I Don’t Need No More (Toilet) – Trouble

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.”

(Shit!)

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.
Ciou”

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!

The La Mesa Yankee Girl In King Lance’s Court (From Connecticut) Work-In-Progress… *Apologies to Mark Twain*

A very long TT&H Project I am working on:

“KAREN, The Only Non-Texan Girl I Ever Loved”

(Working Title)

OK. That’s a Bullshit Lie.

But it Looked Good to Me In Print.

So I’m gonna run with it.

*****

Just need to wait for her to send me the photo records…


“Dear Karen,
I have a favor to ask:
Would you please email me any and all photos of us together?
(All Mine perished in a fire—that my last Wife started)
I am working on a blog story.
Don’t worry.
I am respectful.
It will be very flattering to you.
Because I did love you once.
(Probably still do)
But you weren’t no Texan.

Video credit: patgree


I forgave you that however.
Thanks in advance, -Lance.”


She emailed me back:


“I can and will. Give me a few days, I’m not at home at the moment.
I do get the just. (Pretty sure she meant ‘Gist’, but English was never her strong suit–she had ‘other talents.’) So a favor back, do I get to read what you are writing?”

I replied,


“Of course you do. The post is gonna be all about you.

And how I truly did love you.

Smoke that!

Ponder it.

You silly Gurl! I still love you.

Below is how I remember you:”

Street Vid Cred: catman916

*****

Oh And BTW,

Where the Fuck is “Ipanema?”

Institutionalized ‘R’ Us: Or, That Place I Need/Want To Be

How I sometimes See/Experience My Mental Life:

I have come to the stark realization that I am at my best when institutionalized.

Long and varied History of this

Follow The Orange Brick Roads if You Be Fearless, or Feckless–Either Works For Me:

My point, if I have one, is that I need ‘Structure/Routine/Schedule’ in my life.

Without routine/structure in my life…

This is one reason I was a good SFM/Egypt/Israel Man.

And such a great Sailor/Military Man.

And such a good Iraq Man

And such a good… Fuck it!

Y’all have picked up on my point.

Without routine/structure in my life…

I become self-destructive.

No! I do NOT slice my wrists.

I do NOT (overmuch) eat garbage food.

I do not (overmuch) drink too much OK, THAT is a Bald-Faced Lie.

I do NOT Listen (overmuch) to Disco.

I do NOT (overmuch) watch CNN.

I do not (overmuch) shit-post on Facebook.

But What I actually do and do too overmuch and over the top, is think too much.

Way too much

Reflect too much.

****

Returning to the original point of this post:

I need to be institutionalized.

Or as my Father once confided in me:

“I live in my own little world, but it’s okay: They know me there.”

****

Flash Forward to ‘Present Day’:

Here we discover Lance, Living Large in The Lion’s Den.

No schedule.

No responsibilities

Nowhere to need to be

Sustainable cash inflow (Thanks Social Security)

Minimal Friends, FaceBook or otherwise to fret over.

Don’t feel compelled to answer my telephone if I don’t want to.

Valhalla, Right?

Heaven, Right?

Waco Texas, Right?

Wrong!

I am in Peril: With a capital ‘P’.

Left alone to my own devices and vices…

Well, it ain’t pretty.

And it ain’t nothin’ nice.

*****

I may or may not expand upon this derailed train of thought.

We’ll see.

(If I get any feedback, I’ll make an effort)

But, Y’all do realize, I am so busy right now going insane—almost a full-time job—requires almost all of my creative capital and ‘mental’ energy.

But, Please Stay Tuned.

Because if I know nothing else, I know I love my Readers.

Cheers Y’all,

–Lancers

P.S., Fairly Certain I would do quite well in Prison

(I have already been over the years)

But Pretty sure if I wanted to go to a ‘Real’ Prison, I could figure out how to get my cab fare–gratis

–L

Hotel California. Uh, I mean Hotel Indigo: LaSheeka

One night she got pissed off (she had a hair-trigger—I loved her for that)

“Why don’t you just get a fucking job?!”

(Screamed at some pan-handler at Hotel Indigo late one night.)

I just walked away, but said to her, “Baby, calm down.”

She replied, “These idiots just piss me off.”

Had to concur.

LaSheeka and I worked Night Shift at Hotel Indigo for probably at least a year.

We became instant ‘Fast Friends.”

Instant Karma.

We ‘understood’ one another and neither one of us ever put up with bullshit.

Because neither one of us gave a fuck.

We just did our respective jobs.

And LaSheeka was never hesitant to tell a drunken refugee “Guest” from Beale Street that he/she was full of shit and needed to just go the fuck to bed. And STFU!

We spent many long nights swapping tales.

I told my stories.

She told hers.

We BONDED.

I MISS HER.