Stage Four Zero Fucks Given Syndrome

I love becoming Sixty-Three.

I have reached that stage of life whereby I can say what-ever-the-fuck I want to say.

No Consequenes.

No Reprecussions.

No Nada.

(You got some ‘Nada?’—bring it!)

What the hell anyone gonna do to me that has not already been attempted?

I give zero fucks what anyone thinks of me.

This is so….

So…

So…

So Freeing.

I want for nothing.

I desire for nothing.

I need for nothing.

I am happy.

Content.

Saited.

I love who I am.

The rest of you be damned.

And take a one-way ticket to Hell.

And Board The Express Lane.

Put your foot on the gas.

A train possessing  brakes is just not exciting for me.

***********

Added value from a stupid post I posted on Facebook:

Fairly certain, fairly certain, Y’all are wondering what I am ‘into’ today.

“Take your good arm.”

(Or what is left-over of your mind.)

“And just wang it down.”

“Wanging” is good for the Soul. And good for the mind. It is Freedom.

Facebook Philosophy

I Recently Posted this on Facebook (not sure why)

******

“To All My Facebook Friends:

I love to ‘share’ stuff.

(This is the ‘primary purpose’ of FB as I understand it)

Some of the things I ‘share’ are good.

Some other things not so much.

But I share anyway. 

Why?

  1. Because I can

  2. Because I want to

  3. Because it makes me happy.

  4. Because I am ‘generous.’

Yep. I am generous.

To a fault.

I will give you the shirt off my back if it will do you more good than me.

I will give you my food, my booze, my car.

I will give you almost anything I own.

Because I do not care about material things.

The only thing I will not give you is My Life.

(There has been only one time I was ready to give my life for a friend, and that happened one Labour Day back in the Early Seventies)

I am older now and hopefully somewhat wiser.

And have become so ‘loving jealous’ of my life of late.

“Life is for learning.”

–Joni Mitchell

*********

(Just for reference in case you are new here):

“Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.”–W. Shakespeare

Just a little more “added value”

If you have come this far,

You must surely know by now how much I love Joni.

Original “Woodstock”

Song.

Sung by

A Poet.

A Rare Gem

A Treasure.

A Woman (of Heart and Mind)

An Angel.

(There is no thumbnail)

Trust me!

It is Joni!

Watch and listen!

Try this one:

(These two, actually)

There is never enough Joni in my World.

If you do not love Joni,

Well,

You have probably taken a wrong turn at

Albuquerque.

And should not be here.

Go back to California.

Or Egypt.

Or Cat-Man-Don’t.

Or

Whatever Planet You Call “Home.”

These days.

 

 

Oh Fuck it!

I will revist this when I am sober.

Fuck it!

WordPress is obviously 

Broken.

WP and I have this in common:

We are both…

Broken.

 

Fuck it!

 

“Is it all books and words? Or do you really feel it? Do you really care? Do you really smile. When you smile?”

And since I am rather fond of complete sentences

(and closure)

I just feel compelled to drop this bit in.

(For those few, those happy few, who actually “get” me.

And my sense of humor.)

 

If I keep dropping mindless shit into this post, I am going to lose my fucking mind.

But I suppose this “Post” Was All About Some Of The Favorite Things I Love To Share.

Now.

Fess up.

Wasn’t it?

Fuck it.

You should not have come this far.

Go Away.

(This one is just for Lance.)

Vid credit: Ly1212

“Say, can I have some of your purple berries?”
“Yes, I’ve been eating them for six or seven weeks now. Haven’t got sick once.”
“Probably keep us both alive.”

I keep ‘sharing’.

But that was the entire point of this entire exercise.

Now,

Wasn’t it?

And just to tie up this thought process…

“Few of My Favorite Things.”

Someday, this post is gonna end.

 

I am gonna keep milking this cow until she be dry.

(Yes! I am insane!)

Please try to forgive me.

Or not.

Really do not care.

At this point.

“Sharing is Caring.”

Laughing out LOUD!

(I do NOT Subscribe to the “Social Justice Warrior” Magazine.)

‘Cuz I am an asshole.

But then, you’d know that….already.

Thank you if you have read this post.

I am not so much of an ass that I cannot appreciate any time you have spent here.

Thank You.

 

“Guess I’ll set a course and go.”

“The Letter Said He Was Reported Dead.”

“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!

The Flat-Bed Truck and The Pastel Sun-Dress

 

 

This Boat Is Sinking

“You don’t know what I fear.”

(How could you???)

MY “Hood:”

Immediately after I was delivered to my front porch from UBH, I boarded my little Chariot and went to the Beer Store.

I did NOT fall off the wagon.

I jumped.

Then,  Just for fun,  I called in an air-strike to finish her off.

BOOM!

Gone.

No more wagon!

Flash Forward to present day:

I am struggling.

The Rehab did not ‘rehabilitate’ me.

It just allowed me to ‘dry out’ for a week.

(I needed the break)

But now, I find me back in that same old familiar place.

Dodging the DT Monster.

Dodging me.

Making excuses.

Telling the two-and-a-half friends I have left:

“I am sorry.”

Perhaps I will die soon.

Naw!

There is an Election Coming  Up!

And I would not miss that for all the Rum In Jamaica.

