Now that is a good term from the Cold War, i.e., ‘Le Space Race.’ However, it still rings true today; rings true as something, almost… unattainable, yet so very much coveted.
“Escape Velocity”
Cal Gone! Take me away! (sic) Yeah: sick.
Point is, I have spent the better part of my life ‘playing’ computer games. Some might be tempted to label them ‘video’ games. (They are NOT video games, Love: they are ways I increase my mental, mental…”) Old Story warning here:
That guy. That guy, who used to write about distance running, what was his name” Oh Yeah! Joe Henderson; I read all of his books… Oh yeah! He died of a heart-attack… Just details…
He wrote a bit: His bit went something like this: He was ‘runnin’ down a road. Some kid says, “Hey, Hi! Mister Jogger!” He replied, “Hey Kid! I am not a jogger; I am a runner! A ‘Runner!’ Get it right!” The kid replied, “Well then, why are you jogging?” I had to laugh; been there, et etcetera… This is the part where I get pissed. (And when I get pissed… well, you would not like me)
The worst thing one (amongst the uninitiated) is to say, proclaim: “Are you still playin’ that damn stupid video game?!!” Perfect retort:
“Yes Madame. I am.” “Oh. Well, be a good boy and don’t go downtown, protesting’ and such…” “Yessum. I won’t” “Good boy there then…” “Yes, Ma’am.” (“Now Fuck Off” This is what I did truly think)
But, she I did have a point, but my ‘point’ swerved into something else, which I really do not wanna talk about. My point it thus: Kids that played computer games in the Eighties are now in charge of your world. And to loosely quote Forrest Gump: “That is all I am gonna say about that.”
Some thoughts?
And P.S., Yes! I have of late, been spending some quality time with some of my ‘computer’ games. They know me there, and I don’t have to be too creative (actually, I do, but most….) Well…
My blogging experience is failing me of late. Not to say that I do not appreciate The Community. Just to say… that I am between gigs and this is beginning to weigh upon me.
Certainly, I will be about, but please do not chastise me for not visiting your respective blogs on a respective basis. (My intent is to intentionally do so, albeit, tomorrow), yet… I am real tired.
And my health is no good.
I will catch up…
mañana,
I Promise.
“For Love or Money”
“He Grabs At The Air Because There’s Nothin’ There…”
Credit: Joni
And yeah! In case you missed my ‘subliminal’ bullshit:
Street Cred: Ashnikko – STUPID Feat. Yung Baby Tate
****
This Bit is somewhat of a ‘Trailer’ for a rather longish post which I will be publishing presentlysoon maybe next week. Gentle Reader, I do hope it piques your interest.
During my sojourn in Lake Charles, Summer of ’77, Kim’s girlfriend introduced us to her sister’s beau.
His name was Tim Castille.
Tim was a great guy, with a mild and affable demeanor, and we all used to hang out together, which was surprising since Kim usually didn’t want to hang out (socially anyhow) with any “Non-Brothers,” i.e. not Kappa Alphas—whatever. Perhaps the reason Kim made an exception in Tim’s case was because Timothy was the owner of a shit-hot high-speed-rocket-on-water of a ski boat.
As you may imagine, Tim was a first-class water skier and he only used one ski—there is a word for that—oh yeah, “slalom.”
Since I was the only schmuck who didn’t know how to water ski, it was decided one day that it was high time for me to learn. Probably was “high-time” because we tacked into this windy epiphany while blowing dope.
Down to the river we went. After being briefly briefed on the basics of water skiing by Tim,
I found myself bobbing up and down in the Calcasieu River, two feet locked into a single ski, holding onto the end of a long rope behind about 300 horsepower of snorting, sputtering, idling, chomping-at-the-bit Evinrude outboard motor.
(If you have Not read my Post, True Grit, Please Read It Now–Link May Be Discovered Below)
you probably have figured out by now that anything I have to do with horses, whether one or two or three-hundred, is a bad idea)
Being fearless (and stoned) I decided this was exactly the right place for me to be and at exactly the right time.
The “crew” of the ski boat called to me asking if I was ready. I waved back with one hand, assuring them, that yes indeed, I was enthusiastically ready.
Tim lit her up and away we went.
Kinda.
I did everything as I had been instructed, but there was something not quite right. I could not seem to get up on the damn ski.
