Tattoo (or ‘This is awkward,’ or ‘Open for Suggestion’)

Author’s Note:

Yes. I’ve done some incredibly stupid shit in my time.

Below is an actual-for-real email I sent to a soon-to-be former boss (an attractive lady-boss, of course.) and is sadly very close to the top of the Misfit Hit Parade of lame-ass-actions I have perpetrated on innocents.

***

I have swerved into the solution for Drunken Emails.

Who could’ve known it would be this simple?

Street Cred for Vid: Big Play Films

***

From: Moron <lance_moron@misfits.fubar> cc bcc:

To: Lady_Boss@job.yrfired

Subject: Tattoo

Dear Suki,

Yes, I am getting a tattoo (for my ‘mousing’ musing hand).

It will read simply, succinctly, in Big Bold Letters:

“No!”

Subtle Reminder:

“No! Don’t Go There Lance!”

Brevity? Yes. (‘That soul of wit.’)

“Words have meaning Son,” my father often told me.

And short words, I have discovered, oft hold the most meaningful meaning.

It has been ‘awkward’ (to say the very least) to face you of late.

After my ‘email shot-gunning’ you, off-the-chain escapade of recent shameful regret, but… I did it and today found the courage to read all of what I did send and happily discovered, most were not of the obnoxious caliber of my historical wont.

Thank God and Baby Hey Zeus!

Alas, I wish I had an excuse.

Yet, in searching, there is one to be discovered, but so probably painfully evident that it requires no verbalization:

Two times per year, I get to ‘explore’ my darker side.

Two times per year, I choose a ‘lucky’ recipient to ‘share’ in my darkness.

Two times per year someone gets to be ‘it’.

Guess what?!

Tag!

You won!

You’re the New ‘IT’ Girl!

Congratulations!

You’re in Good Company.

Clara Bow: The Original It Girl, 1927

***

The thing about writers (and those so-called writers who call themselves ‘writers’) is that they are so full of themselves, and vain by nature (it is requisite-with the breed), and every writer and so-called writer I have ever met, are… assholes. All.

Vain, pompous, drinks-too-much, full of sound and fury, and desperate.

“A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Desperate for…

Crying for…

Waiting for…

FEEDBACK

I am not (not really) stupid.

I know you cannot ‘comment’ nor even acknowledge, via email, all the posts I posted ‘at you.’

I dare say you would be wise to ignore me and my ramblings, given our professional relationship.

Yet, if you did read even one of the posts on my blog, (actually I think you read the first one I begged you to read—not the ‘best’ one, but one which apparently was on my mind–at the time)

It is a very simple thing to comment, ‘in disguise’ as

‘anonymous.’

Or ‘any-mouse.’

Or simply, “A Fan.” (tongue in cheek)

Too easy.

Do that once and I will be sated.

Do it twice and you get a Mickey Mouse Pencil Sharpener,

OR

An Autographed 8X10 Hollywood-Type-Glossy Photograph of Jesus Christ.

Sermon-on-the-mount, highly recommended, and our best-seller

But you cannot have both; there is a limited supply.

Do it thrice:  You should seek counsel.

Professional help.

Honestly.

Never mind…

“Writers are assholes.”

“Lance is a ‘writer’”

“Ergo, Lance is an asshole.”

***

Suki,

There is a point to this post, but most assuredly, I have forgotten my initial inclination in that regard.

***‘Jeopardy musical theme plays***

Oh yes!

Now I’ve got it!

This is my convoluted apology to you.

I am, and shall always remain, an Honorable Military Man.

I am cognizant of the duty (and the mission)

And, admitting I was wrong is something which seems to be easier (and more difficult—same time) to do lately.

My first wife once accused me of aspiring to be “King of the Idiots.”

(She was an idiot savant…well, you’d have to know her to get my meaning, yet, I think–know, that I have posted about her…ON-MY-BLOG)

Back to my point:

Suki,

I am beginning to grow bored with my job.

You are the best supervisor/boss I have had in recent memory. All, and I do mean ALL respect you.

