Recycled, Expan’Dex Post Re-Run-Red “ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! TAKE COVER! TAKE COVER! PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO YOUR NEAREST & DEAREST BUNKER!” (Heard This ‘Broad-Cast’–Yes, The “Voice” From ‘The BIG VOICE Was Female UK BROAD) Damn Near Ev’r Night Over. Those Assholes NEVER Showed The Common Courtesy To Rocket Us During Daylight Hours.

I Had To Listen To This Shite. Every Night. During The Course of the Five Years I Lived in Iraq & Afghanistan I Was Rudely Awakened Thusly

And Right ‘Bout The Time I Had Achieved REM Status. Rarely Would I Even Get Outta My Rack. I’d Just Go Right Back To Sleep. Nothing In Iraq Nor Afghanistan Ever Frightened Me.

It Was Just One More of Joni’s Three Great Stimulants. How I Regarded It Anyway. I Had, By That Time, Already Been Around The World

Twice

Ain’t Shit I Hadn’t Seen Three Times Already

Hell!

I Once Saw Two White Whales Fuck In The

Northern

Indian Ocean

How Many You Know Can Claim THAT?

Watch Thus Or go fuk u’re self!

And Hey!

“If It’s Your ‘Time, It’s You Time’ that Was Our Mantra

****

Come On YA’LL! READ THIS ONE! I spent at Least Five Minute(s) Writing IT! Y’ALL. I mis-Spiel for The Effect! Hahahahahaa!

“I am Re-Re Posting This Expanded Version Because I am Wallowing in Self-Pity For not ever ‘Making’ A Daughter. Don’t Bother Reading.

It is Just For The Record of My Self-Pity. “Every (Rare) Once In A While I See Something On TV That ‘Moves’ Me. This Commercial Moved Me–Gave Me Hope–Made Me Misty-Eyed. Almost Cried.”

That’s a Lie. I did cry

I have been re-watching “Mad Men”–Most are familiar with the show.

For those who have been living under a rock for the past two decades:

The series is all about Madison Avenue.

Advertising in The Sixties.

Anyway,

This ‘commercial’ (Found Below)

is

Brilliant!

It actually brought a tear to my eye

(See below about how sorry I feel for myself for not taking the time to have a daughter)

Credit: Vanguard

***

One More “Daddy-Daughter-Related” Brilliantly done Commercial

“Roots and Wings”

Vid Cred: Entertainment Marketing

Longer Version (Audio Only—Full Vid has been flushed down the memory hole. Shit!)

Artist:  Miranda Lambert, Native Texan.So Y’all KNOW, I’m ‘Partial’

***

Rosanne Cash

Johnny’s Little Girl

Vid Cred: I don’t Know, (I am too drunk to be bothered to look but thank you!

(Whoever you are!)

***

More of Rosanne!

“You know that life don’t hold no glamour anymore”

Let’s break this down, shall we?

It all hinges on the word ‘that’

And how you interpret the usage of it

“You know ‘that life’ don’t hold no glamour anymore.”

Could mean potential suicide

or…

You know ‘that’ life, could mean “I am fucking tired of being a performing artist and I want a ‘real life’

What do Y’all think?

Which is it?

Could be both

This is the genius of the song

I think the “answer” lies in the last Line:

“Maybe I’ll just go away to stay”

Now that that mystery is solved I can move on

Hey Johnny!

Best “Thing” You Ever “Created!”

I am so FRIkin’ Jealous!

You Asshole!

You Lucky Asshole!

“Guess I Could Never Do Nothin’ Right!”

Orig Song Cred: Jerry Jeff Walker

***

An aside:

Damnit! I wish I had a daughter!

(DUH!)

***

The Commercial Copywriters were obviously inspired by this classic Ben E. King:

Spanish Harlem

And Yes It is Not Lost On Me That

“Rose” is Metaphor for a Woman

Just like “The Yellow Rose of Texas”

I have a little left of my brain

Y’all

Cred for Vid: John1948OneD

***

I should have worked in advertising.

Pretty sure I would have been good / great at it.

I understand how it ‘works’

***

P. T. Barnum:

“There’s a Sucker Born Every Minute”:

Content Creator Cred: Professor Buzzkill

***

Lance in an alternate life/universe:

***

Bonus Material For Reference:

Yellow Rose of Texas

(Originally Written Circa 1850)

(Which was actually about a very beautiful half-black slave girl–put that in yer pipe)

Smoke it!

Vid Cred: Lane Brody

Artists: Johnny Lee & Lane Brody

Re-Run, But Fun–Re-Done–Expanded (A Conversation Over a Plywood Wall In a Tent in Afghanistan)

Bob Marley & The Wailers – Roots, Rock, Reggae (1976)  

Must See Below!

Be’cuz WordPress Is F*cKin’ Stupid!

