Loved it. Hated it. Few decades ago I could truthfully say, “Hey! I’ve spent half my life in California.” (See ThisOr This)
Now I can say, “Hey! I’ve spent most of my life in Dangerous Desolate Places.” (Middle East & East Texas) That worm did turn some. (Go Here or There)
I really don’t care at this point
****
As a Native Texan, I am supposed to always hate California and yes, Yes to all you Texans out there: I know this. I get it. Put the rope down.
Yet I more love than hate California.
In California I learned to appreciate music, art, science, literature, hippies, beaches and blondes. My first kiss was not in California, but I didn’t miss that milestone by much–In California.
In Texas I learned to appreciate drankin’ whiskey and beer , smokin’ dope, playin’ football, chasin’ cheerleaders, and Raisin’ Hell.
Arriving home to Texas late 1968 folks made fun of my ‘California Accent’ if there even is such a thing. (There were no Valley Girls in the Sixties as far as I know). My ‘accent’ was ‘just the way normal people talked’ as far as I was concerned. Texans sounded funny to me (Blasphemy!)
My Attitude Adjustment didn’t take long to take.
In California I was a Little League Baseball Star. In Texas no one gave two shits about baseball. I had to learn football. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, but I had all those baseball skills which were not worth a cup of spit in Texas.
I love Texas and don’t get me wrong. But once in a while, when I see a photo or a news bit showing San Francisco, or San Diego, or a beach, or a blonde… I hear this guysinging:
Sometimes I even hear this blonde singing:
And I tear up. (Just a little bit) but then I throw on some Bob Wills and Remember Who I am.
And thus remembering, I go out and buy a caseof Lone Star Long Necks and listen to this guy:
And I Thank The Spirit of Sam Houston I Am A Texan.
Yes. I’m Nekk’d–So What? I am a Naked Paper-Back Writer
My very first morning at the Tel Aviv Sheraton. I had a ‘raw fish’ breakfast buffet at zero five hundred.
(And there were cucumbers, cheese, olives an’ shit too! Outrageous!) I had never had raw fish for breakfast until then. Cost me five bucks (a lot of money for breakfast in 1977 for a twenty-year-old-kid).
I only gagged once and I drank a lot of orange juice, which was the only thing remotely resembling ‘breakfast’ to me. Well, “When in Rome…”
I later discovered I could have had scrambled eggs and bacon down the street at the U.S. Embassy for a buck and a half…
My first R&R in November, 1977. I went to Tel Aviv for one week. This just also happened to be the same week Anwar Sadat made his historic visit to Israel and most important, to speak to the Knesset in Jerusalem.
The Israelis actually fell in love with Sadat. I did too. Peace was in the air! Sadat was front page news every day in the Jerusalem Post.
The atmosphere in downtown Tel Aviv every night was ‘Party Down!’ (Sadly, this could not last)
First Israeli Love. Her name was Gladys Lehani and she spoke French, English, Hebrew, and Lies.
I was instantly enamored. She worked nights at the Tel Aviv Sheraton in the ‘Kum Kum’ Lounge, a bar.
During the afternoons she was a cashier in the little lobby area of the hotel. A place where one could look out the huge windows at the Mediterranean, have a cocktail, read a book, and flirt with her. I spent many hours there doing all four.
Driving through Gaza. After I had been with SFM for some months, I was ‘promoted’ to driver (see this story). The most expeditious way to get to Tel Aviv was to drive straight through the Gaza Strip, so of course we did just that.
Never felt any wisp of danger. Not once. Then one day someone threw a brick into the windshield of one of our vehicles. This prompted management (And S. State: Our ‘Client.’) to suspend all travel through Gaza.
Now let me tell you, this was bullshit. At that point in time we had been travelling through Gaza for many, many months. This was surely an isolated incident—“Just kids havin’ fun,”–to quote Croc Dundee. Hell! I had friends in Gaza.
One in particular comes to mind. His name was Mohammad (go figure) and he ran the gas station where I would always fill up my vehicles when I passed through.
