Re-Post Be’Cuz I Can. I Have The ‘Technology’–Hem Is On My Mind Today: “On Writing. On Thinking. On Drinking.” HAHAHAHA!

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!

Not Un-Like So Many Fire-Flies

Swirling About in My Head–

As Fire-Flies On A Hot Texas Summer Night

***

But then My Mind

Wanders.

“Meanders.”

NO!

Not the proper, suitable Metaphor.

My Mind is trapped in a Pinball Machine.

Stolen (by me) From The Movie

‘Tommy’

Cred For Vid Share: Umbrella Entertainment

***
I am the Stainless Steel Little Ball.
Just Bouncing About.
Aimlessly
Flying All Over The Fu^king 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)

Hahaha! Lance is a JERK! Rumors of My Premature Demise Have Been Greatly Bastardized–Exaggerated.

“The Letter Said He Was Reported Dead.”

That Letter Was Fake News!

I’m Still Kikkin’ Screamin’

(And Still Standing)

****

Still Standing

Cred for Vid?

Goes Without sayin’

So I won’t Say It

Rollin’ Wheels

“Near the front lines he’d been found

A mine blew his jeep into a twisted heap

And I still hear the sound

Of the wheel that kept spinnin’ ’round.”

*****

For some bizarre reason, this song reminds me of my first wife, Janet.

I suppose it is because she was in the U.S. Army Reserve and used to drive Jeeps for a living.

Or something.

I Loved Her Dearly.

And I respected her (Even though, she was ‘Certifiable Nuts.’)

Did not matter:

I loved her.

Still do.

This post will make no sense whatsoever.

Don’t Care.

It is just for me.

And Jerry Jeff.

And Janet Sisco

The more I explore old songs… songs that make me FEEL, the more I  come to understand the depth of my depravity.

This is not necessarily a bad thing.

My life has become a ‘rolling wheel.”

Spinning out of control.

Almost a whirling dervish.

But not quite there yet…

“The unexamined life is not worth living.”

Some smart guy once said that.

So here is Me:

Examining.

Stay Tuned….

Random Memories from The Middle East: The Road to Sharm el Sheikh

Since I am an arrogant snob and a pompous ass,  I add this ‘added value’ for those who never get me.

(You’re welcome.)

Drive Through.

dervish is a Muslim of particular religious order. … To call something a whirling dervish is to say that object or person resembles a spinning top or is wild in its movement. An object can also just be a dervish. The term twirling dervish is technically correct, as a dervish could be described as twirling.

More “Added Value:”

In Keeping With TTales & Hieroglyphs Virtual Ink Green Earth Policy…

“His whole life was short, quick and straight.”

Who does this remind me of??

Oh my Gawd! How I do miss him!

Peanut Story Warning Below!

The Flat-Bed Truck and The Pastel Sun-Dress

 

Someone Recently ‘Discovered’ This—So Natch! What Does Lance Do? Re-Spams It!

Where is My Mind? Oh! there You Are.

Where You Been All-My-Life?

Hahaha!

“The Reports Of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated.” –Mark Twain

(And Now Shamelessly Stolen By Lance Marcom)

***

My HERO!

Unknown Brain – Dead (ft. KAZHI)

Laughing My Fu*king Ass Off!

This is a True, Recent Story:

Not Something From ‘The Archives.’

No Names Have Been Changed To Protect Innocents

Because I Don’t Know Any Innocents

*****

It was recently brought to my attention that there is a rumor making the circuit in My Home Town of Honey Grove:

“Lance Marcom was Found Dead.”

(Not sure where or why or how they found me, but those would just be superfluous details—no need for them—not in a small Texas Town)  

And ‘THOSE‘ would (most likely) just be Tales Told By Idiots, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing

–Sorry Will

Of course this made me laugh hysterically—and also made my day—no such thing as ‘bad press’ for a wanna-be fledgling writer.

So, ‘Thank-You-Very-Mucho-Much’ to whoever started this story.

While I was still laughing my ass off on the phone with my very good old friend who had brought this News to me, a brilliant idea began to gestate in my mind:

“Hey Johnny! Let’s run with this. You tell everyone that you have confirmed the veracity of this report. Then you set up a GoFundMe page for the Funeral Expenses—Should Fly—My Poverty is Well-Documented.

