Yes. I’ve done some incredibly stupid shit in my time.
Below is an actual-for-real email I sent to a soon-to-be former boss (an attractive lady-boss, of course.) and is sadly very close to the top of the Misfit Hit Paradeof lame-ass-actions I have perpetratedon innocents.
***
I have swerved into the solution for Drunken Emails.
Who could’ve known it would be this simple?
Street Cred for Vid: Big Play Films
***
From: Moron<lance_moron@misfits.fubar>cc bcc:
To: Lady_Boss@job.yrfired
Subject: Tattoo
Dear Suki,
Yes, I am getting a tattoo (for my ‘mousing’ musing hand).
It will read simply, succinctly, in Big Bold Letters:
“No!”
Subtle Reminder:
“No! Don’t Go There Lance!”
Brevity? Yes. (‘That soul of wit.’)
“Words have meaning Son,” my father often told me.
And short words, I have discovered, oft hold the most meaningful meaning.
It has been ‘awkward’ (to say the very least) to face you of late.
After my ‘email shot-gunning’ you, off-the-chain escapade of recent shameful regret, but… I did it and today found the courage to read all of what I did send and happily discovered, most were not of the obnoxious caliber of my historical wont.
Thank God and Baby Hey Zeus!
Alas, I wish I had an excuse.
Yet, in searching, there is one to be discovered, but so probably painfully evident that it requires no verbalization:
Two times per year, I get to ‘explore’ my darker side.
Two times per year, I choose a ‘lucky’ recipient to ‘share’ in my darkness.
Two times per year someone gets to be ‘it’.
Guess what?!
Tag!
You won!
You’re the New ‘IT’ Girl!
Congratulations!
You’re in Good Company.
Clara Bow: The Original It Girl, 1927
***
The thing about writers (and those so-called writers who call themselves ‘writers’) is that they are so full of themselves, and vain by nature (it is requisite-with the breed), and every writer and so-called writer I have ever met, are… assholes. All.
Vain, pompous, drinks-too-much, full of sound and fury, and desperate.
“A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
Desperate for…
Crying for…
Waiting for…
FEEDBACK
I am not (not really) stupid.
I know you cannot ‘comment’ nor even acknowledge, via email, all the posts I posted ‘at you.’
I dare say you would be wise to ignore me and my ramblings, given our professional relationship.
Yet, if you did read even one of the posts on my blog, (actually I think you read the first one I begged you to read—not the ‘best’ one, but one which apparently was on my mind–at the time)
It is a very simple thing to comment, ‘in disguise’ as
‘anonymous.’
Or ‘any-mouse.’
Or simply, “A Fan.” (tongue in cheek)
Too easy.
Do that once and I will be sated.
Do it twice and you get a Mickey Mouse Pencil Sharpener,
OR
An Autographed8X10 Hollywood-Type-Glossy Photograph of Jesus Christ.
Sermon-on-the-mount, highly recommended, and our best-seller
But you cannot have both; there is a limited supply.
Do it thrice: You should seek counsel.
Professional help.
Honestly.
Never mind…
“Writers are assholes.”
“Lance is a ‘writer’”
“Ergo, Lance is an asshole.”
***
Suki,
There is a point to this post, but most assuredly, I have forgotten my initial inclination in that regard.
***‘Jeopardy musical theme plays***
Oh yes!
Now I’ve got it!
This is my convoluted apology to you.
I am, and shall always remain, an Honorable Military Man.
I am cognizant of the duty (and the mission)
And, admitting I was wrong is something which seems to be easier (and more difficult—same time) to do lately.
My first wife once accused me of aspiring to be “King of the Idiots.”
(She was an idiot savant…well, you’d have to know her to get my meaning, yet, I think–know, that I have posted about her…ON-MY-BLOG)
Back to my point:
Suki,
I am beginning to grow bored with my job.
You are the best supervisor/boss I have had in recent memory. All, and I do mean ALL respect you.
This should be enough for me (and for the foreseeable future it shall be)
But…
I don’t like to shit where I eat, BUT (and this is a curse), I have a opinions and I need to get that tattoo—post haste—and with all due prejudice.
