“Life gets mighty precious When there’s less of it to waste.”
Bonnie Raitt – Nick Of Time
BTW,
Red-Heads Rock My World
***
Time is The Only (And Finite) Commodity That We Shall Ever ‘Own’
Spend it Wisely & You Shall Live A Full Life
Squander It And You Are Properly Fukked
(Yes. I Have Strong Opinions On This)
***
NF – Time
“I Promise You, I’m Changin'”
Yeah! Right!
***
Billy Joel – Honesty
I love my life, but I see it coming to a close soon.
(I ain’t no spring chicken)
I have lived a FULL LIFE.
I have been Around the Whurl
(And the World)
TWICE
I HAVE LIVED!
I AM so Very HAPPY Now.
I have made PEACE with Me.
Now I just write.
This Makes Me Happy.
I love that.
I am a worthy Man. If you ever choose to interact with me, please just be honest. I have not the time, nor patience, nor desire for bullshit. I have seen/heard it all before.
I am a simple man: Simple wants. Simple Desires. Simple Dreams.
In short: I am Simple-Minded.
Now go away.
Unless you have something relevant/honest to say.
I will always listen.
But please don’t waste my time.
If you waste my finite time,
I will Never Ever forgive you.
EVER!
This ain’t the song I wanted, but I suppose it kinda ‘fits’ into my
Narrative.
Fuk it!
Twill Serve
Pink Floyd – Time
***
My Largest ‘Fear’:
Well baby, there you stand With your little head down in your hand Oh my God, you can’t believe it’s happening again Your baby’s gone and you’re all alone And it looks like the end
Wasted Time – Eagles
****
Joni Mitchell – The Circle Game
And
I Cannot Believe,
That The-Power’d Cowards That Be,
Made Her Wear Mini–Skirt!–
So ‘Un-Joni’
But She Do Have Sexy Legs
I Had A Dream Once–
Whatever Happened To That Dreamer-Boy?
I Suppose Real-Life Got In-The-Way…
“And the seasons, they go round and round And the painted ponies go up and down We’re captive on the carousel of time We can’t return, we can only look Behind, from where we came And go round and round and round, in the circle game
–Joni M
(Y’all Just KNOW HOW Much I Do LOVE HER!–FOREVER!)
****
Just Joan For Fun.
Romancing the Stone
“De Joan Wilder!”
“Romancing the Stone”
De Joan Wilder!
I Absolutely
Unabashedly
ADORE HER!
She is A Fu*king Writer!
Of Some Small Fame!
Just Like Me!
Hahaha!
Dixie!
Goddamn It!
“Virgil Cain”
Was My Name.
Yes!
Wish
I Wish I Were That Brave!
Here is A Clue:
Sadly,I Ain’t!
And Cred For All These Vids:
Sadly, I Have Forgotten–
I Am Such A Moron!
****
I LOVE You Joan!
You Left-Wing Bitch!
“I Dream’d I Saw Joe Hill Last Night”
“There’s a Hole in My Bed”
Jessee!
Joan Baez
“Jesse”
Janis Ian & Joan Baez
(Great Vid—Watch it or Go Kill Yourself!)
Your Option!
Personally, I’d choose Lie over Death. But That’s Just Me.
Fish, Steven Fisher, Once Confided to me That he ‘Hated’ The Song, ‘White Rabit” I Asked why (As It was one of My All-Time Favorites.
He said,
Because Grace Enunciates every syllable. She Don’t Sing: She ‘Talks!”
“Fuck You! That’s her job” Was My Retort.
Then We fought. As I Do Recall, Fish Kicked My Ass, But We Remained Best-Of – Friends
That was ‘Our ‘Job’ As Sailor-Gunners Mates”
I post a lot of shit. I post a lot of off the wall shit. If you have read my ‘By Way of Introduction’ page you will know this. But, OK, most of you have not (read that). Therefore, I will be brief here (“More matter and less art,” Yeah yeah yeah…) More matter below:
I stole this from Sam Clemens. I hope you like it a lot. (I do)
I don’t know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and I was up. There was pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes.
He said they was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek–but I couldn’t see no snakes.
He started and run round and round the cabin, hollering “Take him off! take him off! he’s biting me on the neck!” I never see a man look so wild in the eyes.
Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him.
He wore out by and by, and laid still a while, moaning. Then he laid stiller, and didn’t make a sound. I could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was laying over by the corner. By and by he raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. He says, very low:
“Tramp–tramp–tramp; that’s the dead; tramp–tramp–tramp; they’re coming after me; but I won’t go. Oh, they’re here! don’t touch me –don’t! hands off–they’re cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil alone!”
Then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. I could hear him through the blanket.
By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he would kill me, and then I couldn’t come for him no more.
I begged, and told him I was only Huck; but he laughed SUCH a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up.
Once when I turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself.
Pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who.
So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun.
I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still the time did drag along.
