Truer words not heard (in a while)
A New Take On An Old Story
While suffering my enforced exile in California I could often be found searching for jumping spiders. One day I captured a particularly stunning one with black and white markings, dark black-green eyes and luminescent aquamarine fangs behind the feathery appendages which covered them.
Absolutely Beautiful Spider!
I gently herded her into a mason jar which contained several wood chips of varying shapes and sizes. Jumping spiders do not build webs; they live in caves made by little boys employing wood chips. (This is what my spidery experience had taught me through the years.)
Once I had done my time we moved back to Texas, but not before I was forced to abandon my Most Beautiful Spider, along with all the others I had collected, my mother announcing quite emphatically,
“I am NOT riding in a car all-the-way-home-to-Texas seated next to five jars full of damn spiders!”
Once back in Texas, for several weeks I suffered from PTSL: Post Traumatic Spider Loss. I missed my spiders, especially the beautiful one I had named ‘Sadie’.
Not that Texas has a spider shortage, mind you; I just did not immediately know where to look: “Looking for Spiders in all the wrong places.”
One day, lo’ and behold, I found a jumping spider which looked so very much familiar to me, (or perhaps she found me)
“Sadie! Sadie! Did you follow me all the way from California?” I asked breathlessly.
“Of course,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I happily gathered her up and placed her into my newest mason jar, assuming she still wanted to be my pet.
About a month later, I proudly announced to my Grandparents:
“My spider is gonna have babies.”
“Lance Son,” my Grandmother informed me rather condescendingly, “There is no daddy spider in there. Your spider cannot possibly have baby spiders.”
Not ill-mannered enough to say it, I thought it: “Of course she can have baby spiders ‘without a ‘daddy.’ Spiders are like guppies: they store sperm until the time is ‘just right.’ But how could this old Tennessee-Baptist-Dyed-In-The-Wool-God-is-Great woman even wrap her mind around such things Darwin?”
Absolutely Incomprehensible To Her.
About two weeks later, I was up to my ass in baby spiders. I did not show grandmother these offspring. She would have told me it was yet one more miraculous example of God’s Work:
“The Immaculate Spider Conception.”
All the baby spiders slowly disappeared over time, crawling through the ice-pick holes in the lid of the Mason Jar two-by-two, or however. Fine. Neither Sadie nor I were interested in raising a passel of little spider crumb snatchers.
My Lady Spider was a huntress and she complained daily regarding my neglect of her need. She ached for something more than the flies I would daily cast into her mason jar. They were just food. No thrills to be had in the hunt, merely a harvest. She was growing morose.
“You’re killing my Spider Soul with all these damn flies Lance,” she said.
“OK Sadie! I will give you something to satiate your arachnid need,” I told her one morning.
Under the eaves of my Grandfather’s shed lived a few Black Widow Spiders. They had established some manner of ‘Black Widow Sisterhood,’ (Not unlike similar ‘Sisterhoods’ to be found on Social Media these days.) Even though I am most definitely a spider geek, Black Widows never intrigued me as potential pets, mainly because they needed more than a Mason Jar Ecosystem for lodging and accoutrements and also because of their lethargic laisser-faire approach to acquiring sustenance:
“Sit in their parlor-web all day; wait for something hapless to happen by.”
No hunt in them whatsoever.
Slightly peeved with Sadie, I decided to capture one of The Sisters. I took her to Sadie’s Mason jar and dropped her in.
“Happy now damn you?” I said.
Sadie looked about at her new roommate. Then looked up at me through multiple dark green eyes and said,
“I never thought we would come to this.”
“Sorry, ol’ Gal,” I giggled. “This is the part where the cowboy rides away. Catch ya laters. Good luck.”
I was curious and in fact, had nothing but time on my hands so I watched to see how she would deal with her new jar-mate, never really fearful for her safety.
But Black Widow was wily. She taunted Sadie, waving her long, spindly legs about in semaphore fashion, as if to say, “Come hither Little Jumper, let me demonstrate the technique that has given my kind our terrible dark name.”
Sadie began deliberately circling around Black Widow, sizing her up, her little Sadie neurons firing on and off, then seizing what I’m certain she perceived as perfect opportunity, jumped at her full force.
Her momentum caused her to tumble onto her back.
Black Widow capitalized and deftly captured Sadie and began wrapping her in web, presumably to eat at her leisure.
But Black Widow made one fatal mistake:
She bound Sadie’s hind legs (all four of them) first, leaving her front legs (all four of THEM) free. As Black Widow was casually wrapping her up, Sadie grabbed her with unencumbered front legs and planted a big wet French Kiss into Black Widow’s thorax. They remained locked in this embrace for thirty minutes. (I know; I was there, timing it–for ‘science’)
Black Widow now hoisted with her own petard and quite dead, was dropped by Sadie, who watched her tumble down and land with an inaudible (to me) thud on the Mason Jar floor.
“Sadie,” I said. “Your indentured servitude has ended. Here, allow me help you out of that.”
Fishing some tweezers that I had stolen from my Grandmother’s “Lady-Bag” bag from my jean’s pocket I gently and meticulously pulled all the Black Widow silk from Sadie, a tedious time consuming effort which took at least half an hour. Then I gingerly laid the Mason Jar on its side hiding it in a pile of kindling away from the prying eyes of opportunistic birds and went on about my business.
Returning the next day, I discovered no Sadie: just a note written in Spider’ease which read:
“Thank you for allowing me to save myself.
I will always love you, but I’ve had quite enough of Texas and Texan ways. If you ever make it back to California, look me up. Here is my email addy: (Redacted)
Spider On! Y’all!”
And that was how she ended it.
Took me three days to get the webs out of my brain and a week to find another spider, but she was not the same. She was not MY Sadie, just an inadequately inept substitute, but I suppose that’s how it goes with First Loves lost.
“I miss you Sadie,” I caught myself saying to no one in particular few days later.
“Petty Officer Marcom! Your Fifty Cals are Rusty!”
I had to admit. Yes they were. I had tried so hard to keep ahead of the rust, but here I found myself on the leeward side of the second half of a six-month, ‘round-the-whurl-West Pacific Deployment’, and somewhere just off the coast of Somalia.
Yes, rust was my enemy, certainly never my friend—the machine guns were always mounted while we (The USS Callaghan DDG 994, full cast and crew) were Haze-Gray and Underway.
Yes, always mounted and underway:
Haze-Graying, even then
My Guns were always supposed to be… somewhere upon the sea… this is what they were purchased for…
And subject to rust. Rust Relentless. Relentless She Be: That Sea. That Salt of the Fucking Sea
My Moby Dick-lessness! How could I not keep Rust off my guns?
