I feel really sick. I am not well. I wish now more than ever that I had a Good Woman to lay down beside me, wrap her arms around me, comfort me and hold me tight as I fall asleep. That is all I want at this moment: A kind, soft of nature, loving, caring gentle woman. (Linda would be my first choice, but Carly would suffice as well–if she be around and in town and not busy.) Or even my second wife: She was a good woman and she loved me. She was ‘soft’ and she truly loved me. Much more than I loved myself.
I Recently Posted this on Facebook (not sure why)
“To All My Facebook Friends:
I love to ‘share’ stuff.
(This is the ‘primary purpose’ of FB as I understand it)
Some of the things I ‘share’ are good.
Some other things not so much.
But I share anyway.
Because I can
Because I want to
Because it makes me happy.
Because I am ‘generous.’
And I try to make people happy (If only for a moment)
Yep. I am generous.
To a fault.
I will give you the shirt off my back if it will do you more good than me.
I will give you my food, my booze, my car.
I will give you almost anything I own.
Because I do not care about material things.
The only thing I will not give you is My Life.
(There has been only one time I was ready to give my life for a friend, and that happened one Labour Day back in the Early Seventies)
I am older now and hopefully somewhat wiser.
And have become so ‘loving jealous’ of my life of late.
“Life is for learning.”
(Just for reference in case you are new here):
Just a little more “added value”
If you have come this far,
You must surely know by now how much I love Joni.
A Rare Gem
A Woman (of Heart and Mind)
(There is no thumbnail)
It is Joni!
Watch and listen!
Try this one:
(These two, actually)
There is never enough Joni in my World.
If you do not love Joni,
You have probably taken a wrong turn at
And should not be here.
Go back to California.
Whatever Planet You Call “Home.”
Oh Fuck it!
I will revist this when I am sober.
WordPress is obviously
WP and I have this in common:
We are both…
“Is it all books and words? Or do you really feel it? Do you really care? Do you really smile. When you smile?”
And since I am rather fond of complete sentences
I just feel compelled to drop this bit in.
(For those few, those happy few, who actually “get” me.
And my sense of humor.)
If I keep dropping mindless shit into this post, I am going to lose my fucking mind.
But I suppose this “Post” Was All About Some Of The Favorite Things I Love To Share.
You should not have come this far.
(This one is just for Lance.)
Vid credit: Ly1212
“Say, can I have some of your purple berries?”
“Yes, I’ve been eating them for six or seven weeks now. Haven’t got sick once.”
“Probably keep us both alive.”
I keep ‘sharing’.
But that was the entire point of this entire exercise.
And just to tie up this thought process…
“Few of My Favorite Things.”
Someday, this post is gonna end.
I am gonna keep milking this cow until she be dry.
(Yes! I am insane!)
Please try to forgive me.
Really do not care.
At this point.
“Sharing is Caring.”
Laughing out LOUD!
(I do NOT Subscribe to the “Social Justice Warrior” Magazine.)
‘Cuz I am an asshole.
But then, you’d know that….already.
Thank you if you have read this post.
I am not so much of an ass that I cannot appreciate any time you have spent here.
“Guess I’ll set a course and go.”
ZERO FUCKS GIVEN!
Preach On My Brother!
When I was fourteen or fifteen and living in NE Texas, ‘Famine’ County to be more precise, I used to frequently cross the border. Not Mesico. No, Oklahoma. Yep. Go figger.
You see, back-in-the-day (Early Seventies), the drinking age got lowered to 18, mainly because it just was not fitting for a boy to go to Vietnam and not even be able to buy a beer ere he got there. Time enough for that once he got there, but you see, it became a matter of principle.
Well, my ‘group’ took advantage of that. You see, it was very difficult to tell a teenager’s age: I mean,
“How do you know he ain’t eighteen? He looks twelve, but hell! Ok, serve it up.”
And even better: In Oklahoma, well, they just did not give a shit. If you had money and could reach the bar, well, there you go.
OK, enough preamble and background. Early one morning (after about 0100hrs) my buddies and I, after having closed down the bars in Commerce (Texas), decided we were not drunk enough. So, natch, we drove to The Border, as I said: Oklahoma. Our mission: To hustle Pool and make the next day’s beer money.
