Birth of a Writer, Via a Football Coach—Ludicrous—I Know, But A True Story.

Young writer searching inspiration, with an old typewriter.

No one cares about your novel!!!

Sitting in a classroom.

Football Coach at the helm.

Year: 1974

Assignment: Write an essay.

I was, back then, a better middle linebacker than I was a ‘writer’

But, what the hell!

I gave it a go.

Tried to anyway.

Sat at my desk, pen in hand, staring at a blank page.

For two minutes.

Then something magical happened:

Very, very Young Muse

Touched me

(Yep, Same One Who is Still With Me, all these years later)

She was, of course, younger, and Prettier, but then again, so was I.

Some ‘Magic’ Happened.

I started writing.

Wrote a long story about a young soldier serving in ‘The Nam.’

He was ‘short’, — Meaning he had just one more week ‘till he got to ride that ‘Freedom-Bird’ back to ‘The World.’ The land of the Big PX and the ‘All-Night Restaurant.’

He was Happy.

But, one last order of business:

One more routine patrol.

No worries—He had been there, done that, too many times to even think on.

He geared up with his platoon.

Day-Dreams flooded his mind.

Dreaming of his young, beautiful, wonderful wife

Dreaming of his farm in Texas

Dreaming of fishing for trash fish in the ponds on his land

Dreaming of how his wife would laugh at him for being such a lousy fisherman

Dreaming of just going to a Texas Bar and ordering a ‘Lone Star’ beer

Dreaming more and more of kissing his wife

****

“Move out!”

(Shattered his dreamy state)

The Platoon was ‘on-the-move’ now.

Pretty much routine, far as that goes.

Began routine enough

Walking down a path, M-16 at the ready.

Looking left and right.

Quiet.

Then

Fire!

Firefight!

Ambush!

Pandemonium!

He caught one in the chest.

And got busy with dying.

Lying on the floor of the jungle, he managed to pull the photo of his childhood sweetheart, his wife, his LOVE out from beneath his flak jacket.

He regarded it, gazed at it, put it to his lips and kissed it.

Then he died.

*****

I handed in my paper when prompted.

Coach read all the submissions as we all departed for lunch.

Came back to Home-Room after lunch.

Coach said,

“Y’all did real good with your writing assignment. I am gonna read one of them.”

Coach read my story to the class.

Then he said, “I never knew Lance could write. He is just average as a linebacker, but as a writer, he is good.”

Did I give a shit for his praise?

Nope.

Remember, I was an asshole back then.

Still Am.

That was a ‘Red-Letter-Day’ in my ‘Writing Career.’

However, I had a football career to attend to:

“Go! Honey Grove Warriors!

Beat Cooper!

I love My Texas!

The HG Warriors Stole this as our ‘Fight Song,’ as most every other School-Boy Texan HS Football Team did back in The Day. We were all so very Proud of Our Texas Longhorns!

They kicked some serious ass back in those by-gone days

Knowing full well that the Dixie Chicks can still bring out ire and even bona-fide rage in some folks, I drop this in anyway.

I did not, never did, will never, agree with Natalie’s politics.

HOWEVER, 

I stood by her then and I stand by her now.

I have spilled a lot of virtual ink on these Gals

She is, in my not humble opinion, a prime example of the Quintessential Texan Woman:

Outspoken

Brave

Fearless

Loud & Proud

(And Gorgeous too! LOL)

“Nat, You GO Girl! I have your back!”  

(Love You Emily!–Marry Me?)

PLEASE.

I’d Stop drinking for You–But Only For You.

Just Sing, But Never Shut Up! This is Still a Free Country

P.S., I won’t lie (I do not write Fiction)

I never got shot at while in The Nav, well, maybe a little, by Dem Iranians,

While ‘Independent Steaming in the Northern ‘Moist’ Part of the IO.

But I did get shot up,years later, as a Civilian,

Just outside of Fallujah.

Fallujah.

That was my Baptism of Fire.

I saw my entire life replayed in my head that day.

In an instant

Cheers!

Hey! Fuck You WordPress!

You are lame!

There’s My Trouble.

With You

Institutionalized ‘R’ Us: Or, That Place I Need/Want To Be

How I sometimes See/Experience My Mental Life:

I have come to the stark realization that I am at my best when institutionalized.

Long and varied History of this

Follow The Orange Brick Roads if You Be Fearless, or Feckless–Either Works For Me:

My point, if I have one, is that I need ‘Structure/Routine/Schedule’ in my life.

