Today’s Daily Lenny is about Uncle Earl, Guv’na of the Great State of Louisiana.
Now…
Uncle Earl was nuts; that is why we lovedUncle Earl. Especially us Texans loved Uncle Earl, because he was just like our Governors: Whacked Out. Only wors’er.
“If Louisiana eventually elects Duke (David Duke) governor, don’t expect any sympathy from Texas.
They sent us one of their barmy governors once before—Earl Long, who was Huey’s crazy brother.
Earl finally got so bad his own family shipped him off to a nuthouse in Galveston. We kept him for six weeks and then let him go; he looked like a perfectly normal governor to us.”
One of the things (Life’s simple pleasures)–one of the things I derive the most pleasure from–is making people laugh. Usually at me, but my longevity is continued because I never, ever take me, Lance, too seriously.
Hope you will read (or re-read) this one.
It happened just as I described it.
This Bit is somewhat of a ‘Trailer’ for a rather longish post which I will be publishing presentlysoon maybe next week. Gentle Reader, I do hope it piques your interest.
During my sojourn in Lake Charles, Summer of ’77, Kim’s girlfriend introduced us to her sister’s beau. His name was Tim Castille.
Tim was a great guy, with a mild and affable demeanor, and we all used to hang out together, which was surprising since Kim usually didn’t want to hang out (socially anyhow) with any “Non-Brothers,” i.e. not Kappa Alphas—whatever. Perhaps the reason Kim made an exception in Tim’s case was because Timothy was the owner of a shit-hot high-speed-rocket-on-water of a ski boat.
As you may imagine, Tim was a first-class water skier and he only used one ski—there is a word for that—oh yeah, “slalom.”
Since I was the only schmuck who didn’t know how to water ski, it was decided one day that it was high time for me to learn. Probably was “high-time” because we tacked into this windy epiphany while blowing dope. Down to the river we went.
After being briefly briefed on the basics of water skiing by Tim, I found myself bobbing up and down in the Calcasieu River, two feet locked into a single ski, holding onto the end of a long rope behind about 300 horsepower of snorting, sputtering, idling, chomping-at-the-bit Evinrude outboard motor.
(If you have read my Post, True Grit, you probably have figured out by now that anything I have to do with horses, whether one or two or three-hundred, is a bad idea)
Being fearless (and stoned) I decided this was exactly the right place for me to be and at exactly the right time.
The “crew” of the ski boat called to me asking if I was ready. I waved back with one hand, assuring them, that yes indeed, I was enthusiastically ready.
Tim lit her up and away we went.
Kinda.
I did everything as I had been instructed, but there was something not quite right. I could not seem to get up on the damn ski. Being stubborn, I would not let go (even with the crew yelling at me to do just that) and as we motored along I was dragged underwater.
Still stubborn (and no longer able to hear the shouts from the boat) I refused to give up.
Deeper and deeper I submerged under the river. Apparently Tim had faith that at some point I would pop up, cork-like, and ski like a pro and I sure as hell was not going to let go and lose face. I did manage get my head to break the surface periodically, which allowed me enough air to continue in my new found folly.
After about five or so minutes of this, Tim gave up, probably because his Evinrude was beginning to overheat from the excessive drag produced by someone being pulled along completely underwater and not gracefully gliding along on the surface as God intended.
Now, one might think I would have given up on my water skiing career that day. Oh no! Not this cowboy. We repeated this charade at least six more times during the course of the summer, all with the same results.
Everyone got such a grand kick out of watching me ski underwater that guests were invited along for the strange spectacle. Apparently the consensus amongst the second and third time witnesses when speaking to the uninitiated was,
“Hey! You can’t make this shit up! Ya gotta come see for yourself.” One time there were no less than four other boats full of spectators, surrounding my watery stage.
It was, I imagined, similar to the whale watching excursions in places like Alaska and northern California.
“Thar She Blows!” Cameras clicked; beers were quaffed in my honor; people cheered. (I was told—difficult to hear the crowds whilst under water.) I had become somewhat of a local celebrity.
That was my Fifteen Minutes.
I have never put on skis since, but I would, given just-one-more-chance…
–Lance, the world’s first (and best) Underwater Water Skier.
One of the things (Life’s simple pleasures)–one of the things I derive the most pleasure from–is making people laugh. Usually at me, but my longevity is continued because I never, ever take me, Lance, too seriously.
Hope you will read (or re-read) this one.
It happened just as I described it.
This Bit is somewhat of a ‘Trailer’ for a rather longish post which I will be publishing presentlysoon maybe next week. Gentle Reader, I do hope it piques your interest.
During my sojourn in Lake Charles, Summer of ’77, Kim’s girlfriend introduced us to her sister’s beau. His name was Tim Castille.
Tim was a great guy, with a mild and affable demeanor, and we all used to hang out together, which was surprising since Kim usually didn’t want to hang out (socially anyhow) with any “Non-Brothers,” i.e. not Kappa Alphas—whatever.
Perhaps the reason Kim made an exception in Tim’s case was because Timothy was the owner of a shit-hot high-speed-rocket-on-water of a ski boat.