Our favorite hang was a place just ‘cross da river. A place who’s name escapes me, but trust me: it was famous. There is a very long, very dark, very narrow bridge across the Red River. If one could successfully navigate that, being drunk… well, you needed a drink.
Now, do not mistake me, this establishment was always ‘closed’ by the time we usually arrived at thereabout 0200hrs, but I knew the guy behind the ‘Speak-Easy’ window and I knew the password: “Joe sent me.”
Good to go.
They legally closed the bar at 0100hrs, but then remained open until first light. If one arrived around 0200hrs, one could shoot pool for four or five and then migrate to the back room where the crap tables were. I knew all the drills.
My gang and I sauntered in, bought some beers and Bob and I proceeded to ‘hustle’ pool. For beers. ONLY.
We were already drunk; we did not need to hustle beers. We wanted money for the crap game. Bob and I spent the better part of two hours hustling beers, and had pretty much drained the joint, when this dude drops his quarter on the table. He was long and lankly and had his right hand missing. Yep. He was ‘handicapped” Errr… handless. I nudged Bob and said, “This chump cannot beat me. At pool.”
And, of course, I was right, but… damn! He was good. He used his ‘stub’ as a bridge and shot a mean Eight-Ball. I beat him outta bout a case of Coors. He got pissed and walked by me:
“You done stepped on my foot,” he said.
“No Sir, I did not, but if you think I did, well, I’m sorry…”
“YOU done STEPPED on my FOOT!”
Bob took me aside along with my other entourage; Peanut, Gene, and Jessie (a big black kid who had played star halfback for the Honey Grove Warriors back in the day—yes—he was older, and I did notice him putting razor blades between his fingers)
“Many-Feet” Peanut said, “That there one-armed man gonna beat you to some death with that nub.”
“Bullshit!” I said.
“No bullshit. Go ahead; hide an’ watch.”
To be continued….
He beat me ’bout to death with that nub, just as Peanut foresaw.
Wish I had ‘foresaw’.
Dem Okies…well.. they some tough sons ah bitches, all I gotta say.
And in truth: I never did either.,
I guess I wrote it back in some day.
And he went to England; played the piano, married an actress maimed “Kim:”… She was a good wife… I loved her.
This is a continuation, albeit a flashback, to my story of Janet and Random Memories from The Middle East.
Let’s back up a mite (mites are hard to back up by the way, militarily that is: damn small and damn slippery, them mites… and they tend to mite-bite one, usually on one’s ass)
We call that “Green on Blue” and if you are following the recent news cycle, you will surely know that, that is inappropriate. But that is just how I roll. Fuck Afghanistan and their pretended bullshit “We gonna take over security of our country…” Won’t happen. But after ten plus years there (and some several months there by me, after Iraq–got ‘liberated’–now there is yet another joke, I can speak to the idiocy that is ‘our’ foreign fallacy.
I was in Sinai, 1978 (if memory serves), and I received a letter from my step-sis. This was not unusual back in those days, as we were still ‘speaking’. She sent me a rather long and boring letter regarding Honey Grove and all the ‘Happenings’ thereabouts. The letter was indeed ‘boring’ until I got to her ‘PS’. It read and I quote (loosely), “By the way, R is marrying J. Jesus-Beezus!”
This was, to me, devastation by way of bad, unspeakable news!
‘How could she?! She was MINE. Mine to mine and to have and to hold… just as soon as I finished with my wanderlust. How dare she?!” How DARE she?!
What to do?
Well, I had some R&R time ‘on the books’ so I hopped on a freighter (airplane), and flew back to Texas, ostensibly to break up the marriage, just like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. Problem was, was that I screwed up the dates and the logistics, and arrived not in time to bust up the wedding, but just in time to see the happy couple speeding off fast to Waco and their honeymoon…
Never having been more depressed at missing a rendezvous, what to do? Rebound Son! Rebound!
So, I sought out Janet. Let’s call it a ‘bank shot rebound.’ I knew she was working at the
Hopkins Lamar (See? To this day, I never know which county I am in) County Courthouse as a probation officer, so I timed (this time, my timing was spot on) my entrance during her lunch break: Intercepted her coming down the stairs of the courthouse.
“C’est moi! How’s Trix?”
“You are supposed to be in Egypt,” she said.
“I escaped,” I said. “Wanna have lunch?”
