problem and away from my credentials, shall we? No one reads your ‘shit’, but why?”
“‘t-l-d-r’ in the vernacular.”
“Tee el dee r’? I’m afraid I do not understand your meaning here.”
“’Too Long; Didn’t Read’ Asshole.”
“Mister Marcom, I must implore you not to continue to abuse me with such language; I am merely attempting to help you here. Why is it too long? Do you hate your mother?”
“Well, it took days and days to write… And who ARE you? Do you even know what it is ‘to write’?”
“Let us focus on ‘your problem.’ shall we?”
“Doc, let us focus on yours: I don’t want to be here and THAT is YOUR problem. I just want folks to read my shit.”
“I cannot help you there, Son. Perhaps though if I may proffer a suggestion?”
“Sure. Fire away.”
“Write some better ‘shit’, as you call it.”
While suffering my enforced exile in California I could often be found searching for jumping spiders. One day I captured a particularly stunning one with black and white markings, dark black-green eyes and luminescent aquamarine fangs behind the feathery appendages which covered them.
Absolutely Beautiful Spider!
I gently herded her into a mason jar which contained several wood chips of varying shapes and sizes. Jumping spiders do not build webs; they live in caves made by little boys employing wood chips. (This is what my spidery experience had taught me through the years.)
Once I had done my time we moved back to Texas, but not before I was forced to abandon my Most Beautiful Spider, along with all the others I had collected, my mother announcing quite emphatically,
“I am NOT riding in a car all-the-way-home-to-Texas seated next to five jars full of damn spiders!”
Once back in Texas, for several weeks I suffered from PTSL: Post Traumatic Spider Loss. I missed my spiders, especially the beautiful one I had named ‘Sadie’.
Not that Texas has a spider shortage, mind you; I just did not immediately know where to look: “Looking for Spiders in all the wrong places.”
One day, lo’ and behold, I found a jumping spider which looked so very much familiar to me, (or perhaps she found me)
“Sadie! Sadie! Did you follow me all the way from California?” I asked breathlessly.
“Of course,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I happily gathered her up and placed her into my newest mason jar, assuming she still wanted to be my pet.
About a month later, I proudly announced to my Grandparents:
“My spider is gonna have babies.”
“Lance Son,” my Grandmother informed me rather condescendingly, “There is no daddy spider in there. Your spider cannot possibly have baby spiders.”
Not ill-mannered enough to say it, I thought it: “Of course she can have baby spiders ‘without a ‘daddy.’ Spiders are like guppies: they store sperm until the time is ‘just right.’ But how could this old Tennessee-Baptist-Dyed-In-The-Wool-God-is-Great woman even wrap her mind around such things Darwin?”
Absolutely Incomprehensible To Her.
About two weeks later, I was up to my ass in baby spiders. I did not show grandmother these offspring. She would have told me it was yet one more miraculous example of God’s Work:
“The Immaculate Spider Conception.”
All the baby spiders slowly disappeared over time, crawling through the ice-pick holes in the lid of the Mason Jar two-by-two, or however. Fine. Neither Sadie nor I were interested in raising a passel of little spider crumb snatchers.
My Lady Spider was a huntress and she complained daily regarding my neglect of her need. She ached for something more than the flies I would daily cast into her mason jar. They were just food. No thrills to be had in the hunt, merely a harvest. She was growing morose.
“You’re killing my Spider Soul with all these damn flies Lance,” she said.
“OK Sadie! I will give you something to satiate your arachnid need,” I told her one morning.
Under the eaves of my Grandfather’s shed lived a few Black Widow Spiders. They had established some manner of ‘Black Widow Sisterhood,’ (Not unlike similar ‘Sisterhoods’ to be found on Social Media these days.) Even though I am most definitely a spider geek, Black Widows never intrigued me as potential pets, mainly because they needed more than a Mason Jar Ecosystem for lodging and accoutrements and also because of their lethargic laisser-faire approach to acquiring sustenance:
“Sit in their parlor-web all day; wait for something hapless to happen by.”
No hunt in them whatsoever.
Slightly peeved with Sadie, I decided to capture one of The Sisters. I took her to Sadie’s Mason jar and dropped her in.
“Happy now damn you?” I said.
Sadie looked about at her new roommate. Then looked up at me through multiple dark green eyes and said,
“I never thought we would come to this.”