As you may imagine, Tim was a first-class water skier and he only used one ski—there is a word for that—oh yeah, “slalom.”
Since I was the only schmuck who didn’t know how to water ski, it was decided one day that it was high time for me to learn. Probably was “high-time” because we tacked into this windy epiphany while blowing dope.
Down to the river we went. After being briefly briefed on the basics of water skiing by Tim, I found myself bobbing up and down in the Calcasieu River, two feet locked into a single ski, holding onto the end of a long rope behind about 300 horsepower of snorting, sputtering, idling, chomping-at-the-bit Evinrude outboard motor.
you probably have figured out by now that anything I have to do with horses, whether one or two or three-hundred, is a bad idea)
Being fearless (and stoned) I decided this was exactly the right place for me to be and at exactly the right time.
The “crew” of the ski boat called to me asking if I was ready. I waved back with one hand, assuring them, that yes indeed, I was enthusiastically ready.
Tim lit her up and away we went.
Kinda.
I did everything as I had been instructed, but there was something not quite right. I could not seem to get up on the damn ski. Being stubborn, I would not let go (even with the crew yelling at me to do just that) and as we motored along I was dragged underwater. Still stubborn (and no longer able to hear the shouts from the boat) I refused to give up.
Deeper and deeper I submerged under the river. Apparently Tim had faith that at some point I would pop up, cork-like, and ski like a pro and I sure as hell was not going to let go and lose face.
I did manage get my head to break the surface periodically, which allowed me enough air to continue in my new found folly. After about five or so minutes of this, Tim gave up, probably because his Evinrude was beginning to overheat from the excessive drag produced by someone being pulled along completely underwater and not gracefully gliding along on the surface as God intended.
Now, one might think I would have given up on my water skiing career that day. Oh no! Not this cowboy. We repeated this charade at least six more times during the course of the summer, all with the same results.
Everyone got such a grand kick out of watching me ski underwater that guests were invited along for the strange spectacle. Apparently the consensus amongst the second and third time witnesses when speaking to the uninitiated was, “Hey! You can’t make this shit up! Ya gotta come see for yourself.”
One time there were no less than four other boats full of spectators, surrounding my watery stage. It was, I imagined, similar to the whale watching excursions in places like Alaska and Northern California.
“Thar She Blows!” Cameras clicked; beers were quaffed in my honor; people cheered. (I was told—difficult to hear the crowds whilst under water.) I had become somewhat of a local celebrity.
That was my Fifteen Minutes.
I have never put on skis since, but I would, given just-one-more-chance…
–Lance, the world’s first (and best) Underwater Water Skier.
inLake Charleswith one of my best friends from high school, his Girl Friend, a Vietnam Vet (who did three tours with the First Cav as a chopper pilot), and his wife. The husband and wife owned a pet shop. The wife ran the place and the husband flew roughnecks back and forth to offshore oil rigs.
One day the wife, let’s call her Barbara, since that was her name, brought home a cougar. She had named him Charley and he was the size of a large house-cat. It was love at first sight for me as Charley was the only pussy I had yet seen or would see, turns out, during the entire six or so months I spent in Lake Charles.
Charley and I started sleeping together since the other two beds in the house already had reached capacity and since I was so very good with animals and since I really wanted a roommate. Therefore I took over the care and feeding and raising of Charley the young ‘un Cougar.
Charley grew rapidly on a steady diet of raw hamburger, flank steak, catfish, eggs, tennis shoes, and the occasional Budweiser. We would wrestle and play tug of war for several hours every day.
The house had a long narrow hallway leading to the three bedrooms. Our favorite game was “Charley The Flying Cougar.” I placed an ottoman at the entrance to the hallway and Charley would stand at the other end. On my cue he would race down the hallway and Mary-Lou-Retton-Like, hit the ottoman like a launch pad seriously becoming airborne and landing on my shoulders.
We continued refining this sport even afterhe had grown to about a hundred pounds. Of course at that point when he hit my shoulders we both tumbled to the floor. He was always gentle with me and I never felt his claws or his teeth. Sorry to say I cannot say the same for my old high school buddy. He just did not understand animals. When Charley was still house-cat size he would play too roughly with him.
So, I warned my buddy one day, “You’re gonna make that cat hate you, and when he grows up he’s gonna seriously tear you a new asshole, Asshole.”
“Naw, he likes it.”
“Okay, but you’ve been warned.”
Sure as shit, couple of months later, said high school buddy got his ass handed to him by Charley. Buddy only bled for a little while, but that ended their relationship as far as ‘heavy petting’ was concerned. When Charley got to be upwards of 120 pounds he started taking his half of our bed out of the middle.
Barbara suggested we make a bed for him in the garage, and since I was not getting enough sleep anymore, I concurred. She brought home the biggest doggy bed she had in her shop and we laid it out for Charley in the garage along with his favorite toys, food and water dish and a small portable radio thinking he might get a little lonely at night.
‘That radio will keep him happy,” Barbara said.
Au contraire.
That night we put him to bed in the garage just before we all retired; he was fine. For about thirty-five minutes. Then the Cougar Wails began.