We often shared gifts. I gave him American cigarettes and T-Shirts from Texas and he gave me various little Arabic statuettes and such. Once (on his request) I brought him a fifth of Jonnie Walker Red. I thought he was gonna adopt me over that!
The new route we were instructed to take took us through Beersheba and added two and a half hours to our travel time. This was unacceptable, so we (we drivers), ignored it, unless there were ‘uncool’, read, “USG” people riding along as passengers.
Most of the rest were in a frantic rush to get to TA and did not want to waste one minute of their well-earned R&R over some State Department Bullshit, so I always conducted a poll before taking the turn off to Gaza: “Any of y’all got a problem with getting to TA in an hour via Gaza? Or do y’all wanna go through Beer’Sheba and get to TA four hours after yer girlfriends done give up on you?”
The usual response was something like this: “Marcom, I will risk Gaza, not ‘cause I am afraid my girlfriend will give up on me, but because I just can’t stan’ one extra minute of listening to your music!”
(I had a boom box on the dash and ‘treated’ my passengers to four or five hours of continuous Bob Marley on my trips. I was famous for this. Sometimes I would throw in a little Joni Mitchell, if I were feeling benevolent on that day.)
The Orphan Benjamin. One night, I think it was in late ’78, I was staggering back to my hooch from our little bar. My walk took me through our game room: Two pool tables, a jukebox, shuffle board, ping pong… etc.
Anyway, just by the exit door there was a table. On this table was a carton of Marlboro’s, a case of Heineken, a ‘doggie bag’ from the galley, and a one hundred dollar bill.
Thinking nothing of it, I just kept on tacking toward my hooch, some fifty meters down the way… I woke up the next morning and instantly thought of all that unclaimed booty and for just an instant hoped that no one had stolen it.
We had a brother/sisterhood there in Sinai. I managed to drag my hung-over ass out of my rack and head in to breakfast in our galley. My trip took me past the table in question.
Everything was just as it was the night before; waiting for the rightful owner to sober up and claim. If I had not already been in love with my Co-SFM’ers till then, I certainly was now.
Two hundred folks at SFM, and nary a thief amongst us. I will never forget that minor little memory. It touched me deep.
And then I just went into breakfast. You see? This was not… ‘different’ then! Shit! Can’t explain. Won’t try.
You see? We had love. And respect.
***
I am thinking of continuing this series in light of the recent news from Israel and Gaza. Not saying that my experiences are relevant today, but I do feel the need to write them.
Please let me know if you are interested to read of my times spent in the region.
Now, I can Honestly Say That I Have Been to Jail In-This-Country–America, as Opposed to All The ‘Other’ Countries I have been to Jail in…
Tom Waits – “Eggs and Sausage
In A Cadillac With Susan Michelson”
“Why do men chase women?”
“I think It’s Because They Fear Death”
“Old saying my mother told me. Wanna hear it?”
“Yeah. Sure. Of Course.”
“Don’t Shit Where You Eat.”
–Olympia Dukakis
Hem
Author’s Note:
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, so full of shit & 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 desperation just to be read.
“A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
Desperate for…
Crying for…
Waiting for…
Black Velvet, Black Velvet, If You Please…
(Feminine / Female Diversion)
***
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
For Free 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, appear
(Truth: I am worse, but I do not bring that to WORK)
Cheers,
—Lance
(Yes: you may quote me. I’d be flattered…. Hahahahaaa)
See you on Friday.
And remember not to work too hard.
Life’s best moments can be fleeting.
Cherish Them
***
Number One
“Win or lose, win or lose To the losers go the heart-sick blues To the victor goes the spoilings Honey, did you win or lose?”
Just so happens, I had one in my hip pocket. (I carry it about, you see? Just for occasions such as this)
I do believe the year was 1994, give or take. (10 years)
I was in a bad spot with my then-wife and my Girl-Friend who soon, someday soon, I hoped to become my next-wife.