Freud certainly would have had fun with me
(Sadly, now I know why)
My professional life was to be found somewhere rusting in those machine guns.
And that rust you see, that rust occupied a great deal of my daily routine.
The Navy had a solution though. She had provided canvas covers to cover those guns and make them safe from rust. Alas, those canvas covers had seen better days, probably back when Pearl Harbor was just an ordinary Naval Base that no one had ever heard of.
But rust is relentless and timeless.
While scrubbing the Indian Ocean rust off’n my fifty-cals one morning I hatched a plan. Knowing full well we were soon to pull into Mombasa Kenya, after so many month at sea, I conspired to save my money:
Once in Mombasa, I would smuggle one of the moth infected, salt- digested, jig saw’d, Swiss Cheese, ‘holy’ canvas shards off the ship. I would rent a taxi, find me a young child, show him my smuggled ‘prize’, ask him to direct me somewhere, where I could find and nickel and dime (I did not have much money then, not un-life-like now) find a leather shop in Mombasa, present to the leather-maker my Holy Canvas, My Shroud, My Naval Career, and demand, (for US Dollars), that he make me four such more yet new and brand new.
And This is exactly what I did, and to the amazement and astonishment of my Master Chief Petty Officer and my Department Head (almost a Navy Commander… he kind of looked like JFK, now that I think on it. I did not like particularly like him, but I respected him. Hell, he reminded me of all the things I could have been if I had joined the Nav when I was twelve instead of twenty-eight (Different story. Sorry)
The next time they inspected my Fifty Cals, they were pristine! (They did not take notice nor time to notice that the canvas covers were not exactly Haze-Gray-Naval Gray. No, more like Third-World-Rustic, with just a tiny bit of water buffalo…left over…but Goddamn sure water and sea salt proof.
And I was so desirous that they did NOT notice, but my Master Chief did notice, yet, never ever noticing nor voicing his ‘inner thoughts’ in front of what he referred to as “Shit Birds” — ‘Officers’ — Never let on.
Master Chief never, ever let out his truth thoughts in front of Shit – Birds. This was his genius.
And I should have been cognizant of this, yet I was so somewhat giddy after my .50 Cals had finally passed inspection, that I did not stop to think on that anymore. “Not even Master Chief had seen through my ruse” Yeah, Rite!
I was drunk with my own cleverness and lying back on my back in my rack, curtain drawn, congratulating me.
(Now, you must realize how the Military Mind works. I was my Ship’s Armor All–Armorer– IN Charge of All The Ship’s Small Arms! .225 Cal to .50 Cal. If it took two men to lift, wasn’t mine. But one-man-band? Yep! I was the shit! I was a Gunner’s Mate 3rd Class! Freshly rocked out of SEAL Training (twice now, but who counts these sorts of thing? I suppose I do) and trying to retain what little was left of my pride and my so-fifty-caliber-called-life.)
And I loved and Respected My Master Chief. Did not ever want to become an embarrassment to him, nor to my Fellow Gunner’s Mates who worked on the “Big Guns”. (Those ones what ‘bullets’ took two and a half-men to lift)
And even more important, (anyone who has ever ‘Served’ will know this), the Military is Run On Fear:
That kind of fear.
Well, as I was lying on my back in my middle rack right before Taps with my little blue ‘privacy’ curtain drawn back when someone jerked that sucker back.
Along with my reverie.
Master Chief Anderson!
MY MASTER CHIEF
“Son, tell me where you found those brand new gun covers.”
Trying to lie on my side and find an elbow to lean to, I half-coughed out, feigning sleepy-eyed ignorance,
“Master Chief, I had them made while we were in Mombasa.”
(There are people one may lie to in life, but, A Master Chief Petty Officer in the US Navy is not one found amongst those people. Not if one wishes life beyond that moment of sweet deception)
“I see”, was all he said, as he yanked my curtain back shut, thus leaving me alone with my various and sundry.
I did not sleep that night. For you see, I knew I had broken Naval Regs by doing something not-in-the Naval-Seaman’s-Bible–The Blue Book–The book, inches thick as a brick, “The Book” I had been made to almost memorize while at Recruit Training Command, i.e. boot camp.
I had broken the rule.
In the Nav, there is a sea sailor preamble, most requisite when one wants to recount a story of ‘when ships were made of wood and men were made of iron’… “When Moses was a pup” This validates and is a ritual never broken. In other words, one never breaks the rule.
Sometime mid-morning the next day, I was summoned to the berth/office of The Department Head of my Division, Lt. Commander ‘Kennedy’.
Shitting bricks is too trite.
I was nervous.
I gave a hearty rap on the bulkhead door as I was trained to do in boot camp…
“Petty Officer 3rd Class Marcom Sir!”
“I know who you are Lance; sit down.”
(What??? Lance??? Sit Down???)
Mouth agape I sat down, speechless
“Son, Master Chief Anderson tells me you went out on your own, designed, commissioned, smuggled off a prototype, and paid for, with your own money, those .50 Cal Gun Covers. Is this true?”
“Yes, uh, yessir,” I stammered.
“Well, that shows some fine initiative. How much did you pay Son?”
“Un Sir. Doesn’t matter…. I just, well, the .50 Cals, you know SIR, cost ten-thousand dollars each, and I thought…rust….an…”
“How much did you pay?!”
“250 Dollars Sir.”
Without saying a word he opened a little three-lock-box (OK; I made that up. It was only a one-lock-box) that he had in a drawer, carefully opened it, and proceeded to hand me two-hundred and fifty bucks.
I sat there, dumb founded, a moment too long, still in shock, looking at the bills in my hand…
“Petty Officer Marcom! “
“Huh…Uh, Huh… Sir?”
Jumping up, knocking my chair over, some tears welling in my eyes,
As I saluted him and abruptly left his quarters, quite in haste.
And thus I had survived yet another day in MY Beloved Navy.
And Just As a Reminder Kids:
Don’t Rain on my Parade: I have enuff Rain for All
*And this just once more a rough draft, full of error, so be kind. Trust me: there is no harsher critic of me than me. I sweat commas.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
If this isn’t funny, you may have yer money back.
Here at Texan Tales, we have a money-back guarantee.
File a claim.
Good luck with that.