This should be enough for me (and for the foreseeable future it shall be)

But…

I don’t like to shit where I eat, BUT (and this is a curse), I have a opinions and I need to get that tattoo—post haste—and with all due prejudice.

I like you Suki.

I respect you.

I am trying to help you professionally (in my way).

And NO!

I am not trying to ‘do’ anything other than ‘talk’ to you and ‘work’ for you.

To quote Nixon:

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear…”

I am a whore, but only when it comes to my writing.

Nothing else these days (aside from my computer addiction) means anything to me.

Rest easy.

I am not as bad as I may, at first glance, seem.

(Truth: I am worse, but I do not bring that to WORK)

Cheers,

Lance

(Yes: you may quote me. I’d be flattered…. Hahahahaaa)

See you on Friday.

And remember not to work too hard.

Life’s best moments can be fleeting.

Cherish Them

***

Number One

Beautiful Joni

“Never Run Tell That!” Unless of course… “You can take the hot lead enema.”–Lenny Bruce

Please Listen to the Lenny Bit (it is very short).

If You don’t, my Post Just Falls Apart Right There.

(And I know you do not want THAT on Your Conscience)

***

My British Girlfriend is a poker-player.

A real good poker-player.

A really very good poker player.

I am NOT a really very good poker-player.

Basra, Iraq 2006

Craps? Blackjack? Roulette?

Yeah. I shine there.

But poker?

Forget it.

Below, you will discover why.

Here is a transcribed recent not recent conversation, recently not recently transcribed:

“Lance, you’ve been drinking.”

“No I haven’t”

“Yes you have.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because of your ‘tells.’”

“My what?”

“Your ‘tells’.”

“Oh you mean the William’s Brothers?”

“No! I mean your ‘tells’.”

“Huh?”

“You telegraph your state.”

“Texas?”

“No Idiot. You ‘tell’-e-graph your condition.”

“I don’t speak Morse Code.”

*exasperated look*

“Lance, I can ‘tell’ when you’ve been drinking from your ‘tells’”

“Tell me my ‘tells’ so that I may amend them.”

“No fucking way I am telling you your ‘tells’”

“Why not?”

“You just don’t get it do you?”

“Do tell…”

“Fuck you!”

“Okay.”

***

The dog can ‘tell’ too. But he just don’t give-a-shit.

“Bring me a fuckin’ soup bone and I won’t tell.”

***

I threw in the videos below just because I love them.

(They add absolutely nothing germane to the story)

“Ahso Meta-Mook!”

Is this a word? ‘Meta-Mook’?

Kevin Spacey Version

***

The ‘King of Cool’ Version

(I guess that line forms on the right Babe)

“The Biker, Bouncer, Bartender, Big-Boned Gal From Milwaukee” or “Bloody Mary Mourning–Baby Left Me Without Warning”

This is (sort of) a continuation of my “Shonnie Series.”

And since I like things to be linear,

We shall rejoin our “Hero” just after his ‘Denouement.’ 

Or perhaps just after his ‘Epiphany’.

Or perhaps just after… Oh! Who the hell knows?

Or cares?

***

SHE led me to a car and we all piled in. I say ‘we all’ simply because suddenly there were three of us. Me, HER, and a miniscule blonde. I’d seen this movie before, but this time it came with a plot twist, I guess.

I have to guess.

The rest of the evening (early morning?) lies deeply submerged somewhere in the nether regions of my addled murky-muddled-memory.

After about twenty minutes… I am once again, ‘guesstimating’ here.

Could’ve been an hour or more.

Or less.

After about ‘twenty’ minutes we arrived at a ‘house’.

Could have been an apartment. Could have been a barn. Could have been The Ritz-Carlton. Could have been a flying fucking saucer.

Hell! I do not remember; is what I’m saying.

My torturously painful thoughts of losing Shonnie combined with copious quantities of consumed alcohol had done a seriously ‘detrimental-mental’ on my ability to exhibit fully functional, lucid behavior.

The wheel was turning, but the hamster was dead. My alligator did not go all the way to the top. There was a spammer in my works. Elvis had left the building with my mind.

In other words, I was a mess.

