Flame WARS! The Battle is Joined!

(Ed. Note: This Post is All Borked/Fucked Up.

WP is STUPID!

I’ll TRY to FIX it LATER)

Maybe… Maybe Not...

I truly do have better things to do

Believe it

Or Not!

****

I didn’t Start the Fire. I just poured gasoline on it.

Street Cred for Vid: CollegeHumor:

Brilliant!!!

Fucking BRILLIANT!!!

Just Fuckin Brilliant!

****

Finally Getting to The Point:

Peggy Ames (Last Name Redacted)

Had This Comment on My Comment:

“Soul Alchemy I am not sure but I think L. Marcom Is a troll! If not there appears to be other issues there that responding to could create further issues! At least be observant!”

—Peggy

Of Course,

I had to respond

***

From my Facefuk Page:

Someone Just Called me a “Troll”
Troll? I am none!
I am a decent, caring, good and decent man.
God-damnit!
Here is proof:

To Peggy Ames I wrote:

Dear Lady (BTW, My Mother’s Name was “Peggy’–May she rest in peace. You are not my mother–so do not pass unsustainable judgements on me) I am going to leave you with this (Yes. Your insult cut me to the quick and hurt much)

From my recent post on FB: “Someone Just Called me a “Troll”

“Troll?” I am none!

I am a decent, caring, sharing, (somewhat daring) good man.

God-damn it! Never a ‘Troll’. I take the time to comment on posts I ‘Like.’ I am no ‘Drive-by Liker.’ People deserve feedback when they post something that they spent some time constructing.

That’s all.

I am not a ‘Troll” I am a good, gracious, (somewhat humble) man Here is proof:”

Already dropped that in… see above Peggy. ‘Callen’

On Writing. On Thinking. On Drinking.

I Throw Excuses at Me for Not Writing:

‘Too Early’
‘Too Late’
‘Too Hot’
‘Too Cold’
‘Too wet’
‘Too Dry’
‘Too Sober’

‘Too Drunk’

‘Oh Wait!—There’s ‘Breaking News on CNN!’

(I am far too Easily Distracted!)

Eventually, I empty out my ‘Excuses-Bag-of-Tricks’

Then I Park My Ass On The ‘Writing Chair’

And I Begin trying to write. (I have SO Much Shit to ‘Write’ ABOUT!)

But then My Mind

Wanders.

“Meanders.”

NO!

Not the proper, suitable Metaphor.

My Mind is trapped in a Pinball Machine.
I am the Stainless Steel Little Ball.
Just Bouncing About.
Aimlessly
Flying All Over The Fucking Place.
Just Looking to Rack up ‘Points.’
And for what?

****

Fun Fact: When I, Bob, Peanut Et al, used to hang out at the Pool Hall (er.. ‘Recreation Center’) on Sixth Street, Honey Grove America…

We would place empty Marlboro packs underneath the front legs of the pinball machine—Thus making it impossible for us to lose…

Yes. We all had larceny flowing through our veins.

***

But To What Purpose?

Just for Fun, I Guess

(And we had a limited cache of quarters)

I will never write like Hemmingway
(But at Least I can drink like him)

That’s Half the Battle/Bottle Won.

Ain’t it?

Apocryphal Hemmingway Quote:

“Write Drunk. Edit Sober”

Ernest never said those words, but he should have.

Right?

Right?

RIGHT??

Will never even be a Two-Bit Paperback / Pulp-Fiction Writer.

Yet I ‘Sailor’ On!

Pour yet another drink

Park my Butt on my ‘Writing Chair

And attack that GD keyboard

****

Cheers!

See You in The Funny Papers!

****

I just drop this photo because I am infatuated with Info-Babes

(See Below Recent Post O’ Mine)

My First Info-Babe Love: Christiane Amanpour!

She took my “News-Junkie Virginity.”
Then she never looked back.
Never dropped by.
Never mailed a postcard.
Never telephoned.
No Nada!
Bitch!
(Just kidding Christiane)
You know I will always love you best!

Brilliant.
Beautiful.
Charming!

Absolutely Charming!

***

Every time I see her, I fall in love all over again.

(I suppose that’s how it always goes with those…

“First Loves–Lost”)

‘Just Hang on to your Good Memories Cowboy.’

***

Why do I love her so?

We have walked the same dirt.

In Dangerous, Desolate Places.

That is Why.

And She is Braver Than Me.

That is Also Why.

“We Have Heard The Chimes At Midnight.”

She and Me

Me and She

(Just Never Together)

Can You Imagine?

Can You Even Wrap Your Mind Around My Vain Fantasy?

If. Just If!

(I Would Have Become a Very Different Man…)

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, looking right.

Quiet.

Then

Fire!

Firefight!

Ambush!

Pandemonium!

He caught one in the chest.

And got busy with his 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 bye-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.

There is too much Nat in this Vid and not nearly enough Emily!

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

“Tejas”–A Dog Who Once Owned Me

******

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.