“The cannons don’t thunder; there’s nothin’ to plunder…”
Here is an opinion y’all did not see coming: This is a Stupid Fantasy Song. A Texan said that! Nay! I am (he said, “A Comanche!”
Now, that is funny…
Not to put too fine a point upon it, but, I have a finite time left. Once upon a time, I stepped on a dime and it was promised to me, you see… I never contemplated ‘finite’, as you see, everything was infinite to me… And in my unsung mind, that was how it should be. Unshining dime.
Certainly no less.
Anyway, as ‘brevity is the soul of wit…’ I find me witness, er, wireless, sycophant.
I got ROBBED by Thesim And some other is ‘ISM’s!!!!
(Yes! I am looking for a fight. A fight with all you Hyper-Christians. Yep)
It has been brought to my attention (by my anti-virus software, of which I do not squander money on—that one of these links is, well, poluted. So, please don’t follow any links (the other shit is safe). I apologize for giving you Ebola (if I did)
Breaking NEWS! 2017 All the links are now safe! Surf ON!
(Trust me: I used to be with the Government)
‘Lance’s Ramblings from his 115th Dream Stream’ (Sorry Bob)
‘Nights in White Satin’ – that one makes no sense. That is why I put it in.
Or, last and least perhaps: “I have become my Grandfather, or How I became Andy Rooney in One Thousand Words or Less, an essay.”
Gentle Readers, it has not escaped my undying attention that I tend to lean heavily toward the overly-dramatic. The ‘trauma drama’ effect even. Call it a ‘crutch’ if you will.
Yep. Call it that.
This I do know. Therefore, I have (Through my magical powers derived from watching old re-runs of ‘Dragnet’—“Just the facts Ma’am. Just the facts.”—decided to ‘come on back down to Earth, Son’.
–Boz Scaggs: Lowdown)
My (solely appreciated) goal here is to present just ‘them’—just them facts.
I hope I am successful. For y’all’s sake.
When last we left our hero, he was leading his class to their first BUD/s workout. Well, you cannot really call it such: more like a medieval (‘I’m gonna get medieval on your ass’) torture session.
Even at zero five (‘Zero Dark Thirty?), The Grinder was a hot, miserable place to be, especially NOT designed for yoga or even step-up aerobics, and / or certainly not Pilates. (Gay Pirates?) No. ‘Twas Wasn’t. There is a reason they (Navy) call it ‘The Grinder.” You go ahead and figure out the obvious.
But this day I do not wanna write about Those Lazy Crazy Hazy Days of Summer…
Now Y’all, much of that I wrote late last night. (Under Some Influence)
Didn’t publish. (Thank Baby Hey Zeus). But I woke up this morning
(Praise be to Allah—Ah Ha!) And you, yes you! (My Human Friends) were on my mind:
To MORE BAD News Stories. I shall list them below so that you may share in ‘The Misery’ That is OUR ‘New World’ (You may thank me later. Send cards and letters…)
The Middle East is still throwing gasoline upon their (and our) raging fire
There will probably never be closure nor justice for Michael Brown or his family
Ebola is raging strong (But only in Africa: So, who cares, right? The WHO, that’s who)
ISIS is our new (never heard of till yesterday) National Crisis & Clear and Present Danger (or new best friend for our Military Industrial Complex, off of which I tend to make MY living)—Much hand-wringing and soul searching over that one. NOT! Damn! Put me in Coach! I live for this shit!
My dog has fleas… Fuckin’ fleas. Dogs!
My British GF finds me… well, of late, she don’t (find me)
I dreamt late last night about my favorite dead cat (Her name was Lucia and she was ‘The Cat From Hell’ and I miss her still—probably the only ‘real’ relationship I have ever had with ‘pussy.’)
My blood pressure remains off the chart and I think I may have given myself diabetes: Type Duh
I have been remiss in visiting and commenting on the blogs of my good friends
Maybe I will just go and eat worms. Maybe I like to eat worms…
Now, Don’t let it bring you down, but that is how I woke up. (And I was happy to have woken up… for just-one-more-day…stay?)
Photo taken in Iraq (or Afghanistan) I honestly don’t remember…
There really is no point to this post. Let us just call it “Unconscious Stream of Consciousness”.
And I will most likely, delete it (and y’all know, I am quick on the mouse trigger when it comes to deletion: I see it as a form of… birth control. So read fast!)
I want to write about ‘The Age of Innocence’: The Seventies.
Yep. I tend to live in the glory that was Roaming… You may bail out here. Here, in fact here is your parachute. Be certain to locate the RIP Cord before you exit the plane: Just a word to some wise and hey!
For those of y’all who still remain, I want to write about Karen Carpenter. Not ‘The’ Karen Carpenter, but the Karen Carpenter that symbolized how I felt about the Seventies. Yeah, that one. Her.
I woke up with Karen Carpenter on my mind (and yes: I have posted about her recently, but I wanted to try to explain why now)
I woke up with Karen and sadly not in my bed, but in my mind.
Because… of the ‘Age of Innocents.’ I call her one. The first casualty of the sickness that guides us: This American Dream of having to be some other person. A person, in the spotlight who is …. Drumroll: PERFECT!