“Sorry, ol’ Gal,” I giggled. “This is the part where the cowboy rides away. Catch ya laters. Good luck.”
I was curious and in fact, had nothing but time on my hands so I watched to see how she would deal with her new jar-mate, never really fearful for her safety.
But Black Widow was wily. She taunted Sadie, waving her long, spindly legs about in semaphore fashion, as if to say, “Come hither Little Jumper, let me demonstrate the technique that has given my kind our terrible dark name.”
Sadie began deliberately circling around Black Widow, sizing her up, her little Sadie neurons firing on and off, then seizing what I’m certain she perceived as perfect opportunity, jumped at her full force.
Her momentum caused her to tumble onto her back.
Black Widow capitalized and deftly captured Sadie and began wrapping her in web, presumably to eat at her leisure.
But Black Widow made one fatal mistake:
She bound Sadie’s hind legs (all four of them) first, leaving her front legs (all four of THEM) free. As Black Widow was casually wrapping her up, Sadie grabbed her with unencumbered front legs and planted a big wet French Kiss into Black Widow’s thorax. They remained locked in this embrace for thirty minutes. (I know; I was there, timing it–for ‘science’)
Black Widow now hoisted with her own petard and quite dead, was dropped by Sadie, who watched her tumble down and land with an inaudible (to me) thud on the Mason Jar floor.
“Sadie,” I said. “Your indentured servitude has ended. Here, allow me help you out of that.”
Fishing some tweezers that I had stolen from my Grandmother’s “Lady-Bag” bag from my jean’s pocket I gently and meticulously pulled all the Black Widow silk from Sadie, a tedious time consuming effort which took at least half an hour. Then I gingerly laid the Mason Jar on its side hiding it in a pile of kindling away from the prying eyes of opportunistic birds and went on about my business.
Returning the next day, I discovered no Sadie: just a note written in Spider’ease which read:
“Thank you for allowing me to save myself.
I will always love you, but I’ve had quite enough of Texas and Texan ways. If you ever make it back to California, look me up. Here is my email addy: (Redacted)
Spider On! Y’all!”
And that was how she ended it.
Took me three days to get the webs out of my brain and a week to find another spider, but she was not the same. She was not MY Sadie, just an inadequately inept substitute, but I suppose that’s how it goes with First Loves lost.
“I miss you Sadie,” I caught myself saying to no one in particular few days later.
/ˈfəbiNG/ noun informal the practice of ignoring one’s companion or companions in order to pay attention to one’s phone or other mobile device.
I had to admit. Yes they were. I had tried so hard to keep ahead of the rust, but here I found myself on the leeward side of the second half of a six-month, ‘round-the-whurl-West Pacific Deployment’, and somewhere just off the coast of Somalia.
Yes, rust was my enemy, certainly 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 underway:
Haze-Graying, even then
My Guns were always supposed to be… somewhere upon the sea… this is what they were purchased for…
And subject to rust. Rust Relentless. Relentless She Be: That Sea. That Salt of the Fucking Sea
My Moby Dick-lessness! How could I not keep Rust off my guns?
Freud certainly would have had fun with me
(Sadly, now I know why)
My professional life was to be found somewhere rusting in those machine guns.
And that rust you see, that rust occupied a great deal of my daily routine.
The Navy had a solution though. She had provided canvas covers to cover those guns and make them safe from rust. Alas, those canvas covers had seen better days, probably back when Pearl Harbor was just an ordinary Naval Base that no one had ever heard of.
But rust is relentless and timeless.
While scrubbing the Indian Ocean rust off’n my fifty-cals one morning I hatched a plan. Knowing full well we were soon to pull into Mombasa Kenya, after so many month at sea, I conspired to save my money:
Once in Mombasa, I would smuggle one of the moth infected, salt- digested, jig saw’d, Swiss Cheese, ‘holy’ canvas shards off the ship. I would rent a taxi, find me a young child, show him my smuggled ‘prize’, ask him to direct me somewhere, where I could find and nickel and dime (I did not have much money then, not un-life-like now) find a leather shop in Mombasa, present to the leather-maker my Holy Canvas, My Shroud, My Naval Career, and demand, (for US Dollars), that he make me four such more yet new and brand new.