Being stubborn, I would not let go (even with the crew yelling at me to do just that) and as we motored along I was dragged underwater. Still stubborn (and no longer able to hear the shouts from the boat) I refused to give up.
Deeper and deeper I submerged under the river. Apparently Tim had faith that at some point I would pop up, cork-like, and ski like a pro and I sure as hell was not going to let go and lose face.
I did manage get my head to break the surface periodically, which allowed me enough air to continue in my new found folly.
After about five or so minutes of this, Tim gave up, probably because his Evinrude was beginning to overheat from the excessive drag produced by someone being pulled along completely underwater and not gracefully gliding along on the surface as God intended.
Now, one might think I would have given up on my water skiing career that day. Oh no! Not this cowboy.
We repeated this charade at least six more times during the course of the summer, all with the same results.
Everyone got such a grand kick out of watching me ski underwater that guests were invited along for the strange spectacle.
Apparently the consensus amongst the second and third time witnesses when speaking to the uninitiated was,
“Hey! You can’t make this shit up! Ya gotta come see for yourself.” One time there were no less than four other boats full of spectators, surrounding my watery stage.
It was, I imagined, similar to the whale watching excursions in places like Alaska and northern California.
“Thar She Blows!” Cameras clicked; beers were quaffed in my honor; people cheered. (I was told—difficult to hear the crowds whilst under water.) I had become somewhat of a local celebrity.
That was my Fifteen Minutes.
I have never put on skis since, but I would, given just-one-more-chance…
–Lance, the world’s first (and best) Underwater Water Skier.
“I love Las Vegas! Jesus Christ do I love Vegas! I’ll make it, make it good and clear; it’s because my Girl’s Right HERE!”
–Dean Martin
“And MY Shonnie’s Right THERE!
Wearing Her ‘Come Hither’ Stare!”
–Lance ‘Martin’Marcom
Vid Cred: icamatrix
***
I took Shonnie by the hand and we waltzed over to a blackjack table.
‘One Dollar Minimum Bet’
This was to be a training session and a trial run. An ‘Introduction’, or ‘Baptism’, or ‘Enlightenment, if you will.
Then again, it could just as quicklyandeasily degrade into a ‘Fiasco’, a ‘Waste of Time‘, an ‘Exercise in Futility’, given Shonnie’s paucity of patience.
“Hey! You said something about teaching me ‘counting down the deck’ in Blackjack. Was that bullshit, or what? I have never played blackjack. What is that anyway, counting down the deck?What does it mean?” She demanded.
“Lower your voice to somewhere around a three on your dial. And never use the ‘C Word’.
“Huh? The ‘C’ word?”
“Counting” I whispered.
She lowered her voice almost to a whisper, a difficult accomplishment for her. “Oh, Okay ‘Mister Mystery-Man’, I won’t use any ‘C’ words, until I call you out for being a ‘cunt’.”
“I’m a ‘man’. I can’t be a ‘cunt’.”
“Oh yes you can. I have met lots of ‘man-cunts’ in my day.”She did not whisper that, drawing some looks from nearby innocent bystanders.
Trying to ignore her remark for now, I said, “Just try to aim for ‘discreet’. This is Blackjack, not Craps. Blackjack is more subtle, more subdued, more cerebral. Craps is for screamin’ and hollerin’ and gettin’ rowdy. Blackjack is diametrically opposed and polarity opposite.”
“Do you ever speak ‘honest’ fucking English? You know, without all the bullshit fancy words that no one gives a rat’s ass to hear. You’re not as smart as you think you are, Cowboy.”
“Ah now, come on Lil Miss, Ah jes tryin’ ta inject ah little bit ah refinery into yer head.”
“Stop right now, or I am gonna ‘inject’my fist into your head. Now, in English, tell me what is Blackjack. ‘Condensed’ ‘Abridged’ version if-you-please. See there Schmuck? I know a few ‘fancy six-bit words’ too.”
“Touché,” I said.
She smacked me hard on my ass.
I continued, “Surely you played ‘Twenty-One’ as a kid, right? Or was it all ‘Strip Poker’ or ‘Strip Her and Poke Her’ with The Boys-on-The-Block?”
“I’m warning you Asshole,” she said playfully, almost tenderly.
Shonnie is the only woman I have ever known who can successfully use ‘Asshole’ as a term of endearment.
“Okay. Okay. Seriously Shonnie, I just want you to get a feel for the game. Tomorrow, I will teach you how to count. You seem to have some ‘Rain Man’ in ya. No offense.”
