Glen Miller Kicked Some Serious Ass!

I Love Our Rich American Culture!
I love My Having Been Blessed

To Have Been Born An American.
And Yes!
I Am A Vet!

(And A Patriot!)

And I love My Country!

Wanna Test The Veracity of My Statement?

Well, Stand By For Heavy Rolls!

As The Shit Hits Your Fan!

Y’all Understand my

Tennessee Connection to this.

Sam Houston:

First President of

“The Republic of Texas

Former Guv of Tennessee, Drunkard. Great, Brave Man.

Soldier of the First Order

Military Genius

He Retains a Special Place In My Heart.

I Admire Him.




Fuckin’ Right???



Right vs. Left—Left vs. Right—Spy vs. Spy: Who Am I?

“I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well.”

― Henry David Thoreau, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods

(Ed. Note: This Post has kinda Gone off the Rails & morph’d into an Annie Lennox bit)

Sorry. Not Sorry.

Scroll Down

In most things Politic, I list heavily to Starboard.
But at other times I list slightly to Port.

My Ship Never straddles

The ‘Safe’ Middle.

I am ‘Complicated.’ As are all ‘Thinking People.’

I am delirious with pain right now.

Ignore me.
Wish I had some of the ‘good’ drugs…

Ed. Note: I know I have promised BOTH of My Faithful Readers to write some longer, better, substantial Shit,
This Screwed-up neck of mine, along with the accompanying pain makes it almost unbearable to bend over this
‘IBM Selectric’ Typewriter

C’est Moi!

for more than a few minutes at a time.

Now, returning to the subject meat of this matter,

(“More Matter, Less Art.”–Thank you Gertrude)

Was there a ‘subject’ ??
Oh Yeah.
Right vs. Left
Spy vs. Spy
Yin vs. Yang
Peas vs. Carrots


My Adventure in trying to get published:



I forgot I had left a glass of wine in the ‘head’ (Navy parlance for ‘Bathroom’); now I have a platoon of

Drunken Gnats

to add to my list of shit I must deal with.

Cheers Y’all!

I just drop this in because this is MY Blog
And I like it.

(The Title…and the lyrics, are Slightly Germane and suit my narrative just fine)

And I find Annie extremely attractive

With or without makeup.

(Especially without her makeup!)

She’s a fucking Barbie Doll

Create your own fantasy; leave me to mine.

“This boat is sinking. Some things are better left unsaid…”

“You don’t know what I fear.”

Here’s a hint:

I fear me.

“I used to be Lunatic”

I got better…


No one will get this far, but I deposit it anyway:

Shared Street Cred Vid: ggarlick46


Bonus Super-Duper:

Thanks to Kevin Bacon & kingofkungfu2002 for the share

Donna, Disco, And Convicts

While I was at



‘The Disco Agony Epoch,’

We had a ‘Homemade’ Desert House–Band—Rockers ALL!

They called their Band:

‘The Sisco Ducks’

Which of course was a play on words for

‘Disco Sucks.’

(We were all drug addicts back then)

We smoked hashish for breakfast, lunch, supper, and night-cap. Ever’day!

Next day, rinse and repeat.

And the days just kept drifting on by….

They didn’t have names….

(Street Cred for the Vid: Parrothead Poet)

We smoked hash, because we could not buy proper Mary-Ya-Wanna; but….

But… we could purchase BRICKS of Hash in Cairo… on-the-cheap:

Ten bucks or a bottle of Johnny-Walker Red would net us two kilos of ‘Hubbily Bubbilyyy,’ as the Egyptians called it.


I ‘secretly’ Loved Disco, but that had to remain my dirty little secret.

Lest I be forced to ‘Walk the Plank’— And since we lived in a desert and had no planks to walk, I felt relatively ‘safe.’

But I had a REP to uphold and maintain…

You see?


Fun Fact: I used to BLAST this

(See Above Donna)

from my 80’s boom-box while in my Barracks room.

(In the NAVY)

 My Barracks-Mate was NOT a fan, of Donna and often complained.

