Escape From Memphis—Chapter Six

Yeah.
There are some missing Chapters.
But writing, not unlike life, is not linear.
(Is that a word?—linear?)
So…
I mustered up some courage and some sobriety, and that is a very narrow window to dive through.
Managed to go to the ‘Commerce Rent-A-Shed’ and retrieve half of my shit.
(I had dreamed about this the night before)
Had it all planned out…
NE-Way, I did it, next day

Truthfully, within three hours–sleep and I have issues of late.

Sleep to me now is akin to death–we do not get along.
Damn near to kilt me.

BP off the chart.
But before I came home, I stopped off at Wal*Mart and purchased some more…
Drum roll…
Booze.
All be good in my neighborhood.
Got home.
Off-loaded my shit,
Got drunker than I already was…
(Now, mind you, I did NOT drive to Wal*Mart drunk, I was ‘mildly intoxicated,’ big diff.
Only an alcoholic would know the substantial difference.
Well…
Got ‘Home’, off-loaded my shit.
Now,
Three or six days later…
It, my shit, surrounds me, mocking.
Boxes and boxes of my life.
Waiting to be ‘unboxed.’
But…
I am a busy man, and cannot be bothered.
Perhaps tomorrow.

Madness! And Sadness!

Madness is NOT a communicable disease.
As is WuFlu, or Mumps, or Measles, or even AIDs.
No!
Madness is just genetic.
(I am hoping)
And therefore, may be cured.

Vain fantasy.
Who am I kidding?
Madness is inescapable.
It cuts to the quick.
To the core.
It is ALWAYS with…
You.
For fucking ever.
No cure.
For sure.
No Nada.
Good Luck Cowboy

William, I Am, Shakespeare has ‘Madness’ running all around his drama.
Lear.
Hamlet
MacBeth
R&J (lesser, but it is there)
And on and on.
More of this later…promise)

To quote King Lear:
“Oh God! Please let me be not mad!”

Verily so much related:

Humility Industrial Complex

Okay,
So I have been ‘reviewing’ my recent posts on Socialist Media.
For science.
And to take my mental pulse.
What did I discover?

With my two minutes of ‘research.’
I seem to be full of myself.
This is probably a ‘diagnose-able’ condition.
Doubtful I can get medical treatment.
And even more doubtful,
Could  get recompense from the VA even if it were.

“Humility” is just a scare word invented by The Left to keep the rest of inline.
“Hugh-mill-ah-tee’
(That’s the Français version, Yawl)
Stolen from the movie, “Camelot” 1967

Spoken to Lancelot du Lac by Queen Guinevere.

(Just some small detail to round out the post. I am a fountain of useless knowledge.)

Moving on…

I am having too much fun!
Living (Finally! Living!) in Tejas!

Time enough to do those little things I do.
Finally!

Chapter Three of ‘Escape From Memphis’ coming…
Soon.
So, stay tuned.
Cheers,
‘Many-Feet Marcom’

So go ahead:

Whistle

You know you want to.

And of course, You Knew I Just Had To:

Escape From Memphis–Chapter Two

So I woke up the next day, around the crack of noon.

No hangover.

Alcoholics do not suffer hangovers.

We are immune.

We do, however suffer other, potentially more serious maladies:

Delirium tremens

Panic attacks.

Disgusting  bouts of vomiting.

Sleeplessness.

Liver damage.

Irrevocably lost friendships.

Broken marriages.

Broken lives.

Saying “I’m sorry,” ten thousand times—never takes–but say it anyway.

I could go on, but I’d like to finish this post sometime today.

I had no hangover, but it did not take me long to realize I had something else going on:

A pain work me up, tapped upon my shoulder, and said,

“Guess what? Asshole? You’re fucked; We have you now.”

A pain in my abdomen which caught my undivided attention straight – away.

And it wasn’t playin’.

It was not nothing nice,

I have never experienced pain such as this.

Ever.

I tried to self-medicate with Jim Beam.

Tried that for a couple of hours.

No dice.

This was some serious vile shit.

And not nothin’ nice.

My undying (no pun), thought was that my appendix had burst. And I did not want to go out like Houdini.

(Google Him).

Finally gave up and dialed 911.

“Nine-One-One, what is your emergency?”

“I have ‘Houdini.’”

“Excuse me, Sir?”

“I think my appendix has burst. And oh, as an added bonus, probably at this point, alcohol poisoning.”

“Where are you, Sir?

“In hell.”

“Sir, an address?”

“Magnuson Hotel, some room.”

“Your name, Sir?

“Marcom.”

 “Ok, I am dispatching EMT now. Stay put.”

(Really, ‘stay put?’ I cannot even walk, the pain is so fucking bad, on top of the half-fifth of self-medication I had administered.)

“Sure, I’ll stay put. Please tell the EMT not to take their time; I am dyin’ up in here.”

I could not have known at the time, but this was to be but the first of three and a half trips I would take to the Commerce ER.

Chapter Three Coming Soon. Look for it if you dare.

“Between the Lines of Photographs, I’ve Seen The Past; It isn’t Pleasing.”