Without routine/structure in my life…

This is one reason I was a good SFM/Egypt/Israel Man.

And such a great Sailor/Military Man.

And such a good Iraq Man

And such a good… Fuck it!

Y’all have picked up on my point.

Without routine/structure in my life…

I become self-destructive.

No! I do NOT slice my wrists.

I do NOT (overmuch) eat garbage food.

I do not (overmuch) drink too much OK, THAT is a Bald-Faced Lie.

I do NOT Listen (overmuch) to Disco.

I do NOT (overmuch) watch CNN.

I do not (overmuch) shit-post on Facebook.

But What I actually do and do too overmuch and over the top, is think too much.

Way too much

Reflect too much.

****

Returning to the original point of this post:

I need to be institutionalized.

Or as my Father once confided in me:

“I live in my own little world, but it’s okay: They know me there.”

****

Flash Forward to ‘Present Day’:

Here we discover Lance, Living Large in The Lion’s Den.

No schedule.

No responsibilities

Nowhere to need to be

Sustainable cash inflow (Thanks Social Security)

Minimal Friends, FaceBook or otherwise to fret over.

Don’t feel compelled to answer my telephone if I don’t want to.

Valhalla, Right?

Heaven, Right?

Waco Texas, Right?

Wrong!

I am in Peril: With a capital ‘P’.

Left alone to my own devices and vices…

Well, it ain’t pretty.

And it ain’t nothin’ nice.

*****

I may or may not expand upon this derailed train of thought.

We’ll see.

(If I get any feedback, I’ll make an effort)

But, Y’all do realize, I am so busy right now going insane—almost a full-time job—requires almost all of my creative capital and ‘mental’ energy.

But, Please Stay Tuned.

Because if I know nothing else, I know I love my Readers.

Cheers Y’all,

–Lancers

P.S., Fairly Certain I would do quite well in Prison

(I have already been over the years)

But Pretty sure if I wanted to go to a ‘Real’ Prison, I could figure out how to get my cab fare–gratis

–L

Humility Industrial Complex

Okay,
So I have been ‘reviewing’ my recent posts on Socialist Media.
For science.
And to take my mental pulse.
What did I discover?

With my two minutes of ‘research.’
I seem to be full of myself.
This is probably a ‘diagnose-able’ condition.
Doubtful I can get medical treatment.
And even more doubtful,
Could  get recompense from the VA even if it were.

“Humility” is just a scare word invented by The Left to keep the rest of us inline.
“Hugh-mill-ah-tee’
(That’s the Français version, Yawl)
Stolen from the movie, “Camelot” 1967

Spoken to Lancelot du Lac by Queen Guinevere.

(Just some small detail to round out the post. I am a fountain of useless knowledge.)

Moving on…

I am having too much fun!
Living (Finally! Living!) in Tejas!

Time enough to do those little things I do.
Finally!

Chapter Three of ‘Escape From Memphis’ coming…
Soon.
So, stay tuned.
Cheers,
‘Many-Feet Marcom’

So go ahead:

Whistle

You know you want to.

And of course, You Knew I Just Had To:

“You Know How to Whistle, Don’t You Steve?”
“Yeah, I’m simple.”
The ironic thing is…
I cannot whistle (Daddy could not either)
Must be one of those ‘genetic fatal flaws’–

Of which I have far too many to count.

****

Post Script:

Baby kisses Bogie
“Waddya do that for?” he asks.
“Ben wondering if I’d like it”
“What’s the verdict?”
Bacal Kisses him again, through the cigarette smoke.
“Don’t know yet. It’s even better when you help.”
And on and on…
Watch the clip.
Then you will find that ‘added value.”
Back in the early Nineties, I returned to University.
Freshly pressed and depressed and out of the Navy.
Took a class entitled:
‘Literature and Film.’
Had to write a term paper.
I chose to write on
“To Have and Have Not”
Took me about 30 minutes to write.
AT THAT LAST minute.
As I do…
The ‘Course’ was taught by the Head of the English Department at ET (now known as Texas A&M-at Commerce.)
What I did NOT know, at the time, was that the prof, was working / writing a bio of Humphrey Bogart.
Had I’d known, I would have picked a safer topic.
But I did not know.
Wrote my ‘term paper’ drunk outta my mind.
Day before it was ‘due.’
Got an A Plus
Go Figure.
PS: Wish I had retained a copy of that paper.
It really was THAT good.
But.
Alas.
No.