I like you Suki.
I respect you.
I am trying to help you professionally (in my way).
And NO!
I am not trying to ‘do’ anything other than ‘talk’ to you and ‘work’ for you.
To quote Nixon:
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear…”
I am a whore, but only when it comes to my writing.
Nothing else these days (aside from my computer addiction) means anything to me.
Rest easy.
I am not as bad as I may, at first glance, seem.
(Truth: I am worse, but I do not bring that to WORK)
Cheers,
—Lance
(Yes: you may quote me. I’d be flattered…. Hahahahaaa)
Author’s Note July 11, 2021: This was a stream of consciousness from 2014, and being such, I will not edit it (overmuch). Here it is, in all of its naked, unpolished bullshit rawness.
“Uh, Mister God… Could you slow the world down just for a moment? I wanna get off. Thanks.”
–Lance
***
Now there 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. “Escape Velocity”
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 the 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 won’t like me) The worst thing one (amongst the uninitiated) can say, proclaim: “Are you still playin’ that damn stupid video game?!!” Perfect retort: “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 did have a point, but MY ‘point’ swerved into something else, which I really do not wanna talk about.
But I will. My point it thus: Kids that played computer games in the Eighties are now in charge of our world. And to loosely quote Forrest Gump: “That is all I am gonna say about that.”
Some thoughts?
And P.S., Yes! I have, recently, been spending some quality time with some of my computer games. They know me there, and I don’t have to get too creative (actually, I do, but most…) Well, I don’t have to watch my language at least.
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…
mañana,
I Promise.
“For Love or Money”
And yeah! In case you missed my ‘subliminal’ bullshit: (The Joni song) I still miss
“Oh Good God! Lance is posting yet more ‘driveling-snivelings’ about writers, writing, and his writing travails! He wears me out!”
“Well, you may thank Mister Ohh over at His Place for prompting me to resurrect this long since dead post on the subject. Have a pleasant journey and be sure to give him my best regards while you are there. Ohh! (See what I just did there?) Oh btw, the password is “Mo’ Sent me.” ‘Mo, being shorthand for ‘Moron.’ Gawd! I crack me up! Ha. Ha. Ha.
“Peace, Good Mercutio. Peace. Thou talks of nothing. Thou talkst of nothing.”
“True. True. I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain. Begotof nothing but vain fantasy, which is as thin of substance as the air and more inconstant than the wind who woes even now the frozen bosom of the north, and being angered puffs away from thence, turning his side to the dew-dropping south.”
Thou Talkst of Nothing
***
After a night of hard blogging and writing of drafts, and becoming somewhat disillusioned and more than daft, I perished toward my bed, reaching out for the Arms of Morpheus.
Within moments I slipped into that Hypnagogic Sleep, that strange place between two worlds, that semi-conscious state of being, yet not being,
“Illumined Pleasure”
Salvador Dali 1928
Sleep, but Not Sleep.
Then I began to dream things that should have been true.
But were not true
Yet so true.
Wonderful words words words!
Words to sate my unnourished prose.
Words swirl’d about in my mind like so many fireflies on a summer’s eve:
“Words, words, words!. Once, I had the gift. I could make love out of words as a potter makes cups of clay. Love that overthrows empires. Love that binds two hearts together, come hellfire & brimstone.”
— “Will Shakespeare in Love”
I had it (them, those) words… goin’ on.
Brilliant words. Beautiful, poignant words! All right there!
Right there In My Mind
Hovering, floating just above the surface
I reached out my finger to tap the “Publish Mouse”
“Just toss him a beer and that ‘Mae West Vest’. He’ll be fine.”
“ButSir, he quit drinking months ago.”
“Well Christ! That’s probably most of his problem right there. Ok, fish him aboard. I’ll have some ‘chat’ with him; get to the nature of his ‘Urgent Urgency’.”
“Is there something, anything, anything at all you are about to actually ask us?”
“Uh, yeah, Yeah. Sorry, got carried away by the current there for a sec.”
“Go on.”