Cheers

Chapter One To Be Found Here

Happier Times For Kris and Rita:

Escape From Memphis–Chapter One

She just sat there on the front porch, smoking Camel Blues, sipping diet Dr. Pepper, and watching as I scurried back and forth, worker ant-like, schlepping boxes and boxes and boxes and sundry other shit to my Ford.
Never said a word.
Never shed a tear.
I was leaving her!
What the fuck?
No tears?
No desperation?
No tears?
No tears?
No tears?
No nada?
English!
English!
English!
(You live with Meskins, expect beans on the menu, ever’ once in a while.)
English!
Stiff upper lip and all that jazz…
After I had packed the Ford to the point of tightness unimagined (you could have poured a bottle of Jim Beam into it and not one drop would escape), I walked to the front porch and announced,
“Well, I guess that’s it then.”
“You’re leaving now?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan,” I said.
She stood up, looked me in the eye. I threw my arms around her and hugged her deep.
Now we were both crying.
I managed to blurt out something profound…
“I’m so sorry Helen.”
“Take good care of you,” she said, blinking back the tears.
I slow-walked to the Ford, looking back through MY tears only once. Got in, cranked her up and drove away.
The part where the cowboy rides away…
Took me a block an’ a half to stop crying.
Then I was so over it.
And her.
Four blocks later I realized I could not see out of my side-view rear-view mirror. My dismantled computer chair in the passenger seat was blocking my vision. This would never do. I pulled into a vacant parking lot and jettisoned said computer chair.
Just left it there in the dust.
With my life.
Merry Early Fucking Christmas to someone.
Some homeless one in Memphis.
And drove on, westward.
Nine minutes later at sixty-five miles per hour, I was crossing the Big Muddy and entering Arkansas.
I had achieved escape velocity.
I turned on the radio.
Loud and proud.
CDB was screaming something about Trudy and telephones.
And calling her.
And jail.
I cranked it up and sang along.
Very happy and oh so fucking proud of me.
My new life had just begun.
Just another tequila sunrise.
As I drove west with the sun over my shoulder.
So many thoughts were flying around in my head, knat like… buzzing.
I was almost giddy.
I was staring down six hours of road trip.
No big deal, but it had been almost ten years since I had taken to the road or air or sea, and I was just a mite apprehensive.
“You can do this Lance,” I whispered to me over the radio, now playing Van Morrison.
“Here That Robin Sing.’
Hours and hours and hours into Arkansas (when did Arkansas get so fucking BIG?)
I found a trucker’s rest stop and so I stopped.
And rested.
And pee’d.
Had to.
Walked about
Had to.
Stretched my legs.
Had to.
“Where is Texas?” Halfway through Arkansas…. And halfway from what I had called ‘home’ for ten years.
“What am I doing?”
“Going West, Young Man, Goin’ West.”
“Oh yeah, I almost had forgotten.”
By and by I hit the “border”
(On the border)
Wanted to stop and take a selfie in front of the sign what read, “Welcome To Texas, Drive Friendly.” But it was Interstate and not safe to do so, so I just kept on driving.
And singing at me!
“Texas! Oh Texas!”
“You are finally home, Cowboy!”
Now what?
Keep driving, I suppose.
I had pre-arranged a ‘garage’ to store my shit.
A ‘rent-a-space’ shed in Commerce.
Got a phone call from the proprietor….
“Lance, you still coming?”
“Yeah, fast as I can, but I will not arrive in time for your departure. Can you HBO? Help a brother out? I will arrive Commerce about 1800 hours…. Leave the key in the lock box or something; I want to off-load my shit before I go to the hotel.”
“Sure, got a CC number for me?”
“Yeah, no worries.”
That sorted, I drove on.
Presently I arrived Sulphur Springs.
And promptly got lost.
Could not find the road to Commerce.
Well, shit!
It had been some years and beers and tears since I had had to make this trek.
Finally found the proper road and guess what?
It was ‘under construction’ as they do.
Took me some few little minutes to navigate through that, but…. Finally… on the road again.
Commerce in my sights now.
Sped into town, saw Whitley Hall, High Rise and shouted out loud: HOME!
“Thank fucking God!’
(And this was a push for me, for as you know, I am an atheist)
Found the ‘rent-a-shed’ and off-loaded my shit.
Went to the Adult Beverage Store.
Then found the Magnuson, formally known as “The Holiday Inn Express,” checked in, and got very, very, very drunk.
Chapter Two Coming…
Whew!
Chapter One is Done!
Writing is hard!
As is my wont, I drop in music.
Music defines me, and yes, my life has a soundtrack.
I suppose this don’t make me nothing special.
Just yet one more schmuck.
Trying to get by.
And Waiting for Godot
(Vain reference from my college / university daze.)
Beautiful Loser
Read it on the wall.
Blue moon with heartache.
Nick of time
“Scared you’ll run outta time.”
Love has no pride
This old cowboy—MTB

Escape From Memphis–Chapter Two

Blinking back the tears.

The Art of Blogging (Bullshit-Free Edition)

Truer words not heard (in a while)

SOZ SATIRE

wordpress val

I wrote this as a counter to one of the most unintentionaly hilarious, misguided, and pretentious pieces of old bollocks it has ever been my misfortune to encounter in the language of Shakespeare.

The Art of Blogging by Danny SoZ

1: Write any old shit

2: Visit other blogs containing shit just as bad, or even worse, than your own literary effluent

3: Lavish the ‘writer’ with praise, so risibly over-the-top, they will begin to think you’re in the throes of orgasm

4: Wait a few hours for reciprocal bullshit

THE END

Danny Soz is the managing editor of The Dunning-Kruger Syndrome Gazette

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