“Rain Man?”
“Never mind. I’ll tell you later. You just listen to me, and as we play, and I’ll teach you all about what are called the ‘Basic Strategy’ rules of the game and more important, the rules you never, ever break while playing. Not The Dealer, nor the other players will mind or care.”
“Besides,” I continued, “It’s common for neophyte players to show up at a ‘Dollar Minimum’ table and get verbal instructions, even from the Dealer, if the dealer has any class at all, that is. Tomorrow, we’ll hit The El Cortez, and we’ll be in disguise. They have one of the last double-deck games in town.”
“El Cortez? Double deck? Disguise? Get the fuck out! And, by the way, I don’t remember seeing any ‘El Cortez’ anywhere.”
“Not surprised you missed it. It’s a bit of a rundown joint… But in a good way, in the tradition of the old ‘Sawdust Joints’. Don’t worry. They used to know me there. Hopefully they have forgotten that they used to know me there. I’ll explain later. Please sit down and think about what you want to drink. The waitress will need to know.”
We sat at ‘Third Base.’ Well technically, ‘I’ sat at third base. Shonnie sat next to me.
‘Third Base’
“Card counters actually have an advantage when it comes to the seating. These players are recommended to sit in the third base position to give them more time to keep an eye on the table, as well as count, and of course bet last.”
Credit: Blackjack Australia
***
The dealer was a perky blond. Her name tag announced
“I’m Debbie-From-Des Moines”
“Live it Up!”
***
This Here’s Debbie. Kinda Cute an’ Innocent-Lookin’Ain’t She? Be Thee Not Deceived;
She’ll Take ALLYour Money Ere You Leave
(If You Grow Careless)
Trust Me
***
And as the hours passed by, I taught her Basic Strategy Blackjack. She was good with it. Grudgingly very good with it. (My gal ain’t stupid, just stubborn and impatient.)
We never bet much. This was just for training after all, (and we already had our stake from Shonnie’s earlier very profitable ‘Dice-Capades‘) and I distrusted the dealers at the Plaza anyhow, so we just chilled. Well, at least I chilled… and taught.
“This is boring.” she said rather abruptly.
“Honey, you’re learning the game. Relax.”
“I like craps better.”
“Darling, we all do, but Craps is all about luck and guts and gambling. Blackjack is all about skill, smarts, strategy, and patience. ‘Patience’, I realize, is not your strong suit, and I know from time to time I strain what little you have, but this game is gonna pay off for us tomorrow night. Trust me.”
“Whatever.”
We continued with the Blackjack Lessons for a few more hours.
Shonnie was growing weary and bitchy and mouthy so I called an end to the training session, satisfied enough by then with her understanding of the game.
We walked over to the coffee shop and I bought her a bagel with cream cheese (Her favorite food-of-the-moment, she claimed) Then I took her off to bed.
She was beyond ready, and fell asleep just as soon as blond hair hit white pillow. I gently pulled the blanket over her petite little, exhausted body.
I was left alone with my thoughts, my plans, and a hard on.
“Sleep Princess,” I whispered to her, “And I have something important to tell you tomorrow.”
She stirred a bit and moaned, but did not hear.
I lay down beside her, wrapped myself around her, and slept too.
When I was a young teen, freshly discovering the Joys of Puberty, I had an Ant Farm.
(Early Puberty does strange things to Not quite still Boys, but not quite Yet Men.)
I had an Ant-Farm.
Not one of those green and clear plastic “Toy Ant Farms.”
Oh, Hell No!
This was hand-crafted and from fine pine two-by-fours: Two panes of 3/8” plate glass measuring thirty by twenty-four inches seated in the painstakingly mitered channels of the wood sandwiched the heavy Plaster of Paris block inside. In which I had meticulously carved all the ant-sized tunnels and oval shaped ‘ante-rooms’ for the ants to place the larvae and store the rations for a winter that would never come.
For these were domesticated ants—house ants, if you will—I had willed them such. These tunnels and carved out spaces were painstakingly coated with clean sand using a strong, but non-toxic well-cured epoxy.
It seems I had always been fascinated by ‘every creeping thing… and whatsoever creepeth upon the earth, after their kinds…’ And ants were always at the top of my ‘Creepeth Hit Parade.’ Once I had my initial stock, I spent many a happy hour studying their daily perambulations. I loved them dearly.
