He Drinks at Home Now Most Nights With the TV on and all the house lights Left Up Bright, or “I’m gonna blow this damn candle out. I don’t want nobody comin’ over to my table; I got nothin’ to talk to anybody about.”

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. Oh yeah, David Mamet “Sexual Perversity in Chicago” which I first saw performed live by a group of travelling U.S. actors and actresses when I was in Sinai, SFM (and after the performance I had all of the cast and crew in my hooch and we all got hopelessly stoned on hash and drunk on scotch)  in the Sinai, and then saw it, many years later, the fucking movie… wait for it… in Chicago, drunk but not stoned. The Navy had random piss tests back then—for drugs–they gave not zero fucks about your alcohol blood level. That is just my Navy. How it was…  maybe still is. Who knows? Who cares?

When I saw the movie in Shy – Town, It had been bastardized into… “About Last Night.”

The Movie Gave The Play a

Fucking Happy Ending!

They Really Ruined it With That!

Fukkin’ Hollywood!

HOLLYWOOD! Up-Dated!! Re-Visit This One Y’all. It is fucking Awesome! The Vids! The Vids! The Vids! Ignore My Prose! Watch the Videos!

 

“Travesty” as a word…

“Cynical and drunk?”

“May-hap: C’est moi?”

“Huh?”

“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.”

“Yes. Both.”

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 do.

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.”

Some footnote:

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

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.”

Don’t.

(Just don’t.)

Because I ain’t.

I’m an asshole.

Bona-Fide

Asshole.

And I have references

But if’n you do, Do not then… follow the comments.

Just don’t fuckin’ do it. 

Save some:  them, them the good memories.

And walk on by.

(You just knew I had to.)

 

He Drinks at Home Now Most Nights With the TV on and all the house lights Left Up Bright, or “I’m gonna blow this damn candle out. I don’t want nobody comin’ over to my table; I got nothin’ to talk to anybody about.”

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. Oh yeah, David Mamet “Sexual Perversity in Chicago” which I first saw performed live by a group of travelling U.S. actors and actresses (and after the performance I had all of the cast and crew in my hooch and we all got hopelessly stoned on hash and drunk on scotch)  in the Sinai, and then saw it, many years later, the fucking movie… wait for it… in Chicago, drunk but not stoned. The Navy had random piss tests back then—for drugs–they gave not zero fucks about your alcohol blood level. That is just my Navy. How it was…  maybe still is. Who knows? Who cares?

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?”

“Huh?”

“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.”

“Yes. Both.”

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 do.

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.”

Some footnote:

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

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.”

Don’t.

(Just don’t.)

But if’n you do, Do not then… follow the comments.

Just don’t fuckin’ do it. 

Save some:  them, them the good memories.

And walk on by.

(You just knew I had to.)

The Best Wife (OK; she was not really all that–wife-wise)

Read this again.

Humor me.

I’ll add to it later.

(Just as soon as she answers my emails)

Martha was the best.

Martha on Ernest:

“He was about as useful as a stuffed squirrel.”

Martha and Hem:

She was here,” I want to shout. “And she was extraordinary.”

–Hem

https://www.townandcountrymag.com/society/tradition/a22109842/martha-gellhorn-career-ernest-hemingway/

Clive Owen, Nicole Kidman star in love story about Ernest Hemingway & Martha Gellhorn 

I Gave it the Ol’ College Try

I tried real hard.

Real hard.

Real hard to watch this movie (one of my favorites)

But I am a-feared…

It does not age well.

Guess I need to stick to Hemingway…

VeryVeryVery

Very loosely based on Hem.

But L. Bacal is worth the price of admission.

(BTW, the spelling is correct.

She was ‘Bacal,’ but Hollywood made her change the spelling–too Jewish, they said.)

The Best Wife

Martha was the best.

Martha on Ernest:

“He was about as useful as a stuffed squirrel.”

Martha and Hem:

She was here,” I want to shout. “And she was extraordinary.”

–Hem

https://www.townandcountrymag.com/society/tradition/a22109842/martha-gellhorn-career-ernest-hemingway/

Clive Owen, Nicole Kidman star in love story about Ernest Hemingway & Martha Gellhorn 

Hem

“The way into understanding him is through the relationships with women in his life.”

— Lynn Novick

“I can’t imagine how toxic it must have been to have been around him.”

-Ken  Burns.

“I can easily imagine it.”

Lance Marcom

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

–Hem

“I could only care about people a very few at a time.”

-Hem

“Wherever he was. Whatever he was doing. Alcohol fueled everything.”

–Ken Burns.

“I have drunk since I was fifteen and few things have given me more pleasure.”

–Hem

***

She shot very well this good, this rich bitch, this kindly caretaker and destroyer of his talent. Nonsense. He had destroyed his talent himself. Why should he blame this woman because she kept him well? He had destroyed his talent by not using it, by betrayals of himself and what he believed in, by drinking so much that he blunted the edge of his perceptions, by laziness, by sloth, and by snobbery, by pride and by prejudice, by hook and by crook.

What was this? A catalogue of old books? What was his talent anyway? It was a talent all right but instead of using it, he had traded on it. It was never what he had done, but always what he could do. And he had chosen to make his living with something else instead of a pen or a pencil.

It was strange, too, wasn’t it, that when he fell in love with another woman, that woman should always have more money than the last one? But when he no longer was in love, when he was only lying, as to this woman, now, who had the most money of all, who had all the money there was, who had had a husband and children, who had taken lovers and been dissatisfied with them, and who loved him dearly as a writer, as a man, as a companion and as a proud possession; it was strange that when he did not love her at all and was lying, that he should be able to give her more for her money than when he had really loved.

–“The Snows of Kilimanjaro”

***

It was now about three o‟clock in the morning and Francis Macomber,
who had been asleep a little while after he had stopped thinking about
the lion, wakened and then slept again, woke suddenly, frightened in a
dream of the bloody-headed lion standing over him, and listening while
his heart pounded, he realized that his wife was not in the other cot in
the tent. He lay awake with the knowledge of two hours.


At the end of that time his wife came into the tent, lifted her mosquito
bar and crawled cozily into bed.


“Where have you been?” Macomber asked in the darkness.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you awake?”
“Where have you been?”
“I just went out to get a breath of air.”
“You did, like hell.”
“What do you want me to say, darling?”
“Where have you been?”
“Out to get a breath of air.”
“That‟s a new name for it. You are a bitch.”
“Well, you‟re coward.”
“All right,” he said. “What of it?”

–“The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber

****

“I would rather have one honest enemy than most of the friends I have known.”

–Hem

****