“Uh… Sure. Why not?” (Why not indeed)
We went to lunch. Then she took the rest of the day. We went to her apartment and drank gin. Later that eve, after I had regaled her with fantastical tales of the Middle of the East, she took a drag from her Virginia Slim and asked, “So are you gonna fuck me tonight, or what?”
I said, “No Ma’am; I am gonna make love to you—something I should have done five years ago.”
So we did—I did—make love to her.
The problem now became that I had a plane to catch to that other Paris: that one in France. The other part of the problem was that my plane was waiting in Houston. I was about five hours at seventy miles per hour away from my Air France plane at Houston Intercontinental. I had to go. Now.
I hit the road to Houston, not really wanting to go, but I had promised my buddy, Bart, Black Bart, that I would meet him in Paris on such and such a day. Naturally, I ended up missing my flight and arrived Paree a day late. On the taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle airport, we drove under a bridge and the taxi car lost its windshield to a lone rifle shot. (my theory) “Terrorist?” I asked the cabby? (en français).
“Merde!” Was all he said, as he dodged the flying glass. (true story). I did not care anyhow, but this rather happenstance occurrence did not bode well for my first day in Gay Paree…
“There’s my hotel!” I exclaimed as he had managed to (somehow) keep driving.
I paid him off, got out of his now mangled, windshield-less cab and made my way into the cheap hotel lobby. Went up to my room, dropped my shit; then went looking for my buddy. Found him at last sitting on his rack, rather sullen in mood. I checked out his room. It had a wonderful view of the Eiffel Tower.
“So Bart,” I asked finally, “What have you done here in The City of Light for twenty-four hours?”
“You see that tower there?” he asked, pointing to the window.
“Yep,” I said. “That would be the Eiffel Tower.”
“Well, since you didn’t show, I went out on my own… and hey! Ya know, they don’t speak English here? I went out on my own. (You mentioned that) Walked over to that tower, looked up at it—kicked it—and said to myself, ‘Yep. That there Bartamus, that there is the Eiffel Tower. Then I came back here and took a nap. And would you please tell that France Maid that I do not want no fuckin’ breakfast? She wakes me up in the fucking morning with her biscuits (‘croissants’ Asshole) and lousy coffee.”
“Sure Bart,” I said. “I will post a note, en français on yer door.”
“You speak France?”
“Well Hot Damn then! You be Bogey. I’ll be Bacall.” (of course)
“I weren’t able to bust up the wedding.”
“Oh you mean between R and J?”
“Yep. That one, you moron.”
“Yer better off,” he said.
“OK. Then why am I so depressed?”
“Dunno. Did you have any other adventures while you were back In-The-World?”
“Matter of fact, I did. I hooked up with Janet.”
“Nope. No bullshit. Why I missed my flight, in fact.”
“Well, I was just about pissed off at you, but now I unnerstand.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“Hey!” he said. “Let’s smoke a bowl and you can tell me all about it while we go and kick this town in the ass.”
“Light her up,” I said. We smoked and drank and then off we went stoned and semi-drunk and in Paris (France) Just two more ugly Americans (Texans)
I hesitated while choosing the vid to represent this post. Then I swerved onto this one below. It is somewhat depressing, yeah. But, but… This is how I see my life ending up. I hope you will take the time to watch, listen, and comment.
To Be Continued… Hopefully.
“Losing his hearing, but he don’t care what most people say.”
“Lately I been thinkin’ I just might quit drinkin’…
“I feel like Hank Williams tonight”
And all the house lights left up bright.
Happy New Year.
“I’m gonna blow this damn candle out.”
“Holidays are hard on some guys.”
(I stole that line from a favorite movie of mine, loosely based on a wonderful play by some guy: “Sexual Perversity in Chicago” which I first saw in the Sinai, and then saw it… wait for it… in Chicago.
When I saw the movie in Shy – Town, It had been bastardized into… “About Last Night.”
“Travesty” as a word…
“Cynical and drunk?”
“May-hap: C’est moi?”
“What did he say?”
Honestly, when it comes down to it, we all die alone… boring someone in some dark café.
“Jesus Christ! Lance! Some happy thoughts for the New Year?”
“Naw, been there…”
“You’re either too stupid to die, or too stupid to live.”
I like to think that I only write for me.
That is some vain fantasy. Or just a pleasant fiction.
I write to get bed, er… read.
I really do.