***

SHE took me inside and led me straight-away to a bed, in a room… A bedroom. Best guess. If memory serves, a rather liberal and generous assumption, we had sex. Violent sex. (Not ‘violent’ violent. Let’s just call it ‘intense.’)

SHE was no less than six foot and change and as I did report earlier, ‘Big-Boned.” I swear, I saw my life’s movie flash in front of me as she covered me and had her way. (And of course, me mine)

As we lay there ‘after’ in someone else’s bed, she remarked, “Well, that should keep your self-winding watch going for a few days.”

I had to laugh, right before I drifted off.  Passed out.

Completely whacked out and totally done in.

Used.

Abused.

Helpless.

Conquered.

It was an immensely satisfying sweet sense of surrender.

***

The next morning I awoke with the sun singeing my eyes through a casually, carelessly placed shadeless window (What’s wrong with these people?)

I could smell bacon. I rolled over and looked at my watch: 0630. I had a sudden start. Then realized it was Sunday, not a work day, and I did not have ‘duty’ on my ship. I could go back to sleep, un-worried.

But oh no! SHE was up and about. So who was cooking bacon?

(I’d forgotten about Tiny Blondie.)

“Oh. You’re awake?” She said.

“Uh, yeah. Kinda,” was all I could muster. “Where am I? Who are you?”

Not an intelligent question, probably a dangerous, stupid, perilous one, but then, I was hung over and still groggy, and surely she wouldn’t take advantage of a mentally incapacitated, defenseless sailor.

Would she?

“I am the woman to be named later,” she laughed while poking me in the ribs. (Which hurt for some reason)

I rolled over to face her. She was indeed, Beautiful. Very Beautiful. Stunningly Beautiful. Makes one’s eyes water Beautiful.

She was right out of a fantasy, with gloriously long, luscious, dark brown hair. Hair so long, so ‘deep’ so thick that a hapless sailor could go missing in it for days on end.

Long, bronze-tanned perfectly symmetrical legs that seemed to go on for days, shapely firm breasts that simply defy description, sultry dark, dark eyes channeling mystery–too much mystery.

Raw, unfiltered sexuality poured from every fiber of her.

It was unnerving.

Not necessarily in a bad way,

But I was all ‘myster-ied’ out and the only fantasy I was holding was ‘getting back that girl I had before.’ That little short, pale, half-ginger one with the electric blue eyes and the volatile attitude.

I was spent.

Running on empty.

I was exhausted, emotionally, mentally, physically.

Send my saddle home.

Please!

I needed comfort. I needed soft. I needed tender. I needed sweet. I needed to be held and caressed.

Not fucked to within an inch of my life.

I needed Gidget. I needed Gilligan’s Island Mary Ann, I needed Samantha Stevens, I needed Amy Adams, or even Mary Poppins.

As lucky and grateful as I was to have found myself sharing, if only briefly, a bed with this goddess of a woman, I was not certain nor confident I was capable of surviving yet another encounter with such an intimidating representative of the ‘fairer’ sex.

Not yet, anyhow.

Not just yet.

My world seemed to be teeming with ‘Snakes and Ladders’.

“It Breaks Your Heart Just Looking At Her.”

–Joni:  Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm 1988

***

“You don’t remember my name?” She asked after lighting a cigarette.

“To be stupidly and painfully honest, no I don’t.”

“No matter. I am called ‘Layla’. Ring any bells?” (I wish I were making this up)

See this below if you’re puzzled by my ‘Layla PTSD.’

Thinking I had just fallen ass-over-tit into Dante’s Inferno it occurred to me that I needed to change my Sailor–Ways.

First Contrition, then Absolution, then Redemption, then…

Oh! Screw that! What I really needed was a Bloody Mary. A Super-Sized Bloody Mary. And soon! As in five minutes soon, if not sooner.

My mind had wandered off somewhere.

Layla repeated her question,

“Ring any bells?”

“Uh. No. Should bells be ringing? I don’t like bells. Every time I hear bells ringing, something bad happens.”

Rolling her eyes, à la ‘Shonnie’, she said, “So… You’re a Sailor? Yes?”

