“Escape From Memphis—Chapter Three—Shawn & My Insanity.” And Yet One Mo’ Time… WordDepress’d Has Dun Piss’d Me Righteously The Fuk OFF! Takes No Less Than 3 ‘Edits’ Just To Make One ‘Stick!’

“Operator Error?”

I Don’t Fukkin’ Think So!

I have been suffering The Incompetency of WordPress For Over A Decade Now.

I am Growing Weary!

Young Girls–And This Here Cowboy Do Get Weary

Three Dog Night – Try A Little Tenderness




So they put me on a stretcher and schlepped me out of the Hotel Magnuson.
To Hospital.
Upon my arrival,
Asked me of my ‘complaint.’
“I think I’m dying.”
“OK Sir, relax”
I was so ‘relaxed’ by this point that I wanted to embrace death.
My legs had stopped working, in fact.
They were all so kind.
They did all the usual Hospital Shit:
Made me pee in a bottle.

Cred For This Above: The Critical Drinker (And I Have Tried–Multiple Times–To Move This Line Up-The-Fukkin’ Page to Where It Should Be. But Guess What? WORDPRESS!

And Furthermore, I Have Descended Into “No Fuks Given Territory”



Stuck me with all kinds of pins and needles.
Put me in that torture chamber.
That noisy machine…. What makes you pray to Hey Zeus.
Several hours later, they pronounced me “Good to Go.”
Told me to go home.
“No ride” I said.
One of the EMTs was just getting off shift and said,
“No problem, I will drive you.”
(I have always appreciated the kindness of strangers)
EMT Guy, dropped me at the Magnuson.
Shamefully, Sheep-Like, I staggered back to my room.
Went into some kind of coma-sleep.
Next day.
Called Nine-One-One Once again.
“What now, Marcom?”
Apparently they had my phone ID.
And why not?
“I am dying.” I said.
“Again?” she said.
“Yes, again; send help,” I shot back.
“OK You still at the Magnuson?”
Some many minutes later….
Ambulance arrives.
Same song, different verse:
Arrived back at Commerce Hospital ER
But with a twist.
There was this EMT.
Let us call his name, “Shawn”
Because that is his name.
He was so fucking proud of it that he announced it to me…
Moving on…
Shawn was having none of my antics.
He called me out on my bullshit.
He knew I was drunk.
And I knew I was drunk.

Recipe for disaster and testosterone collision.

We had that semblance of common knowledge going on.
As they were trying to place me back on the bed in the ER, Shawn got up in my face.

“Listen, Asshole….” He broached.

That is all it took.
I got right back up in HIS face:

“Listen, Mother-Fucker! I am sincerely IN PAIN! Do NOT fuck with me!”

He was not impressed.
He got back in my Face and said,

“I give no fucks about your ‘pain.’

We got eyeball to eyeball.
Nose to nose.
Cheek to cheek.
Chest to chest.

Fisticuffs coming.

I suppose at some point, Police were summoned.

Shawn and I, were at that point…
Joined at the hip.
The Po-Lease Arrived.
Managed to surgically separate us.
They took Shawn away.
And put me away.
In the Hospital Bed.
Where I ‘rested.’

The Cops hung around.
I suppose to just make certain I was not gonna kill anyone.

We had some ‘chat.’
They asked me if I was gonna be a ‘problem’ for the Hospital Staff.

I said, “No. Just as long as you keep that asshole Shawn outta my sight.”
One cop said, “Shawn is gone.”
“Fine then,” I said back.
And then we, the cops and me, enjoyed some of my War Stories of Iraq and Afghanistan.
And we had a merry time.


I think, looking back, Shawn and I just had communication deficit.

Next time I found me in the Commerce ER, I told that same very nice EMT that I had regrets about Shawn.
And that I’d like to apologize (I seem to be ‘apologizing’ a lot these days)
He was kind, and said,
“I will tell him; certain he will appreciate the sentiment.”
“Thank You.” I said. “Now fetch me a beer.”

(I guess eyes rolled at this point, but at the very least, I had managed to make him smile inside.)

Added value:

“If You Ain’t Shawn, I’m Gone!”

I sincerely regret That fact.

That I feel this need..

To hit you upon your head.

“If you ain’t Shawn, I’m Gone!”

Writing is fun!

They draw first and then they run.’

While shooting at a girl named of “Nancy’

(She called herself ‘Lil.’ but her name was Ma Gill)

We just called her ‘Nancy”

(This is called ‘foreshadowing’–yeah–it’s a literary term. Ha ha ha!)