Yet another email I dispatched from Camp Dwyer, 2012:
Around 1730hrs a truck pulls up outside my office at LSA 2. I didn’t see who was in the truck, but I figured I was about to have a visitor. (I’m really smart that way) After the truck had been literally blocking my door for about five minutes, Mike Smith (My Manager. The BBB: Billeting BIG BOSS) walks in holding up a pack of L&M cigarettes. Now remember, I have not seen this guy for the day-and-a-half he has been “back” on Dwyer.
“Anyone in here smoke these?” were the first words out of his mouth.
I look up from my personal emails and say, “Dunno. Lashonda smokes, but afraid I don’t know her brand.” (She was out of the office, actually smoking at this time)
“Well, I wish whoever is smoking these would stop doing it on the bench.”…
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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.
The point of this post, if there is one, is that I have applied for no less than ten jobs in Saudi Arab today.
Some nine or so in various other shit holes, err, developing countries, just looking for my next war zone to make me famous, not unlike Hemmingway. At this point in life, I must admit: prolly ain’t gonna happen. All I can hope for is some good monies and some decent health insurance (and maybe some ESOP), but Hell! At this point, I’ll work for room and board…but never bored.
Me? Bored? Never.
Again, when do I get to get outraged? Ppl in Ferguson get to be outraged. I share their outrage, but I just want a small piece of that pie. I have more than one decade experience working in dangerous desolate places, yet, I find it so very difficult to find a job in same. I am feeling some outrage here! I should be entitled. I did my time. Hell! I served my country.
To quote some not so famous line from the movie, “The Right Stuff,” “Where is my parade with Jackie? I wanna meet Jackie. They owe me!” I want to meet Jackie. Or at the very least I want a window… into my golden years. End of Rant…
And of course, as y’all know, this was all ‘tongue-in-cheek’
“Hook ’em Horns!”
(That’s ‘Texan’ for ‘Suck it up and move that ball on down the field.’ Boys.)
Or, even better, to quote Dan Jenkins: “Y’all knew it was gonna be semi-tough, eh?”
And this “trailer” is semi-tough to watch, but it was as advertised: semi tough, as we were growing up in The Seventies.
And of course, as usual, this last link is the important one.
I seem to be on an LBJ Day… today. Please listen. This is the real deal and I do promise: you will laugh. (You will havta scroll down and hit that link to the orig post; my apologies…)
Lyndon Baines Johnson
Texan, Father, School Teacher, Rancher, & Much Maligned 36th President of The United States of America.
I love LBJ, or as Brother Dave Gardner once called him: ‘Daddy Bird’. Johnson was a divisive entity during his one and a half terms as president—primarily due of course to the Vietnam War—which he inherited. Yes, I realize I am gonna get some push back. Favorably mention ‘LBJ’ even today and you best stand by for some unhappy and contentious words.
The problem I have, in general, when talking to folks about Johnson is that most are ignorant of the man, his history, his upbringing; his good works: Rural electrification for Texas. Medicare, Civil Rights, The Great Society (never really came to fruition, due to Vietnam) and so on.
Once he became ‘The Accidental President’ he took JFK’s dreams and made them reality. Johnson could do…
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Swerved into this in my inbox few days ago….
“Dere Lance of Texas,
I hav fond some wory in my brane last days. Woried you not hear anee more. No rightings on you blogg, texas tails. Hopink you not ded. If yu ar, pls let me kno, of not, plese igno an I will chek bak for mor posits from yu.
Yer no 1 fren and reeder, Jim bo bob
-Wataska, Tx july 2015.
PS Mavis and them kids doin grate. Thak you.”
For any readers I have left here, rest assured I will address this issue from Jim bo bob in a timely fashion.
Just fer laffs…..
I am re-posting this because I am still working on the Continuation of the ‘Sinai Field Mission Chronicles‘.
(Great Excuse, eh?) Anyway, some of you ‘newbies’ may not have had the wonderful ‘opportunity’ to have swerved into it. Therefore it is with great humility that I present it once again for your perusal.
Bugs were a huge problem for us in Basra.
There were big bugs, small bugs, flying bugs, crawling bugs, creeping bugs, creepy bugs, scary bugs, poisonous bugs, biting bugs, fighting bugs, suicide bomber bugs, and worst of all: No-See’um bugs. (Please don’t get me wrong: I love bugs: please read Queendom and Spiders)
But every day at precisely 1600hrs:
We all worked in trailers, which passed for ‘Offices’ in Basra and we had A/C Window Units which would suck in the Bugman’s Offerings with vengeance. So everyday…
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I am re-blogging this because it kinda sums up all my life’s disappointments.
NAVY CLUB of the United State of America MILITARY EXCELLENCE Award
“Presented to the graduating recruit who best exemplifies the qualities of enthusiasm, devotion to duty, military appearance and behavior, self-discipline and teamwork.”
This was the highest honor any recruit could be awarded.
I won that sucker in ‘85.
Before I went to Boot Camp, aka in Naval Parlance, “Recruit Training” my recruiter told my wife:
“Hey, If Lance wins this award, The Navy will pay for your plane ticket and lodging at Great Lakes Naval Recruit Center so you may see Lance graduate. But of course, it is very unlikely he will win. I mean the odds are against it, but who knows? Lance has scored the best on his ASVAB and he looks to be squared-away.” Blah Blah Blah.
My wife was an Army Reserve Vet, a Non-Com in the U.S. Army Reserve, and for her day…
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I used to shoot small birds
Yes, back in the day, I pleasured me by shooting to death… sparrows.
(not pretty, is it?)
Not proud of it. And as Texan-Rightly, not ashamed of it neither. (What we did then, back in the day…)
“Just Texan Kids havin’ fun,” they would say. (‘They’, generally being Grandmothers—maternal grandmothers)
“They looked aside.”
Looking back now, I am ashamed of all the sparrow lives I so easily and callously took. Tis a small thing in the big scheme of things, yes I Know. But, it bothers me still. As I am certain the memory of dead kittens haunts my ‘maternal’ grandfather over all those ‘Damn-we-got-too-many-cats-he’ah-on-this-place.” (As he shot them to death in front of my young, sensitive, later to become, my mother)
Don’t shoot sparrows
And don’t shoot kittens.
They will haunt you.
For some many years.
I suppose this is the point of this post.
‘Don’t shoot.’ (unless the sparrow is trying to kill you, that is…)
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”
Thou talks of Nothing.
ALERT! ALERT! ALERT!
PITY PARTY WARNING!
DANGER WILL ROBINSON!
(THIS MEANS YOU!)
