A beautiful tribute to an American Icon: Amelia Mary Earhart
(And yes. I know there is A LOT more going on in this song. I am not stupid.)
“Like Icarus ascending On beautiful foolish arms”
One of my favorite Amelia quotes:
“The most difficult thing is the decision to act. The rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers. You can do anything you decide to do. You can act to change and control your life and the procedure. The process is its own reward.”
Bonus on “Hissing of Summer Lawns” A great and respectful analysis
Vid Cred: For Most of the above: JoniJourney
(I am too lazy to Break it Down)
Don’t let this Bring You Down. It is a Beautiful Song, Performed by a Beautifully Sensitive, Thoughtful Lady.
Attractive Young Psychiatrist Nancy began her questioning in earnest:
“How long have you been drinking?”
“All my life,” I said.
“No, I mean recently.”
“Oh, ‘bout forty days and forty nights.”
(No chuckle; guess she was gonna be all business from this point.)
“Do you feel like hurting yourself? She asked.
“Pretty certain that is what I am doing right now. You ever been on a ‘forty day/night drunk?”
“Have you ever attempted suicide?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Hasn’t everyone?”
“How many times?” She went on.
“Only twice, but they obviously didn’t take.”
“When was this? At what age?”
“First time, I was thirteen. Second time nineteen.”
“And what prompted these two attempts?”
“First time because my football shoes were too tight, excruciatingly so, and this was affecting my performance and my passionate desire to become a High School Football Star.”
“Describe your attempt.”
“I pointed a locked and loaded , hammer back, .45 Caliber pistol at the roof of my mouth for about 5 seconds, finger on the trigger.”
“And the second?’ she asked.
“Oh, that was just over a woman. I would not call that unprecedented in the ‘History of Man.’”
“Describe this attempt please.”
“Well, as I said, it was over being dumped by a woman, a thirty-year old woman and it was also over the fact that I could no longer afford the car payments on my Chevy Monza 2 Plus 2. So I drank a pint of vodka and at a high rate of speed on a deserted Texas FM Road, turned a hard right and flipped the car. Thrice. I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”
“Were you abused as a child?”
“Do you mean do I hate my mother?” I asked.
“No. Were you ever abused?”
“My Grandfather shot at me with a deer rifle once, but he had cause because I had just a few moments earlier knocked him off the porch with a pretty good right hook to the jaw.”
“Why did you hit him?”
“He was trying to beat my Grandmother and she asked for help. Granddaddy was a mean drunk.”
“How old were you?” She asked.
“’Bout fourteen and change.”
“Does alcoholism run in your family?”
“Naw, it just kinda strolls. I mean, far as I know, it was just me and Granddaddy.”
“Do you want to stop drinking, Lance?”
“Yes. I don’t fancy dying just yet. I’m not ready.”
“Not ready to die, or not ready to quit drinking?”
“The dying part.”
“So, you’d like help?”
I watched her on the screen as she appeared to be writing a short essay on her note pad. After about two minutes, she looked up and said,
“OK Lance. I am going to make arrangements to send you to a hospital in Garland. They have better resources to help you than here in Commerce.”
“How long will I be there? I am a busy man, ya know? OK, just kidding, but can you give me an idea?”
“Probably three days or so to get you past the delirium tremens and not sure how many after that. Are you willing to go to this hospital and allow them to help you?”
“I never much cared for Garland, but sure. One problem though, I cannot drive it just now.”
“The Hospital will make arrangements to have you transported, so don’t worry about that. You just try to focus on the treatment they will give you.” She said.
“TRANSPORTED??? “What am I? A truck farm product?”
“Thank you Doc, I will. And, by the way, I am sorry for being a smartass, but I suppose you get that a lot, dealing with drunks and mental cases. I do appreciate your time and your help. Thank you.”
“It’s Okay Lance. I am going to talk to the staff now at your Hospital and begin making the necessary arrangements. Take good care.” She said and then severed the connection.
I got out of bed and returned the IPAD to the Staff Desk and thanked them.
“How’d it go?” One of the staff asked.
“You know, you can’t get Netflix on this thing?”