“Rocky, you’ve met your match.”

I said, “No Doc; it’s only a scratch!”

“But I’ll get better, I’ll get better,  soon  as I’m able..”


To be continued…

“If you ain’t Shawn, I’m gone.”

More ‘added value.’

“He wants MORE!”

He wants MORE!”

Can relate.

Chapter Five or Ten or Nine coming soon.

Do NOT touch that dial.

Chapter First Found Here:

Chapter Two may be found here:

Chapter six found here:

Tattoo: ‘This is Awkward,’ or ‘Open for Suggestion’, Or “Using Parking Meters For Walking Sticks”–Tom Waits “Parking Meters As Walking’ Sticks?” Yep! Been There–Done That! I Have The T-Shirt.

Author’s Note:

Yes. I’ve done some incredibly stupid shit in my time.

Below is an actual-for-real email I sent to a soon-to-be former boss (an attractive lady-boss, of course.) and is sadly very close to the top of the Misfit Hit Parade of lame-ass-actions I have perpetrated on innocents.


I have swerved into the solution for Drunken Emails.

Who could’ve known it would be this simple?

Street Cred for Vid: Big Play Films


From: Moron <lance_moron@misfits.fubar> cc bcc:

To: Lady_Boss@job.yrfired

Subject: Tattoo

Dear Suki,

Yes, I am getting a tattoo (for my ‘mousing’ musing hand).

It will read simply, succinctly, in Big Bold Letters:


Subtle Reminder:

“No! Don’t Go There Lance!”

Brevity? Yes. (‘That soul of wit.’)

“Words have meaning Son,” my father often told me.

And short words, I have discovered, oft hold the most meaningful meaning.

It has been ‘awkward’ (to say the very least) to face you of late.

After my ‘email shot-gunning’ you, off-the-chain escapade of recent shameful regret, but… I did it and today found the courage to read all of what I did send and happily discovered, most were not of the obnoxious caliber of my historical wont.

Thank God and Baby Hey Zeus!

Alas, I wish I had an excuse.

Yet, in searching, there is one to be discovered, but so probably painfully evident that it requires no verbalization:

Two times per year, I get to ‘explore’ my darker side.

Two times per year, I choose a ‘lucky’ recipient to ‘share’ in my darkness.

Two times per year someone gets to be ‘it’.

Guess what?!


You won!

You’re the New ‘IT’ Girl!


You’re in Good Company.

Clara Bow: The Original It Girl, 1927


The thing about writers (and those so-called writers who call themselves ‘writers’) is that they are so full of themselves, and vain by nature (it is requisite-with the breed), and every writer and so-called writer I have ever met, are… assholes. All.

Vain, pompous, drinks-too-much, full of sound and fury, and desperate.

“A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Desperate for…

Crying for…

Waiting for…


I am not (not really) stupid.

I know you cannot ‘comment’ nor even acknowledge, via email, all the posts I posted ‘at you.’

I dare say you would be wise to ignore me and my ramblings, given our professional relationship.

Yet, if you did read even one of the posts on my blog, (actually I think you read the first one I begged you to read—not the ‘best’ one, but one which apparently was on my mind–at the time)

It is a very simple thing to comment, ‘in disguise’ as


Or ‘any-mouse.’

Or simply, “A Fan.” (tongue in cheek)

Too easy.

Do that once and I will be sated.

Do it twice and you get a Mickey Mouse Pencil Sharpener,


An Autographed 8X10 Hollywood-Type-Glossy Photograph of Jesus Christ.

Sermon-on-the-mount, highly recommended, and our best-seller

But you cannot have both; there is a limited supply.

Do it thrice:  You should seek counsel.

Professional help.


Never mind…

“Writers are assholes.”

“Lance is a ‘writer’”

“Ergo, Lance is an asshole.”



There is a point to this post, but most assuredly, I have forgotten my initial inclination in that regard.

***‘Jeopardy musical theme plays***

Oh yes!

Now I’ve got it!

This is my convoluted apology to you.

I am, and shall always remain, an Honorable Military Man.

I am cognizant of the duty (and the mission)

And, admitting I was wrong is something which seems to be easier (and more difficult—same time) to do lately.

My first wife once accused me of aspiring to be “King of the Idiots.”

(She was an idiot savant…well, you’d have to know her to get my meaning, yet, I think–know, that I have posted about her…ON-MY-BLOG)

Back to my point:


I am beginning to grow bored with my job.