And This is exactly what I did, and to the amazement and astonishment of my Master Chief Petty Officer and my Department Head (almost a Navy Commander… he kind of looked like JFK, now that I think on it. I did not like particularly like him, but I respected him. Hell, he reminded me of all the things I could have been if I had joined the Nav when I was twelve instead of twenty-eight (Different story. Sorry)
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, with just a tiny bit of water buffalo…left over…but Goddamn sure water and sea salt proof.
And I was so desirous that they did NOT notice, but my Master Chief did notice, yet, never ever noticing nor voicing his ‘inner thoughts’ in front of what he referred to as “Shit Birds” — ‘Officers’ — Never let on.
Master Chief never, ever let out his truth thoughts in front of Shit – Birds. This was his genius.
And I should have been cognizant of this, yet I was so somewhat giddy after my .50 Cals had finally passed inspection, that I did not stop to think on that anymore. “Not even Master Chief had seen through my ruse” Yeah, Rite!
I was drunk with my own cleverness and lying back on my back in my rack, curtain drawn, 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! .225 Cal to .50 Cal. If it took two men to lift, wasn’t mine. But one-man-band? Yep! I was the shit! I was a Gunner’s Mate 3rd Class! Freshly rocked out of SEAL Training (twice now, but who counts these sorts of thing? I suppose I do) and trying to retain what little was left of my pride and my so-fifty-caliber-called-life.)
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”. (Those ones what ‘bullets’ took two and a half-men to lift)
And even more important, (anyone who has ever ‘Served’ will know this), the Military is Run On Fear:
That kind of fear.
Well, as I was lying on my back in my middle rack right before Taps with my little blue ‘privacy’ curtain drawn back when someone jerked that sucker back.
Along with my reverie.
Master Chief Anderson!
MY MASTER CHIEF
“Son, tell me where you found those brand new gun covers.”
Trying to lie on my side and find an elbow to lean to, I half-coughed out, feigning sleepy-eyed ignorance,
“Master Chief, I had them made while we were in Mombasa.”
(There are people one may lie to in life, but, A Master Chief Petty Officer in the US Navy is not one found amongst those people. Not if one wishes life beyond that moment of sweet deception)
“I see”, was all he said, as he yanked my curtain back shut, thus leaving me alone with my various and sundry.
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, inches thick as a brick, “The Book” I had been made to almost memorize while at Recruit Training Command, i.e. boot camp.
I had broken the rule.
In the Nav, there is a sea sailor preamble, most requisite when one wants to recount a story of ‘when ships were made of wood and men were made of iron’… “When Moses was a pup” This validates and is a ritual never broken. In other words, one never breaks the rule.
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 boot camp…
“Petty Officer 3rd Class Marcom Sir!”
“I know who you are Lance; sit down.”
(What??? Lance??? Sit Down???)
Mouth agape I sat down, speechless
“Son, Master Chief Anderson tells me you went out on your own, designed, commissioned, smuggled off a prototype, 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, you know SIR, 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, carefully opened it, and proceeded to hand me two-hundred and fifty bucks.
I sat there, dumb founded, a moment too long, still in shock, looking at the bills in my hand…
“Petty Officer Marcom! “
“Huh…Uh, Huh… Sir?”
Jumping up, knocking my chair over, some tears welling in my eyes,
As I saluted him and abruptly left his quarters, quite in haste.
And thus I had survived yet another day in MY Beloved Navy.
And Just As a Reminder Kids:
Don’t Rain on my Parade: I have enuff Rain for All
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
I just might vote TRUMP.
(And what’s wrong with Big Hair anyhow?! Even I, your humble servant, used to have Big Hair–Then I learned to read.)
I mean, honestly, The Prez really don’t have power anymore, c’mon People!
Sampson hair notwithstanding. Don’t believe me? Ask Obama. Or…
Take a look at the Nineteen-Nineties. Clinton, try as he might, had no way to stifle the dot.com prosperity, precarious precipice that it was. (Not that he would have wanted to, but…hey! Outta his control)
Wally-World, et al, took that bull (my pun) by the horns and killed the messenger. (Oh! And the simple fact that the 1920’s had no intrinsic value, historically squeaking, that is.) And the other simple fact that all good deeds go punish’d. And the other simple fact that America, MY America always… well, never mind.
‘Nother case in point: LBJ.
