“Kate! Katherine! Muse!” I shouted, as I bounded from my computer chair over to her.
“I love you! Will you marry me or no? I must know!”
I stood in front of her, trembling.
She stood up, sidestepped the nasty coffee table, and walked up to face me at very close range.
She pierced me with those eyes. Looked down (almost sadly—I perceived—then took my hands into hers)
She looked back into my eyes and said,
“Lance, Baby, you understand I am not a real girl. You created me. I live in your mind and at your leisure.”
“Whaaaa?”
“Yes. I am a figment of your mind. Does not mean I don’t love you. I will always be here for you. And if you choose, I will love you. I will ‘write’ you, as far as you may write yourself. But ‘marry’? I cannot.”
She dropped my hands and sat back down on The Nasty Couch. Took a sip of Pinot, picked up her NY Times, took another sip of Pinot, and a drag off her Virginia Slims, and as if nothing had just happened, got back to being Her.
I retired to my writing chair. Sat there for some moments, tears welling, then smiled inside.
“She will always love me. She has no choice. It is all up to me,” I mused.
And then I got busy writing.
After some pregnant pauses…
“Hey Asshole! You better be writing something readable!” I heard from over my shoulder.
Yes! She loves me still!
THE END
And Afterall:
Just to ‘Lighten’ the mood…
The Sudden Stark Realization That MS Muse Was Not Real…
She is sitting on the couch as I type these words.
(Yeah, she came home after the lights and water were restored)
I am beginning to find her a ‘fair-weather’ muse. Just sayin’.
Don’t matter. I still love her.
She had all her props:
Glass of Pinot.
Virginia Slim
Cell Phone
IPad
NY Times, Washington Post,And Waco WeeklyWipe
Attitude
Yeah. There’s that.
Always that.
Always That Attitude: Nuclear Option
*****
This post cannot stand alone on my prose.
The vids are requisite.
The volume is borked. So CRANK it up. (Video Credit: Video Music, via The YouTubes—Duh!)
Love Broadcast News.
Love Mocking Broadcast News.
Love the Eye-Candy ‘Info-Babes’ on Broadcast News.(Broadcast News puts the ‘Broad’ in News)
Andrea Tantaros CNN Bra Size & Measurements
Andrea Tantaros: CNN, Bra Size & Measurements
(Guys, you know you want me to drop the link. No! Suffer in Silence)
*******
Love that I harbor no true malice toward Broadcast News, but G’damn! they are so transparent with their bias.
Added Value: Holly-Go-Lightly
I sincerely hope you have enjoyed this brief interlude shit post I wrote while cooling my heels waiting for MS Muse to respond to my Proposal of Marriage
Cheers!
(‘Story at Eleven’)
*****
Bonus ‘Added Value’
Credit to John Ward: Genius Man
“No, it’s awful.”
My Cross to bear
My Spirit ‘Man-able’: Ted Koppel
Video Compilation Credit Below: iLoveChrisCuomo
Uh… Homo-Erotica?
CNN: The Most Trusted Name In News?
Am I homo-phobic?
No! But these two wear me out!
Some of my Best Friends are Fags (This is a JOKE BTW!)
“I love you Don Lemon.”
You never fail to entertain.
NowPleaseExcuse me while I puke—‘vacuate’ my stomach.
And my mind.
“The Memes Become Reality”
–IanMilesCheong
Ignore the below, the last on your radio dial, because WordPress is FUCKED UP!
Won’t let me delete it!
It just keeps spinning ‘round an’ ‘round sucking up bandwidth.
Bandwidth I have not to spare,
Nor desire to share.
Fuck you WordPress!
“Uploading” it perpetually says.
Hey Whore-Press!
How ‘bout I ‘upload’ my Nine Millimeter into your dome?
How would that grab ya?
Add-Din-Dumb:
I got ‘on the horn’ w/WP
Kind service rep fixed my problem.
Toot Sweet
All-in-all, WP has Great Customer Service.
No denying that.
I take back my un-happy words hurled at WordPress… until the next time…
(An aside: Katherine Ross is The Most Beautiful Woman In The History of “Woman.”—Precisely Why My MS Muse is Moniker’ed “Katherine.”)
And “The Graduate” is one of the Greatest Movies Ever Made.—Don’t Believe Me?—Just Ask My Muse, Katherine. She’ll Set You Straight as you are picking yourself up off the floor. (Remember, She has that Devastation Right Hook. And, Trust me on this: She Does Not Suffer Fools)
Woke up in Total Darkness
And To The Sound of Silence.
No CNN White Noise.
No computer purring/whirring.
Not even MS Muse Snoring.
WTF?!
Power was out!
Looked out my back door.
Then it all made sense.
Shut the door and went back inside.
Fumbled around and found my flashlight.
Discovered a note pinned to my pillow.
It was from MS Muse (Who else?)
It Read:
“Hey Asshole, (She is so sweet), I am mounting my broom and flying the fuck outta this dump. You may reach me at The Magnuson Hotel (they have a backup generator) once you get this shit sorted and the lights back on.
(Yep, Same One Who is Still With Me, all these years later)
She was, of course, younger, and Prettier, but then again, so was I.
Some ‘Magic’ Happened.
I started writing.
Wrote a long story about a young soldier serving in ‘The Nam.’
He was ‘short’, — Meaning he had just one more week ‘till he got to ride that ‘Freedom-Bird’ back to ‘The World.’ The land of the Big PX and the ‘All-Night Restaurant.’
He was Happy.
But, one last order of business:
One more routine patrol.
No worries—He had been there, done that, too many times to even think on.
He geared up with his platoon.
Day-Dreams flooded his mind.
Dreaming of his young, beautiful, wonderful wife
Dreaming of his farm in Texas
Dreaming of fishing for trash fish in the ponds on his land
Dreaming of how his wife would laugh at him for being such a lousy fisherman
Dreaming of just going to a Texas Bar and ordering a ‘Lone Star’ beer
Dreaming more and more of kissing his wife
****
“Move out!”
(Shattered his dreamy state)
The Platoon was ‘on-the-move’ now.
Pretty much routine, far as that goes.
Began routine enough
Walking down a path, M-16 at the ready.
Looking left and right.
Quiet.
Then
Fire!
Firefight!
Ambush!
Pandemonium!
He caught one in the chest.
And got busy with dying.
Lying on the floor of the jungle, he managed to pull the photo of his childhood sweetheart, his wife, his LOVE out from beneath his flak jacket.
He regarded it, gazed at it, put it to his lips and kissed it.
Then he died.
*****
I handed in my paper when prompted.
Coach read all the submissions as we all departed for lunch.
Came back to Home-Room after lunch.
Coach said,
“Y’all did real good with your writing assignment. I am gonna read one of them.”
Coach read my story to the class.
Then he said, “I never knew Lance could write. He is just average as a linebacker, but as a writer, he is good.”
Did I give a shit for his praise?
Nope.
Remember, I was an asshole back then.
Still Am.
That was a ‘Red-Letter-Day’ in my ‘Writing Career.’
However, I had a football career to attend to:
“Go! Honey Grove Warriors!
Beat Cooper!“
I love My Texas!
The HG Warriors Stole this as our ‘Fight Song,’ as most every other School-Boy Texan HS Football Team did back in The Day. We were all so very Proud of Our Texas Longhorns!
They kicked some serious ass back in those by-gone days
Knowing full well that the Dixie Chicks can still bring out ire and even bona-fide rage in some folks, I drop this in anyway.
I did not, never did, will never, agree with Natalie’s politics.
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)
*****
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?