“Yes. And what are you? And are you from around here?”

“Not from around here. I’m just visiting my cousin. She is the one cooking breakfast.”

“Yeah. I can smell bacon.”

“Good nose. I like that in a man. Have you an appetite?”

“From some memory of last night, I’d have to say ‘affirmative’.”

“Hahahahah! Yep. You do, Sailor Man. Yep, you sure do.”

“So, if you’re not from here. Where are you ‘from’, and what do you do?”

“I’m from Wisconsin. I work as a bartender. I’m also a bouncer, when the need is needed. Oh, and I love to ride Harleys.”

***

“Perfection, I thought. Now what Cowboy? Shit. Here I am again…”

I had ‘some leave-days-on-the-books’ and seriously considered at that moment that I should take them and head home to Texas to get a re-start on my psyche saki… get a ‘refresh’ on my Texan Accent, recharge my Ni-Cad batteries, take a break.

Well, spelling and lucid, rational thinking ain’t never been my thing, but you know what I mean here.

Don’t you?

No matter.

Keep reading.

Sooner or later, it will all make perfect, logical sense.

Or not.

I mean, I was still ‘re-bounding’ for glory and quite honestly, still heart-sick over my loss of Shonnie. But I did have some time, eh? Didn’t I? Meaning I was still relatively young and deep at heart, a perpetual cock-eyed-optimist.

And I was a good and decent man.

Most of the time.

But Shonnie had set me back.

Set me back and set me down.

Hard.

Something must be done.

Something had to give.

My mind was in a very bad place.

“Hey Sailor! You want breakfast and some blood mary, or what?” came her voice from some foggy-in-my-head place below.

Apparently, while lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed She’d left me all alone.

“Uh… Yeah! I mean yes! I’ll be right down!”

“The pitfalls of the city are extremely real.”

Credit: AustinCityLimitsTV—October, 1974

***

Previously:

***

Coming Soon:

“The Biker-Bartender-Bouncer Chick, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: Part Two”

***

Commentary Below From Original Version of this Post

Please Read From Bottom Up for Continuity

18 THOUGHTS ON “THE BIKER, BOUNCER, BARTENDER, BIG-BONED GAL FROM MILWAUKEE”

johncoyote March 7, 2021 at 05:42 Edit

I enjoyed this story. I was station in Texas for almost seven years. I loved the Texas gals. They asked you to dance and they were fast and fearless. I liked the girl that cooked a meal in the morning. And we talk some after. Thank you for sharing the entertaining tale.

LAMarcom August 13, 2015 at 01:45 Edit

Reblogged this on Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics and commented:

How can one go wrong with Willie?

LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 18:34 Edit

🙂

LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 18:27 Edit

Well, don’t go changin’! I like your stories!

LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 17:33 Edit

Hahahah!

It has been said before!

Cheers!

LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 14:14 Edit

Dare I say – You TRAMP, you! LOL 😉

LAMarcom July 25, 2014 at 22:28 Edit

Mark,

You are too kind my friend.

I do thank you though.

Marvelous much.

Cheers,

Lance

markbialczak July 25, 2014 at 21:26 Edit

With Shonnie, your adventures were better than Tom Sawyer’s. With Layla, now you’re going after the legend of Huck Finn. You were something else, my friend Lance.

LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 23:31 Edit

🙂

~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 23:02 Edit

You know I will!! 😉

LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 22:55 Edit

Thank you Sadie.

My mood(s) currently won’t let me continue this one for the next few days.

But… Never Fear!

The words will come, by an’ by…

And I hope you will read.

Cheers,

Lance

~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 22:32 Edit

Can’t wait to read more, Lance!! 🙂 You know I love your stories!!

LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:29 Edit

It only hurt when I laughed.

Thanks for stopping by T. ‘Preciate it.

🙂

Teela Hart July 22, 2014 at 16:38 Edit

I’m with Nancytex.

Rib pain?

You definitely need a Samantha.

Can’t wait to read the next installment.