And Here is a news flash for you Marcom:
“Golly Gosh, My Lord. I am tryin’ to… but you see…I have been watching this “Game of Thrones” thing on the Television…”
“Never heard of such nonsense.”
“Yes, My Lord. Me neither.”
Now my lawyers are sated.
There was a semi-recent poll taken, right here on this Blog: TT&H, where the question was broached.
“What should I write about?”
Well, after so many hanging chaffs and invalid voting boxes, and I do not know how many “Landslide Lyndons” we experienced, the tally was tallied:
Someone voted for a Peanut Story.
Just so happens, I had one in my hip pocket. (I carry it about, you see? Just for occasions such as this)
I do believe the year was 1994, give or take. (10 years)
I was in a bad spot with my then-wife and my Girl-Friend who soon, someday soon, I hoped to become my next-wife.
Nevermind her name; this is irrevelevant. After a few… well.
I was in this bad spot, you see. And I needed a flat-bed truck (for whatever reason), you see?
Now, the only one in possession of same was Peanut.
You see? (Because Peanut was always the one who did not ask questions, you see?) And why was that? Because I was also the only one who never asked.
Being poor of money and poor’er of excuse, I told my bride: “Honey, we need to see this man about a truck. Then we can get on with our lives.”
“Okay,” she said.
Off we went, she in her pretty sun-dress and me, looking for flatbed trucks in all them wrong places.
And then, after about eight miles of Bad Texas Road, we came upon a tree across the road you see, and a madman with a shotgun, you see; this madman was shooting at this young girl, you see, and this was embarrassing to me, you see, since the man wielding the shotgun could not hit shit, .. and his aim was lousy you see? And of course the girl was out of range, you see, and it did not matter to me, you see?
BECAUSE My Brother, PEANUT would never shoot an innocent girl on the wing.
You must have seen that coming.
Oh, that ‘other’ guy?
That Guy shooting at that girl?
What did we do with him?
Well, turns out, that was Peanut.
I had to forgive him. The girl was not harmed and I missed my brother.
Thus it ended….
I cannot write this.
Sorry. It has become rare that I just throw up a rough draft, you see?
(Yes, I know: they are all rough drafts)
This one may have some promise, however, since, like all Things Peanut, it is true.
Caint you see?
“And being thus disquieted…”
Not unlike Pygmalion, as the years fly by, I create.
I cannot ‘create’ the woman I love. Not because she does not exist, but because, I do not want to embarrass her.
Yet, she is real and she loves me: since 1971.
She told me so.
Now…..five wives later….My wives.
(I should have never left her to fend.
oh no! I had to go to fuckn egypt for five fuckin years!)
Is just a fucking word.
Hell! It is not even a word for a life lost.
“His only aspiration…. was getting back that girl he lost before.”
But.. what to do with? As a dog chasing a train? What is he gonna do, if he catches it?
These are the eternal questions.
Nothing seems to keep you high.
Who could have?
*Of course if you want the answer to that burning behind the Grassy Knoll Question, you will have to listen to Lenny. (Listen below after you wade through some serious Lance Horseshit)
Or, I suppose you could just ask Lance, as his erstwhile step-mom worked for Jack (Ruby)
And if you, any of you, breath, yeah breath. A word to my also erstwhile step-sister… well, that last breath, will be your last…
(And, as always, Everything I just typo’d, said, thought… well, it’s bullshit. I was born, rear’d an’ raised in California. Northern California. I have never even seen Texas. Just read about it all.)
And some old pirate maps.
Just funnin’… I am only Half-Crazy.
Just to make up for all those “Thursday Throwbacks” I missed cashing in on during my recent ‘sabbatical’.
Yeah, I always considered ‘Throwback Thursdays’ something of a ‘gift.’ I mean, if I had nothing to write I could always dig down into those old archives, et voila! There ya go!
(In Some Truth: I just wanted to put up some Lenny Bruce–for Old Time’s Sake.)
And it kind of goes along with that Brother Dave Post from a day or two ago. (See? There is some continuity to my mind)
Believe that? Really? Wanna buy a bridge? Cheap?
I generally spend about ten minutes ‘writing a post’. Then three minutes waiting on ‘spell check’ to remind me that I cannot spell ‘cat.’ Then two minutes (except for the upload wait) to upload photos/videos. One minute at the ‘final’ look. Then: Click that ‘publish’ button.
Rinse and repeat the next day. This bothers me. Why? Because, as all of us (may) feel, we can write so much better.
Alas, I am lazy. I just want to get it out there… Catch the likes; catch the comments. Fuck the quality! “They” know what I mean… Don’t they? I mean, they read me! Not too much need for exposition, ya? ‘They git it, eh?’
Just some musings from an amusing wanna-be writer/blogger. Take with some grain of salt. (And Comment), if you are of a mind to, and have an opinion on the ‘writing/blogging’ process.
“I have never had an original thought; I don’t live in a vacuum.”
And if this ain’t poignant for today… Well then. I do not know what is, or could be ‘is.’
Take a listen: All Policemans in NYC might even appreciate. (If they can read, that is)
And I wanna be Your Lenny…
Right here on TT&H
There is a vid credit, but I lost it. His lawyers will surely contact mine…
Now, this is some strange form of bullshit.
I actually shook his hand.
In Sand Dog, California.
He weren’t none of that.
He was some, but not all.
But he was a great man.
He was just a man with a plan.
I loved him for that.
Just like I love(d) Woody
And I respect.
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 quake! 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:
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)
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.)
I had to post this one.
Ya know…. John really love Yoko… No one (except John)
I suppose love is funny that way.
Bob (The Most Interesting Man in Iraq) is my life-long frin…
I miss his dumb ass (and ‘dumb-ass’ is a term of endearment where I come from)
Bob is one such ‘transcendent’ lucky for me.
He saved my fragile sanity.
My mechanic (Of Parsons Mechanic fame) came by to have some ‘chat’ with me:
“Way’ll… I have a natch’ral disaster on my hands.”
“Ok Bob,” I said, “I’m ‘bout to bust with anticipation.”
“Yep. A natch’ral disaster.”
“You mentioned that already.”
“A real-life natch’ral calamity.”
“Do I have time to go to chow while you go through your preamble?”
Ignoring me, he continued, “That Six Kay (‘6K’ as in six thousand pound lifting capacity) forklift is all a-pieces. hamorr’agin’ parts all over th’ place. The Boys (Filipino mechanics times two) tol’ me it was the fuel injector pump. So, I kin’ly smiled and said ‘Okaaay…,’ and let ‘em go at it. They need ta learn how ta fix thangs without me onct in ah’while. Well, they dun got tha’ forklift tore all ta pieces. Now, I dun give ‘em all mornin’ to dick ‘round with it, an’ I’m gonna give ‘em all this aftr’noon to dick ‘round with it some more. Then first thing tomorra, I’m gonna ask ‘em, ‘Boys, how come that forklift ain’t a-workin’ this fine morning?’”