“Lately I been thinkin’, I just might quit drinkin’…
Now I don’t know, all in all…”
–Jerry Jeff
“I Feel Like Hank Williams Tonight”
Huh? Whut?
I have cast to the curb, so many good women
Why?
Why??
Why, Oh The The Fuck Why???
What is WRONG With me???
Only Two Words:
Wanderlust & Alcohol
Refuge of the Roads
Joni:“
I’m Just Holdin’ Back From Cryin’
(And Also Dyin’)
“A Drunk With Sage’s Eyes”
Yep! My Aspiration to Be–
Someone Please Save Me From My Insanity
Cred For Vid Share: Christian Davies
***
JJ All-The-Way!
***
The ‘Airplane’
Oh, And By The Way, I LOVe How Grace Enunciates—Fish, My Shit-Mate On USS Frederick, LST 1184 Hated Grace! Fish was a Wanna-Be Mucisian And Small-Time Banjo-Plager—Sorry! ‘Nother Sroory,,,
Not Sure What-The-Fuk This Is About—
Well, Screw It. I Musta Dropped It In For A Reason
“Petty Officer Marcom! Your Fifty Cals are Rusty!”
U.S. Navy photo by Photographer’s Mate Third Class Daniel J. Mark. Cleared for release by ALBG PAO, LCDR Jeff Bender.
Marco The Sailorman
I had to admit. Yes they were. I had tried so hard to keep ahead of the rust, but here I found myself on the leeward side of the second half of a six-month, ‘round-the-whurl-West Pacific Deployment’, and somewhere just off the coast of Somalia.
Yes, rust was my enemy, certainly never my friend—the machine guns were always mounted while we (The USS Callaghan DDG 994, full cast and crew) were Haze-Gray and Underway.
Yes, always mounted and underway:
Haze-Graying, even then
And rusty
My Guns were always supposed to be… somewhere upon the sea… this is what they were purchased for…
And subject to rust. Rust Relentless. Relentless She Be: That Sea. That Salt of the Fucking Sea
Rust.
My Moby Dick-lessness! How could I not keep Rust off my guns?
Freud certainly would have had fun with me
(Sadly, now I know why)
************
My professional life was to be found somewhere rusting in those machine guns.
And that rust you see, that rust occupied a great deal of my daily routine.
The Navy had a solution though. She had provided canvas covers to cover those guns and make them safe from rust. Alas, those canvas covers had seen better days, probably back when Pearl Harbor was just an ordinary Naval Base that no one had ever heard of.
But rust is relentless and timeless.
While scrubbing the Indian Ocean rust off’n my fifty-cals one morning I hatched a plan. Knowing full well we were soon to pull into Mombasa Kenya, after so many month at sea, I conspired to save my money:
Once in Mombasa, I would smuggle one of the moth infected, salt- digested, jig saw’d, Swiss Cheese, ‘holy’ canvas shards off the ship. I would rent a taxi, find me a young child, show him my smuggled ‘prize’, ask him to direct me somewhere, where I could find and nickel and dime (I did not have much money then, not un-life-like now) find a leather shop in Mombasa, present to the leather-maker my Holy Canvas, My Shroud, My Naval Career, and demand, (for US Dollars), that he make me four such more yet new and brand new.
And functional.
And This is exactly what I did, and to the amazement and astonishment of my Master Chief Petty Officer and my Department Head (almost a Navy Commander… he kind of looked like JFK, now that I think on it. I did not like particularly like him, but I respected him. Hell, he reminded me of all the things I could have been if I had joined the Nav when I was twelve instead of twenty-eight (Different story. Sorry)
The next time they inspected my Fifty Cals, they were pristine! (They did not take notice nor time to notice that the canvas covers were not exactly Haze-Gray-Naval Gray. No, more like Third-World-Rustic, with just a tiny bit of water buffalo…left over…but Goddamn sure water and sea salt proof.
And I was so desirous that they did NOT notice, but my Master Chief did notice, yet, never ever noticing nor voicing his ‘inner thoughts’ in front of what he referred to as “Shit Birds” — ‘Officers’ — Never let on.
Master Chief never, ever let out his truth thoughts in front of Shit – Birds. This was his genius.
And I should have been cognizant of this, yet I was so somewhat giddy after my .50 Cals had finally passed inspection, that I did not stop to think on that anymore. “Not even Master Chief had seen through my ruse” Yeah, Rite!
I was drunk with my own cleverness and lying back on my back in my rack, curtain drawn, congratulating me.
(Now, you must realize how the Military Mind works. I was my Ship’s Armor All–Armorer– IN Charge of All The Ship’s Small Arms! .225 Cal to .50 Cal. If it took two men to lift, wasn’t mine. But one-man-band? Yep! I was the shit! I was a Gunner’s Mate 3rd Class! Freshly rocked out of SEAL Training (twice now, but who counts these sorts of thing? I suppose I do) and trying to retain what little was left of my pride and my so-fifty-caliber-called-life.)