T

LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 10:36 Edit

If you could have seen Layla, you’d understand. I quickly recovered. (I was young and bulletproof back then ya know?)

😉

Thanks for reading. There will be more to this story….

NancyTex July 22, 2014 at 10:33 Edit

My mind is bouncing all around trying to figure out why your ribs would be hurting. That’s some aggressive sexy, my friend.

LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 08:10 Edit

I read Willie’s autobiography many, many years ago. I suspect if he knew how long he was to live (and may he outlive me), he would have waited some more decades before he penned that ‘biopic.’

At any rate, I do concur: Willie is a fascinating character and a fascinating character study and also a Texas Treasure.

As for me… well, to me marriage was never much more binding than a handshake. This is why after four, I have now sworn off marriages. Just call me Hamlet: “There will be no more marriages!” Get this boy to a nunnery!

Thanks Pain for reading and commenting. Always thought provoking and a pleasure to read.

Cheers My Friend,

–Lance

Exile on Pain Street July 22, 2014 at 06:29 Edit

I was never able to pull of instantaneous, anonymous sex with a stranger when I was younger. I wish I could have because you sure make it sound fun. But I was so wracked with a crippling case of low self-esteem that I never tried. And now that I’m married, it’s too late. THERE’S a lesson for you.

I’ve been listening to Willie Nelson be interviewed on Howard Stern all morning. What an amazing life that guy had! Willie, that is. Not Stern.

A ‘Tuesday’ Throwback or, if you will: “Why Ruby Did It”

Jack Ruby (born Jacob Leon Rubenstein; MAR 25, 1911 – JAN 3, 1967)

Why Jack? Oh Why?!

Of course if you want the answer to that

Burning Behind the Grassy Knoll

question, all you need do is listen to Lenny.

Look no further.

Lenny Has This One Covered Y’all:

Before We Proceed, here is a ‘Disclaimer’ by way of an Author’s Note:

‘Slightly’ re-worked, but I left in all theIncoherent Bullshit’

(For ‘Hysterical / Historical Purposes of Course.)

***

Or, if you ain’t ‘into’ Lenny, I suppose you could just ask Lance, as his erstwhile step-mom, Gloria, had worked for Jack during the Sixties in his

‘Carousel Club’.

Carousel Club, Dallas; owned and managed by Jack Ruby, 11/24/1963

According to Gloria, Jack was very, very proud of his Club and always referred to it as, wait for it…

“A Real First Class Joint.”

She never told me precisely what it was that she did there for Jack, by way of gainful employment. And in truth, I really didn’t wanna know.

Whatever it was that she did do for Jack, it was probably not what these girls did.

(For ‘Their Jack’)

She, Gloria… er… was not ‘qualified’

The ‘REAL Gloria

She prob’ly sold cigarettes or sumthin’.

The ‘Fake’ Gloria

(Sorry. But there never was any love lost between me and Gloria. This paralyzed fact is well-documented and may easily be discovered in the pages of my blog.)

And if you, any of you, breath, yeah ‘breath’. A single word of this to my also erstwhile step-sister…Whom I love dearly, well, that breath, will, yes will, be your last…

***

Sadly, Very Sadly, I must update this for 2021:

***

(And, as always, Most Everything I just typo’d, said, thought… well, it’s all bullshit.)

(NOT THE PARTS REGARDING MADELYN. THAT IS NOT BULLSHIT)

***

I was born’d, rear’d an’ raised in California. Northern California. I have never even SEEN Texas. (Just read about it is all.)

In books an’ shit.

And on some old pirate maps.

Just funnin’… I’m only Half-Crazy.

Just tryin’ to make up for all those “Thursday Throwbacks” I missed out cashing in on during my recent

‘Sabbatical’

Yeah, I always considered ‘Throwback Thursdays’ somewhat 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! Instant Post! Keep Feedin’ Them Fishes! Yada, Yada, Yaaaa Duh!

(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? Real 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 ‘sucker’.

That ‘Publish’ button.

And pray.

Done!

Rinse and repeat the next day. This bothers me. Why? Because, as all of us (may) feel, we can write so much better.