He dreamed of the ‘Great Society’ almost made it, save for that little problem in Southeast Asia. (He coulda been a contender, instead of a bum)
(Brando Warning Here!)
Nuff said: We have now come to the era of “Not-So-Great-Presidents.”
They mean nothing, vis-à-vis, The World Order.
They have been reduced to fodder.
Fodder for CNN, Fox, SNL, and The ‘Honey Grove Senile Citizen’ (my hometown rag)
Why not Trump? I mean, with no mean meaning, why not? He will entertain. He will give CNN, Fox, et al, something to pontificate over (“Never end a sentence with a preposition Lance”—sorry—my bad)
I love The Donald: he has made an uninteresting (for news junkies) year…
And I do love funny.
Merry Christmas and see you at the voting booth (I will be that embarrassing uncle in the back with a scotch in his hand and a Marlboro in his lips—pontificating about ‘LBJ’, The Great Society, and wearing the Nixon-Now-More-Than-Ever…T-Shirt.
And saying, ad nausea: “I told you so…”
Shamelessly, I just finished re-reading “Grapes of Wrath” or… in other words: I am with Bernie Sanders on this Deal Folks.
And never forget this:
Or this, regarding ‘Third-Party-Politics” (for those of you astute in The American Political Prophesy):
And, Yes, Virginia: Trump is a “Ring-Tail-Tooter.”
Me no Alamo.
If this isn’t funny, you may have yer money back.
Here at Texan Tales, we have a money-back guarantee.
File a claim.
Good luck with that.
Around 1730hrs a truck pulls up outside my office at LSA 2. I didn’t see who was in the truck, but I figured I was about to have a visitor. (I’m really smart that way) After the truck had been literally blocking my door for about five minutes, Mike Smith (My Manager. The BBB: Billeting BIG BOSS) walks in holding up a pack of L&M cigarettes. Now remember, I have not seen this guy for the day-and-a-half he has been “back” on Dwyer.
“Anyone in here smoke these?” were the first words out of his mouth.
I look up from my personal emails and say, “Dunno. Lashonda smokes, but afraid I don’t know her brand.” (She was out of the office, actually smoking at this time)
“Well, I wish whoever is smoking these would stop doing it on the bench.”…
View original post 913 more words
When I was fourteen or fifteen and living in NE Texas, ‘Famine’ County to be more precise, I used to frequently cross the border. Not Mesico. No, Oklahoma. Yep. Go figger.
You see, back-in-the-day (Early Seventies), the drinking age got lowered to 18, mainly because it just was not fitting for a boy to go to Vietnam and not even be able to buy a beer ere he got there. Time enough for that once he got there, but you see, it became a matter of principle.
Well, my ‘group’ took advantage of that. You see, it was very difficult to tell a teenager’s age: I mean,
“How do you know he ain’t eighteen? He looks twelve, but hell! Ok, serve it up.”
And even better: In Oklahoma, well, they just did not give a shit. If you had money and could reach the bar, well, there you go.
OK, enough preamble and background. Early one morning (after about 0100hrs) my buddies and I, after having closed down the bars in Commerce (Texas), decided we were not drunk enough. So, natch, we drove to The Border, as I said: Oklahoma. Our mission: To hustle Pool and make the next day’s beer money.
Our favorite hang was a place just ‘cross da river. A place who’s name escapes me, but trust me: it was famous. There is a very long, very dark, very narrow bridge across the Red River. If one could successfully navigate that, being drunk… well, you needed a drink.
Now, do not mistake me, this establishment was always ‘closed’ by the time we usually arrived at thereabout 0200hrs, but I knew the guy behind the ‘Speak-Easy’ window and I knew the password: “Joe sent me.”
Good to go.
They legally closed the bar at 0100hrs, but then remained open until first light. If one arrived around 0200hrs, one could shoot pool for four or five and then migrate to the back room where the crap tables were. I knew all the drills.
My gang and I sauntered in, bought some beers and Bob and I proceeded to ‘hustle’ pool. For beers. ONLY.
We were already drunk; we did not need to hustle beers. We wanted money for the crap game. Bob and I spent the better part of two hours hustling beers, and had pretty much drained the joint, when this dude drops his quarter on the table. He was long and lankly and had his right hand missing. Yep. He was ‘handicapped” Errr… handless. I nudged Bob and said, “This chump cannot beat me. At pool.”