“In truth, it’s just a simple question. Not really much to it at all in fact. But, in my recent writings… not so much the ‘writings’ per se, not sure I’d ever call some of them ‘writing’. It’s more about well, kinda embarrassing to ask, but you see, when constructing… or is it ‘destructing’… or perhaps re-constructing the previously de-constructed or de-constructing the previously con-structed, or just possibly…”
“As Brevity is the Soul of Wit, I shall be Brief”
“More Matter With Less Art“
“Enough! Good God Man! Get To-The-Bloody-Point!”
“Alright already! Sheesh! My query is thus…”
“Is the font I’ve been using too large? Do you think my readers find it obnoxious? Obtrusive? Even abusive to the eye? Self aggrandizing even? I use it ‘cause I can’t see for shit these days and…”
“Yeah, Yeah! We get your point. Finally! We’ll take your request under sober consideration and get back to you presently.”
“Next!”
“I just want to express my deepest, humblest, sincerest thank you for what…”
“Are you still Here Marcom? You have been summarily dismissed! You will hear from us presently. Now haul ass!”
“Thank you. Thank you all. Y’all…”
“BE GONE!”
*Lance slowly and deliberately backs out of the room. Softly closing the door behind him*
***
‘Verbosity’ is the Soul of My (and Sponge Bob’s) Wit
Well, I’d like to think so…
Spongebob Theme But Overly Verbose
Street Cred for Vid: Gigaflare8822
***
Author’s Note:
(At the end this time)
Of late I have been committing The First & Worst Deadly Sin:
‘Burying The Lede’
This unhappy behaviour must cease and desist immediately.
***
Here is the ‘Note’ Placed in its Proper Place:
I am taking a ‘brief’ break from re-writing ‘Shonnie.’
Bringing her back into me, back into my life, reliving her, re-falling-in-love-with-her, horribly missing her…
And as much excitement and joy as I may expierence in the re-riding of that emotional roller-coaster enterprise, bringing her back has, of late, become too emotionally painful for me.
I just need a break.
So I am taking one.
Maybe.
Shonnie is exhausting.
Yet exhilarating to remember.
She wore me out once.
Now she is doing it all-over-again…
“Way to go Shonnie. Wish you could see me now. You would, no doubt, laugh your little darling ass off.”
Some Added ‘Added Value’ below for all you ‘Word Nerds’ out there in Radio Land.
(You’re Welcome)
***
Why is it Spelled “Lede”
The spelling lede is an alteration of lead, a word which, on its own, makes sense; after all, isn’t the main information in a story found in the lead (first) paragraph? And sure enough, for many years lead was the preferred spelling for the introductory section of a news story.
So how did we come to spell it lede?
Although evidence dates the spelling to the 1970s, we didn’t enter lede in our dictionaries until 2008. For much of that time, it was mostly kept under wraps as in-house newsroom jargon.
Once, Al Marlens, the assistant managing editor, told one of the cleaning men to walk up to me and ask to see my lede, “not lead,” a newsie slang for the first sentence of a story.
—Myron S. Waldman, Forgive Us Our Press Passes, 1991
Spelling the word as lede helped copyeditors, typesetters, and others in the business distinguish it from its homograph lead (pronounced \led\ ), which also happened to refer to the thin strip of metal separating lines of type (as in a Linotype machine). Since both uses were likely to come up frequently in a newspaper office, there was a benefit to spelling the two words distinctly.
William Safire, who knew a thing or two about newsrooms, wrote in his New York Times “On Language” column in 1990, “Wouldn’t it be easier if the noun for the metal were spelled the way it sounded (led, to rhyme with dead) and the noun for the beginning of a newspaper story were spelled the way it is pronounced (lede, or leed, to rhyme with deed)?”
Others have been less than willing to embrace the new spelling. At The Awl, founder Choire Sicha tore out at those who use lede like it’s an affectation:
You schmucks who use ridiculous journo-terms make me crazy! Finally, someone is willing to speak out against the use of “lede” in public. Because, ha ha, sucka, there’s no reason for it! (Plus, MOST OF YOU ARE JUST BLOGGERS.)