We’ll split the ‘Charitable’ Proceeds 50/50.”

(I have always had a bit of larceny in my bones and in my genes and in my heart)

“I’m on it.” said Johnny, “But do you honestly think anyone gives a shit about “Lance Marcom?”

“Print Up some Flyers; scatter them around in Ladonia–the ‘Marcom Name’ still carries a bit of weight there, Because of My Grandfather.

You know of him. He was the Town Doctor who would accept chickens, or pigs, or heifers, in lieu of money. He was loved and belov’d.”

I detected a ‘smirk’ (Remotely–on my Smart-Phone) crawling all-over-the-face of my Friend at the mention of ‘Heifers.’

“Johnny, they were ‘four-legg’d heifers–that’s all.’ My Grandfather Marcom was a Fucking Methodist!

And Allow me to reiterate.

I’ve been riding fare-free and care-free on his ‘Fame-Train’ all my life. “

Plan Incubated and Hatched—Now for the execution of same—no Pun

*******

As an aside, if the Police Do Get Involved, The Numero-Uno Prime Suspect Will Be Guess Who?

Yep

*******

“I’m not dead.  I feel fine. Think I’ll go for a walk…”

Causally Related:

This Is Just A “Warm-Up”–I Wanna Write About My Six Lived Months Lived In Amman–Updated & Had to Add: Arabia, Amman, Chapter The First: “Maggie”

Maggie and Hala Used to Sing This Song around The Office In Amman.

They Were So Charming!

I miss them so much!

(I Have Photos, But They are On My Broken Computer–

Shite!–

Why Is My Life So Diff-O-Kite?

****

Jordan

How many women have I loved (and lost)???

Better Dust off that TI Calculator

I worked in Amman Jordan for six months.
(Parsons/Bechtel evacuated Iraq at the end of our project—USAID Rural Water Project)

We had completed all the ‘on-the-ground’-work.
Nothing left to do but finalize the paper-work.
We could do this in Jordan.

It was ‘safer

So said Parsons—No need to get anyone else kilt in Iraq—Made sense I suppose.

I protested.
To no avail.

I wanted to remain in Iraq.
Guess what?

My opinions did not matter.
So I flew to Amman.

Parsons maintained an office there.
Employed locals.

An aside/preamble:
Jordan has some of the most beautiful women in the world.

“Danger Will Robinson!”

–AKA Lance Marcom

I fell hard for one of them.
Working in that Office of Parsons’
Her name was Margarete
“Maggie”

She was, of course, an Arab.
But ‘Western-ized and Western- sized:

Meaning ‘Slightly Chunky.’

We fell headlong into love.

This was a monumental fuckup on my/her part.

I knew better—or should have—we both should have…

Known Better

We did, but we chose to ignore

The danger

******

To Be Continued…

Later

Street Cred for Shared Vid: dcck123

*****

Some Smallish Added Value:

Dedicated To My Much-Missed Maggie:

If I Must Credit This, You Are NOT Paying Attention

I Kinda LOVE This Post–Not Sure Why—Memories, I Suppose—Happier Times. Up-Dated (Can’t Take ‘The Nav’ Outta The Boy) “Don’t RUST On My Parade”

“In the Navy”–Village PPL:

“Petty Officer Marcom! Your Fifty Cals are Rusty!”

M2 .50 Caliber Machine Gun | Military.com

50 Cal NavyA

U.S. Navy photo by Photographer’s Mate Third Class Daniel J. Mark. Cleared for release by ALBG PAO, LCDR Jeff Bender.

Lance Sailor

Marco The Sailor man

I had to  admit. Yes they were. I had tried so hard to keep ahead of the rust, but here I found myself on the leeward side of the second half of a six-month, ‘round-the-whurl-West Pacific Deployment’, and somewhere just off the coast of Somalia.

Yes, rust was my enemy, certainly never my friend—the machine guns were always mounted while we (The USS Callaghan DDG 994, full cast and crew) were Haze-Gray and Underway.

Yes, always mounted and underway:

Haze-Graying, even then

And rusty

My Guns were always supposed to be… somewhere upon the sea… this is what they were purchased for…

And subject to rust. Rust Relentless. Relentless She Be: That Sea. That Salt of the Fucking Sea

Rust.

My Moby Dick-lessness!

How could I not keep Rust off my guns?