And, of course, I was right, but… damn! He was good. He used his ‘stub’ as a bridge and shot a mean Eight-Ball. I beat him outta bout a case of Coors. He got pissed and walked by me:
“You done stepped on my foot,” he said.
“No Sir, I did not, but if you think I did, well, I’m sorry…”
“YOU done STEPPED on my FOOT!”
Bob took me aside along with my other entourage; Peanut, Gene, and Jessie (a big black kid who had played star halfback for the Honey Grove Warriors back in the day—yes—he was older, and I did notice him putting razor blades between his fingers)
“Many-Feet” Peanut said, “That there one-armed man gonna beat you to some death with that nub.”
“Bullshit!” I said.
“No bullshit. Go ahead; hide an’ watch.”
To be continued….
He beat me ’bout to death with that nub, just as Peanut foresaw.
Wish I had ‘foresaw’.
Dem Okies…well.. they some tough sons ah bitches, all I gotta say.
The point of this post, if there is one, is that I have applied for no less than ten jobs in Saudi Arab today.
Some nine or so in various other shit holes, err, developing countries, just looking for my next war zone to make me famous, not unlike Hemmingway. At this point in life, I must admit: prolly ain’t gonna happen. All I can hope for is some good monies and some decent health insurance (and maybe some ESOP), but Hell! At this point, I’ll work for room and board…but never bored.
Me? Bored? Never.
Again, when do I get to get outraged? Ppl in Ferguson get to be outraged. I share their outrage, but I just want a small piece of that pie. I have more than one decade experience working in dangerous desolate places, yet, I find it so very difficult to find a job in same. I am feeling some outrage here! I should be entitled. I did my time. Hell! I served my country.
To quote some not so famous line from the movie, “The Right Stuff,” “Where is my parade with Jackie? I wanna meet Jackie. They owe me!” I want to meet Jackie. Or at the very least I want a window… into my golden years. End of Rant…
And of course, as y’all know, this was all ‘tongue-in-cheek’
“Hook ’em Horns!”
(That’s ‘Texan’ for ‘Suck it up and move that ball on down the field.’ Boys.)
Or, even better, to quote Dan Jenkins: “Y’all knew it was gonna be semi-tough, eh?”
And this “trailer” is semi-tough to watch, but it was as advertised: semi tough, as we were growing up in The Seventies.
And of course, as usual, this last link is the important one.
I seem to be on an LBJ Day… today. Please listen. This is the real deal and I do promise: you will laugh. (You will havta scroll down and hit that link to the orig post; my apologies…)
I love LBJ, or as Brother Dave Gardner once called him: ‘Daddy Bird’. Johnson was a divisive entity during his one and a half terms as president—primarily due of course to the Vietnam War—which he inherited. Yes, I realize I am gonna get some push back. Favorably mention ‘LBJ’ even today and you best stand by for some unhappy and contentious words.
The problem I have, in general, when talking to folks about Johnson is that most are ignorant of the man, his history, his upbringing; his good works: Rural electrification for Texas. Medicare, Civil Rights, The Great Society (never really came to fruition, due to Vietnam) and so on.
Once he became ‘The Accidental President’ he took JFK’s dreams and made them reality. Johnson could do…
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Swerved into this in my inbox few days ago….
“Dere Lance of Texas,
I hav fond some wory in my brane last days. Woried you not hear anee more. No rightings on you blogg, texas tails. Hopink you not ded. If yu ar, pls let me kno, of not, plese igno an I will chek bak for mor posits from yu.
Yer no 1 fren and reeder, Jim bo bob
-Wataska, Tx july 2015.
PS Mavis and them kids doin grate. Thak you.”
For any readers I have left here, rest assured I will address this issue from Jim bo bob in a timely fashion.
Just fer laffs…..
I am re-posting this because I am still working on the Continuation of the ‘Sinai Field Mission Chronicles‘.
(Great Excuse, eh?) Anyway, some of you ‘newbies’ may not have had the wonderful ‘opportunity’ to have swerved into it. Therefore it is with great humility that I present it once again for your perusal.