Alas, I am lazy. I just want to get it out there… Catch the likes; catch the comments. Fuck the quality! “They” know what I mean… Don’t they? I mean, they read me! Not too much need for exposition, ya? ‘They git it, eh?’

(Lance removes tongue-from-cheek)

Just some musings from an amusing, dazed and confusing, wanna-be writer/blogger. Take with however many grains of salt you require.

(And Comment),

If you’re of a mind to, and/or have an opinion on the ‘writing/blogging’ process.

Cheers, Lancers

***

Well, I do not seem capable of shutting the hell up…

“I had the right to remain silent, but I didn’t have the ability.”

“I have never had an original thought; I don’t live in a vacuum.”

–Lenny Bruce

And if this ain’t poignant for today… Well then. I do not know what is, or could be ‘is.’

Take a listen: All ‘Policemans’ in NYC might even appreciate. If they can read, that is…

(Just Kidding!)

And I wanna be ‘Your Lenny

There is a vid credit, but I lost it. His lawyers will surely contact mine…Right here on TT&H

****

Moving on…

Now, this is some strange form of Serendipitous Bullshit. But I didn’t look it in the mouth; I appreciated my opportunity.

I actually shook his hand.

This Great Man’s Hand was ‘Shook’ by My Hand.

Only in America!

“Hail Cesar!”

“Oh Hail Yes!”

Specifically In San’ Dog, California.

He weren’t none of that.

He was some, most, but not all.

Yet he was a great and actually humble man.

He was merely a man with a plan.

And He was The Real Deal!

I loved him for that.

Just like I loved Woody

And His Son

And as I respect and admire and love all the Great Americans who struggle for Equality and Freedom and Justice for all.

***

This concludes our regularly un-scheduled broadcast.

***

*Lance climbs down off his Soapbox*

*Resumes primary vocation with his co-workers*

Should I Go For It?

Wad’yall Say?

ShouldI go for it?

‘Could’ I go for it?

(I ‘could’ and ‘would’ really use the ten bucks!)

Enthusiastic Homer Says

“Hell-To-The-Hell Yeah!

Will definitely require some strong, mighty resolve and determination. Not to mention uncommon valor and courage…

And…

Some

REINFORCEMENTS!

So I sent out an urgent ‘Mayday! Mayday!’ to Three-Star General Woodbridge requesting he Muster his Marines:

Through a secure internet line I was able to listen in ‘real-time’ as The General briefed his men:

“Men, I’m not gonna Bullshit you, nor sugar-coat this. We are tasked with a very dangerous mission, fraught with peril. But I know you are up to the job. Many Men will die; not return alive, but remember this: No man left behind.”

Our mission is simple in concept, but will be difficult in execution. We have received a recon film from our man on the ground. He bravely risked his life in obtaining this intelligence, so pay close attention.”

Additionally, Sergeant Ihrke will be passing out a complete ‘Mission Objectives Packet’ containing still photographs and the most up-to-date intelligence available regarding the current situation on the ground.”

“Sergeant, you may proceed.”

Sergeant Shannon Ihrke USMC

Study all these items carefully, closely, and completely, with nothing but ‘attention to detail’ and the successful completion of the Mission Objective in the forefront of your minds.”

Succinctly put, our sole Mission is to Clean-Up This Shithole, taking as few casualties as Our Almighty General ‘Chesty’ Puller, will allow.”

(“RIP, Oh Great One”)

“Wheels up at zero five hundred hours.”

“OK. That’s it then!”

Now, let’s go Get Some!

“Fall Out!”  

Recon Film:

MUST STUDY THIS ONE FIRST MEN

Street Cred for Vid: Lance Marcom

***

Items Contained in the Mission Objectives Packet For Your Perusal Below.

But Be Thee Forewarned, The ‘Packet’ Was Compiled By a Moron: Possessing Not Much ‘Intelligence’ for an ‘Intelligence Officer.”

Not Sure If Any Value To The Marines

Oh My Goodness! We Got Ourselves a Natural Disaster!

Yep! A Natural Disaster!

Heavy casualties taken

But we were not yet done

We stacked them up as cordwood

‘Til the Battle could be Won!