—Choire Sicha, The Awl, 19 Sept. 2011
That “someone” was Howard Owens, a writer who has speculated that the flourishing of lede in the 1970s is ironic given that Linotype machines were starting to be phased out from newsrooms around that time. Owens attributes the fondness for the spelling to nostalgia, calling it “an invention of linotype romanticists, not something used in newsrooms of the linotype era.”
Despite the acknowledgment of lede by Safire and others, and its subsequent use by journalists and non-journalists alike, phrases employing the traditional spelling of lead still find their way into print:
But because I didn’t want Marshall’s piece to get lost in a big evening, I’ve buried the lead: The New Music Group was followed by a late-night appearance of wild Up, with Christopher Rountree conducting his increasingly impressive young ensemble in three more premieres
Mark Swed, Los Angeles Times, 2 Oct. 2016
Needless to say, don’t want to bury the lead, but I think there could be a second day of down for Apple (AAPL) — said so myself in a video I did with Jack Mohr (see above) — but if you don’t own any, by all means don’t let me stop you from buying some.
Jim Cramer, TheStreet.com, 26 Oct. 2016
This is sure to become one of those longstanding usage debates that will have its hard-liners on both sides, and perhaps reveal a little bit about the writer’s familiarity with the news business.
Will definitely require some strong, mighty resolve and determination. Not to mention uncommon valor and courage…
And…
Some…
REINFORCEMENTS!
So I sent out an urgent ‘Mayday! Mayday!’ to Three-Star General Woodbridge requesting he Muster his Marines:
Through a secure internet line Iwas able to listen in ‘real-time’ as The General briefed his men:
“Men, I’m not gonna Bullshit you, nor sugar-coat this. We are taskedwith a very dangerous mission, fraught with peril.But I know you are up to the job. Many Men will die; not return alive, but remember this: No manleft behind.”
“Our mission is simple in concept, but will be difficult in execution. We have received a recon film from our man on the ground. He bravely risked his life in obtaining this intelligence, so pay close attention.”
“Additionally, Sergeant Ihrke will be passing out a complete ‘Mission Objectives Packet’ containing still photographs and the most up-to-date intelligence available regarding the current situation on the ground.”
“Study all these items carefully, closely, and completely, with nothing but ‘attention to detail’ and the successful completion of the Mission Objective in the forefront of your minds.”
“Succinctly put, our sole Mission is to Clean-Up This Shithole, taking as few casualties as Our Almighty General ‘Chesty’ Puller, will allow.”
(“RIP, Oh Great One”)
“Wheels up at zero five hundred hours.”
“OK. That’s it then!”
“Now, let’s go Get Some!“
“Fall Out!”
Recon Film:
MUST STUDY THIS ONE FIRST MEN
Street Cred for Vid: Lance Marcom
***
Items Containedin theMission Objectives Packet For Your Perusal Below.
But Be Thee Forewarned, The ‘Packet’ Was CompiledBy a Moron: Possessing Not Much ‘Intelligence’ for an ‘Intelligence Officer.”
Not Sure If Any Value To The Marines
Oh My Goodness! We Got Ourselves a Natural Disaster!
Yep! A Natural Disaster!
Heavy casualties taken
But we were not yet done
We stacked them up as cordwood
‘Til the Battle could be Won!
A Brief Interlude To Take You From The Carnage,
If Only For A Moment:
“A War Poem”
ByLance A. Marcom
I Knocked a beer off my chair
It spilt everywhere
I wept
I cried
I did not die
(Just opened a new one)
And Carried On!
And Was Happy Again.
We Captured A Spy Who Had StealthilyPenetrated InBehind Our Lines.
We Executed Him On The Spot
Having Been ThuslyCompromised, General Woodbridge Ordered We Fortify Our Defenses.
We Did So
With A Bigger Wall
Coming Under Heavy Artillery Fire
We Were Forced To Hunker-In-Our-Bunker
The Enemy Was Amassing Large Numbers of Troops For A ‘Tet Offensive’
When It Finally Came
We Doggedly Held Our Ground.
And Punished Them All Around
Thusly They Ended Their
‘GallipolianEndeavor‘in Shame
***
The War Dragged On For Months and Months
The Men Were Growing More and More
Fatigued and Morose
“How Long Will This Bullshit Go On?”