Caint Properly Edit!I Suppose I Could re-Write The Whole Thing from Scratch,

“But Lance?”

I hear you ask

“If you hate WordPress So much, Why do you continue to use them?”

“Because they have over a thousand of my posts in their grubby little paws and I don’t wanna be tasked with trying to move them to a different platform. Below are some of the reasons why”:

A. I Have Not The Desire, Nor The time to Screw Around

B. I should Not Need to Do that

C. I don’t Give-A-Fuk: Got that WordPress?!

D. Just Fix Your Shit!

***

 

A co-worker from Trinidad, but calling Houston home for the past 20 years, (let’s call him “Persad” since that’s his name), lives in the “cubicle” next to mine in Tent C-9.

He was “home” when I arrived. He greeted me from over the cube wall.

My Hooch_Afghanistan

My Hooch

“Lance Mar—cone!” (that’s how he calls me, ’cause to him, that’s MY name) “Waz da happn’in’s?”

“Same ol’ same ol’. Where you working these days?” (he just got back from RR yesterday)

“Dey got me over to the new LSA, Bro.”

“That would be LSA Six… Bro,” I answered back. “You got an office over there?”

“Nope, no office,” he lied.

“Well, I heard you got a CHU.” (Containerized Housing Unit–small trailer, kind of)

“Ya, but no furniture.”

“Pretend you’re Japanese; sit on the damn floor. What you need furniture for anyway?”

“Damn Bro! I be too old an’ shit for dat.” (I am aiming for “Island Accent” here.)

Rastaman Vibration – BOB MARLEY – CONCERT -SANTA BARBARA 1979

“You do realize, Persad, that you are in a war zone?”

*Unintelligible grumbling*

After a pause…

“Hey Mar—cone!”

“Yes?”

“I spoke to yer girl today.”

“You mean Lashonda?”

“Yeah, dat one.”

“She’s not my Girl, but, yes, she works for me; ‘Bout what?”

“She said you dun give her dat office chair.”

“You mean that office chair I bought with my own money months ago for my hooch here?”

“Ya dat’s de one.”

“What about it?”

“She said you give it to her.”

“I did in fact; it’s my chair.”

“You give it to her, or to the office?”

“I gave it to her for as long as she is on Dwyer.”

“Why you give her dat chair, Mon?”

“Because her back was hurting and I am a gentleman.”

“Oh.”

“You want a chair?

“Ya.”

“Amazon dot com.”

“Damn Bro, caint you H Bee Oh; Help a brother out?”

“No.”

“You gots some scissors I can borrow?”

“Yes,” I said, handing them over the wall, “Here ya go; don’t run with them.”

“Tanks.”

“No prob.”

Special Thanks To My Frin’ Marla, I Must Re-Post This! “He Went to Paris: I can smell the Darkness” Yet another One You Should NOT Read. It is Only Really meant for Marla. I Hope She Reads It

Yet another one do not read!

paris.jpg

And he went to England; played the piano, married an actress named “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.

Months before the events inked here, here, here, and here, I found myself in Paris (actually two Paris’s—One Texan—One French). Confus’d yet? Stand by: it grows worse(r)

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. Screw 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 and I received a letter from my step-sis.

This Is A Goddamn Pity-Party…Please Don’t Read. I am Ashamed of Me!!! FTW! “Fuck The World! Back! Fuk it! I still MISS HER SO MUCH! I Miss That Bitch! So MARVELOUS Much! Missed Bitch! I am Losing my fucking mind over memories of her! I Cannot Spell or Type, or Think for Shit, Goddamn You Bitch! Why Do You Continue to HAUNT My Feeble Mind??? Goddamnit! Madelyn! Why did you Leave Me?! “How Do You Hold A Moonbeam In Your Hand?” I want My Sister Back! Fuck You God! Godddamn Cunt, She Was! I loved Her More Than Cash Money!

 

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.

Shit!

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.

“Hey Janet!”

“Lance?”

“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 f*#k 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. 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 what, 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 f*#kin’ breakfast? She wakes me up in the f*#king 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?”

“Oui.”

“Well Hot Damn then! You be Bogey. I’ll be Bacall.” (of course)

“I weren’t able to bust up the wedding.”

“What?”

“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.”

“Bullshit.”

“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)

Now Y’all…

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.

Vid Credit: 

John1948SevenA

Cheers,

Lance

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”

JJ Walker

tex flag

I Have Spent A Lot of My ‘Dear Years’…

Why am I so angry??

Of Late?

Surely I have better things to expend my energies upon.

****

“Dear (fill in the name) I am so sorry we are apart, but you see, I am serving… something, something greater, something important, something, some power, Uh, My ego. See you soon. Love, Lance”

Away from my Homeland.

Yes.