“I’m hip Let’s keep it real.”
“Your ‘personnel management style’ is showing Bob,” I said.
“Yeah, whatever… An’ tomorra’s Thursday. An’ day after that’s Friday. An’ I ain’t doin’ nothin’ on Friday. Tomorra, we gonna start our dee-cent inta th’ day off.”
“Kinda start slowin’ ‘er down ‘round mid-noon time, eh?” I said. (I can do ‘Southern’ just as slick as you please when I want to.)
“X-actly. We start double-clutchin’ and dee-celeratin’ an’ bring her in nice and slow like.”
“And what about my forklift?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“She’s all ‘In’shalah’d’ out Boss.”
“Dead in the water?”
“Send her saddle home.”
“I need to call Baghdad?”
“She ain’t lookin’ none too fav’erble.”
“Call HQ an’ tell ‘em we need another forklift?”
“Now, jes hol’ on. Doan git ‘em all wadded jes yet.”
“Ok. I got it. Thanks.”
“We’re Parsons’ Mechanics an’ jes watch how we roll,” he said on his way out the door.
I love my job.
I have a “Ten Kay” forklift that still works. So I should be alright for now. Besides, Bob just loves the drama and we do this little dance everytime there is a crisis in the motor pool. If I were a betting man (And actually I am) I’d wager two of my pay checks that come Friday if that 6K forklift is still down, he’ll be out there bright and early with his boys working on it until it is repaired even if it means giving up his day off. I’ve seen him do that already too many times over the past year and a half he has worked for me. There is no man made of better stuff. An’ he sure do entertain. Yessir, he certainly does. And I’d never have been able to keep the operation afloat without him.
I love all my crew and wouldn’t trade a single one of them for a pile of cash money or a case of Johnny Walker Black with the authorization to drink it.
This song is dedicated to Bob, wherever he may be:
OK: Ed. Note:
Y’all gotta love how ‘Texan’ this vid is—look at the ‘ensign‘-Texan Flags-behind the sage, er…stage.
(and if you look really close–for you guitar players out there–you will notice the hole in the guitar. Willie tells some stories ’bout the gee-tar. He tells one about a drunken party with Leon Russell in a hotel room, when Leon almost broke it. Willie, in classic form, invited Leon to stop touching that guitar.)
When I am coherent, I may write about that.
And then there is this:
Willie sang, “At the airport in Milwaukee…”
on that: Milwaukeeeee!
Now, that header is probably un (in?) appropriate.
I paid good money for this, this, this, ability to write shit no one really wants to read.
I post what thrills me.
Someday, when I am old… I will look back and smile.
“Jesus Christ Lance! How many people did you piss off?”
And I will probably reply:
“All of them.”
“Don’t jump and make trouble.”
I was only funnin’.
I was a man once (SEALs)
As Peanut once said, “Much Man!”
Well, he, Peanut, said a lot.
“A tale of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
Here is the Billy Joel:
That (the above) is just a ‘working’ title.
What I reely want to write… is some more ‘autobiographical shit.
(Mostly about Las Vegas)
Yeah, we have been here b4.
Oh! The Billy Joel bit was from this here.
I am too stupid to just go ahead and die.
I would make a good president.
‘Cause I have been to MacDonald’s.
Look it up.
I have spent too many hours in airports behind Gomers.
Waited in line.
Who needs a house out in HaKENsake?
Proving (once again) That My Life Has a Sound-Track
(Yes, there will be more)
Stand by for heavy rolls as this ship comes about.
Just a man I once had the honor of shaking hands with…
What’s that word? I think I’m eccentric.
“The younger girls are so easy to trick”
Wizards and Lizards…
They all bite.
It’s kinda like fishing for shark: they bite, vociferously (sp)
Trust me on this one.
“In a hundred years, this all won’t matter.”
“Call me a liar; call me a writer… believe me or not.”
Or, if you will:
“The timing’s all wrong.”
Last Chance… Texico
‘Cause I love Rickie Lee Jones.
That is why, oh, and yeah! Because, to quote one long lost Texan Oilman: “Please Lord! Just gimme one more oil boom; I do promise I won’t fuck it up (this time).”
Texans actually used to say such words.
Took the LaBomba (at the behest of my Brit Better Half) today to the Kroger’s Gas Station to fuel her up, and as usual, I was in a hurry.
Texans have become far too urbanized in my humble opinion. But I have spent so much time overseas in places where impatience is a virtue (France comes immediately to mind), that I have lost that “Lovin’ Feelin’”
This was a rather long queue.
I sallied up behind two vehicles, replete with two consumers of fossil fuel.
“This may take just five minutes.”
The first finished in a timely fashion.
He was fueling a Prius. (Is that a car? A real car? Bullshit!)
Said consumer proceeded to ‘fuel’ his little gay car. (Certainly the tank held no more than twelve gallons). This took five minutes.
Then. Then! He proceeded to spend twelve or fourteen minutes, oh so carefully, draining yet another half cup of petrol into the gas tank.
So, I am thinking: “This ain’t ‘The Last Chance Texaco’, Asshole.”
Vid Credit: KOUJI328I
“Get on wid it and get the fuck outta my way!”
It took all the fiber of my being to refrain from getting out of my Gas Guzzler SUV and knock him right on his ass. Right before I asked him if he were an idiot or just plain stupid, or both (At this point there were no less than four vehicles behind us, waiting…)
But I just sat there, fuming (no pun)
You see? I really have mellowed and matured. (Proud of me?)
Do you ever experience queue Rage?
Do morons piss you off?
Do I piss you off?
And, yes: I really am in love with Rickie Lee.
And that, that! will piss no one off.
Except maybe some women who still call me… ‘friend’
“Lance, you have always been star-struck.”
Some GF actually said this to me, back in the day. Can you imagine?
(‘Tis true; I must confess)
I recently finished watching …
And yes, I have read ALL of Caro’s books.
And yes: I am a Texan.
And NO! I do not think LBJ had anyTHING to do with JFK’s demise.
Surely this is a word (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/naive)
When I first started this blog… (so many moons ago) I thought to myself, I thought: “Here is where I will write my Great American Novel” They will come.