Could Often Be Heard About The Mess Tent At Night
Morale Was Low
***
Then One Day Word Came Down That ‘Peace’ TalksWere On-Going Somewhere In Europe.
“Paris, France” Was The Scuttlebutt
Made‘Parfait’SenseTo ‘Moi‘
Those ‘Frogs’Sucked At War, But They Were Damn Talented When It Came Time To Sue For Peace.
At Any Rate, Morale Was Lifted By The News.
This War Had Become Not Unlike ‘The Korea’, or Perhaps ‘The Nam‘, Or Perhaps ‘Le Deux’.
A ‘See-Saw’ WarofAttrition
It Simply No Longer Made No Sense
Nor Showed No Sign of Contrition
We Had Gained A Little Ground, But Nowhere NearEnough To Justify All The Lives Lost Or Destroyed
***
Late One Evening Some of the Men Were Rummaging Around in the Galley Looking For a ‘Late-Night Snack’
Don’t Despair About The Frigidaire,
‘Cuz Now It’sClean In There
Just Take My Word. You’ll Have To:
I’m Outta Film
Suddenly The Communications Officer Appeared, Running And Screaming Throughout The Camp:
“The War is OVER! The War is OVER!
“‘Cease-Fire’ Effective in Twenty-Four Hours!”
Joyous Pandemonium Quickly Ensued
Whoa! Not-So-Fast Hot-Rod!
Twenty-Four Hours CanBe a
Very, Very Long Time
BeaucoupBullshit Can Go Down in Twenty-Four Hours
After That Initial Orgasmic Spurt of Elation The Men Grew Nervous and Paranoid
Never A Great State Of Mind For A Fighting Man
No One, it Seemed, Wished to be The Last Man To Die in ‘Marcom’s Hooch War’
****
With The War ‘Over’
(For The Time-Being)
Things Settled Into ‘Détente Lite’
Nothing Left To Fight
The ‘Cold War’ Did Commence
And Stuck Us On The Fence
And Even More Stressing
The Bills Kept A-Coming
Never ‘Paid’ Them Much AttentionBefore
Way Too Busy, So… Ignore
But No Way Now ToRelieve That StressSomehow
Nor The Boredom
I Suppose I Could Work On Cleaning My HoochSomeMore…
Around about three a.m. I was pulling the Toranado up in front of her house, actually, turns out, her mother’s house.
During the course of our conversation after leaving the bar’s parking lot Shonnie revealed to me that she had left her husband, who was a biker, and moved in with her mother.
She had a nine-year-old son who suffered from a crippling disease and though fairly independent, still required almost twenty-four hour supervision.
I asked her why she felt compelled to move out of her house and she told me her husband was overly jealous and had a ‘bit of a mean streak’.
(Perfect, I thought: A jealous Biker with a mean streak and I had just finished screwing his wife.)
Twice
Smooth Lance. Real smooth.
In spite of this revelation, and in the department of ‘I shouda known better’, I agreed we ‘needed’ to continue seeing each other, so we set a date for the following Saturday night, back at the bar, which I have decided to arbitrarily Christen ‘Gilley’s Lite’.
A., Because I am tired of calling it all sorts of generic names.
And B., Because this is My Blog and I can do whatever I like.
For the next several weeks we continued our weekly rendezvous, sometimes meeting on a Friday if I had ‘Duty’ on Saturday. Occasionally even sneaking in a mid-week ‘booster shot’ rendezvous on a Wednesday or Thursday night.
Basically, we would drink and dance and romance. (Still only slow dancing, but once I did allow her an attempt at teaching me the ‘Two-Step,’ with semi-disastrous results: Pretty sure I had embarrassed her no end, for she never broached That Subject again.)
Of course after we had closed down the bar, uh, I mean ‘Gilley’s Lite’, we would retire to the Toranadofor some late night, great night, great sex.
And it was all good. Not just the great, energetically, intensely, passionately acting of ourlove-making. (We had ‘up-graded’; no longer did we ‘fuck’.We ‘made love’.)Yes, I was in the midst of ‘Stage-Four Deep Emotional Vulnerability’.
No!
Not Just The Sex!