There were big bugs, small bugs, flying bugs, crawling bugs, creeping bugs, creepy bugs, scary bugs, poisonous bugs, biting bugs, fighting bugs, suicide bomber bugs, and worst of all: No-See’um bugs. (Please don’t get me wrong: I love bugs: please read Queendom and Spiders)
But every day at precisely 1600hrs:
We all worked in trailers, which passed for ‘Offices’ in Basra and we had A/C Window Units which would suck in the Bugman’s Offerings with vengeance. So everyday…
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I am re-blogging this because it kinda sums up all my life’s disappointments.
“Presented to the graduating recruit who best exemplifies the qualities of enthusiasm, devotion to duty, military appearance and behavior, self-discipline and teamwork.”
This was the highest honor any recruit could be awarded.
I won that sucker in ‘85.
Before I went to Boot Camp, aka in Naval Parlance, “Recruit Training” my recruiter told my wife:
“Hey, If Lance wins this award, The Navy will pay for your plane ticket and lodging at Great Lakes Naval Recruit Center so you may see Lance graduate. But of course, it is very unlikely he will win. I mean the odds are against it, but who knows? Lance has scored the best on his ASVAB and he looks to be squared-away.” Blah Blah Blah.
My wife was an Army Reserve Vet, a Non-Com in the U.S. Army Reserve, and for her day…
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I used to shoot small birds
Yes, back in the day, I pleasured me by shooting to death… sparrows.
(not pretty, is it?)
Not proud of it. And as Texan-Rightly, not ashamed of it neither. (What we did then, back in the day…)
“Just Texan Kids havin’ fun,” they would say. (‘They’, generally being Grandmothers—maternal grandmothers)
“They looked aside.”
Looking back now, I am ashamed of all the sparrow lives I so easily and callously took. Tis a small thing in the big scheme of things, yes I Know. But, it bothers me still. As I am certain the memory of dead kittens haunts my ‘maternal’ grandfather over all those ‘Damn-we-got-too-many-cats-he’ah-on-this-place.” (As he shot them to death in front of my young, sensitive, later to become, my mother)
Don’t shoot sparrows
And don’t shoot kittens.
They will haunt you.
For some many years.
I suppose this is the point of this post.
‘Don’t shoot.’ (unless the sparrow is trying to kill you, that is…)
I guess I wrote it back in some day.
And he went to England; played the piano, married an actress maimed “Kim:”… She was a good wife… I loved her.
This is a continuation, albeit a flashback, to my story of Janet and Random Memories from The Middle East.
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…
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.
“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?”
“Well Hot Damn then! You be Bogey. I’ll be Bacall.” (of course)
“I weren’t able to bust up 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.”
“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)
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.
“Lately I been thinkin’ I just might quit drinkin’…
“I feel like Hank Williams tonight”
ALERT! ALERT! ALERT!
PITY PARTY WARNING!
DANGER WILL ROBINSON!
(THIS MEANS YOU!)
And Here is a news flash for you Marcom:
“Golly Gosh, My Lord. I am tryin’ to… but you see…I have been watching this “Game of Thrones” thing on the Television…”
“Never heard of such nonsense.”
“Yes, My Lord. Me neither.”
Now my lawyers are sated.
There was a semi-recent poll taken, right here on this Blog: TT&H, where the question was broached.
“What should I write about?”
Well, after so many hanging chaffs and invalid voting boxes, and I do not know how many “Landslide Lyndons” we experienced, the tally was tallied:
Someone voted for a Peanut Story.
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 irrevelevant. 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 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….
I cannot write this.
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.
Caint you see?
“And being thus disquieted…”
Not unlike Pygmalion, as the years fly by, I create.
I cannot ‘create’ the woman I love. Not because she does not exist, but because, I do not want to embarrass her.
Yet, she is real and she loves me: since 1971.
She told me so.
Now…..five wives later….My wives.
(I should have never left her to fend.
oh no! I had to go to fuckn egypt for five fuckin years!)
Is just a fucking word.
Hell! It is not even a word for a life lost.
“His only aspiration…. was getting back that girl he lost before.”
But.. what to do with? As a dog chasing a train? What is he gonna do, if he catches it?
These are the eternal questions.
Nothing seems to keep you high.
Who could have?
*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 last breath, will be your last…
(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.)
And some old pirate maps.
Just funnin’… I am only Half-Crazy.
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 that Brother Dave Post from 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.