A Brief Interlude To Take You From The Carnage,

If Only For A Moment:

A War Poem”

By Lance A. Marcom

I Knocked a beer off my chair

It spilt everywhere

I wept

I cried

I did not die

(Just opened a new one)

And Carried On!

And Was Happy Again.   

We Captured A Spy Who Had Stealthily Penetrated In Behind Our Lines.

We Executed Him On The Spot

Having Been Thusly Compromised, General Woodbridge Ordered We Fortify Our Defenses.

We Did So

With A Bigger Wall

Coming Under Heavy Artillery Fire

We Were Forced To Hunker-In-Our-Bunker

The Enemy Was Amassing Large Numbers of Troops For A ‘Tet Offensive’

When It Finally Came

We Doggedly Held Our Ground.

And Punished Them All Around

Thusly They Ended Their

‘Gallipolian Endeavor in Shame

***

The War Dragged On For Months and Months

The Men Were Growing More and More

Fatigued and Morose

“How Long Will This Bullshit Go On?”

Could Often Be Heard About The Mess Tent At Night

Morale Was Low

***

Then One Day Word Came Down That ‘Peace’ Talks Were On-Going Somewhere In Europe.

“Paris, France” Was The Scuttlebutt

Made ‘Parfait’ Sense To ‘Moi

Those ‘Frogs’ Sucked At War, But They Were Damn Talented When It Came Time To Sue For Peace.

At Any Rate, Morale Was Lifted By The News.

This War Had Become Not Unlike ‘The Korea’, or Perhaps ‘The Nam‘, Or Perhaps ‘Le Deux’.

A ‘See-Saw’ War of Attrition

It Simply No Longer Made No Sense

Nor Showed No Sign of Contrition

We Had Gained A Little Ground, But Nowhere Near Enough To Justify All The Lives Lost Or Destroyed

***

Late One Evening Some of the Men Were Rummaging Around in the Galley Looking For a ‘Late-Night Snack’

Don’t Despair About The Frigidaire,

‘Cuz Now It’s Clean In There

Just Take My Word. You’ll Have To:

I’m Outta Film

Suddenly The Communications Officer Appeared, Running And Screaming Throughout The Camp:

“The War is OVER! The War is OVER!

‘Cease-Fire’ Effective in Twenty-Four Hours!”

Joyous Pandemonium Quickly Ensued

Whoa! Not-So-Fast Hot-Rod!

Twenty-Four Hours Can Be a

Very, Very Long Time

Beaucoup Bullshit Can Go Down in Twenty-Four Hours

After That Initial Orgasmic Spurt of Elation The Men Grew Nervous and Paranoid

Never A Great State Of Mind For A Fighting Man

No One, it Seemed, Wished to be The Last Man To Die in ‘Marcom’s Hooch War’

****

With The War ‘Over’

(For The Time-Being)

Things Settled Into ‘Détente Lite’

Nothing Left To Fight

The ‘Cold War’ Did Commence

And Stuck Us On The Fence

And Even More Stressing

The Bills Kept A-Coming

Never ‘Paid’ Them Much Attention Before

Way Too Busy, So… Ignore

But No Way Now To Relieve That Stress Somehow

Nor The Boredom

I Suppose I Could Work On Cleaning My Hooch Some More…

My Depravity Knows No Boundary

I have stocked up on Honourable Food & Beverage.

Brain-Food, Health-Food, Writer’s-Food & Liquid Propulsion.

Should be able to ‘Honourably’ Write Now.

I splurged and purchased a surprise ‘treat’ for the Gnats

*Evil Grin*

Yeah. Gonna give them the night off, so that they may binge–watch

“Alien”

Can you spot the ‘Surprise’ out of the

‘Many Other Myriad’ Goodies?

Parting Shots:

  1. If You have read this far, seek counsel.
  2. If you have read this far I ‘for-real’ love you.
  3. If you have read this far, I leave you with a little ‘touch of Joni.’

Far Too Many of Her Songs Make Up My Life’s Soundtrack.

Cheers My Friends!