The whole just ‘Being-with-Shonnie‘ experience was great.
And better now that she was arriving in her own car (Miss Layla having moved on to find a new BFF to Chaperone) and I did not have to risk accidentally running into ‘Jealous-Biker-Dude-With-A-Mean-Streak-Estranged-Husband at her momma’s house at three or four in the morning.
Eventually we grew weary of the bar, ‘Gilley’s Lite’ scene and went straight for the sex, generally in some out of the way dark and empty parking lot.
But every once in a while, usually right after one of my paydays, we’d find ourselves in some ‘Budget Motel’, read ‘Cheap and Sleezy’. Some in San Diego even rented by-the-hour, and even though I was trash,Shonnie was not. So I never, ever considered those venues as even a remotely viable option.
This new routine went on for some several more weeks.
One weekend I had a rare three whole days off duty, so we planned an ‘outing’, or rather, ‘she planned an outing’. She managed to get her mom to take full responsibility of the kid for the entire three days and we met up in a parking lot in Pacific Beach.
She got out of her car with a small suitcase, locked up, jumped into my car, inquiring breathlessly, “You got plenty of gas?”
“Not really,” I said. “Why?”
“I’m kidnapping you, and we have some miles to cover today.”
“Road trip?” I asked.
“Yep, and while we’re gassing up, we need to get some booze and maybe some munchies.”
“Hey, I’m all in. Hell! Let’s do it.”
So without even asking where we were going, I took care of the logistical tasks. Once we were fueled-up, stocked up, and by then, slightly fucked-up(With excitement and more than just a little bit giddy over the prospect of our two-and-a-half days of just being together and doingwhat-ever-the-hell-we-damned-well-pleased…)
As she directed me to start heading east toward the desert, I asked,
“So Shonnie, where’re we going?”
“Away from all this San Diego Shit an’ into the desert,” she said.
“This much, I have already figured out, but where, and why?”
“Tell ya when we get there,” was all she said as she dropped ZZ Top’s Tres Hombres into my cassette player, firing up “Jesus Just Left Chicago” which started mid-way through. Couldn’t really talk over that, so I just kept driving east.
An hour or so later we were pulling into some little town called ‘Alpine’. It seemed nice enough, I suppose, if just a little dusty and brown. But apparently, we had come in through the ‘back door’, as later I would see mountains in the background and green areas too!
Also, I discovered later, that ‘Alpine’ was the ‘Austin’ of Eastern Southern California, famous for live music and various other attractions. According to the 2000 census, Alpine had a population of 13,143 people, so probably substantially less on the weekend of our visit (didn’t say how many dogs, but I saw a lot of dogs that day)
And also famous for quirky sites to visit:
Alpine, California: Dead Dolly Lane
“Find us a motel. If you take the next left, I’m sure you’ll find the Perfect One, but don’t let me tell you what to do.” she said, after turning down the stereo which she had kept cranked-up during the entire trip: ZZ Top, Marshall Tucker Band, Hank Jr…. It was about two in the afternoon.
I ignored her smart-assed instructions and loved them all at the same moment.
Performing as ordered, I turned a corner and sure-as-shit, ran into this ‘Perfect-for-us’ run-down, kinda sandy, sleezy-lookin’joint:
As we were getting out of the car I asked her, while discretely pointing at a bored-looking girl sitting on the porch, “Reckon that’s the manager? One night or two?”
“Two.”
“You’re the boss,” I said as I got out and headed to the office.
I always kept most of my civilian clothes in the trunk of my ‘Tornado’ since there really was not much room on the USS Callaghan DDG 994 for anything in my locker other than uniforms.
I grabbed some civvies out of the trunk and along with my Babe, headed toward our new little love nest.
The room was Spartan, but adequate. At least it had regular sized towels and no roaches that I could see.
Actually, it was clean and tidy. There was a tiny TV on the dresser-drawers and a regular-sized bed, two chairs and a small coffee table which had some initials carved into it along with a review offered by a previous occupant succinctly describing their experience while staying in this establishment:
“J and J had sex here. 1981. Hiley Rec’mend”
Very quaint, I thought.