Escape From Memphis–Chapter One

Ed. Note to All You Nattering Nabobs of Nay-Sayers down there in the ‘Commentary Section’:
I say this:
‘This is “My Side” of the Story!’
Read Between the Lines if You Must.

(Or feel compelled.)

*****

Lance, No Longer Down an’ Out In

Memphis, Tennessee:

Street Vid Cred: kndfbl

******

Credit: Marc Cohn

*****

And FUCK YOU WORDPRESS For Not Allowing Me to Delete this below BROKEN Up-Load!!!

Stuck on STUPID.

******

 

She just sat there on the front porch, smoking Camel Blues, sipping diet Dr. Pepper, and watching as I scurried back and forth, worker ant-like, schlepping boxes and boxes and boxes and sundry other shit to my Ford.
Never said a word.
Never shed a tear.
I was leaving her!
What the fuck?
No tears?
No desperation?
No tears?
No tears?
No tears?
No nada?
English!
English!
English!
(You live with Meskins, expect beans on the menu, ever’ once in a while.)
English!
Stiff upper lip and all that jazz…
After I had packed the Ford to the point of tightness unimagined (you could have poured a bottle of Jim Beam into it and not one drop would escape), I walked to the front porch and announced,
“Well, I guess that’s it then.”
“You’re leaving now?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan,” I said.
She stood up, looked me in the eye. I threw my arms around her and hugged her deep.
Now we were both crying.
I managed to blurt out something profound…
“I’m so sorry Helen.”
“Take good care of you,” she said, blinking back the tears.
I slow-walked to the Ford, looking back through MY tears only once. Got in, cranked her up and drove away.
The part where the cowboy rides away…
Took me a block an’ a half to stop crying.
Then I was so over it.
And her.
Four blocks later I realized I could not see out of my side-view rear-view mirror. My dismantled computer chair in the passenger seat was blocking my vision. This would never do. I pulled into a vacant parking lot and jettisoned said computer chair.
Just left it there in the dust.
With my life.
Merry Early Fucking Christmas to someone.
Some homeless one in Memphis.
And drove on, westward.
Nine minutes later at sixty-five miles per hour, I was crossing the Big Muddy and entering Arkansas.
I had achieved escape velocity.
I turned on the radio.
Loud and proud.
CDB was screaming something about Trudy and telephones.
And calling her.
And jail.
I cranked it up and sang along.
Very happy and oh so fucking proud of me.
My new life had just begun.
Just another tequila sunrise.
As I drove west with the sun over my shoulder.
So many thoughts were flying around in my head, gnat like… buzzing.
I was almost giddy.
I was staring down six hours of road trip.
No big deal, but it had been almost ten years since I had taken to the road or air or sea, and I was just a mite apprehensive.
“You can do this Lance,” I whispered to me over the radio, now playing Van Morrison.
“Here That Robin Sing.’
Hours and hours and hours into Arkansas (when did Arkansas get so fucking BIG?)
I found a trucker’s rest stop and so I stopped.
And rested.
And pee’d.
Had to.
Walked about
Had to.
Stretched my legs.
Had to.
“Where is Texas?” Halfway through Arkansas…. And halfway from what I had called ‘home’ for ten years.
“What am I doing?”
“Going West, Young Man, Goin’ West.”
“Oh yeah, I almost had forgotten.”
By and by I hit the “border”
(On the border)
Wanted to stop and take a selfie in front of the sign what read, “Welcome To Texas, Drive Friendly.” But it was Interstate and not safe to do so, so I just kept on driving.
And singing at me!
“Texas! Oh Texas!”
“You are finally home, Cowboy!”
Now what?
Keep driving, I suppose.
I had pre-arranged a ‘garage’ to store my shit.
A ‘rent-a-space’ shed in Commerce.
Got a phone call from the proprietor….
“Lance, you still coming?”
“Yeah, fast as I can, but I will not arrive in time for your departure. Can you HBO? Help a brother out? I will arrive Commerce about 1800 hours…. Leave the key in the lock box or something; I want to off-load my shit before I go to the hotel.”
“Sure, got a CC number for me?”
“Yeah, no worries.”
That sorted, I drove on.
Presently I arrived Sulphur Springs.
And promptly got lost.
Could not find the road to Commerce.
Well, shit!
It had been some years and beers and tears since I had had to make this trek.
Finally found the proper road and guess what?
It was ‘under construction’ as they do.
Took me some few little minutes to navigate through that, but…. Finally… on the road again.
Commerce in my sights now.
Sped into town, saw Whitley Hall, High Rise and shouted out loud: HOME!
“Thank fucking God!’
(And this was a push for me, for as you know, I am an atheist)
Found the ‘rent-a-shed’ and off-loaded my shit.
Went to the Adult Beverage Store.
Then found the Magnuson, formally known as “The Holiday Inn Express,” checked in, and got very, very, very drunk.
Chapter Two Coming…
Whew!
Chapter One is Done!
Writing is hard!
As is my wont, I drop in music.
Music defines me, and yes, my life has a soundtrack.
I suppose this don’t make me nothing special.
Just yet one more schmuck.
Trying to get by.
And Waiting for Godot
(Vain reference from my college / university daze.)
Beautiful Loser
Read it on the wall.
Blue moon with heartache.
Nick of time
“Scared you’ll run outta time.”
Love has no pride
This old cowboy—MTB