“fruition” is just a word.
coming to same… is.. well…
(Yep! oft-times, I revert to Peanut-speak he was, is, the smartest dead man I know)
have ever known…
I love (d) him. I miss him; He spelled it out.
I miss him.
Yeah; I miss The Pee-Nut.
(He died too soon)
he was a bull-rider….
“Blow, you old blue Norther”
He was my friend.
“Cynical… and drunk… and…. boring…”
Yeah: Nut would call me out that way (And No! Yes! He hated Joni Mitchell)
“Fucx you Peanut! I never cared one whit about your opinions!” You asshole!
And yes, I know… Judy Collins… But she got the words wrong. She said, “Northern” not “Norther”
Anyone who lives in Texas… know them difference.
Judy was… hot though, weren’t she??
I always forgave her (for her ‘hotness’)
“I’m gonna blow this damn candle out..”
Been scrambling… to delete.
Did I really post ‘that???
(hahaha! Yeah, I suppose I did)
OKay! (I just had to)
Because I am in love with Rita.
That is why.
Back in some day (mine) when I had been recently introduced to pot, I found me in my step-sister’s bedroom.
A guy came in (yes, he was a ‘guy’–older–I was twelve), and he pointed to a poster on the wall of my step-sis. (The poster was of Bob Dylan).
‘the guy’ asked me, rather demanded of me: “Do you know how Dylan writes his songs?”
“Nope,” I replied.
“He writes all the lyrics and then cuts them out and then scatters them about and then pieces them back again and sends them off.
“Are you from England?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
And fuk YeaH!
I have read Melville. I have read “Moby Dick”
“Call me Ismael”
(Yes. I am too sensitive)
(Oh, and I murdered a turkey over this–never mind that it was five years hence–just details)
Somewhere about five years ago, I was paid something in the region of $183,093 per year. Yep. To keep Y’all safe. Yep. To Keep Y’all safe.
Now, I am paid somewhere south of ten dollars per hour, to keep y’all’s packages safe.
The math don’t add up.
But… actually. It does.
Men (and wimmen) are paid according to…
Ya know what? I really do not want to write about this.
I love to write about my times in Iraq / Afghanistan / Egypt / Israel / Dubai / San Dog / …
Those are stories ppl want to read.
“Lance, That Whore!”
Now. That is good fodder, ain’t it?
Wanna read that? If I get one ‘yes’, I will write it. (Lord knows, there is much ‘fodder’ there…)
No one looks at the videos I steal, but I always include them anyhow…
OverState The Obvious, But…
You have to “drill down’.
I write some really esoteric shit.
As any who follow… will have noticed… I do not have nor write/written much, of late.
There is a reason for this (yes; trust me)
The raison d’etre is, …
I have nothing to say (that, of course, is a lie)
I have, (really have) been going over and deleting… a lot of my posts. (some of you may have noticed)
Well not to put too fine a point on it, but because they sucked.
That is it.
Here is some promise (which I will not ever be able to consummate… I won’t post shit anymore that is irrelevant.
(Now, if you believe that… I have a bridge for sale…cheap)
PS The S. Crow vid is worth you five minutes of time. Check it out. (it is the link on the left)
I really don’t have the energy (or the ‘want to’) to edit this…
(Broken down by decades)
’90-2004’: Worked a thankless job.
Now, none of this makes sense to anyone but me, but, dear readers, I am working on a post (as always) to make some sense of it all.
And PS. Yeah, I know; this is self-serving,
fore for? no one reads anyhow…so… just for fun.
Working on a new post, entitled “The Last Time I Saw Richard.”
(but do it quickly, ’cause “I’m gonna blow this damn candle out…”)
Recently… (A while back)
I killed my FB account. (This is a habit with me)
For reasons I’d rather not disclose, but numero one’oh is detailed below:
Anyway, I grew weary of reading about how much Jesus loves me, how I need to say ‘amen’ if I agree all the time. (They never tell ya what exactly to say when you do NOT agree), et cetera, et al. So… I just say what I feel, which generally gets me into trouble.
So.. I said some evil things.
Have since apologized.
Been offered a promise of a promise back in Iraq (rhymes, don’t it?)
I will go there.
The point of this post is thus:
I am back on FB; for whatever good that might mean. (or not mean)
“Is one the moon, Dear Clown, tied to a string for me?”
(He tried, but he could not get it down)
And yes: I have been in – love with Joni Mitchell for neigh onto forty year here.
Oh! And I love Emmy Lou… Too!
And.. Frank Zappa, and Tom Waits, and, Carly Simon, And Lenny Bruce, and… I suppose my love comes cheap.
Sorry ’bout that. So sorry Wilson.
I am sorry Wilson.
Figured this is as good as that.
OR… why waste good ancient prose?
Here ya go:
Now that is a good term from the Cold War, i.e., ‘Le Space Race.’
However, it still rings true today; rings true as something, almost… unattainable, yet so very much coveted.
Cal Gone! Take me away! (sic) Yeah: sick.
Point is, I have spent the better part of my life ‘playing’ computer games. Some might be tempted to label them ‘video’ games.
(They are NOT video games, Love: they are ways I increase my mental, mental…”)
Old Story warning here:
That guy. That guy, who used to write about distance running, what was his name” Oh Yeah! Joe Henderson; I read all of his books… Oh yeah! He died of a heart-attack… Just details…
He wrote a bit:
His bit went something like this:
He was ‘runnin’ down a road. Some kid says, “Hey, Hi! Mister Jogger!”
He replied, “Hey Kid! I am not a jogger; I am a runner! A ‘Runner!’ Get it right!”
The kid replied, “Well then, why are you jogging?”
I had to laugh; been there, et etcetera…
This is the part where I get pissed. (And when I get pissed… well, you would not like me)
The worst thing one (amongst the uninitiated) is to say, proclaim:
“Are you still playin’ that damn stupid video game?!!”
“Yes Madame. I am.”
“Oh. Well, be a good boy and don’t go downtown, protesting’ and such…”
“Yessum. I won’t”
“Good boy there then…”
“Yes, Ma’am.” (“Now Fuck Off” This is what I did truly think)
But, she I did have a point, but my ‘point’ swerved into something else, which I really do not wanna talk about.
My point it thus: Kids that played computer games in the Eighties are now in charge of your world.
And to loosely quote Forrest Gump:
“That is all I am gonna say about that.”
And P.S., Yes! I have of late, been spending some quality time with some of my ‘computer’ games. They know me there, and I don’t have to be too creative (actually, I do, but most….) Well…
My blogging experience is failing me of late. Not to say that I do not appreciate The Community. Just to say… that I am between gigs and this is beginning to weigh upon me.