And I loved and Respected My Master Chief. Did not ever want to become an embarrassment to him, nor to my Fellow Gunner’s Mates who worked on the “Big Guns”. (Those ones what ‘bullets’ took two and a half-men to lift)
And even more important, (anyone who has ever ‘Served’ will know this), the Military is Run On Fear:
Well, as I was lying on my back in my middle rack right before Taps with my little blue ‘privacy’ curtain drawn back when someone jerked that sucker back.
Along with my reverie.
Yep.
Master Chief Anderson!
MY MASTER CHIEF
“Son, tell me where you found those brand new gun covers.”
Trying to lie on my side and find an elbow to lean to, I half-coughed out, feigning sleepy-eyed ignorance,
“Master Chief, I had them made while we were in Mombasa.”
(There are people one may lie to in life, but, A Master Chief Petty Officer in the US Navy is not one found amongst those people. Not if one wishes life beyond that moment of sweet deception)
“I see”, was all he said, as he yanked my curtain back shut, thus leaving me alone with my various and sundry.
I did not sleep that night. For you see, I knew I had broken Naval Regs by doing something not-in-the Naval-Seaman’s-Bible–The Blue Book–The book, inches thick as a brick, “The Book” I had been made to almost memorize while at Recruit Training Command, i.e. boot camp.
I had broken the rule.
In the Nav, there is a sea sailor preamble, most requisite when one wants to recount a story of ‘when ships were made of wood and men were made of iron’… “Back when Moses was a pup, and this is a no-shitter” This validates and is a ritual never broken. In other words, one never breaks the rule.
Sometime mid-morning the next day, I was summoned to the berth/office of The Department Head of my Division, Lt. Commander ‘Kennedy’.
Shitting bricks is too trite.
I was nervous.
I gave a hearty rap on the bulkhead door as I was trained to do in boot camp…
“Enter!”
“Petty Officer 3rd Class Marcom Sir!”
“I know who you are Lance; sit down.”
(What??? Lance??? Sit Down???)
Mouth agape I sat down, speechless
“Son, Master Chief Anderson tells me you went out on your own, designed, commissioned, smuggled off a prototype, and paid for, with your own money, those .50 Cal Gun Covers. Is this true?”
“Yes, uh, yessir,” I stammered.
“Well, that shows some fine initiative. How much did you pay Son?”
“Un Sir. Doesn’t matter…. I just, well, the .50 Cals, you know SIR, cost ten-thousand dollars each, and I thought…rust….an…”
“How much did you pay?!”
“250 Dollars Sir.”
Without saying a word he opened a little three-lock-box (OK; I made that up. It was only a one-lock-box) that he had in a drawer, carefully opened it, and proceeded to hand me two-hundred and fifty bucks.
American
I sat there, dumb founded, a moment too long, still in shock, looking at the bills in my hand…
“Petty Officer Marcom! “
“Huh…Uh, Huh… Sir?”
“You’re dismissed!”
Jumping up, knocking my chair over, some tears welling in my eyes,
“Yessir!”
As I saluted him and abruptly left his quarters, quite in haste.
And thus I had survived yet another day in MY Beloved Navy.
And Just As a Reminder Kids:
Don’t Rain on my Parade: I have enuff Rain for All
*And this just once more a rough draft, full of error, so be kind. Trust me: there is no harsher critic of me than me. I sweat commas.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
I post a lot of shit. I post a lot of off the wall shit. If you have read my ‘By Way of Introduction’ page you will know this. But, OK, most of you have not (read that). Therefore, I will be brief here (“More matter and less art,” Yeah yeah yeah…) More matter below:
I stole this from Sam Clemens. I hope you like it a lot. (I do)
I don’t know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and I was up. There was pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek–but I couldn’t see no snakes. He started and run round and round the cabin, hollering “Take him off! take him off! he’s biting me on the neck!” I never see a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him. He wore out by and by, and laid still a while, moaning.
Then he laid stiller, and didn’t make a sound. I could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was laying over by the corner. By and by he raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. He says, very low:
“Tramp–tramp–tramp; that’s the dead; tramp–tramp–tramp; they’re coming after me; but I won’t go. Oh, they’re here! don’t touch me –don’t! hands off–they’re cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil alone!”
Then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. I could hear him through the blanket.
By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he would kill me, and then I couldn’t come for him no more.
I begged, and told him I was only Huck; but he laughed SUCH a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once when I turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. Pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who.
So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still the time did drag along.
“The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in 68 And he told me, “All romantics meet the same fate Some day, cynical and drunk and boring Someone in some dark cafe”
******
My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink and I don’t Love Jesus – Jimmy Buffett
“If I don’t die by Thursday I’ll be roarin’ Friday night”
Story of My Life
That Old Man and The Sea
He’s Me!
P.S. Richard Shot hiss-self in the Head After He Went to FLA!