Escape From Memphis–Chapter Two

Part threee may be discovered here:

New Life.  Video Credit: Cool Coyote  https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9mNquw1Fc7beFfQ8OpnjRQ

Blinking back the tears.

Y’all

Now, let us ‘deconstruct’ “Y’all”

Why not?

In the English Oxford Dictionary, ‘you’

“Used to refer to the person or people that the speaker is addressing”

See?

Plural.

Simple.

Yeah, not so fast.

Southerners having none of that.

See? English English breaks down right there.

We (us southerners) need more.

Southerners need ‘Y’all’

Now ever’one needs “Y’all”

Sometimes… we need “All Y’all.”

(just to make certain there is no ambiguity)

Jes’ sayin’…

And P.S. My good friend, Pain,  over at http://exileonpainstreet.com/

 once said, and I try to quote:

“If I see too many posts in My Reader… I get ‘overload’ and delete them all.”

He said that.

I admire that: his truthfulness.

I too, try and usually fail, to read… ever’one.

But..

But… I never delete.

I just try to catch up.

That’s all.

Y’all.

 

Hey! I’m Writing Here!

Hey! I’m writing here!

(Fleeting thoughts seem to fly away. Okay? That’s Okay, Right? Isn’t it?)

Credit: https://www.youtube.com/user/mattfosternow

“Now Go fuck off and leave me alone. And while you are leavin’ me alone, make me some more coffee.”

“Please.”

“and thanks for the pepperoni.”

(Sorry.. vague Lenny Bruce reference)

I actually said this aloud to my much maligned invisible muse. Bless her heart.

The dog walked over to me and inquired, “Hey! Rance!” (he cannot pronounce my name. He is a dog after all) “Rance,” he said. “You OK Bubba?”

(Overheard by some fly on some wall in some other multi-verse.)

Probably it was just the wind.

***

‘Tax Day’ (they say) Means nada to me: means  Bupkis! (great Yiddish word: use it in a sentence today and then it is yours for all of maternity)

Why? “‘Cause I had no income last year. That’s why!”

Oy vey! Yep! Good thing ‘bout that there: No taxes.

Moving on to today’s post…

(Oh yeah: first order of business: “The Daily Lenny”)

Well, You May Find it here, whisked into a long post about a mechanic. Yes. You will have to work to find it. So Sorry.

Let us paws for a second.

(Goddamnit Lance! Enuff with the fucking puns!)

Take a breath.

“This is swerving dangerously close to being another rant.

*sigh*

“Yes. I know.”

*Moving on…*

Now Where was I?

Oh Yeah!

Taxes!

Not really.

CNN?

Nope (but their Breaking News is ‘bout to break my spirit and my capacity to love anyone)

Serious for one second. I weep for those family who lost family on That Plane.

*Whew! Now we got that sentiment out of the way…*

Still trying to Move On Dot Org…

(Just kidding—I do not even know where that is)

More Breaking Fucking News!

Some idiot on CNN just said, “Let us be Frank.” (and Tom, Dick, and Harry)

(not sure in reference to what—generally—I only half-listen, but that one caught some vacant, unused part of my ear)

*Still trying to move on and find a purpose for this purposeless post*

Y’all know what?

This is gonna be an “all-day” project.

There is just too much shit running about in my head.

I will get back you.

As they say:

To be continued…