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.
And I wanna be Your Lenny…
Right here on TT&H
There is a vid credit, but I lost it. His lawyers will surely contact mine…
Now, this is some strange form of bullshit.
I actually shook his hand.
In Sand Dog, California.
He weren’t none of that.
He was some, but not all.
But he was a great man.
He was just a man with a plan.
I loved him for that.
Just like I love(d) Woody
And I respect.
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.
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. 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 Zefferilli’s Hamlet:
(if you want to get into all that Oedipus and incestuous sex and violence stuff).
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.”
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, “Of 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 dear 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.
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…
P.S. And if you can guess my two most favorite characters, I will send you two Dinars.
And, if you are a fan of the series, I would be most interested to hear which two characters you favor above the others…
To Be Continued…
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.
What I’m reading now:
Savannah Memphis it’s pourin’ rain
“Palm trees in the porch light like slick black cellophane.
“Will you still love me when I get back to town?”
vid credit: Christian T. Davies
Not really melancholy, but if I were, this song just might push me further
that way, in that direction.
Real sorry, but I am now officially delirious with tooth pain. This tooth is some kind of bitch, let me tell ya.
Obviously sleep is not an option.
(The pain is just too overwhelming)
So… I just sit here and post stupid shit to take my mind away.
“Calgone! Take me Away!’
“I am as constant as a Northern Star.”
Vid credit: novaultrano1
“Constantly in the darkness? Where’s that at? If you want me, I’ll be in the bar.”
I guess it’s just a Joni kind of day…
“Laughin’ an’ cryin’. You know it’s the same release.
“I told you when I met you, I was crazy.”
Vid credit: Christian T. Davies
OK, last one and then I’m done (I really need to find something else to do with my hands)
“Diving down to pick up on every shiny thing.”
Video credit: JoniJourney
(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.
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 everytime 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.
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.
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.”
The rebar remains.
And it is painfully reminding me that I should invest more in my oral hygiene.
Of course you do.
It is when you go to flush the toilet and that handle snarls back at you, rather limp-wrist’d, as if to say,
“Not tonight Asshole. Go back to sleep.”
(Now, in some truth, I could probably improve this post. For example: I should not have referenced ‘limp wrists”. In truth, y’all know how it is when you go to flush that toilet and there just ain’t no resistance. “Limp Wrists’ was just about all I could manage at the time of publishing…. (Isn’t that funny? Like I am a fucking news paper?) Dead-lines!
Some one shoot me!
(Make it quake! Head Shot! Right thru the mouth–or better…the mouse.)
God and some foll’ers will thank you.
Foretelling ‘Foreboding’ (See? I tend to edit as as I go… My father once tole me, “Lance! Enuff! Enough! It takes an editor to be smart; that is why we make more monies.”) some deep sea-toilet trolling (trolling?) diving to fix.
Don’t think so.
(There are three (other) toilets in this ‘Mouse-House’)
“So, fuck off.”
(My toilet did not reply)
Yes, I talk to my toilet… don’t we all?
“Take your hand off that mouse Mister! Don’t make me come over there.”
“Yessir! Please don’t shoot me; I’m just the piano-player.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me. What do you think, Jim?”
“Yeah. Bullshit. Shoot him.”
(Sorry, Si Robertson; some of this … this is probably out-of-context)
We will not even begin to speak about your brother.
Even more embarrassing:
You know the toilet is broke dick dog.
You still try to ‘visit.’
And it takes three tries to get into the door.
(Yet, it is a really small door–just sayin’– and not so easily navigated, drunk nor sober)
Only to be so disappointed (yet again) over the the whole toilet experience.
(and of course: entertaining, or reasonable facsimile)
And all the house lights left up bright.
Happy New Year.
“I’m gonna blow this damn candle out.”
(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?”
“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.”
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 really do.
I am a “writer”
Or, at least, I think of me in that way.
And I love commas.
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.”
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
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.
If you happenstance to swerve into this blog, and catch yourself saying,
“Gee! This guy is cool.”
But if’n you do, Do not then… follow the comments.
Just don’t fuckin’ do it.
some: them, them the good memories.
(You just knew I had to.)
Ya know…. John really love Yoko… No one (except John)
I suppose love is funny that way.
I miss his dumb ass (and ‘dumb-ass’ is a term of endearment where I come from)
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:
“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?”