I have.

My Choice.

 

Sometimes in Service of my Country.

Sometimes in Service of Lance.

But, always, always, In Service  of That Great American Dream.

I came home from Iraq in ’09.

Went to Kandahar in ’11.

Came home late ’12.

Guess what?

There is no American Dream no mas.

The Bureaucrats killed it. 

I am a Patriot.

I love my country.

I served my ‘Country’.

But now, I do not recognize my country.

Now, I am leaning to socialism.

This post is but a beginning.

I am not gonna bore y’all with Lenny and Sarah, and bullshit anymore.

I am gonna bore you with reality.

The Reality.

Stay tuned.

For those of Y’all ‘Fraid of the NSA, well, bow out now gracefully. I have no fear, but I am old and have nothing to lose. And to quote Bette Davis: “Fasten Your Seatbelts; it’s going to be a bumpy night.”

And, Yes! I am not stupid. I do recognize the dichotomy of the diametrically opposed points of the two songs I present below for your perusal. You must sort out your own feelings.

Now, some would argue, “Lance is just living in his past; he is craving for the days when Revolution was a real possibility”

Some might say that.

I say, “There is no better time than the present, to take it up; because things now, are really fucked up.”

“Wake up!”

Wake the hell up, America!

My Country!

I love my America.

I truly do.

-Lance 

Woe To The Wheeless Wheelbarrow

Throwin’ Back to The War Whut Just Ended.

In jest.

“Sorry Boys. We was just joshin’ ya.”

“Hey Tally-Man! C’mon back! We cool!”

***

Heard this exchange on the handheld radio while in Afghanistan in 2012. (The Labor guys are Romanian and have that thick accent; The Plumber is American and without an interesting accent whatsoever…)

BrokenWheelbarrow

********

“Labor Two, this is Plumber One, copy?”

“Go for Labor Two…”

“Yessir, you told me you were gonna remove that dirt when you got the wheelbarrow.”

“Come back, Sir! You breakin’ up!”

“I SAID, You told me you gonna move that DIRT once you got the WHEEL–BARROW.”

“BREAK BREAK BREAK! This is Labor One.”

“Yessir, this is Plumber One. You promised me you gonna have your guys move that dirt from my job site when you got your wheelbarrow.”

“Sir, that wheelbarrow we got, got no wheel.”

***Pregnant Pause***

“Labor Two, this is Labor One. Look in connex. Tell me you got wheel for dis wheelbarrow.”

“Good Copy, Sir. We have.”

“You have wheel for dis wheelbarrow?”

“Yessir! We have wheel.”

“Okay. You check see if dis wheel is good one.”

“Yessir, dis wheel, she is good one.”

“Okay. Five mikes, I be dere. You wait me dere. I come see dis wheel.”

***Few minutes later***

“Plumber One, dis is Labor One, where you want dis wheelbarrow?”

“Labor One, this is Plumber One. Next to the dirt.”

“Ok, five mikes I be dere…”

So, my question is: what do you call a wheelbarrow without a wheel?

A “barrow?”

And what the hell good is it?

And so it went there at Camp Dwyer, during the war… Afghan-is-sand… 

 

Verily Related/Retarded:

Doctors Piss Me Off

While I was ‘out-processing’ in Fort Worth Texas to go to Kandahar back in 2011, I had this conversation with the DynCorp Doc. It was on a Monday morning:

Doctor asked me, “Did you attend a big drinking ‘going away party’ last night?”

“Nope” I lied. (I never need an excuse to drink me under the table)

“Well that is a shame, because your liver is inflamed. You sure you did not drink last night?”

“Yep. Quite sure,” I lied again.

“Well, you also have enlarged red blood cells. Do you realize what this means?”

“Yessir, I do. It means my red blood cells are capable of carrying more O2, and therefore, this is a good thing.”

*heavy sigh* from the doc. “That means they stick to each other. A bad thing.”

“Yeah, we all stick together… So doc, just sign the papers, ummm kay?”

“But… your BP… is off the chart. One-eighty over one-thirty-five”

“Ya, ain’t that cool? I have always been an over-achiever. High numbers fascinate me. Now please sign me off so I can go to the bar before going to Afghanistan to get shot at.”

stethoscope

True story. There are many more…

I don’t think that doc liked me. But he did sign ze papers like a good little DynCorp sycophant.

Eighteen hours later:

Wheels Down at KAF

And Lance a Happy Camper.

And this, of course… that last is a Bold-Faced LIE

(Just call it ‘Creative License.’)

TRUTH:

I had to ‘cool’ my heels in Dubai for almost ten days before I made it to Afghanistan.

I amused me by renting Russian Prostitutes.

(Putting a few of them through college in the process)

This is a TRUE story.

I do NOT  write FICTION.

(Not smart enuff)