You are the best supervisor/boss I have had in recent memory. All, and I do mean ALL respect you.

This should be enough for me (and for the foreseeable future it shall be)


I don’t like to shit where I eat, BUT (and this is a curse), I have a opinions and I need to get that tattoo—post haste—and with all due prejudice.

I like you Suki.

I respect you.

I am trying to help you professionally (in my way).

And NO!

I am not trying to ‘do’ anything other than ‘talk’ to you and ‘work’ for you.

To quote Nixon:

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear…”

I am a whore, but only when it comes to my writing.

Nothing else these days (aside from my computer addiction) means anything to me.

Rest easy.

I am not as bad as I may, at first glance, seem.

(Truth: I am worse, but I do not bring that to WORK)



(Yes: you may quote me. I’d be flattered…. Hahahahaaa)

See you on Friday.

And remember not to work too hard.

Life’s best moments can be fleeting.

Cherish Them


Number One

Beautiful Joni

“Escape From Memphis–Chapter One” A Warmed-Over Re-Run

(I am bleeding out of every orifice in my body–This probably portends some un-happy times ahead)


This Song is the ENTIRE Point of the POST!

(And Sorry if I Buried The Lead)

“The Lamp is Broken on the Mantle”

Ed. Note to All You Nattering Nabobs of Nay-Sayers down there in the ‘Commentary Section’:
I say this:
‘This is “My Side” of the Story!’
Read Between the Lines if You Must.

(Or feel compelled.)


Lance, No Longer Down an’ Out In

Memphis, Tennessee:

Yeah Lyle, I been to Memphis too.

Street Vid Cred: kndfbl

Joni talking about Memphis

Joni on Beale Street

“Bourbon Laughter & Shoppin’ Malls…”

Joni is So Very Beautiful




“Walkin’ in Memphis”

Credit: Marc Cohn


And SCREW YOU WORDPRESS For Not Allowing Me to Delete this below BROKEN Up-Load!!!

Stuck on STUPID.


She just sat there on the front porch, smoking Camel Blues, sipping diet Dr. Pepper, and watching as I scurried back and forth, worker ant-like, schlepping boxes and boxes and boxes and sundry other shit to my Ford.
Never said a word.
Never shed a tear.
I was leaving her!
What the fuck?
No tears?
No desperation?
No tears?
No tears?
No tears?
No nada?
(You live with Meskins, expect beans on the menu, ever’ once in a while.)

Stiff upper lip and all that jazz…
After I had packed the Ford to the point of tightness unimagined (you could have poured a bottle of Jim Beam into it and not one drop would escape), I walked to the front porch and announced,

“Well, I guess that’s it then.”
“You’re leaving now?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan,” I said.
She stood up, looked me in the eye. I threw my arms around her and hugged her deep.
Now we were both crying.
I managed to blurt out something profound…

“I’m so sorry Helen.”
“Take good care of you,” she said, blinking back the tears.
I slow-walked to the Ford, looking back through MY tears only once. Got in, cranked her up and drove away.
The part where the cowboy rides away…
Took me a block an’ a half to stop crying.
Then I was so over it.

And her.

Four blocks later I realized I could not see out of my side-view rear-view mirror. My dismantled computer chair in the passenger seat was blocking my vision. This would never do. I pulled into a vacant parking lot and jettisoned said computer chair.
Just left it there in the dust.

With my life.
Merry Early Fucking Christmas to someone.
Some homeless one in Memphis.
And drove on, westward.

Nine minutes later at sixty-five miles per hour, I was crossing the Big Muddy and entering Arkansas.

I had achieved escape velocity.
I turned on the radio.
Loud and proud.
CDB was screaming something about Trudy and telephones.
And calling her.

And jail.
I cranked it up and sang along.
Very happy and oh so fucking proud of me.
My new life had just begun.
Just another tequila sunrise.
As I drove west with the sun over my shoulder.
So many thoughts were flying around in my head, gnat like… buzzing.

I was almost giddy.
I was staring down six hours of road trip.

No big deal, but it had been almost ten years since I had taken to the road or air or sea, and I was just a mite apprehensive.
“You can do this Lance,” I whispered to me over the radio, now playing Van Morrison.
“Hear That Robin Sing.’
Hours and hours and hours into Arkansas (when did Arkansas get so fucking BIG?)

I found a trucker’s rest stop and so I stopped.
And rested.
And pee’d.
Had to.
Walked about
Had to.
Stretched my legs.
Had to.