No one is perfect and certainly not me (though I am pretty close). Yet, no one is perfection. We cannot be. There is no God and if you believe that there is, you are about as far removed from ‘Perfection’ as a Human…
I should delete that sentence, as it is not Germane, nor German, to my point. Let me think on it…
Back to The Seventies: The Age of Innocents (I was innocent; were you? Probab’ly not.)…
I am running on empty now/here.
“I don’t know where I’m runnin’ now; I’m just runnin’ on…
I would like some thoughts on that/those. From you! And then, having received same, I will continue. Maybe.
Hook ‘em Horns
And P.S. I am sorry for stealing all the vid clips. I will (I promise) accolade y’all later–more later–but later)
And: to any readers I have left:
I am in some form of cryxis: I will be, as Shakespeare once wrote, “King Richard is himself again.” once be.
Stay tuned… Or not: Yer choice.
Oh! And by the way… Jackson Browne was/is an asshole
“We made love in that birdhouse after sundown. And with the door open. And why not? We were young. (And we had all that ‘Diplomatic Immunity’ bullshit to boot)”
Thus ended my last ‘serious’ transmission regarding my recently orphaned series, bits of which may be found herehereherehere…
WordPress is not Facebook and I would do well to remember this, yet if memory serves, the above is indeed how I did in fact, end my last sober transmission regarding this never-ending (Insha’Allah) story I still call without shame or sham, My Life.
Guess what Friends. I am gonna end it now. Hang onto yer butts.
All true, but I have a tendency to grow bored with my own writing and this does not bode well, well…
I have just recently been returned from my Sabbatical, (kicking and screaming) which was spent in some dark happy place looking for answers. Finding none, save one, I have returned to these pages more or less now unobstructed and with fresh thoughts unobscured.
“Whatever does he mean, “Unobstructed”? “Hey Y’all! Come look he’ah! Lance done lost his mind!” (a-gin)
Means, Dear Readers that I am just gonna tell “THE TRUTH” from now on. Not that I have not ‘til now been telling same but, now I am gonna tell the Whole Truth, because by omission, I have been lying.
No Sugar, no mas.
This I gleaned from my Sabbatical. “So thanks Sabra. And thanks for the lobotomy, and gee! That shock therapy was da bomb!”
Oh! And to tie up that last loose end:
Janet and I spent a wonderful day or two at Sharm, then went back to SFM and carried on. Things kinda went to shit after that… for a spell.
But then we got married and it was all copacetic–For about two hours.
Yes it was on our honeymoon and we got into an argument and ended up after the ceremony un-ceremoniously sailing our newly purchased and vowed-upon wedding rings off the balcony of the Sheraton Hotel, (tenth floor) gleefully watching them bounce on the sand in front of the Mediterranean Sea, to wait there for some intrepid happy beach comber to later discover and claim ‘pirate treasure’ no doubt from Sodom and Gomorrah… (Yes, American tourists are stupid)
After we had ‘dissolved’ our new marriage in that ancient simple way, we went back to drinking and fucking, and for some I suppose that is what one could call a decent marriage, at least in the early stages.
And honestly, I think that is all way too much information about my time spent with her and Moses in Sinai and in the ‘Rest-of-the-Holy-Land.’
But perhaps not.
(See? I am sharing “deep thoughts” here) with you thanks to my newly ended Sabbatical. Now don’t you feel ‘very unique’? (Ed. Note: I HATE that! There are no degrees of ‘unique’. You can look it up)
If ya wanna…
I really don’t want to write about Janet but… damn it! She is such a wonderful, truly true, truly colorful, truly unique, one-hundred-and-one pounds of fun character, especially after we arrived in Nacogdoches Texas and began our ‘unique’ married life.
We are all, all of us, ‘very unique individuals’.
Or aren’t we all just deluding our own unique selves?
Probably will be continued when They let me out again for ‘Social Time’
And Finally I leave you with a good Sunday Morning Song. We used to sing this as we ran in formation to chow when I was in BUD/s Class 158. Can you imagine? Probably not.
I grew into manhood in the Sinai desert: 1977-1980. Missed out on Disco, but it was damn well worth it. What you may choose to read below is the first installment of a personal history I am determined to write about the men and women I had the honor to know, to love, to work and walk among, and to call ‘Friend’, as we all tried in our way, to bring peace between the Egyptians and the Israelis after the Yom Kippur War of 1973. The conditions were harsh; the boredom at times mind-numbing. Seventy-five percent of us were under thirty. Most of us were Texans. We were not actually building anything see-able, tangible, touchable: we were, in fact, civilian ‘Paid Political Hostages,’ not construction contractors, not U.S. military Special Forces, but we ended up building something immensely more important than bricks and mortar: The Camp David Accords—Peace between two enemies who had not known peace since before Moses was a pup. Some of us who spent too many years there, went slowly and surely insane…
A faint laughing snort escaped as I shook my head upon seeing that sign duct-taped to the door of the hooch belonging to some of my fellow drivers: ‘Rocket Tom’, ‘J.R. Mog’, ‘Jet’, and ‘Big Mo’. Big Mo wasn’t a driver per se; I mean he didn’t drive trucks or R&R passenger vehicles: He drove dozers, road graders, front-end loaders, and the occasional fork lift, although he considered fork-lifts “Too wussy for a Texan named Big Mo” to drive.