I do Regret My Profound Stupidity. “The She Marine” And Yes, I Am Painfully Aware: I’m An Idiot Moron. No Need To Verbalize it–Beat Me Over The Head With It. Fuk U Word-De-Pressed

I am struggling, struggling, to catch up.
To Catch up With My Life.
It seems to be running away from me.

As Fast as it can,

Not Un-Like A Scalded Rabbit

***

I still love her And Always Respect Her

Unlike…

Not too pretty

But a beautiful smile…

“Outside the sun is up

And the wind blows me like a paper cup

Down the Highway”

***

Hazel eyes…

I still love her

August 26, 2021

From my recent posts on facefuck:

I have been asleep for the past eight hours. I am scrambling to catch up. Marines are dead? WTF has happened?

Marines are dead? What happened? Sailors (Me) and Marines (them) oil and water. But Gd’damn it! Brothers/ sisters in arms. Fuck happened? I am struggling to catch up.

Transcribed from a Facebook IM Chat session I recently had with my best (perhaps only) Friend:

Talking to you about Great Mistakes Naval Training Center reminded of a pleasant memory…

Of A Woman—I know—difficult to fathom while listening to all my other ‘Sea-Stories’, but this one is a ‘no-shitter.’ Just trust me.

There were no less than two-thousand sailors stationed at Great Mistakes… but only one Marine: a beautiful young She-Marine.

She stood out!

Far From The Madding Crowd!

Easy to spot from half a clik away—she wore camouflaged fatigues.

Now, you can only begin to understand the fascination this young She-Marine held for the rest of us…

(I may need to write more on her Odyssey. She was the quintessential elusive butterfly—two thousand sailors just wanted to get close enough to speak to her—during the six months she was there—I hope she landed well)

To my knowledge, no one ever got close enough to discover her name; we just always called her “The Marine.”

No one, and I mean no ONE, ever accosted her.

For if someone ever had, that moment would have been his last.

For you see, we were all very protective of her.

And she was protected.

Very well protected, even if she didn’t know it.

(Turns out, she finally did–come to know it–thanks to a moron.

Which moron?

I’ll give you three guesses, but you’re only gonna need one)

None of us harbored any vain fantasies regarding her.

She had become everyone’s…

To respect and keep safe & sound & sheltered…

From an always respectful distance.

****

On my very last morning at Great Lakes Naval Training Center, before I was to muster out and ship off to San Diego/Coronado for BUD/s – SEAL training, I found myself in the Chow Hall for one last ‘delicious’ Navy Breakfast.

If memory serves it was about 0630 hrs.

I went through the cow, er.. Chow- Line, grabbed a cuppa Joe, or Fred, or Jane—don’t matter—it all tasted the same.

Walking about, looking for a table, I spied MS Marine, seated all alone, laconically, rather absent mindedly, stirring her scrambled, powdered eggs (a Navy delicacy).

I Thought, ‘What the hell?’

Walked over to her table and asked, “May I join you?”

She looked up and said, “Yes. Yes, of course.”

*****

Now, please allow me to explain something.

At this point in my life, I had already been around the world.

I had seen, loved, and un-loved more women than it may be prudent for me to admit.

But this one, this Lady Marine—actually not much more than a girl—full of hope and promise, was not terribly beautiful, but she had that ‘certain charme’ –en Francais.

Kinda semi-short blonde locks, ‘bout five foot nothin’, wonderful blue eyes, and she smiled at me.

She smiled at me!

****

I took a seat across from her, set my tray down, extended my hand and said,

“My name’s Lance.”

She took my hand, smiled again and said, “My name’s Mandy.”

(Of course it is, I thought—fits my ‘Mandy’ Profile—see my ‘Mandy Post’ for read –more-about-it-info)

“Nice to meet Y’all Mandy”

Yeah, I like to dazzle ‘em with my Texan-ness—My only claim to fame.

I continued, “Mandy, pardon me for being so bold, but I am compelled to ask you something, if I may.”

She picked up her coffee and said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

“First of all, you do realize you are unique here, yes?”

“Not sure I get your meaning,” she replied.  “I am not the only female stationed here.”