Never mind her name; this is irrelevant. After a few… well.
I was in this bad spot, you see. And I needed a flat-bed truck (for whatever reason), you see?
Now, the only one in possession of same was Peanut.
You see? (Because Peanut was always the one who did not ask questions, you see?) And why was that? Because I was also the only one who never asked.
Being poor of money and poor’er of excuse, I told my bride: “Honey, we need to see this man about a truck. Then we can get on with our lives.”
“Okay,” she said.
Off we went, she in her pretty sun-dress and me, looking for flatbed trucks in all them wrong places.
And then, after about eight miles of Bad Texas Road, we came upon a tree across the road you see, and a madman with a shotgun, you see; this madman was shooting at this young girl, you see,
and this was embarrassing to me, you see, since the man wielding the shotgun could not hit shit, .. and his aim was lousy you see? And of course the girl was out of range, you see, and it did not matter to me, you see?
BECAUSE My Brother, PEANUT would never shoot an innocent girl on the wing.
You see?
You See?
You must have seen that coming.
Oh, that ‘other’ guy?
That Guy shooting at that girl?
What did we do with him?
Well, turns out, that was Peanut.
I had to forgive him. The girl was not harmed and I missed my brother.
Thus it ended….
That’s Tejas!
*************
STOP!
I cannot write this.
Maybe later.
Sorry. It has become rare that I just throw up a rough draft, you see?
(Yes, I know: they are all rough drafts)
This one may have some promise, however, since, like all Things Peanut, it is true.
Caint you see?
Mercutio/Peanut?
“And being thus disquieted…”
Or something….
Then I See Queen Mab Hath Been With You
Not unlike Pygmalion, as the years fly by, I create.
I cannot ‘create’ the woman I love. Not because she does not exist, but because, I do not want to embarrass her.
Yet, she is real and she loves me: since 1971.
She told me so.
Now…..five wives later….My wives.
(I should have never left her to fend.
oh no! I had to go to fuckn egypt for five fuckin years!)
“Torn-ment”
Is just a fucking word.
Hell! It is not even a word for a life lost.
“His only aspiration…. was getting back that girl he lost before.”
–Joni
But.. what to do with? As a dog chasing a train? What is he gonna do, if he catches it?
The below is a comment I made over at Aussa’s Blog (a blog I can never say enough good things about), in response to one of her hilarious posts: Ridiculous On The Job Injuries
Her prompt: What’s the most ridiculous way you’ve injured yourself?
***
Back in the Middle Ages (1980’s) when I owned my tropical fish store in Nacogdoches (Yes, That ‘Oldest Town in Texas’),
I was trying to clean the front glass of one of my retail tanks (ten gallon) which housed an electric catfish (like an electric eel, but with higher amps and voltage).
I was standing on a stool as ‘Benny Franklin’s’ tank was on the third tier—you just know I had to name him—since I’d had him ‘in-stock’ for months (All the East Texans were interested in were guppies, goldfish, and ‘crud-eaters’).
Anyhow, as I was keeping a watchful eye on Benny, lest I inadvertently swerve my paw/forearm into him, a customer walked up to me, inquiring (rather vociferously) about where were the crud eaters (Yes, I have posted about crud-eaters),
I took my eye off the prize (my arm) just for-a-second. Yep: Bam! Brushed Benny and received a shock which knocked me off the stool and flat on my ass.
Malapterurus electricus- shock yer ass-officus
Embarrassed? What do you think?
I was supposedly a ‘professional aquarist.’ Apparently not-on-that-day. The potential crud-eater customer just looked down at me and announced dryly that she would try ‘Ben Franklin’s’ (coincidence? or irony?)
or better still Wal*Mart up the road. Guess I did not answer her query quick enough as I was taking my own sweet time in my sincere effort to start breathing again.
True Story: you can take my word for it.
Cheers to you Aussa,
Always my pleasure to visit y’all, and glean inspiration for future posts (sincerely).