Certainly, I will be about, but please do not chastise me for not visiting your respective blogs on a respective basis. (My intent is to intentionally do so, albeit, tomorrow), yet… I am real tired.
And my health is no good.
I will catch up…
“For Love or Money”
And yeah! In case you missed my ‘subliminal’ bullshit: I still miss Shonnie.
’tis a curse: A curse of a good woman.
Tuesday Ed. Note: This Post Makes Absolutely NO SENSE
Or it isn’t.
In my mind, I think I have written some incredibly good shit for this here blog, (approaching my one-year anniversary) but then again, who can account for taste?
Certainly not me.
I had some interesting emails of late:
Mostly of the “Jeeze! Yer not dead… I hope.” Strain. (vernacular??)
“No Virginia, I am not dead.”(And No: There ain’t no Santa)
Nope. Not yet. (dead: not Santa—try to stay with me here Friends…)
“Maybe next time.” Or as some of my ‘friends’ might say: “Next Year in Jerusalem.”
(But then, that is some other kind of different post, ain’t it?)
I am tired, so I will end this now.
Just wanted to post ‘something’ so that y’all would realize… I am still alive in here.
P.S. Now, that right there is what some might call a virulent (?), brilliant stream of ‘conscientiousness’. Some might, in fact.
Personally, I call ‘bullshit.’ But that is just me.
I am gonna volunteer to go to Liberia.
Just to help.
If y’all think I’m jokin’, well then; you don’t know me very well, do you?
Hell! All who know me, know I will risk anything for money! Because ‘money’ is all I care about.”
(And if y’all believe that, well then I am not… aiming… at ‘My Audience’)
And I do have a bridge to sell. (cheap!)
Just for fun:
“A Deputy Sheriff approached them in a manner rather rude…”
Just had to…. reblog.
I am gonna reblog my own blog (well, not really my blog, but my sister’s). More important, I love my sister, even though she does not always know that.
My Beautiful Sister, Ann Marie Vancas,
wrote this and posted it on Facebook.
So naturally I had no qualms about stealing it. (I did ask her permission however)
Seeing and reading into pieces of people’s lives….the musicians..the actors…artists…housewives…doctors…famous and the not so famous…
The memes…the themes…the lives and the lies..
People crying..and people dying…
Beach trips…road trips..acid trips…
I have met many people and lost them on this site…
The fights… the flights…the makeups and the breakups…
A reality show with thousands of channels…
Windows into people’s lives…sometimes what is really there and sometimes…only what they want you to see..
The Liberals…the Conservatives..the Middle of the Roaders…
The comfort and the chastisements from strangers and friends alike..
The all over the place posters…and the take it to the private messagers…
The celebrations..and the tears….
But before all of this…
The beach trips..the road trips…
Long talks under and over …
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“Lance ‘Dun’ Went Three Bubbles Off Plumb!”
Now, “Run Tell That!”
I do love anyone and ever’one who darkens my doorstep.
Now… sleep is an option I long to explore.
Catch Y’all on the Flip-Flop.
Pretty much have said all my piece for a spell.
“colder than a ticket taker’s smile
at the Ivar Theatre, on a Saturday night”
Not ‘him’ per se, but ‘him’ in the way he could say… words.
That is what I meant.
And oh yeah, Miss America: I want World Peace too.
Could not resist:
Tomorrow I embrace my Fifty-Seventh 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.
I really *like* this post. (guess I have no choice)
Some of Y’all may have seen this one coming.
Some also may have discerned one salient
fact point of my perception of myself:
‘I think I am bulletproof.’ *insert BUD/s here*
Hell! I have always lived my life that way, embracing that one paralyzed fact. I just know I am such:
“I think, therefore I am… bullet proof.”
(So sorry, René )
Hey! Just walk away Renee:
Vid Credit: hawkmoon03111951
And on and on…
How could anyone get past that and ever even know how fragile even I may be? *insert Shonnie here*
(Smirk) It begs credulity.
Well… I had my Bulletproof Ass handed to me a few days ago.
The consensus around the Camp Fire that is my GF’s workplace (Saint Jude—Lot of smart folks work there—mostly doctors an’ such) is that Lance had ‘experienced’ a minor heart attack. Now ain’t that funny? Ain’t that rich? AAD (“Also a Doctor”—stolen line from Wolfe’s ‘The Right Stuff’ — Also a doctor. The words the first schmuck said to Chuck Yeager right after he parachuted from one hundred thousand feet and crash landed:
“You look like shit” – misquote, but you get the drift: just look it up and move on…
(I was all gray an’ shit and I had all the symptoms, and my BP was… approaching escape velocity, but… shit! I was just ‘funnin’.)
Ed note: Just received an email from my… doctor… ok, she is not MY doctor, only an old friend. Anyhow, she is a pharm-assist. She says I had a Myocardial infarction.
“A what?” I had to ask.
“You had a fucking heart attact! Dig it, ASSHOLE?”
“Yeah, I dig. So What?”
And then I invited her to not use profanity on my Blog Page. (she hung up on my dumb ass after that. I cannot imagine why)
My Grandfather died, at ’55 of a “Myocardial infarction. ” Think I am not scared? Naw! Ain’t.
Ain’t that rich? Been there; done that. No T-Shirt, alas. Nothing to hang on my “I Love Me Wall.”
“He, most likely, has ‘experienced’ a heart attack.” Kinda like I ‘experienced’ ‘Six Flags Amusement Park. Or Four Years in Iraq. Or a year and a half in Afghanistan, not to mention three years in Sinai, back when nobody had even ever heard of it—now that, dear reader, is sorrow:
“Hey Good –Lookin’, where do you work at?” asked she, The Hot Babe. (The ‘at’ shoulda told me she ‘weren’t’ for me anyhow, but when you’re young, who gives two shits for grammar? I axe you.)
“I work in The Sinai Desert, for the State Department” answered I, lonely guy on R&R, too far from Texas where I did not even need to employ my bullshit.
“Oh… Sorry. I only date guys who work in cool places. Bye!” She said, as she followed on over to the Fraternity Asshole House…(s) Doubtful she found cerebral stimulation there, but what the hell, eh?
Yeah, I ‘experienced’ those too. Those were great… experiences.
Point is, my personal health issues notwithstanding: I am back. (for now)
And am back to comment, torment, regale, impale, exhale, exhalt, vent, rant, recant, apologize, criticize, proffer, pro-offer, disclaim, disdain, mock, muse, love, confuse, confer, confide, and certainly collide.