“This is true Mandy, but you are the only Female Marine stationed here.”

“You said you had a question?”

“Uh, yes…” (I could tell ‘The Corps’ had already installed into her a very good, state-of-the-art, ‘Bullshit Detector’—and little patience for doe-eyed Sailors)

“Uh…yeah. I… just, it seems… uh, it seems you are a bit ‘down’. Why?”

She looked me dead in my eyes, and as any good, steely-eyed Marine would, with nothing to fear said,

“You said I was unique here. I concur. I am. I am ‘unique’ in the fact that none of the men ever talk to me here—for six months—I am a normal girl. Nothing wrong with me. I see the sailors talking to all the female Navy Corpsmen Students. Laughing, carrying on. Yet I am left alone. Why?”

This is when I realized that by worshiping this young girl from the distances, we had done her an unkindness, or worse.

I tried, poorly, to explain how all that had happened.

She glared at me, briefly. Then I caught a trace of tears in her eyes.

She picked up her coffee once again, took a sip, set it down, abruptly stood up, grabbed her tray and said,

“Thank you for telling me Lance, but you should’ve told me months ago. Good luck with your Naval career. Oh, and by the way, I noticed you many times. You seemed to be a leader, with some maturity. I often wondered if you would ever come and speak to me. Guess you were never in a hurry to do so.”

I stared at her back as she was walking away.

And I was suddenly saddened.

We, all of us, had done this wonderful young woman a horrible disservice.

To this day, I still remember her lovely face and her brief smile at me.

And the way she carried herself so well.

And her piercing parting words as she disappeared forever,

Except from my memory.

*****

There must be a lesson somewhere to be learned here.

******

This could’ve been my fulfilled vain fantasy.

With Mandy-the-Marine

If I had just opened my eyes.

For a moment.

***********

Doesn’t really fit my narrative.

But it could.

If we had hooked up.

****

Flash forward ten years:

She still young at heart and still a Marine.

Me, older, not still a Sailor. And boring to her.

Linda, “Hasten Down The Wind”

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

Addendum, final thoughts,

and…

Bonus ‘Added Value’:

First, I love MY Country.

Second, I was honored to Serve My Country

Third, Even though Marines & Sailors mix like oil and water, there is a mutual respect shared there.

Fourth, I never let any Marine I ever met forget that the USMC ‘works’ for the U.S. Navy.

(Got my ass kicked more than a few times for relating that paralyzed fact)

Go Navy!

Beat Army!

“Hey Jarhead! Fetch me a water!

With true Marine efficiency, I got three, count ’em, three bottles of water immediately bounced off my dome ever’ time I said that.

(And from three different directions!)

But, I’d keep sayin’ that!

I Cannot B’Leave I Re-Run. Yes, I Am Drunk. Next Question. “How Do You Hold A Moonbeam In Your Hand?” Here’s a Clue: You Cannot.

wrote This Buu-

shite-It is a Goddamn Pity-Party!

I still miss her.

“Maria” (And some guy)

Madelyn & Me!

Me & Madelyn!

On-The-Stage!

Stars!

She & Me!

Me & She!

We had to share The Spotlight, but

“The Play”

Was always about

HER

Not Me

As it should be.

*******

She ‘Maria’ to My ‘Cap’n Von Trapp’

“Sound of Music” HS Play: Circa 1975

(Every so often, Script demanded we ‘kiss’—We never did during rehearsals.)

During one rehearsal, when the script DEMANDED a kiss, and RIGHT NOW!

We didn’t. We did not kiss.

Some fellow ‘actor’ shouted, “Hey! Y’all didn’t do the kiss! How are Y’all gonna do a believable kiss on stage if you don’t rehearse?

Madelyn didn’t miss a beat and coolly replied,

“We rehearse our kisses every night.

When we are at home.

Alone.

So don’t worry.”

Opening night, we kissed, not unlike two horny teens. It was painful. (For her. Not for me! I had been waiting for years to kiss her!)

And right before we kissed, live on stage, in front of about three hundred audience, she whispered to me,

“You better not slip me no tongue.”

So… guess what I did?

Yep.

C’est Française, n’est-ce-pas?