Guess what I  told him.

You already know:

I invited him to fisty-cuffs.

He declined my generous offer.

So I put in fresh batteries…. and Cranked Donna up the the level of hearing loss…

“Asshole”  does not even begin to describe…  cannot even begin to approach what I was back then…

(Or Now, for that matter)

Not that it matters,

As if I gave or will ever give…. a shit.

(Oh! and I smoked Cowboy Killers in the room too—This Pussy bitched, moaned, and complained about this too…said it made his clothes ‘stink’)

Now here is something that may surprise you:

My Barracks ‘Shipmate’ was forced into his Naval Enlistment…. drum roll! Please!

Because at the ripe old age of 18, he had killed a man in New Jersey.

(Once he confided that, I grew more respectful and started wearing headphones for my Donna Sessions…)


This (below) should’ve been at the top of my post, but I am too drunk to edit.


And I do not enjoy anything about the editing process


When I was at SFM, during ‘The Disco Agony Epoch, we had a ‘Homemade’ Band—Rockers ALL!

They called their Band: ‘The Sisco Ducks’

Which of course was a play on words for ‘Disco Sucks.’

I ‘secretly’ Loved Disco, but that had to remain my dirty little secret.

Lest I be forced to ‘Walk the Plank’— And since we lived in a desert and had no planks to walk, I felt relatively ‘safe.’ But I had a REP to uphold…You see?

Fun Fact: I used to BLAST this from my 80’s boom-box while in my Barracks room.

(In the NAVY)

My Barracks-Mate was NOT a fan, of Donna and often complained. Guess what I told him.

You already know:

I invited him to fisty-cuffs. He declined my generous offer.

So I put in fresh batteries…. and Cranked Donna up the the level of hearing loss…

“Asshole’ can not even begin to approach what I was back then…

(Or Now, for that matter)

Not that it matters,

Or if I gave/give a shit.


I May come back/revisit this post, edit it, try to improve it.

But do not bet on it!

Save your money for Vegas.

The Odds Are Better.

Trust me on This One Y’all.


Bukowski and I are on the same page here:

“Fuck Editing!”

Just WRITE!!!

Street Cred: Shea


Don’t Worry Kids!

I will survive this brief lapse into Madness


Just Some More FB fun :

I posted while fawning over Gloria Gaynor:


Attempted to download this (Gloria) two more times than were ‘necessary’.

Kept getting ‘POP-Ups.’

“Hey! Asshole! You have already downloaded this…like seventeen times!”

Guess What I did? Called CS back!

On the Fucking Telephone!

(Can you even Imagine?)

Indian Customer Support.

Told me to fuk  the fuk the off!

And sleep it off!

Wise Advice!

I love Black Women!

They are


They have to be!




“Ground Control to Major Mar-Come – On:”


“This is Ground-Control.”

“Yeah. I figured that out already. Y’all are the only assholes who ever call me. Fuk do you want?”

“Take your protein pills and put your helmet on.”

“Something you’re not telling me? Something I should know?”

“Just take the pills and put the helmet on…. and strap in…..

Oh, and Good Luck!

NASA Out!”

First Meeting Michelle—Did Not Go So Well

Dateline: Late 1985

Time: 0800 hrs.

Geographical Location: Great Mistakes Naval Training Center—Just south of Chicago.

Venue: A Navy Auditorium

Suspect: One Ricky-Recruit, AKA Marcom

*Slips now into first-person narrative*

I had arrived just a little later than was prudent.

Hence, no seats in the back of the venue.

Searched about. Scanning…

Only open seats were in the front row.


I took myself up-front, found a seat next to a serious-looking blonde she-sailor, decked out in freshly pressed dress blues. AJ-Squared-Away, she was.

Old mil saw: “Never sit up front and never volunteer for nothin.

I had already broken the first rule. I was about to Break The Second


I was in dungarees—not pressed. Certainly not ‘AJ-Squared away’… slightly hung-over, if I am aiming at honest narrative here.