I am a “writer”
Or, at least, I think of me in that way.
And I love commas.
And I edit as I go.
Someone once said of “Lord Ernest” (Hemingway),
Someone said he said, “Write Drunk. Edit Sober.”
Now, personally, I think that apocryphal, but what do I know?
Yet, I am going with it.
(at least the write drunk part)
Now, back to Joni:
“Love can be so sweet.”
“Go look at your eyes.”
“Drink up now. It’s gettin’ on time to close.”
Oh, and by the way, The Last time I saw Richard was Great Lakes, Recruit Training Command, ’86, and he told me… something about staying alive while with the Navy SEALs in SO CAL, just before he went to Florida and committed suicide, because He could not handle the Pressure that was (then) the U.S. Navy Nuclear Submarine Program. Thank God I was in Coronado with the SEALs.
And So Safe
I miss Richard.
He was braver than me.
And nobody ever committed suicide while at BUD/s (Navy SEAL) training: we were just all too busy, you see, just ‘busily’ trying to stay the fuck alive.
“Richard got married to a figure-skater–post-humorlessly.”
Somehow, I live.
His name was “Richard” and he was a real person.
Yeah, I left out the tag line (on purpose):
“when you gonna get back on your feet?”
If you happenstance to swerve into this blog, and catch yourself saying,
“Gee! This guy is cool.”
But if’n you do, Do not then… follow the comments.
Just don’t fuckin’ do it.
some: them, them the good memories.
And walk on by.
(You just knew I had to.)
Tomorrow I embrace my Sixty-Third Year.
I find me asking me of late:
“So… Lance, what have you done?”
And ‘somewhat’ related: And…Talia Shire Will never, ever look so good.
(That Beret! That Beret! Cabaret!)
And of course, not without saying…
And Michael York.
And… whatever happened to Jimmy Buffett’s hair??? (I did read his book, “a pirate looks at
forty” fifty, sixty??. did not glean anything from it ‘cept that he loves ‘boat-planes’– shit! I could have ‘wrote’ a better book. Jes sayin’…)
My tweet (if I ever tweet) to Jimmy:
Dude, stick to music. That is what you do best. Leave the prose to those who have some prose… to share. And no! I ain’t talking ’bout me, but in general speakin’…)
(See way below for the JB bits)
(and, yes: Navy SEALs)
Picks up that conversation:
“Not too much,” I must confess.
“But surely you have touched some lives?”
“Yeah, but mostly in a bad way. I did my best in war zones. I was ‘The antithesis’ of the ‘Bad American.’ Other than that, nope.”
“Perhaps you are being too hard on yourself?”
“You really don’t know me, do you?”
“Well… no. Not exactly. This is just a job to me. Go on.”
“I’d rather not, but hey! Thanks for stopping by.”
“I suppose my ‘work’ here is done. Then?”
“Yeah. You may be excused.”
“Thanks, because I am late for my appointment with J-Law.”
“But you said one thing; got my attention: You said ‘torched’.
“Naw! I said ‘scorched’ There is some difference.”
And I leave Y’all with this. It fits:
Or, as Mammy (Hattie McDaniel) said, via ‘Gone With The Wind’:
“It just ain’t fittin'”
(She ‘won’ an Oscar for that. Ya surely know) And in her acceptance speech, she said, and I quote: “I sincerely hope I shall always be a credit to my race.” Can you believe she actually felt compelled to say those words? Well, it was 1940… I suppose.
Lance loves you Mammy (Hattie)
And look up the word ‘class’ in any dictionary. There you will find a photo of Katherine Hepburn.
Oops! I meant Bette Davis (shit! I cannot tell from the vid which one, Kate or Bette–HBO!–help a brother out here. Which one?) Personally, I am gonna go with
Kate. After further review, I am going with Bette.
“Just hold on and suck in.”
Yeah! I always pick the ‘raw’ video. Jus’ me, I suppose.
It was, in fact, my birthday.
Thanks for riding along.
For, there will be Nothing… Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!
Cheers. Beers. Jears. Tears.
And if you find a plethora of parenthesis here…They are for my friend, SS and solely for her own edification.
If you care to dare, Here is her link:
But Be Brave
Yet…she scares me…
And last and certainly not least….
“We’re gonna let you go.”
I guess “all of the above” rightly sums up my life.
Happy Birthday to me.