“Hey Shonnie,” I said to her back as she unpacked, “Do you have a pocket knife? I’m feelin’ sorta ‘literary’.”
“What? Too soon to slit yer wrists City Boy. What for?”
“’City Boy’? That hurt. Never mind,” I laughed.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said, already half-way through peeling off her shirt and blue jeans. “Join me?”
“Yup.”
We did the shower sex, er… ‘love-making’ then wearing nothing but towels, sat on the bed and had a drink or two over some Marlboros.
“Okay Shonnie,” I said. “You gonna tell me now exactly why we’re here, ‘miles from nowhere’, on this hot and dusty Friday afternoon?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She said.
“Nope… I mean it’s lovely an’ all, and good to be out of town an’ all, but if you just wanted a sleazy motel room and me all to yer lonesome, we coulda done that in San Dog and saved the gas.”
“You told me you were a ‘romantic’.
“Yeah. Yeah. I did. Uh… I mean I am, but…”
“Get dressed. We have a place to be this afternoon.”
So we got dressed, grabbed the Beam and cigs, locked up our room and headed to the car.
“You got a beer cooler stashed in your trunk or somewhere?” She said as we pulled out of the parking lot.
“You know I do,” I said.
“Good, take a left. There’s a Seven Eleven up the street. We need some more beers and some more cigs.”
“Roger that.”
That mission properly dispatched, Shonnie played navigator and back seat driver and eventually we ended up in a dusty park.
A dusty park teaming with people.
And Music.
Bluegrass Music.
She had kidnapped me to a Blue Grass Festival! Surprised? Yep.
Shocked?
By Shonnie?
Nope.
Nothing shocking me about this gal anymore.
We parked the now very dusty ‘Tornado’ next to all the other dusty cars and trucks and Harleys and climbed out.
People were milling about everywhere. I noticed more than a few walking around with beer bottles in their hands. Shonnie was anxiously walking ahead of me. I yelled,
“Shonnie! Stop!”
Turning around, somewhat glaring at me, she demanded,“What IS it?” (Occasionally, Shonnie exhibits No Patience)
“Come with me back to the car for a sec, Ok?”
Grumbling as she made her way back to the car, then once next to me, in a lower, calmer voice, said, slowly and ‘matter-of-factly’,
“Ok, here we are, back-at-the-fuckin-car. Why? You don’t like ‘Blue Grass’?”
“Darlin’ I love ‘Every-Thing’ when I’m with You, but we forgot something.”
She yawned as sheleaned against the driver’s sidedoor while lighting a Marlboro.
Opening the trunk, I began fishing bottles of beer out of the cooler, drying each bottle with a towel I kept with the beers for just such purpose.
“Baby,” I said. “Come over here with that big-ass purse of yours that never has nothin’ in it.”
She sauntered over to stand next to the trunk and opened her bag, allowing me to cram several beers into it.
“Ya know, Cowboy, we can always walk back over here and get more beers. Don’t have to make me carry a portable brewery around in this damn heat all day.”
“Shit! You’re right. What was I thinking?” I said.
Shonnie rolled her baby blues at me and opened her bag once again.
I retrieved a few of the beers and placed them back into the cooler, leaving only four in her ‘purse-big-ass-bag’.
“Much better. Now those beers can breathe, and so can I,” she laughed.
“Smart ass.” Was I could come up with, by way of a retort.
“Come on. Let’s get on over to the stage.”
During our casual trek, I was observing all the folks in attendance. All sorts of folks, mostly dressed in ‘Real, Bona-Fide’ attire: Straw Cowboy hats, Gimme Caps, Jeans, Some Daisy-Dukes and halter tops on a few of the Ladies, Boots, Beers in hand, Smiling, Rowdy Faces, and on and on…
Real “My kind of People” stuff adorned them, is what I’m sayin’.
There were older, younger, very older, very younger and everything-in-between folks. Little kids runnin’ wild laughing and whooping it up.
Everyone was havin’ FUN!
Woodstock it weren’t, but
DAMN!
It was Heaven to this Cowboy, especially after suffering that joint in San Dog where Shonnie and I had first met.
As we drew near the stage the crowd grew denser and tighter (No ‘Social Distancing’ back then and certainly not at this venue.)