“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.
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:
Now, that header is probably un (in?) appropriate.
I paid good money for this, this, this, ability to write shit no one really wants to read.
I post what thrills me.
Someday, when I am old… I will look back and smile.
“Jesus Christ Lance! How many people did you piss off?”
And I will probably reply:
“All of them.”
I love this post.
(not sure why)
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.
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.
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.”
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.
Oh! The Billy Joel bit was from this here.
I am too stupid to just go ahead and die.
I would make a good president.
‘Cause I have been to MacDonald’s.
Look it up.
I have spent too many hours in airports behind Gomers.
Waited in line.
Who needs a house out in HaKENsake?
Proving (once again) That My Life Has a Sound-Track
(Yes, there will be more)
Stand by for heavy rolls as this ship comes about.
What’s that word? I think I’m 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.”
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.
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.
“This may take just five minutes.”
The first finished in a timely fashion.
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?)
Do you ever experience queue Rage?
Do morons piss you off?
Do I piss you off?
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)
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.
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…
“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)
I recently finished watching …
And yes, I have read ALL of Caro’s books.
And yes: I am a Texan.
And NO! I do not think LBJ had anyTHING to do with JFK’s demise.
Surely this is a word (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/naive)
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.
“fruition” is just a word.
coming to same… is.. well…
(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.
I miss him.
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??
I always forgave her (for her ‘hotness’)
Been scrambling… to delete.
Did I really post ‘that???
(hahaha! Yeah, I suppose I did)
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)
(Oh, and I murdered a turkey over this–never mind that it was five years hence–just details)
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 / …
Those are stories ppl want to read.
“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…
OverState The Obvious, But…
You have to “drill down’.
I write some really esoteric shit.
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)
I have, (really have) been going over and deleting… a lot of my posts. (some of you may have noticed)
Well not to put too fine a point on it, but because they sucked.
That is it.
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)
Lance (LIFE) is An Angry Man. An Angry White Man.
Now. That (above) is just for fun
What means this?
Just thought I’d say it.
(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:
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…?
And don’t you know?
I am the reason God Made OK.
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)
A Collection of Somewhat Tawdry Tales of Texas (and of a few 'lesser' places)
A Literary Paradox
Magic happens at 5am. And in your running shoes!
Your guide to cinema from the eyes of autistic individuals.
The Place to Take a Humor Break
A Satirical Word In Your Shell-Like Ear
The Best of British Bullshit
Ripping out my guts for your entertainment
All things that kick ass!
spiritual enlightenment and self improvement
Because face-palming is bad for your health and snark is my drug
Life is a journey....have faith and persevere
There is method in my madness
A cold look at living and working in the Baltics
A trip through life with fingers crossed and eternal optimism.
The often overlooked qualities in the simple exchanges of daily life
A Land Where Love is All There is
We are all atheists, some of us just have the cheek to be atheistic about all god claims.
I repeat my grandma's words to myself at least once a day.
Everything happens for a reason. But sometimes that reason is that you're stupid and you make bad decisions.
Life from Southern California, mostly San Diego County
Straddling the Hudson River. One foot in NYC, the other in suburban New Jersey.
Read. Ingest the words. Like little blue pills, they will affect you.
Poetry, story and real life. Once soldier, busnessman, grandfather and Poet.
fresh hell trumps stale heaven
How one atheist sees life
I write books--cuz I love words. Sometimes they love me back.
'all our lives are a poetry - awake our souls.' ~ Battling the hypocrite within ~
Life is Hard
What will I write about next?
Posts about old Hollywood, current concerns
Not trying to persuade you to think my way, but to make you think period.
Life's journey to discover tales of history, culture, and faith from New York to India and places along the way.
"Of this I am certain: The moment you said, "You are..." I no longer recognized myself. I am more than the woman you see. "
Gather. Discover. Cultivate.
Satirical & Poetic Musings Of A Self-Proclaimed Nobel Prize Winner
Gallery of Life...
A blog on atheism, writing, and dogs.
a small insight into my life: wife-mom-football-fitness-politics-religion~upcycle
An artist with an irresistible urge to create!
I have issues. So do you.
Journey of a body on this earth
My comments, helpful household hints, rants and raves, and whatever
Surviving Domestic Violence