And all that shit above is denied.
I have this pain… in my… ass. (and me chest)
More later… assuming I get over myself tonight.
P.S. Let us just call this a ‘Stream of Consent’ Or a ‘Babbling Brook of Mind’.
Vote on it: Get back to me.
I almost forgot the best part of this post:
Hit me like a slow bullet
All of you “likers” don’t get the ‘jist’ of the ‘jisters,’ now, do you? I don’t often ask for a lifeline, but…
(and my bank is broken)
(and if anyone out “There” ever misconstrues that, THAT, as a plead for money, for me, well, fuck, Nay FUCK you!. I was merely communicating my status.
I know this now (“Took you long enuff Asshole.”).
I never mean to hurt; I just spew… stuff… outta my mind…
Keep yer ‘symphany.’ And your musical parades for the poor.
Give your money to Palestine…
That’s the “Lance” we sorta, love.
Rock on, LM!
As long and as has (he?) been long (and boring) as has this post, I will never delete it.
Because I love Sade.
That is the simple truth, Ruth.
Or perhaps ‘Truth #2’
But then, those of you who know… know.
It’s my page…
“Love is a gun.”
Now, C’mon Y’all.
Vid Credit: Guyism
I am just having fun, exploring (exploiting?) some of my inane, insane, In-Same, recent posts.
And of course, I love to ‘share my wares.’ Because I am just that vain (don’t ask me why or how I justify that statement.)
If I post something you have already ready read, sorry…
New shit will be forthcoming.
And soon. And I promise. And the check is in the mail and I won’t… do that in… “Ah don’t go there Lance.”
But, in the meantime:
And not to put too fine a point on it (trite, yep): My writing and my posts are ‘all over some places…’ But ‘Twould behoove to follow some of the links, as I find them entertaining. (Your individual experience may vary, and even differ, or beg to)
Hey! I’m writing here!
(Fleeting thoughts seem to fly away. Okay? That’s Okay, Right? Isn’t it?)
“Now Go fuck off and leave me alone. And while you are leavin’ me alone, make me some more coffee.”
“and thanks for the pepperoni.”
(Sorry.. vague Lenny Bruce reference)
I actually said this aloud to my much maligned invisible muse. Bless her heart.
The dog walked over to me an inquired, “Hey! Rance!” (he cannot pronounce my name. He is a dog after all) “Rance,” he said. “You OK Bubba?”
(Overheard by some fly on some wall in some other multi-verse.)
Probably it was just the wind.
‘Tax Day’ (they say) Means nada to me: means Bupkis! (great Yiddish word: use it in a sentence today and then it is yours for all of maternity)
Why? “‘Cause I had no income last year. That’s why!”
Oy vey! Yep! Good thing ‘bout that there: No taxes.
Moving on to today’s post…
(Oh yeah: first order of business: “The Daily Lenny”)
Well, You May Find it here, whisked into a long post about a mechanic. Yes. You will have to work to find it. So Sorry.
Let us paws for a second.
(Goddamnit Lance! Enuff with the fucking puns!)
Take a breath.
“This is swerving dangerously close to being another rant.”
“Yes. I know.”
Now Where was I?
Nope (but their ‘Breaking News’ is ‘bout to break my spirit and my capacity to love anyone)
Serious for one second. I weep for those family who lost family on That Plane.
*Whew! Now we got that sentiment out of the way…*
Still trying to Move On Dot Org…
(Just kidding—I do not even know where that is)
More Breaking Fucking News!
Some idiot on CNN just said, “Let us be Frank.” (and Tom, Dick, and Harry)
(not sure in reference to what—generally—I only half-listen, but that one caught some vacant, unused part of my ear)
*Still trying to move on and find a purpose for this purposeless post*
Y’all know what?
This is gonna be an “all-day” project.
There is just too much shit running about in my head.
I will get back you.
As they say:
To be continued…
Once upon a time…
I thought That These would be Good “remember when, ‘Feel Good'” posts/songs.
“The Good Ole Days… eh?”
Now, I know…
What the fuck was I thinking?
Video Credit: Carly Simon
Video Credit: adamtrng
Video Credit: MegaSanjul
I am very sorry, but I do not know, nor can I find where I got this video. Cheers to whoever posted it!
Vid Credit: Kanal von bluearmyfr111
Video Credit: Concordbeltcreation2
Again, I don’t recall where I got this one either… Sorry.
(Please go HERE for some (more sober) enlightenment and back-story about “Leroy Rastus–Rocky Raccoon–Coon.” And if you are ‘into’ exotic pet stories, well go here and here…)
Point is, I Wasn’t… Thinking.
Some guy said once, “You can never go home again…”
He was a smart man, that man, that man who said those words…
I embrace those words.
“…and all they wanted was to gaze into your eyes…”
(Yeah. I have a lost love; don’t we all?)
My Goal ‘Tonight’ is to catch up.
To catch up with my blogging friends.
I aim (good Texan verb, ‘aim’) to read and comment on one thousand! Posts! Shazam!! “Gall Eee Sargent Carter!”
Gomers found here
vid credit: Mark Ward
Now of course even y’all Yankees out there recognize that as hyperbole at best and bullshit at real.
Only people who use WP Reader can even ‘like’ a thousand posts a night with the simple-minded click of a simple-minded mouse. And Hell! It ain’t the mouse that is simple. It’s the mouse driver.
So, I just say: I will try (jes’ as soon as I post this here post) to get to readin’ ‘stead of writin’.
This is my goal and it is an honorable one. I may get to fifteen, but my likes and my comments are the real deal… so take that with some grain of… humble
And yes, I hope to prosper by my efforts (i.e., get more of y’all to read MY shit—tit for tat, eh? Yeah, that is what it is all about, ain’t it, Alfie?
Tits and tats
Or, my personal favorite:
It is always about tits yet, I am a ‘leg and ass man.’ Go figger her figure…
And I will be seeing you in all the familiar places (That is a song! Get yer minds outta them gutters, fer fuck sake!)
This has been said before.
You do not come to my site for revelation.
You come here (I hope) looking for Texas-in-all-the-wrong-places.
Never mind that one.
I have an affinity for Willie, (as all Texans do)
Therefore, since we all have our ‘Sound-Tracks’, here is one from mine:
I hope you like it.
P.S. I have lived a reckless sort of life, but ya know what?
“There’s nothin’ I can do about it now.”
So… I rock on.
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.