Vid Cred: JoniJourney

Shonnie: Just Some Last Thoughts & One “Reminisce”–Important ‘Breaking News’ Re: Shonnie’s ‘Make-Over’

Let’s Get This Out of the Way First:

“SPOILER ALERT!”

Do NOT Read Unless You are Already Familiar With The Story from Reading the Original Series.

Skip Ahead to Here:

Author’s Note:

Some of Y’all Faithful Readers… (That is Not Sarcasm. I sincerely appreciate all Y’all who read me and have ‘Read’ me over the years, and tears, and beers)

some of Y’all have probably noticed I have been re-visiting old work and endeavoring to ‘re-work’ same.

I am doing this because a few of the old posts still have value and meaning for me and hopefully for you as well.

Most do not, but there are a handful that do.

“Shonnie”, being one of them.

“Are you going ‘somewhere’ with this Lance?”

Yes. I just wish to inform Y’all that my ‘Current Mission’ is to re-write the entire Shonnie Series. Chapter One is Done. Now only Thirteen to go!”

Someone once told me, “Lance, your ‘Shonnie’ is probably the only ‘real’ writing you have ever done. Most of your other shit is just that: ‘Shit.’ Granted, some of it is entertaining shit, but ‘shit’ it remains. ‘Shonnie’ is the only one that will ever have even a snowflake’s chance in Hell of getting published. Provided you allow a good editor to slice and dice it.”

“Uh… Nice ‘talkin’ to ya. Thanks.”

****

I killed this Series a few years ago.

Pretty Certain Alcohol was involved.

Anyway, I brought it back, (With the help of Word Press—Thank you WP) if for nothing else, my own edification.

And every word I wrote, everything I recounted, actually happened as written.

(And of course, it was resurrected because I love Sheryl Crow. And of course, as a vain writer, I just cannot cotton to killing my own words, once dragged out of my mind and put down. Hahahaha! Writers! Y’all know what I mean.)

 Please Bare er, ‘bear’…  with me on this one Y’all.

Time always makes things (memories) better. This is how I cope. As for me and Shonnie, memories are multiplied, ‘super-sized’, if you will.

The words I wrote of our relationship are all too true. I do hope she never reads those words, as neither she nor I are strong enough to re-live those heady days. This is how life is and I suppose how it should be.

One is young twice, but old only once. ‘Once a Man and Twice a Child’.

And youth makes one do stupid shit based upon that ‘youth’, and then, if lucky, one has a chance for redemption later in life while old and hopefully ‘wise,’ and before that ‘Second Childhood’ kicks in, making one fairly useless, even if still lovable.

(Not religious redemption: human redemption) I do not apologize for my youthful indiscretions. They belong to me alone and I will carry them alone. 

If anyone has it in their head after reading my story of Lance and Shonnie, that I did not truly love her, that I allowed her to set me free for my own self-preservation, that I did not want to fight for her, then you may want to go back and read between the lines a bit.

And with that ‘mini-rant’ spotlight shined into my soul, I leave you with this idealized and fantasized version of what Shonnie meant to me.

(Ms Shonnie’s part played and well-acted by Sheryl Crow.) Yet as good as Sheryl is, she could never be as good to, nor for me, as was Shonnie.

Ever.

(But, I’d grant her an audition, none-the-less)

It shames me now to admit this but I was, back then, not strong enough to be Shonnie’s man.

And, even now, today, I probably still am not.

If you are new here and confused, here is the beginning of this little saga: 

Shonnie, The Biker’s Wife

 Go there with my Blessing

And my Sympathy

Cheers! Y’all!

Below You Will Find Most Of The Original Posts. Once / If You Arrive At Thirteen There Are Links To The Final Few Chapters. Please keep in mind however, that each and every one of them is in the process of being rewritten: first to last. This will probably take at least two or three weeks.

UPDATE: The Shonnie Reconstruction Project is Completed.

Please read the new versions.

They are all still truth. Truth expanded. More detail, yada yada yada…

I deleted the links to the original versions.

The links seem to have been confusing.

The new ones are all easily accessible.