She was NOT Amused, but she pulled it off, non·plussed

As if nothing untoward had just happened.

*********

OK. I am sober now. Slept off my drunk.

Easy.

I have Slept Off thousands of drunks in my day.

Got that routine down pat.

Could not sleep off my sorrow over losing my

MY

My Dear Madelyn:

New unchartered waters for me.

Never have I lost a sister.

My heart is broke, but this is not gonna be about me.

Lord knows I write too much about me and my narcissism.

This is about My Sister, My Madelyn.

My intent is to write and write and write about her for the next few days until I run out of virtual ink in my virtual pen.

Some of you out there in ‘Radio Land’ knew her.

If you have any memories to share, now would be the time.

This may come across as ‘sick’ to you, read in the harsh light of present day:

But, if I am being honest with my feelings, I must write them.

Since Madelyn and I were not actually ‘blood relations’ there were more than a few times when we were tempted.

Tempted to be much more than step-brother and step-sister.

There for damn sure was a mutual physical and cerebral attraction.

But… we were ‘mature’ enough, even back then, mature enough to understand that we could not go there, however much we, at times, desperately wanted to.

We wanted to ‘go there.’

Oh My God!

How we wanted to ‘Go There’!

But We didn’t.

It would have been so easy.

We had the entire third floor of Marcom Manor to ourselves.

The parents were often gone for days at a time.

Leaving us to ‘fend’ for ourselves.

For the sake of ‘The Family’… we didn’t.

Go there.

We didn’t go there.

Some small part of me wishes we had.

But if we had, this would be quite a different post than the one I am writing right now.

Over all the years there were so many things I wanted to say to Madelyn, but shit always seemed to get in the way.

Now, my mind is racing with all those words left unsaid.

Never to be said, at least not in this place, this alone place I find me in.

I suppose I can just cast this one out into the ether:

“Madelyn, I love/loved you!”

But she cannot hear me now, can she?

“How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?”

********

This Song very well, and very accurately, describes Madelyn.

She was always a ‘Problem.’

But!

She was SO Fucking charming!

Could NEVER be angry at her.

Never!

Not for a moment!

She could melt / play you with a smile.

(And she knew this power she had)

And trust me Folks,

She wielded it.

With reckless abandon.

(Much to my chagrin at times)

I could never get away with shit.

Madelyn did.

Every day!

Every-Fucking-Time!

**********

I cannot continue this.

At this moment.

But I will come back.

And sooner than later

***********

Gretchen:

“Madelyn had a horse once: a cross between a Shetland pony and a Welsh mare. Now, I really don’t know much about horses and during that time I knew even less, but I really did want to play cowboy, so I decided to make friends with the local “real cowboy” and have him teach me how to ride this animal. I was about twelve going on thirteen at the time.

The problem with this horse was that it was a pet. Madelyn had talked my father into buying it for her not long after she and her mom moved in (I was not yet on the scene; was still living with my grandparents.

I suppose I arrived some months after the horse). Anyway, she soon lost interest in Gretchen (is that a proper horse name?) hence, she (Gretchen) never ever got ridden; (I cannot speak for Madelyn.) This will become important later in my story.”

***

Leroy:

First he was taken by Kim. Kim got bored with him and gave him to my step-sister Madelyn. She thought he was just the coolest thing ever!

For about three days…

His coolness factor having for her it seems, a very short half-life, I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse for her coon: Cash Money. Money’s coolness factor has no half-life. She was only too happy to surrender Leroy to my care for the tidy sum of thirty-five bucks. Quite tidy indeed to an unemployed High School girl in 1974.

********

My heart is broken.

I miss you Madelyn!

You were so much more than my sister.

I was so forever in love

With

You

With You

OK. Now I am Drunk again.

Seems I have come ‘Full-Circle.’

I am gonna stop fucking around with this post and just wallow in my grief.

I miss My Sis

Sorry Kids. I am stupid Drunk–Not Really. Just Stupid–Had to Re-Post This—Expanded A Bit. I Miss My Navy SEAL Training Hazy Daze!

Happy Cockeyed Optimist.

“I’m Stuck Like a Dope With On a Thing called ‘Hope”

I am Stupid Naive!