Everyone was pleased-as-pie just to share the love of the music and the camaraderie.
The band on–stage started up with their rendition of ‘Uncle Pen’, a song which was in fact, very familiar to me.
The folks in front of the stand went nuts!
Clapping their hands and stomping their feet.
A-Whoopin’ and A- Hollerin’
Shonnie and I joined in.
And I Loved it!
And She Loved it!
And I may have been falling in ‘for-real-love’ with Shonnie at this point.
Screw that!
That is a lie!
I had been in ‘for real love’ with her from ‘Night One.’
Just had a little trouble admitting it to myself.
Until That Moment.
For You See?
IHadFooled Around And Fallen In Love
Title: Fooled Around And Fell In Love (Elvin Bishop)
Commentary From The Original Version. As before,for continuity, I recommend you start at the bottom and read your way up.
***
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:33 Edit
I don’t know what I’m doin’ half the time…
Hahaha.
Thanks for the read my Friend.
Tony Single July 22, 2014 at 18:11 Edit
I have no idea where this is going. (This is a good thing.)
LAMarcom July 21, 2014 at 13:06 Edit
Hi Shelley,
Sorry for the tardy response. Slipped in under my radar.
Thanks for reading and commenting. Always.
Cheers,
Lance
peakperspective July 12, 2014 at 14:04 Edit
You had me wondering where the field trip was heading–nearly thought it might have been the end for you there, Lance, but how lucky … Bluegrass. Hot diggedy.
Waiting with bated breath for Chapter 4. 🙂
markbialczak June 18, 2014 at 21:40 Edit
🙂
LAMarcom June 18, 2014 at 21:37 Edit
Mark,
I was joking.
I am a sap for a happy ending.
Always
😉
markbialczak June 18, 2014 at 21:25 Edit
Not necessarily, Lance.
LAMarcom June 18, 2014 at 19:49 Edit
Thanks Mark.
There is enough for five or six more…
Happy Endings are so boring though. Wouldn’t you agree?
markbialczak June 18, 2014 at 19:02 Edit
I indeed am rooting for a happy ending. Yet the realist in me … You go, Lance! Make the magic last five or six more chapters, please do!
LAMarcom June 18, 2014 at 18:32 Edit
Aw C’mon Mark.
Don’t ya want the story to have a happy ending?
Hehehe
Cheers,
-Lance
LAMarcom June 18, 2014 at 18:31 Edit
Hahaha! Nope, wasn’t me!
“Me no Alamo.”
Hey thanks Friend.
LAMarcom June 18, 2014 at 18:27 Edit
I agree. Imagine the nerve of that woman! Calling me, ME! A City Boy!
Hahahaha
Thanks Annie.
🙂
Mad Annie, Bronwyn, Ann June 18, 2014 at 13:48 Edit
“City boy”… when I called someone that, it was the Kiss of Death! LOL
happierheathen June 18, 2014 at 07:55 Edit
My Texican second wife tried to teach me to two-step. I usually made it three or four steps. Step, step, get confused, shuffle a bit, step, shuffle, shuffle, trip, cuss. She and I once made an escape to a “rustic” motel in the desert, too. And she had a thing for picking up guys at urban poser cowboy bars. If it weren’t for it being a crippled son instead of two perfectly healthy daughters I’d think one of you had changed her name and you were banging my wife.
Hanging on the edge of my seat here, man.
markbialczak June 18, 2014 at 07:19 Edit
Oh, great bluegrass fest twist, Lance. I’m digging the serial and biding my time until Biker hubby appears, in, what, next chapter, or the one after?
LAMarcom June 17, 2014 at 22:59 Edit
Yes. She cut me to the quick on that one!
Cheers!
Love that you are reading.
–Lancers
🙂
~ Sadie ~ June 17, 2014 at 22:57 Edit
City boy – LMAO!!!!
***
Below You Will Find Most Of The Original Posts. Once / If You Arrive At Thirteen There Are Links To The Final Few Chapters. Please keep in mind however, that each and every one of them is in the process of being rewritten: first to last. This will probably take at least two or three weeks.
