Late one night after closing down our little bar at SFM, I began my ‘swaggering stagger’ back to my hooch.
Let’s say I was slightly inebriated.
No, let’s say I was drunk.
No, let’s say I was shit-faced.
In Sinai, when I was there, lived a lot of species of ‘interesting’ creatures. To name just a few:
Big Ass Scorpions
Big Ass Ants
Big Ass Flies
Big Ass Lizards
One (only one–that was all our allotment allowed) Ex-Dallas Cowboy’s Cheerleader–long story–I’ll getback to that one.
Texans, lots of
Big Ass Spiders
(What we called them—my research—and more recent experiences, have informed me that these are actually called ‘Camel Spiders’) Made infamous by a photo-shopped photo of two of them held by a U.S. Marine in Iraq, making them look as large as a house cat. I am getting off-track…
But Sun Spiders are in fact, quite large.
Just as fearless as a drunk twenty-one year old Texan.
As I was navigating to my hooch I came upon an unusually large sun spider strolling across the compound minding his own business. Imagine a scaled down version of one of those machine-monsters from the “War – of — The – Worlds” movie. How he looked to me.
What did our hero do?
Walked up and kicked him with his boot.
He tumbled over twice and tried to run away.
Oh hell no!
I kicked him again.
He tumbled over again, found his eight-feet footing and tried again to flee.
Oh HELL NO!
I kicked him a third time.
I was giggling and having a great time
But I guess by then he’d had enough.
He regained his bearings again, but this time he must have said to himself,
“Fuck this asshole!”
He started chasing ME!
I ran fast as I could, periodically looking over my shoulder, to my hooch, fumbled around with my hooch-door key, panicking. Got the door open, burst through, slammed it behind me and gasping and sweating fell down on my rack. My hooch-mates (both of them) asked me if the war had started up again.
“Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing; ’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.”
–Iago (From Othello)
Moron Lance Ed.,
Of course Iago gave zero fuks about his ‘good name’, for he had none. This is the brilliance ofShakespeare. Very similar to when Polonius in ‘Hamlet’ says, “Brevity is the soul of wit.”
Because Polonius never could STFU
I love my life, but I see it coming to a close soon.
(I ain’t no spring chicken)
I have lived a FULL LIFE. I have been around the Whurl (and the World)
I HAVE LIVED!
I AM so Very HAPPY Now. I have made PEACE with me.
Now I just write.
I love that.
I am a worthy Man. If you ever choose to interact with me, please just be honest. I have not the time, nor patience, nor desire for bullshit. I have seen/heard it all before.
I am a simple man: Simple wants. Simple Desires. Simple Dreams.
In short: I am Simple-Minded.
Now go away.
Unless you have something relevant/honest to say.
I will always listen.
But don’t waste my time.
If you waste my finite time, I will never forgive you.
This ain’t the song I wanted, but I suppose it kinda ‘fits’ into my Narrative.
Your hand, your tongue. Look like th’ innocent flower,
But be the serpent under ’t. He that’s coming
Must be provided for; and you shall put
This night’s great business into my dispatch,
Which shall to all our nights and days to come
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.
We will speak further
Only look up clear.
To alter favor ever is to fear.
Leave all the rest to me
“Unsex Me Here”
Why do I hold Lady Macbeth in such high esteem one may ask?
Isn’t it patently obvious?
She is cunning. She is manipulative. She is strong. (Much stronger than her husband)
“Screw your courage to the sticking-place,And we’ll not fail.”
She is intelligent.
She is ‘ambition-on-steroids’.
She is resolute.
She is brave.
She is Affectionate and Loving.
(Yes! Oh Yes She Is!—To her husband)
She is loyal (The whole world of her ambition is her husband)
She is broken.
She is madness. (In mind and in deed)
“Out! damned spot! One, two, — why, then ‘tis time to do’t. Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? – Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him.”
She is Beautiful.
She is Beautiful.
She is So Very Beautiful
In very many respects, she reminds me of Shonnie.
But now she is gone.
“Out, Out Brief Candle”
And now for something completely different…
Just a little levity.
‘Tis Good For The Soul.
Street Cred For Vid: Wisecrack
Author’s Note (And Two-Cents):
Yes, I know.
Roman Polanski is an Asshole.
Anyone who ‘reads me’ knows my position on ‘artists’ and art.
If you do not, here is the ‘short’ version:
“I don’t give two cups of warm spit about what they (artists, creators, movie stars, entertainers, et cetera) do off camera, off stage, away from the set, away from the recording booth.Or whatever they choose to do while in their boudoirs.
All I care about is what they create.
Does it enrich my life?
Does it entertain me?
Does it educate me?
Does it make me laugh?
Does it make me cry?
Does it move me?
Or Does It Waste My Time?
These are the only measures of worth I employ.”
Anything Else IS A WASTE of my Mental Energy and My Time.
And My Time is the Most Valuable Thing I Own.
Or as we say in Texas (Usually about Land, but it fits even better in this context):
“Time, get all you can.
Keep all you can.
They ain’t making any more of it.”
That door swings both ways:
So, I hope I have NOT wasted YOUR Time.
More Two Cents Worth Regarding Art and Artists Here:
Below Please Find The Relevant Text If You Do Not Want To Follow The Link To The Complete Post Above.
Now I am cognizant of the fact that there are myriad ‘Madonna Haters’ out there in ‘Radio Land.’
Here is My Philosophy, (Well-Documented in some of my posts) and some advice:
You don’t have to love the ‘artist-person’ to love the art. There are lots of performers I detest because of their off-stage persona or antics, or just piss-poor personality in general.
But… That does not stop me from enjoying and appreciating their art.
I do not give two shits about their politics, arrogance, religion, sexual preferences, et cetera. If their art entertains and enriches my life, I am good with them.
On the other hand, they can be as wonderful and charming as all get out, but if they have no true performance talent, I move on.
Here is the advice part for anyone out there who may need it:
Do not be so narrow and small-minded, and full of your own morality that you prevent yourself from enjoying good art.
Want a Second Opinion?
Watch this from Critical Drinker:
That loss is yours.
And yours alone.
Believe me, the artists, the great ones especially, don’t give a shit if you boycott them or not.
Try to remember:
“Life is a Cabaret”
Enjoy it while it lasts. Don’t deny yourself value and enjoyment in your life just because some great performer pisses you off due to their persona while off-stage.
I post a lot of shit. I post a lot of off the wall shit. If you have read my ‘By Way of Introduction’ page you will know this. But, OK, most of you have not (read that). Therefore, I will be brief here (“More matter and less art,” Yeah yeah yeah…) More matter below:
I stole this from Sam Clemens. I hope you like it a lot. (I do)
I don’t know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and I was up. There was pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek–but I couldn’t see no snakes. He started and run round and round the cabin, hollering “Take him off! take him off! he’s biting me on the neck!” I never see a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him. He wore out by and by, and laid still a while, moaning. Then he laid stiller, and didn’t make a sound. I could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was laying over by the corner. By and by he raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. He says, very low:
“Tramp–tramp–tramp; that’s the dead; tramp–tramp–tramp; they’re coming after me; but I won’t go. Oh, they’re here! don’t touch me –don’t! hands off–they’re cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil alone!”
Then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. I could hear him through the blanket.
By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he would kill me, and then I couldn’t come for him no more. I begged, and told him I was only Huck; but he laughed SUCH a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once when I turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. Pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who.
So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still the time did drag along.