“Where is Texas?” Halfway through Arkansas…. And halfway from what I had called ‘home’ for ten years.
“What am I doing?”
“Going West, Young Man, Goin’ West.”
“Oh yeah, I almost had forgotten.”

By and by I hit the “border”
(On the border)

Wanted to stop and take a selfie in front of the sign what read, “Welcome To Texas, Drive Friendly.” But it was Interstate and not safe to do so, so I just kept on driving.
And singing at me!

“Texas! Oh Texas!”
“You are finally home, Cowboy!”
Now what?
Keep driving, I suppose.
I had pre-arranged a ‘garage’ to store my shit.

A ‘rent-a-space’ shed in Commerce.
Got a phone call from the proprietor….

“Lance, you still coming?”

“Yeah, fast as I can, but I will not arrive in time for your departure. Can you HBO? Help a brother out? I will arrive Commerce about 1800 hours…. Leave the key in the lock box or something; I want to off-load my shit before I go to the hotel.”
“Sure, got a CC number for me?”
“Yeah, no worries.”
That sorted, I drove on.
Presently I arrived Sulphur Springs.
And promptly got lost.
Could not find the road to Commerce.

Well, shit!

It had been some years and beers and tears since I had had to make this trek.

Finally found the proper road and guess what?
It was ‘under construction’ as they do.
Took me some few little minutes to navigate through that, but…. Finally… on the road again.

Commerce in my sights now.
Sped into town, saw Whitley Hall, High Rise and shouted out loud: HOME!

“Thank fucking God!’
(And this was a push for me, for as you know, I am an atheist)
Found the ‘rent-a-shed’ and off-loaded my shit.
Went to the Adult Beverage Store.
Then found the Magnuson, formally known as “The Holiday Inn Express,” checked in, and got very, very, very drunk.

Chapter Two Coming…
Chapter One is Done!
Writing is hard!
As is my wont, I drop in music.
Music defines me, and yes, my life has a soundtrack.
I suppose this don’t make me nothing special.
Just yet one more schmuck.
Trying to get by.
And Waiting for Godot
(Vain reference from my college / university daze.)

Beautiful Loser
Read it on the wall.
Blue moon with heartache.
Nick of time
“Scared you’ll run outta time.”
Love has no pride
This old cowboy—MTB

So many emotions were colliding around in my head, not unlike that stupid arcade game: asteroids….

Escape From Memphis–Chapter Two

Part threee may be discovered here:

New Life.  Video Credit: Cool Coyote  https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9mNquw1Fc7beFfQ8OpnjRQ

Blinking back the tears.

I Love You! Patty Loveless!

My love is never less

Up-Dated–Expanded–Major Re-Write–Memp-iphany: Yes! Elvis Has Left The Building. And, By-The-Way!–Fuk Yu Word-Press!

Why Cannot I Do a Simple Edit? You Want More of My Money???

Go Get Wrecked!

Fix Your Shit!


Go Fuk Yer’Self Word-Press! I Cannot Believe I’ve Sent You Money, Lots Of Money, Every Year—For lots of years! And for What? I can Scoop Up Garbage Off the Street—Don’t Cost Me A Dime.

Not to Mention, I have Been on yer Bullshit Chat Too Many Times, Talking to Some Lame-Ass Schmuck/Condescending Idiot in Mumbai—-


Don’t Do Nothing.

Don’t Accomplish Nothing!




Go Sit And Spin

On Top of This!


“Wasted Days and Wasted Nights”

I Never Get No Satisfaction!


Cred For Vid Share: ABKCOVEVO


Joni Mitchell –

“Furry Sings the Blues”

“Down An’ Out In Memphis Tennessee”

This Song is…

Words Fail.

‘Cept To Say, It really Moves Me.

It Do Help If You Know Your Music History

And Have Ever Lived in Memphis Tennessee

(Of Course)

“Bourbon Laughter”

“History Falls to Parking Lots & Shopping Malls”

Furry Lewis:







The Genius That is JONI

How Could Any ‘Thinking’ Man, Woman, or Child Not Love Her?

“Eye-Shades & Guns”

Joni Mitchell – Song For Sharon (Live London 1983)

“Face The Dream’s Malfunction”

If You Are Well-Read, You Will Catch the Ophelia Reference:

“A woman I knew just drowned herself
The well was deep and muddy
She was just shaking off futility
Or punishing somebody



Walking in Memphis

Cred: Marc Cohn 


Lyle Lovett – “I’ve Been To Memphis”

This afternoon I suffered a brief epiphany. Now yes I know, there is no such thing as a unique ‘brief’ epiphany. All epiphanies are brief. (“an experience of sudden and striking realization”) By definition. But I suffered one, brief though it was, now it is mine. I aim to keep it and make it not brief.