Freud certainly would have had fun with me

(Sadly, now I know why)

************

My professional life was to be found somewhere rusting in those machine guns.

And that rust you see, that rust occupied a great deal of my daily routine.

The Navy had a solution though. She had provided canvas covers to cover those guns and make them safe from rust. Alas, those canvas covers had seen better days, probably back when Pearl Harbor was just an ordinary Naval Base that no one had ever heard of.

But rust is relentless and timeless.

While scrubbing the Indian Ocean rust off’n my fifty-cals one morning I hatched a plan. Knowing full well we were soon to pull into Mombasa Kenya, after so many month at sea, I conspired to save my money:

Once in Mombasa, I would smuggle one of the moth infected, salt- digested, jig saw’d, Swiss Cheese, ‘holy’ canvas shards off the ship. I would rent a taxi, find me a young child, show him my smuggled ‘prize’, ask him to direct me somewhere, where I could find and nickel and dime

(I did not have much money then, not un-life-like now) find a leather shop in Mombasa, present to the leather-maker my Holy Canvas, My Shroud,  My Naval Career, and demand, (for US Dollars), that he make me four such more yet new and brand new.

And functional.

And This is exactly what I did, and to the amazement and astonishment of my Master Chief Petty Officer and my Department Head (almost a Navy Commander…

He kind of looked like JFK, now that I think on it. I  did not like particularly like him, but I respected him. Hell, he reminded me of all the things I could have been if I had joined the Nav when I was twelve instead of twenty-eight (Different story. Sorry)

The next time they inspected my Fifty Cals, they were pristine! (They did not take notice nor time to notice that the canvas covers were not exactly Haze-Gray-Naval Gray. No, more like Third-World-Rustic, with just a tiny bit of water buffalo…left over…but Goddamn sure water and sea salt proof.   

And I was so desirous that they did NOT notice, but my Master Chief did notice, yet, never ever noticing nor voicing his ‘inner thoughts’ in front of what he referred to as “Shit Birds” — ‘Officers’ — Never let on.

Master Chief never, ever let out his truth thoughts in front of Shit – Birds. This was his genius. 

And I should have been cognizant of this, yet I was so somewhat giddy after my .50 Cals had finally passed inspection, that I did not stop to think on that anymore. “Not even Master Chief had seen through my ruse” Yeah, Rite!

 I was drunk with my own cleverness and lying back on my back in my rack, curtain drawn,  congratulating me.

(Now, you must realize how the Military Mind works. I was my Ship’s Armor All–Armorer– IN Charge of All The Ship’s Small Arms! .225 Cal to .50 Cal.

If it took two men to lift, wasn’t mine. But one-man-band? Yep!  I was the shit!  I was a Gunner’s Mate 3rd Class! Freshly rocked out of SEAL Training (twice now, but who counts these sorts of thing? I suppose I do) and trying to retain what little was left of my  pride and my so-fifty-caliber-called-life.)

And I loved and Respected My Master Chief. Did not ever want to become an embarrassment to him, nor to my Fellow Gunner’s Mates who worked on the “Big Guns”. (Those ones what ‘bullets’ took two and a half-men to lift)

And even more important, (anyone who has ever ‘Served’ will know this), the Military is Run On Fear:

“Oh God, Please Don’t Let Me Fuck UP!”

That kind of fear.

Well, as I was lying on my back in my middle rack right before Taps with my little blue ‘privacy’ curtain drawn back when someone jerked that sucker back.

Along with my reverie.

Yep.

Master Chief Anderson!

MY MASTER CHIEF

“Son, tell me where you found those brand new gun covers.”

Trying to lie on my side and find an elbow to lean to, I half-coughed out, feigning sleepy-eyed ignorance,

“Master Chief, I had them made while we were in Mombasa.”

(There are people one may lie to in life, but, A Master Chief Petty Officer in the US Navy is not one found amongst those people. Not if one wishes life beyond that moment of sweet deception)

“I see”, was all he said, as he yanked my curtain back shut, thus leaving me alone with my various and sundry.

I did not sleep that night. For you see, I knew I had broken Naval Regs by doing something not-in-the Naval-Seaman’s-Bible–The Blue Book–The book, inches thick as a brick,  “The Book” I had been made to almost memorize while at Recruit Training Command, i.e. boot camp.

41XgCzuhSdL._AC_UL320_SR214,320_

I had broken the rule.