Immature and Incurably Green

I’ve loved my life!

Cockeyed Optimist

Mitzi Gaynor

(From “South Pacific”)

Never Worry!

“Worry” is the most useless waste of human emotions

A waste of time and energy!

***

Video Credit: BobbyMcFerrin #DontWorryBeHappy #Vevo

Late entry/addition which no one will see. I drop it anyway. just a fond memory:

When I was in Navy SEAL training, late Eighties, we had, everyday, to run around with IBS on our head (IBS: Inflatable-Boat-Small).

This is part of a song we made up:

“Oh IBS! Stuck To My Head I Guess!”

The Instructors Often Filled Them With Sand.

Just For The Added Fun

Rock Portage

So Much Fun!

(One of My Shipmates Managed To Break His Leg While We Were ‘Performing’ This Fun Little ‘Evolution’.)


NAVY SEAL TRAINING: BUD/S

Surf Passage

I loved My Times Two Navy SEAL

Training Experience (’86 & ’88)

This Guy, Patstone, is Very Representative of Your

Typical BUD/s Instructor

I Think Somewhere In-A-Hidden, Very Top-Secret So Cal Location There is A ‘Clone Lab’ Where The Navy Makes These Guys

Instructor Patstone

Whom I Got To Know Too Well

(For My Taste)

******

One day, one morning, my class mustered and went to retrieve our assigned IBS’s. Someone in another boat crew was laughing manically.

WTF? I pondered.

I walked over to the boat crew.

“What is so goddamn funny?” I asked.

“Lookit this shit” one said.

I looked at their IBS.

One of the SEAL instructors had spray-painted on all the IBS’s

“Don’t worry; Be Happy.”

Video Credit: BobbyMcFerrin #DontWorryBeHappy #Vevo

***

I had to laugh.’

I did still manage to maintain my sense of humor, even though I knew I was probably gonna die that day….

Damn! I miss those days. And all the ‘good’ times!

Yeah. Believe what you’ve heard/read: SEAL training is BRUTAL. But ya gotta keep a sense of humor about you. Or at least in your pocket.

****

I love Barb in Her Sailor Suit!!

(Judy, You know I LOVE You Too!)

“Happy Days Are Here Again!”

Video Credit: George John

Running in Soft Sand: SEAL Training Part Three. But Truthfully More Alternate Stuff (I’ll Write Another ‘Proper’ BUD/s Post Soon)

I actually know this meme-guy: he was an Instructor in BUD/s Class 158. I Know. I was there.

 

 

A BUD/s Instructor, i.e., a ‘Demigod’

 

Or…

Alternate Titles:

“Lance’s Ramblings from his 115th Dream Stream”

(Sorry Bob)

“Call me if they die.”

‘Semi Consciousness Streams of Conscientiousness’

 

Raining upon My Hit Parade’

‘Nights in White Satin’ – that one makes no sense. That is why I put it in.

Vid Cred: Redbaron863

Or, last and least perhaps: “I have become my Grandfather, or How I became Andy Rooney in One Thousand Words or Less, an essay.”

Gentle Readers, it has not escaped my undying attention that I tend to lean heavily toward the overly-dramatic. The ‘trauma drama’ effect even. Call it a ‘crutch’ if you will.

Yep. Call it that.

This I do know. Therefore, I have (Through my magical powers derived from watching old re-runs of ‘Dragnet’—“Just the facts Ma’am. Just the facts.”—decided to ‘come on back down to Earth, Son’.

–Boz Scaggs: Lowdown)

My (solely appreciated) goal here is to present just ‘them’—just them facts.

I hope I am successful. For y’all’s sake.

When last we left our hero, he was leading his class to their first BUD/s workout. Well, you cannot really call it such: more like a medieval (‘I’m gonna get medieval on your ass’) torture session.

Whatever

 

Even at zero five (‘Zero Dark Thirty?), The Grinder was a hot, miserable place to be, especially NOT designed for yoga or even step-up aerobics, and / or certainly not Pilates. (Gay Pirates?) No. ‘Twas Wasn’t. There is a reason they (Navy) call it ‘The Grinder.” You go ahead and figure out the obvious.