Leaf Lady, Brick Walls, Jaguar Engineering, And Driving While Blind

Leaf Lady was seriously raking leaves in the midst of a thirty-knot wind across the street from my house. Every time she managed to accumulate a pile the wind would sweep them away. (Leaf Lady looks almost exactly like ‘Granny’ from the Beverly Hillbillies–and probably about the same age)

“Goddamn Mother-Fuck!” she would scream as she shook her rake at the sky not unlike Scarlett-I’ll-never-be-hungry-again O’Hara.

Roberta and I drove upon this scene one Sunday morning.

Leaf Lady was no stranger to us, so we just ignored her and went about our business.

We parked in my ample driveway all the way forward so as to be closer to my back door.

We walked up to the steps and could still hear Leaf Lady screeching at the sky cussing about ‘People fucking up her yard!”

We made our way past my laundry cubicle and entered the kitchen. Our mission was to liberate some cookbooks of mine for ‘Roberta Purposes.’

I grabbed a stack of books from a shelf, placed them on the counter and asked, “Baby, will these do?”

“Oh, I NEED these,” she said, as she grabbed “Barbeque Bible” and “White Trash Cooking” from the stack.

As we were attempting to load up her Jag with these wonderful books, a station wagon came screeching into my driveway, stopping just short of ramming into ‘Berta’s Jag.

Out jumped Kenny K. Most likely drunk.

“Hey! What Y’all doin’?” He exclaimed as he made his unsteady way through my gate and up to the steps.

“Hiya Kenny” Roberta answered. “What brings you about this Sunday Morning?”

“I saw your Jag and thought I’d just drop in.”

“Well come on in; we’re having Mimosas.”

(Roberta had brought a jug of Mimosas, just in case our book expedition took too long)

Kenny said, “Great” and we all retired back to the kitchen to consume more Mimosas.

We consumed about three quarters of the jug when suddenly Kenny decided there was some other place he was supposed to be.

Probably Church.

(Just kidding)

As Roberta and I were gathering up the prized cook books and schlepping them to the car, we heard a loud, very loud ‘screech.”

And then a louder ‘crash.’

I had just caught a fleeting glimpse of Kenny reversing at a high rate of speed into Leaf Lady’s yard and almost destroying her prized pecan sapling. Tree bark flying all over.

Shit got real at this point.

Kenny Immediately fled (seems he was under some kind of Court Injunction Fun-Shun—something ‘bout DUI—or something. Probation, I suppose. Anyhow, he fled the scene.)

So, this left me and Roberta to placate Leaf Lady and try to forestall her calling the Police.

Leaf Lady was, at this point livid. (As you may well imagine)

“That Mother-Fucker has killed my tree!”

(Gotta love Leaf Lady by now. I’d bet she was never in the Navy, but she should have been)

Roberta tried to calm her:

“Look, your tree is OK. Just some bark, barked off… It will be fine.”

“Bullshit!” Leaf Lady retorted.

Roberta pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to Leaf Lady.

This calmed her some.

I did same and handed her another fifty (which I could not afford)

This calmed her further.

We just left her there, counting her good fortune.

This bought us (me and Roberta) enough time to return to my house and retrieve and load up the cookbooks into the Jag.

In her haste, Roberta threw the cook books into the floorboard of her Jag.

(Foreshadowing)

We boarded the Jag and sped away, listening to Leaf Lady screaming, “I want that Mother-Fucker in Jail!’

Whatever.

We sped away, laughing at the reminisce of Leaf Lady.

Drove the three blocks to Robert’s house.

She sped into the driveway as she had done about ten thousand times before.

And applied the brakes.

‘Cept they did not apply.

(The cookbooks had fucked her—blocking her brakes—no way)

We crashed through some metal garden furniture and then a half-high brick wall, destroying it.

The Jag was determined to keep on keeping on, but I threw her into drive and killed the engine.

Once the car had stopped its forward progress, ‘Berta jumped out and did her best impersonation of Leaf Lady:

She (Roberta) freaked the fuck out!

“Oh my Gawd! Oh My Gawd! Oh My GAWD!

I got out of the passenger side and assessed the ‘damage.’

Weren’t none. (Jags are the shit)

There was just a little bit of white paint on the hood of the Jag.

Of course the garden party furniture was destroyed, as was the brick half wall, but other than that, no nada.

I tried to point this out to Roberta.

She having none of it.

“Look what you have made me do!”

“Excuse me?!”

“Look at this!”

“Look at what? Precisely?”

“This wall is a mess! The garden furniture is a wreck!”

“Three or four Meskins can fix this in two hours. You have the money. Sort it out manana.”

Wrong answer, Marine.

I finally calmed her and we went into the house and got very, very drunk.

She recruited some Meskins next day.

And they made ever’thang alright.

As they do (hard-workers them) Love them. 

 

Perchance To Dream

For Weeks I could not Sleep.

Now All I want to do is Sleep.

I am going to check out for a while.

And WRITE.

Do not be concerned.

You may or may not hear from me for awhile.

Or ever again.

Please do NOT become a ‘Good Samaritan’ and call 911.

Or email me.

Or try to telephone me.

Or Message me.

If I am dead, I am dead. Nothing to be done.

Let me be Dead in Peace.

If I decide to die,

I will Post a Message First.

This is what a nice, Considerate Person I have Become.

“Commencing Count-Down, Engines On.”

“I’m stepping through the door.”

“Can you Hear Me, Major Tom? Major Tom! There is Something Wrong.”

“I think my Spaceship Knows Which Way To Go.”