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.
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.
“Lance, You Lie Redux,” Or “Dark-Eyed Ragin’ Cajun Woman”
For Louisiana
And for all the Dark-Eyed, Dark-Haired, Dark-Demeanor’d Dark-Complicated–Dark-Complexion-ated Cajun Womeninthe world.
(Those with the Sloe-Gin Eyes–and all that implies.)
Cajun Cajun Raging Cajun Woman
Just Shoot Me Now
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
“Any resemblance to persons living or dead should be plainly apparent to them and those who know them, especially if the author has been kind enough to have provided their real names and in some cases, their phone numbers. All events described herein actually happened, though on occasion the author has taken certain, very small liberties with chronology, because that is his right as an American. Warning: this story will [eventually] have drugs in it [specifically, Pot] read at your own annoyance.”
–Stolen From Various Sources while illegally surfing the internet using a U.S. Government Network and Computer
There was an old friend of mine from high school living in Lake Charles, and pretty much on a bet I loaded up my ’68 Chevy Impala and drove to Louisiana to look him up.
Of course I had no idea where he lived in Lake Charles or what he was even doing there, but I knew Kim John and I knew that he would not be difficult to find even in a town of over one-hundred-thousand.
Really all I had to do was to find McNeese State University and ask around.
For you see, Kim Jim/John was probably the most charismatic, outgoing, affable guy on Earth and I knew that even if he had only spent one week in Lake Charles, everyone would know him or know of him. He went to East Texas State in Commerce just long enough to pledge and become a Kappa Alpha.
That was his only driving ambition in life: to become a KA like his big brother and hang out with the Brothers. I despised Greeks and all their ways. (Still today, these are not my favorite people. Kim James was my best friend, next to Peanut, and for many years before, even though we did not see eye-to-eye on many things and most especially, things Greek.)
It took me all of about 45 minutes to locate him once I arrived.
He was living large in a beautiful apartment complex close to the university in the best apartment they had to offer: Two-story with four bedrooms, a large den/living room, three baths, a decent sized kitchen with a breakfast nook, a porch facing the pool—‘Classy” is all I could say when he showed me around.
He had a stereo in every room (All of them ‘Marantz’ because years before I had told him “Marantz makes the best, (and most expensive) audio equipment you can buy”.
He apparently never had forgotten that and I was properly impressed. Kim Jim always did his best it seems to impress me.
To this day I am not sure why. It was just his way. Actually it was probably because I was the only one who really knew he was a fake and he knew that I knew.
In addition to the large pool, there were two tennis courts, a game room, outdoor dining room, a sauna, and all the ‘beautiful’ people of McNeese lived there, or so it seemed to my small-town eyes.
One of the upstairs rooms had a balcony overlooking the pool and the tennis courts. Wonderful.
*****************
Against my better judgment, I will continue this story, if I get just one request. It is rather long…
Someone let me know, but be not hasty in your remarks, as this one could land that fictional character in prison.
Is the prose worth it?
Well, the story is just that good, so I suppose so, since the author will be the one to do the hard time.
I never gave two shits for the heat anyhow…
(In light of recent events in NYC, I retract the above statement, 22 December, 2014)
“Lance, You Lie. Not Really–Not Over-Much.–Not Anyhow Brown Cow.
Not Really.
My Word is-My-Bond-Age:
This All Truthfully Happened–Just As I Wrote It.
I Caint Make This Shit Up–
“Paranoia Strikes Deep–
Into Your Life It Will Creep”
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
“Any resemblance to persons living or dead should be plainly apparent to them and those who know them, especially if the author has been kind enough to have provided their real names and in some cases, their phone numbers.
All events described herein actually happened, though on occasion the author has taken certain, very small liberties with chronology, because that is his right as an American. Warning: this story will [eventually] have drugs in it [specifically, Pot] read at your own annoyance.”
–Stolen From Various Sources while illegally surfing the internet using a U.S. Government Network and Computer
There was an old friend of mine from high school living in Lake Charles, and pretty much on a bet I loaded up my ’68 Chevy Impala and drove to Louisiana to look him up.
Of course I had no idea where he lived in Lake Charles or what he was even doing there, but I knew Kim John and I knew that he would not be difficult to find even in a town of over one-hundred-thousand.
Really all I had to do was to find McNeese State University and ask around.
For you see, Kim Jim/John was probably the most charismatic, outgoing, affable guy on Earth and I knew that even if he had only spent one week in Lake Charles, everyone would know him or know of him. He went to East Texas State in Commerce just long enough to pledge and become a Kappa Alpha.
That was his only driving ambition in life: to become a KA like his big brother and hang out with the Brothers. I despised Greeks and all their ways.
(Still today, these are not my favorite people. Kim James was my best friend, next to Peanut, and for many years before, even though we did not see eye-to-eye on many things and most especially, things Greek.)
It took me all of about 45 minutes to locate him once I arrived.
He was living large in a beautiful apartment complex close to the university in the best apartment they had to offer: Two-story with four bedrooms, a large den/living room, three baths, a decent sized kitchen with a breakfast nook, a porch facing the pool—‘Classy” is all I could say when he showed me around.
He had a stereo in every room (All of them ‘Marantz’ because years before I had told him
“Marantz makes the best,
(and most expensive)
Audio equipment you can buy”. He apparently never had forgotten that and I was properly impressed. Kim Jim always did his best it seems to impress me.
To this day I am not sure why. It was just his way. Actually it was probably because I was the only one who really knew he was a fake and he knew that I knew.
In addition to the large pool, there were two tennis courts, a game room, outdoor dining room, a sauna, and all the ‘beautiful’ people of McNeese lived there, or so it seemed to my small-town eyes.
One of the upstairs rooms had a balcony overlooking the pool and the tennis courts. Wonderful.
*****************
Against my better judgment, I will continue this story, if I get just one request. It is rather long…
Someone let me know, but be not hasty in your remarks, as this one could land that fictional character in prison.
Is the prose worth it?
Well, the story is just that good, so I suppose so, since the author will be the one to do the hard time.
I never gave two shits for the heat anyhow…
(In light of recent events in NYC, I retract the above statement, 22 December, 2014)
One of the things (Life’s simple pleasures)–one of the things I derive the most pleasure from–is making people laugh. Usually at me, but my longevity is continued because I never, ever take me, Lance, too seriously.
Hope you will read (or re-read) this one.
It happened just as I described it.
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 read my Post, True Grit, 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.
There were a few other escapades no less bizarre during this time, but I won’t recount them here. Like the infamous naked, midnight go-cart ride over and through some very nicely landscaped yards of the Lake Charles rich and famous. Well, rich anyway…
“Don’t start Lance. Get on with the pot smuggling story.”
After several more ‘adventures’ as described above, Kim and I decided we needed to go to McAllen to expedite things with the Mexicans.
We took our partner Kirk with us for balance and also because he had some friends in San Antonio we could hang out with before we drove south to McAllen.
We ended up staying in San Antonio for several weeks before making our way south. Long story why and not particularly exciting, so I’ll skip it.
We arrived in McAllen late one sultry Saturday night and having nothing better to do until morning when we were to hook up with Pablo, we decided to drive into Mexico and visit ‘Boy’s Town’ in Reynosa.
Kim had been there before and told us how the deal worked:
“Before we go, we have to make sure the car is clean. No pot, no guns, no nothing. If we get busted they will put us in jail for a w-h-i-l-e.”