But this day I do not wanna write about Those Lazy Crazy Hazy Days of Summer…

I want to write about this:

I think. I think I am. Therefore I am… I think.

–Moody Blues, With apologies to René Descartes

***

Now Y’all, much of that I wrote late last night. (Under Some Influence)

Didn’t publish. (Thank Baby Hey Zeus). But I woke up this morning

(Praise be to Allah—Ah Ha!) And you, yes you! (My Human Friends) were on my mind:

To MORE BAD News Stories. I shall list them below so that you may share in ‘The Misery’ That is OUR ‘New World’ (You may thank me later. Send cards and letters…)

  1. The Middle East is still throwing gasoline upon their (and our) raging fire

  2. There will probably never be closure nor justice for Michael Brown or his family

  3. Ebola is raging strong (But only in Africa: So, who cares, right? The WHO, that’s who)

  4. ISIS is our new (never heard of till yesterday) National Crisis & Clear and Present Danger (or new best friend for our Military Industrial Complex, off of which I tend to make MY living)—Much hand-wringing and soul searching over that one. NOT! Damn! Put me in Coach! I live for this shit!

  5. My dog has fleas… Fuckin’ fleas. Dogs!

  6. My British GF finds me… well, of late, she don’t (find me)

  7. I dreamt late last night about my favorite dead cat (Her name was Lucia and she was ‘The Cat From Hell’ and I miss her still—probably the only ‘real’ relationship I have ever had with ‘pussy.’)

  8. My blood pressure remains off the chart and I think I may have given myself diabetes: Type Duh

  9. I have been remiss in visiting and commenting on the blogs of my good friends

  10. Maybe I will just go and eat worms. Maybe I like to eat worms…

Now, Don’t let it bring you down, but that is how I woke up. (And I was happy to have woken up… for just-one-more-day…stay?)

And hey!

Don't stay here

Photo taken in Iraq (or Afghanistan) I honestly don’t remember…

There really is no point to this post. Let us just call it “Unconscious Stream of Consciousness”.

And I will most likely, delete it (and y’all know, I am quick on the mouse trigger when it comes to deletion: I see it as a form of… birth control. So read fast!)

So There.

Now to the ‘Meat of the Matter’:

KAREN

I want to write about ‘The Age of Innocence’: The Seventies.

Yep. I tend to live in the glory that was Roaming… You may bail out here. Here, in fact here is your parachute. Be certain to locate the RIP Cord before you exit the plane: Just a word to some wise and hey!

Bon Voyage!

***

For those of y’all who still remain, I want to write about Karen Carpenter. Not ‘The’ Karen Carpenter, but the Karen Carpenter that symbolized how I felt about the Seventies. Yeah, that one. Her.

***

I woke up with Karen Carpenter on my mind (and yes: I have posted about her recently, but I wanted to try to explain why now)

I woke up with Karen and sadly not in my bed, but in my mind.

Why?

Because… of the ‘Age of Innocents.’ I call her one. The first casualty of the sickness that guides us: This American Dream of having to be some other person. A person, in the spotlight who is …. Drumroll: PERFECT!

No one is perfect and certainly not me (though I am pretty close). Yet, no one is perfection. We cannot be. There is no God and if you believe that there is, you are about as far removed from ‘Perfection’ as a Human…

I should delete that sentence, as it is not Germane, nor German, to my point. Let me think on it…

Back to The Seventies: The Age of Innocents (I was innocent; were you? Probab’ly not.)…

I am running on empty now/here.

“I don’t know where I’m runnin’ now; I’m just runnin’ on…

The Seventies.

I would like some thoughts on that/those. From you! And then, having received same, I will continue. Maybe.

Your choice.

Shalom

Salaam

Namaste

Hook ‘em Horns

Peace,

–Lancers

And P.S. I am sorry for stealing all the vid clips. I will (I promise) accolade y’all later–more later–but later)

And: to any readers I have left:

I am in some form of cryxis: I will be, as Shakespeare once wrote, “King Richard is himself again.” once be.

Stay tuned…
Or not: Yer choice.