Unnamed Staff laughed.
Finally! (Love it when I can make someone laugh)
“It went just Jim Dandy, I suppose. Looks like I will be leaving Y’all soon.” I said, and then returned to my little Hospital Cave.
Now, I can Honestly Say That I Have Been to Jail In-This-Country–America, as Opposed to All The ‘Other’ Countries I have been to Jail in…
Tom Waits – “Eggs and Sausage
In A Cadillac With Susan Michelson”
“Why do men chase women?”
“I think It’s Because They Fear Death”
“Old saying my mother told me. Wanna hear it?”
“Yeah. Sure. Of Course.”
“Don’t Shit Where You Eat.”
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 Paradeof lame-ass-actions I have perpetratedon 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<firstname.lastname@example.org>cc bcc:
Yes, I am getting a tattoo (for my ‘mousing’ musing hand).
It will read simply, succinctly, in Big Bold Letters:
“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’.
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, so full of shit & 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 desperation just to be read.
“A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
Black Velvet, Black Velvet, If You Please…
(Feminine / Female Diversion)
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 simply, “A Fan.” (tongue in cheek)
Do that once and I will be sated.
Do it twice and you get a
For Free Mickey Mouse Pencil Sharpener,
An Autographed8X10 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.
“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
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).
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.
I am not as bad as I may, at first glance, appear
(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.
“Win or lose, win or lose To the losers go the heart-sick blues To the victor goes the spoilings Honey, did you win or lose?”
(I am bleeding out of every orifice in my body–This probably portends some un-happy times ahead)
MUST MUST MUST MUST!
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
Yeah Lyle, I been to Memphis too.
Street Vid Cred: kndfbl
Joni talking about Memphis
Joni on Beale Street
“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? English! English! English! (You live with Meskins, expect beans on the menu, ever’ once in a while.) English!
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.
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.
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… Whew! 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….
Dirty Toilet Jokes: I Cussed My Toilet Out. Then I Felt Remorse. Apologized. I Dialed 911. When the EMT’s Arrived, They Were NOT Amused.
The Toilet Song by The Wiggles
Animation by Super Simple Songs
Of course you do.
It is when you go to flush the toilet and that handle snarls back at you, rather limp-wrist’d, as if to say,
“Not tonight Asshole. Go back to sleep.”
(Now, in some truth, I could probably improve this post. For example: I should not have referenced ‘limp wrists”. In truth, y’all know how it is when you go to flush that toilet and there just ain’t no resistance. “Limp Wrists’ was just about all I could manage at the time of publishing…. (Isn’t that funny? Like I am a fucking news paper?) Dead-lines!
Some one shoot me!
(Make it quick! Head Shot! Right thru the mouth–or better…the mouse.)
God and some foll’ers will thank you.
Foretelling ‘Foreboding’ (See? I tend to edit as as I go… My father once tole me, “Lance! Enuff! Enough! It takes an editor to be smart; that is why we make more monies.”) some deep sea-toilet trolling (trolling?) diving to fix.
Don’t think so.
(There are three (other) toilets in this ‘Mouse-House’)
“So, fuck off.”
(My toilet did not reply)
Yes, I talk to my toilet… don’t we all?
“Take your hand off that mouse Mister! Don’t make me come over there.”
“Yessir! Please don’t shoot me; I’m just the piano-player.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me. What do you think, Jim?”
“Yeah. Bullshit. Shoot him.”
(Sorry, Si Robertson; some of this … this is probably out-of-context)
We will not even begin to speak about your brother.
Damnit! I miss Christopher Hitchens!
Even more embarrassing
At least More Than Thrice
But Who’s Countin’
You know the toilet is broke dick dog.
You still try to ‘visit.’
And it takes three tries to get into the door.
(Yet, it is a really small door–just sayin’– and not so easily navigated, drunk nor sober)
Only to be so disappointed (yet again) over the the whole toilet experience.
Below, please discover Lenny’s take on toilet-training.
(and of course: entertaining, or reasonable facsimile)
“Take This Toilet And Boil It.”
(Watch/Listen Below. Otherwise it all just falls apart)