‘Under-Dressed’ does not even come close.

I had plopped down to her starboard.

Risked a look at her.

(I had already lost myself in her eyes)

She sensed my gaze, looked me dead in my eye and said,

“Hi. My name is Michelle. What’s yours?” She said as she extended her hand.

I shook her hand and was surprised to experience a very firm grip/handshake.

A Naval Officer took to the old, very old wooden podium and began his spiel.

Michelle went Eyes-Front: Intensely paying serious Military Attention.

I did not.

I kept gazing at her…

To the point of being too obvious.

Oh! And BTW, it did not escape me that she was a 3rd Class Petty Officer.

An E-4

(She seriously ‘out-ranked’ me.

And, obvious to me:

Out-Classed me.)

In the Nav, we called them ‘IPO’s

“Instant Petty Officer”

If you Graduate from the ‘Right Navy School,’ you are auto-magically promoted.

I was, my own self, enrolled in such a school, but the successful end game—of MY Graduation—was tenuous at best.

Not my intent to bash Y’all over the head with a not-so-subtle…

But this do serve my narrative.

Serves it well.


Credit: Ethereal Music

To be continued…


Michelle, Ma Belle: Tease

“Michelle, ma belle.  These are words that go together well. My Michelle”:

This is a ‘teaser’ for something I am currently working.

(‘Tis an expanding part of my “Great Mistakes Naval Training Center” Nascent Series)


The Marine”?

The Little Blonde One?

Of Course you do!

This will be way better.

Believe me?


I have this bridge for sale; kindly follow me into the ‘Showroom.’

We’ll talk ‘Price’ later…

For now, just gape, gasp, and be awestruck.

And Remember Kids: I don’t do fiction.

All my ‘stories’ are bona-fide.

Continued Here:

Video Credit: Starr’s Music


Anyone ever notice that Paul McCartney can’t speak French for Shit?

“Me Shell… My Bell”

Really Paul?

Please stick to English Paul.

And this from a Texan who destroys French with a Texan accent.

“Mercy Bow Chops Y’all!”

(OK. Not that bad, but almost)

I have been perma-banished from Paris… France.

They still welcome me in Paris, Texas.

Thank God!

The Marine

Transcribed from a Facebook IM Chat session I recently had with my best (perhaps only) Friend:

Talking to you about Great Mistakes Naval Training Center reminded of a pleasant memory…

Of A Woman—I know—difficult to fathom while listening to all my other ‘Sea-Stories’, but this one is a ‘no-shitter.’ Just trust me.

There were no less than two-thousand sailors stationed at Great Mistakes… but only one Marine: a beautiful young She-Marine.

She stood out!

Far From The Madding Crowd!

Easy to spot from half a clik away—she wore camouflaged fatigues.

Now, you can only begin to understand the fascination this young She-Marine held for the rest of us…

(I may need to write more on her Odyssey. She was the quintessential elusive butterfly—two thousand sailors just wanted to get close enough to speak to her—during the six months she was there—I hope she landed well)

To my knowledge, no one ever got close enough to discover her name; we just always called her “The Marine.”

No one, and I mean no ONE, ever accosted her.

For if someone ever had, that moment would have been his last.

For you see, we were all very protective of her.

And she was protected.

Very well protected, even if she didn’t know it.

(Turns out, she finally did–come to know it–thanks to a moron.

Which moron?

I’ll give you three guesses, but you’re only gonna need one)

None of us harbored any vain fantasies regarding her.

She had become everyone’s…

To respect and keep safe & sound & sheltered…

From an always respectful distance.


On my very last morning at Great Lakes Naval Training Center, before I was to muster out and ship off to San Diego/Coronado for BUD/s – SEAL training, I found myself in the Chow Hall for one last ‘delicious’ Navy Breakfast.

If memory serves it was about 0630 hrs.

I went through the cow, er.. Chow- Line, grabbed a cuppa Joe, or Fred, or Jane—don’t matter—it all tasted the same.