My ‘sudden and striking realization’ struck me at Kroger’s, standing in the check-out line and in my usual hurry. There was a man in front of me in one of those grocery-store golf carts. He kept bumping into shit, trying to navigate. He was cheerful. The cashier was cheerful. They both laughed at his lack of driving skills. Then… I had to laugh too. With them. Then it hit me. The cashier lady was black. The bumpy lousy grocery cart driver was white. In Memphis, this is how we roll: people are Kind to one another, regardless.

In Memphis Tennessee. My adopted ex-pat State, right there on the spot, I fell in love. Yes! Love! (took me far too long)

Ask me why? Why today? Why after so many times in which I have railed against the slowness of the shopping cart? The slowness of the cashier. The slowness of the people to gas their cars when the light turns green and I am in a hurry (hurry for what?) The casual way life is approached?

I cannot answer, but it hit me today.

It hit me! Suddenly!

I used to be that way.

That way. That bad way.

And I was happy, being mean.

Then I got in a ‘hurry’ and I was even less happy.

Never took the time to talk to folks. Never said ‘Hello’ Never helped someone needing help. In Memphis, people still help people; they have a conversation in the check-out line. Those waiting to check out, check their egos in their cars. Life is sublime. People are Nice! Nice! Civil! Nice Civil People! Can you imagine?

I need this.

I needed this!

I have it now.

I had an epiphany.

I have an epiphany.

And I am gonna keep it.

And I am gonna take it home (To Texas) when I get there. ‘ Lesson I learned in Tennessee.’ Shoulda learned it in Texas.  Texans have always had it. Understood it. Embraced it. With both arms open…



I Will Always Love My Country



“Try Some Kindness”

I Don’t Need No More (Toilet) – Trouble And Once Again, WordPress Has Fucked Me In My Ass—Every Once-In-A-While, I’d Enjoy A Kiss–

WP Will NEVER/EVER Allow A Single, Simple Edit On A Post That Has Been Posted.

What Am I Paying ‘Protection For?

I Axe You!

I Love To Laugh (at me) And My Chasing at Sobriety

“Hey Lance! What would you do if you ever caught the Sobriety Bus?”

“Burn my nose on the tail-pipe–I don’t know–haven’t thought it through.”


(Ed. Note: The Bob Marley Vid ain’t Necessary, nor requisite.
But I find it a ‘Nice Touch.’ Watch it if you want. Don’t if you don’t.)

“Totally ”Down-Stroyed'” I love a play on words!

(When it works…)


So I discover a small lake in my ‘Head’—Bathroom.
“Whatever does this mean?”
I asked the Resident Gnat Watch-keeper.
“You’re the Fucking Genius, Tell Us.” he replied.

I scoped it out.

Sure as shit, The Shitter was leaking out of its ass.
I closed the water supply, emptied the basin, found some towels, threw same upon the floor.
Went back to my neglected beer.

Then came a knocking upon my door…
“Mister Marcom, is there a leak in your bathroom?
Water water everywhere in this hall.” Deb said.
I replied, “Uh, Yeah, but I fixed it.”

(Don’t want no trouble)

Deb said, “I’ll send Cynthia around to check it out. My ‘Guy’ isn’t here today.”


Presently, My Love, My Cynthia, arrives.

“How you doin’ Baby?”
(She always calls me ‘Baby’—It is a ‘Black Woman Thing’)

“I’m Fine Baby.”

(I can do ‘Black Woman’ vernacular too)

“Y’all got a leak?”
“Yeah, it’s the toilet, but I ‘fixed’ it. Turned off the water and emptied it.”
“So, you need a new toilet?”
“I suppose.”
“Okay Baby. Tomorrow…”
“Cheers Baby. And Thank you.

And she left.

Now I have something to look forward to:
Some smelly fat white-guy Plumber invading my Sanatorium to replace my toilet and displace what little concentration I have left.

(As an Old–Fat, Smelly White Guy Myself–I know far too well, the Breed, and what to expect.)

There are no less than thirty empty wine boxes in my head. Curious as to how ‘Plumber Man’ will deal with them…

Oh Goody!
I can’t wait!