Peach,

Lanced

Oh! And by the way… Jackson Browne was/is an asshole

Read it here

Bye now…

Casspir The Friendly Armored Personnel Carrier

Fallujah.

Naturally.

Bumping along in a Casspir, a South African armored personnel carrier, on our way to Anbar Province, western Iraq. The year was 2007 and we were under attack.

Perfect.

Perfect? Yes. For you see, if you decide to get shot at in Iraq in 2007, the best venue for that is inside a Casspir. A Casspir is a big, white, heavily armored vehicle. During Apartheid, the South Africans needed such a vehicle; well, the White South Africans did anyway. The first time I heard of “Casspir”

I was somewhere close to Camp Speicher, northern Iraq and this was to be my “commute car.”  I thought instantly, after seeing my first Casspir, that it was so moniker-ed because it was this big white thing and, being an American, immediately thought of “Casper the Friendly Ghost.” I was wrong.

There is nothing friendly about a Casspir, aside from the fact that he (it) will save your ass.

Casper_Commuter_Vehicle

Riding in a Casspir is probably one of the most uncomfortable things one can experience. The seats are small. The quarters cramped.

The air conditioning nonexistent. The suspension sans shock absorbers.

The windows, smallish, which open up just enough to point a rifle through, or perhaps allow a round to one’s head. The driver, usually a Wanna-be Rambo with poor grammar and a poorer sense of direction.

No fun riding in a Casspir.

Inside Casper

But on that day, back in ’07, just outside Fallujah there was no better place to be. Casspirs were often called the ‘Best Bug-Out Vehicles’ in Iraq.

First they shot at us with RPG’s (rocket propelled grenades). They fell somewhat short. Following up, they hit us with AK47 rounds. (Those didn’t fall short) Our PLS truck

(Pallet-loading system) lost a windshield. Some of our “light-skinned” vehicles lost windshields and windows as well. “Casper” got hit, but the rounds barely scratched the paint (Thank you South Africa). No one lost his life, but we were somewhat shaken and more than a little pissed off.

Continue reading

Worth a Re-Look I Admire Her So Much. You Don’t Have to Read it. “You’re Not in Kansas Anymore Dorothy”–You Conquered The World With Your Charm. Oui, Je Parle Frainse

“I Love and Admire You Dorothy.
Always Have.
Always Shall.

You are an American Icon.”

***

“And Thank You For Being My Teenage Fantasy Crush”

–Lance

So Much Class!

So Much Class!

And Oh So Very Very Beautiful & Talented! And Charming!

I’ll Never Grow Weary of Watching This.

Perfect Perfection

Vid Cred: Wat Bradford (Bravo Wat! Brilliant Choice of Music to drop in!)

***

I remember watching this ‘Live’

I was mesmerized.

From That Moment On…

No Woman could EVER Live Up to Dorothy… In My Simple Mind.

****

Fun Fact; Dorothy is near-sighted. This is why the astute observer will notice her squint at the end of this vid.

Yet, She would not be denied Her Dream in spite of her physical limitations. She overcame them.

“Tenacious” is the appropriate descriptor here.

Perfect American Woman (And should set an Example for all us to follow Today)

“Upon her return, Fassi discovered Hamill was nearsighted and had her fitted for glasses. The glasses, with wide lenses so she could see her figure patterns on the ice, later set a fashion trend.”

—Source: encyclopedia.com

(You’re Welcome for that ‘fun fact’)

***

Sassy & Sexy & Classy

Sexy & Sassy & Classy

I love ‘Sexy & Sassy & Classy

Vid Cred: GoldenAgeofFS

Beautiful, Wonderful, Charming, Class Act… Dorothy:

I’m just a sentimental mental old fool

Why Can’t I?

A very young Dorothy
(Rare Footage)

Vid Share Cred: ‘floskate’
(Thank You)

Somewhere…

****

***

Dorothy Could Have Done Anything.

Been Anything.

Thank God She Chose to Give Us Her Art!

The Perfect American Woman.

She Was The Quintessential American Dancing Queen.

The Below is Slightly Tongue-in-Cheek

(All I Could Find, But Y’all Catch My Sincere Sentiment Drift–Don’t you?)

All American Girl