In the Nav, there is a sea sailor preamble, most requisite when one wants to recount a story of ‘when ships were made of wood and men were made of iron’… “Back when Moses was a pup, and this is a no-shitter” This validates and is a ritual never broken. In other words, one never breaks the rule.

Sometime mid-morning the next day, I was summoned to the berth/office of  The Department Head of my Division, Lt. Commander ‘Kennedy’.

‘Shitting bricks’ is too trite.

I was nervous.

I gave a hearty rap on the bulkhead door as I was trained to do in boot camp…

“Enter!”

“Petty Officer 3rd Class Marcom Sir!”

“I know who you are Lance; sit down.”

(What??? Lance??? Sit Down???)

Mouth agape I sat down, speechless

“Son, Master Chief Anderson tells me you went out on your own, designed, commissioned, smuggled off a prototype, and paid for, with your own money, those .50 Cal Gun Covers. Is this true?”

“Yes, uh, yessir,” I stammered.

“Well, that shows some fine initiative. How much did you pay Son?”

“Un Sir. Doesn’t matter…. I just, well, the .50 Cals, you know SIR,  cost ten-thousand dollars each, and I thought…rust….an…”

“How much did you pay?!”

“250 Dollars Sir.”

Without saying a word he opened a little three-lock-box (OK; I made that up. It was only a one-lock-box) that he had in a drawer, carefully opened it, and proceeded to hand me two-hundred and fifty bucks.

American

I sat there, dumb founded,  a moment too long, still in shock, looking at the bills in my hand…

“Petty Officer Marcom! “

“Huh…Uh, Huh… Sir?”

“You’re dismissed!”

Jumping up, knocking my chair over,  some tears welling in my eyes,

“Yessir!”

As I saluted him and abruptly left his quarters, quite in haste.

And thus I had survived yet another day in MY  Beloved Navy.

And Just As a Reminder Kids:

Don’t Rain on my Parade: I have enuff Rain for All

 

*And this just once more a rough draft, full of error, so be kind. Trust me: there is no harsher critic of me than me. I sweat commas. 

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Did I Re-Re-Reely Repost This Already?–Screw It! I’mma Bored!—“Last I heard You were a drunkard’s drunkard”—-“Never When I’m Working”–Shakespeare In Love: Nurse

“Pygmalion-Like I Created Her & Then Fell In Love With Her”

And it has occurred at me: I never ‘gave’ her a Proper Name.

I am gonna go with ‘Katherine.’

Works for me (And Hopefully, Her)

I was at my computer, banging out my latest travesty of prose.

As Was instructed/demanded by MS Muse.

Finished it and hit The ‘Publish’ Button.

(I NEVER allow Anyone, not even MS Muse, to proof-read or comment on my so-called ‘work’ before I cast it out into the endless sea that is the Internet.)

Muse will certainly be the first to read it and then as she is reading it, I’ll stand by for heavy rolls and unhappy critique.

But this post is not about that.

I leaned back in my chair, cracked open another beer, and glanced over my shoulder at MS Muse.

She had not yet gotten the “Moron-Writer-Just-Posted Alert.”

She was preoccupied with working her NYT Crossword

(Using an INK PEN! Vice a PENCIL like all the rest of us Mortals. Who has confidence enough to do that? She does.)

As I was staring at her, she apparently became aware.

She put down her New York Times, stared right back at me and said,

“Now what?”

I cleared my throat, mustered all the courage and moxie I had remaining, and said,

“Will You Marry Me?”

MS Muse started laughing her ass Off

“I guess that’s a ‘No’ then?”

Screw it.

I’d Rather Marry Carly

It didn’t exactly go like this, but this here/below, is

MY FANTASY.

I can concoct it as however is my wont.

Or ‘want.’

Call it ‘Creative License.’

If you must.

“I Cannot Speak Your England”

To be continued…

P.S., I am in love with Carly Simon

(As if Regular Readers Did Not Already Know This)

She was / is a bit of a slut,

But ain’t we all?

(I warmly embrace my ‘slutiness.’ It defines me)

Carly’s Slutiness Makes Me Love Her Even That Much More!

She is for reals!

******

Sorry Carly!

I should not have called you a slut–I live in a Glass House—

Casting Stones is Not Wise on My Part.

Vid Cred: The Dramatics