Walking about, looking for a table, I spied MS Marine, seated all alone, laconically, rather absent mindedly, stirring her scrambled, powdered eggs (a Navy delicacy).

I Thought, ‘What the hell?’

Walked over to her table and asked, “May I join you?”

She looked up and said, “Yes. Yes, of course.”


Now, please allow me to explain something.

At this point in my life, I had already been around the world.

I had seen, loved, and un-loved more women than it may be prudent for me to admit.

But this one, this Lady Marine—actually not much more than a girl—full of hope and promise, was not terribly beautiful, but she had that ‘certain charme’ –en Francais.

Kinda semi-short blonde locks, ‘bout five foot nothin’, wonderful blue eyes, and she smiled at me.

She smiled at me!


I took a seat across from her, set my tray down, extended my hand and said,

“My name’s Lance.”

She took my hand, smiled again and said, “My name’s Mandy.”

(Of course it is, I thought—fits my ‘Mandy’ Profile—see my ‘Mandy Post’ for read –more-about-it-info)

“Nice to meet Y’all Mandy”

Yeah, I like to dazzle ‘em with my Texan-ness—My only claim to fame.

I continued, “Mandy, pardon me for being so bold, but I am compelled to ask you something, if I may.”

She picked up her coffee and said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

“First of all, you do realize you are unique here, yes?”

“Not sure I get your meaning,” she replied.  “I am not the only female stationed here.”

“This is true Mandy, but you are the only Female Marine stationed here.”

“You said you had a question?”

“Uh, yes…” (I could tell ‘The Corps’ had already installed into her a very good, state-of-the-art, ‘Bullshit Detector’—and little patience for doe-eyed Sailors)

“Uh…yeah. I… just, it seems… uh, it seems you are a bit ‘down’. Why?”

She looked me dead in my eyes, and as any good, steely-eyed Marine would, with nothing to fear said,

“You said I was unique here. I concur. I am. I am ‘unique’ in the fact that none of the men ever talk to me here—for six months—I am a normal girl. Nothing wrong with me. I see the sailors talking to all the female Navy Corpsmen Students. Laughing, carrying on. Yet I am left alone. Why?”

This is when I realized that by worshiping this young girl from the distances, we had done her an unkindness, or worse.

I tried, poorly, to explain how all that had happened.

She glared at me, briefly. Then I caught a trace of tears in her eyes.

She picked up her coffee once again, took a sip, set it down, abruptly stood up, grabbed her tray and said,

“Thank you for telling me Lance, but you should’ve told me months ago. Good luck with your Naval career. Oh, and by the way, I noticed you many times. You seemed to be a leader, with some maturity. I often wondered if you would ever come and speak to me. Guess you were never in a hurry to do so.”

I stared at her back as she was walking away.

And I was suddenly saddened.

We, all of us, had done this wonderful young woman a horrible disservice.

To this day, I still remember her lovely face and her brief smile at me.

And the way she carried herself so well.

And her piercing parting words as she disappeared forever,

Except from my memory.


There must be a lesson somewhere to be learned here.


This could’ve been my fulfilled vain fantasy.

With Mandy-the-Marine

If I had just opened my eyes.

For a moment.


Doesn’t really fit my narrative.

But it could.

If we had hooked up.


Flash forward ten years:

She still young at heart and still a Marine.

Me, older, not still a Sailor. And boring to her.


Addendum, final thoughts,


Bonus ‘Added Value’:

First, I love MY Country.

Second, I was honored to Serve My Country

Third, Even though Marines & Sailors mix like oil and water, there is a mutual respect shared there.

Fourth, I never let any Marine I ever met forget that the USMC ‘works’ for the U.S. Navy.

(Got my ass kicked more than a few times for relating that paralyzed fact)

Go Navy!

Beat Army!

“Hey Jarhead! Fetch me a water!

With true Marine efficiency, I got three, count ’em, three bottles of water immediately bounced off my dome ever’ time I said that.

(And from three different directions!)

But, I’d keep sayin’ that!