If you have never heard a hundred-twenty-pound cougar cry late at night, well you have missed something of nature. Everyone got out of bed and Barbara said, “Let’s just let him cry for a bit. I’m sure he’ll give up and go to sleep.”
About an hour and two bottles of wine later… We all gave up. Charley just would not shut up. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Please let him in Barb,” I said
She opened the door. Charley came bolting in; knocked me down, pinned me on the floor with his big paws on my shoulders, licked my face, then ran into our room and jumped into the middle of our bed.
“Well, we tried. Goodnight y’all,” I said as I picked myself up and headed in to join Charley.
Barbara had provided a collar and leash for Charley and we used to have great fun taking him out to the night clubs in Lake Charles.
(Lake Charles was a really cool town back then, and Louisiana folks really did not seem to find it at all strange when someone walked into a bar with a cougar. But I will say this: when we did, the crowds always parted, making it very easy to belly-up to the bar. Charley became a regular guest at our most–frequent hangouts.
And he was the most awesome chick magnet in Calcasieu Parish.
But I still never managed to get laid in that town—very puzzling to me—but I did have a theory:
Since all the places we hung out were Greek Joints (My high school buddy was a Kappa Alpha, and insisted we only hang out with the ‘Brothers’ an’ ‘Sisters’), and since I was an ‘Independent’ and actually despised everything “Greek,” there was just no way any self-respecting sorority girl was gonna give it up for me, Cougar or no Cougar.
“Well, screw ‘em,” I finally decided. (Although, I was a little disappointed, ‘cause I found some of girls very appealing & screw-able in demeanor.)
If I could have just found Farrah… We had Cougars-in-Common.
Summer turned to fall and one day my buddy and I had to leave Lake Charles in a hurry (forreasons I cannot discloseuntil I check the ‘statute of limitations’), and head back to Texas. I hated to leave Charley and my other good friends, but I had a mind to leave the U.S. altogether and there was just no way I could take Charley with me.
I reapplied for theSinai Field Missiongig I had wanted ever since I was eighteen and had first heard of it. As luck would have it, they agreed to hire me (Since by then I met their minimum age requirement of twenty).
About a week later, Halloween 1977, I arrived in the middle of the Sinai Desert.
inLake Charleswith one of my best friends from high school, his Girl Friend, a Vietnam Vet (who did three tours with the First Cav as a chopper pilot), and his wife. The husband and wife owned a pet shop. The wife ran the place and the husband flew roughnecks back and forth to offshore oil rigs.
One day the wife, let’s call her Barbara, since that was her name, brought home a cougar. She had named him Charley and he was the size of a large house-cat. It was love at first sight for me as Charley was the only pussy I had yet seen or would see, turns out, during the entire six or so months I spent in Lake Charles.
Charley and I started sleeping together since the other two beds in the house already had reached capacity and since I was so very good with animals and since I really wanted a roommate. Therefore I took over the care and feeding and raising of Charley the young ‘un Cougar.
Charley grew rapidly on a steady diet of raw hamburger, flank steak, catfish, eggs, tennis shoes, and the occasional Budweiser. We would wrestle and play tug of war for several hours every day.
The house had a long narrow hallway leading to the three bedrooms. Our favorite game was “Charley The Flying Cougar.” I placed an ottoman at the entrance to the hallway and Charley would stand at the other end. On my cue he would race down the hallway and Mary-Lou-Retton-Like, hit the ottoman like a launch pad seriously becoming airborne and landing on my shoulders.
We continued refining this sport even afterhe had grown to about a hundred pounds. Of course at that point when he hit my shoulders we both tumbled to the floor. He was always gentle with me and I never felt his claws or his teeth. Sorry to say I cannot say the same for my old high school buddy. He just did not understand animals. When Charley was still house-cat size he would play too roughly with him.
So, I warned my buddy one day, “You’re gonna make that cat hate you, and when he grows up he’s gonna seriously tear you a new asshole, Asshole.”
“Naw, he likes it.”
“Okay, but you’ve been warned.”
Sure as shit, couple of months later, said high school buddy got his ass handed to him by Charley. Buddy only bled for a little while, but that ended their relationship as far as ‘heavy petting’ was concerned. When Charley got to be upwards of 120 pounds he started taking his half of our bed out of the middle.
Barbara suggested we make a bed for him in the garage, and since I was not getting enough sleep anymore, I concurred. She brought home the biggest doggy bed she had in her shop and we laid it out for Charley in the garage along with his favorite toys, food and water dish and a small portable radio thinking he might get a little lonely at night.
‘That radio will keep him happy,” Barbara said.
Au contraire.
That night we put him to bed in the garage just before we all retired; he was fine. For about thirty-five minutes. Then the Cougar Wails began.
If you have never heard a hundred-twenty-pound cougar cry late at night, well you have missed something of nature. Everyone got out of bed and Barbara said, “Let’s just let him cry for a bit. I’m sure he’ll give up and go to sleep.”
About an hour and two bottles of wine later… We all gave up. Charley just would not shut up. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Please let him in Barb,” I said
She opened the door. Charley came bolting in; knocked me down, pinned me on the floor with his big paws on my shoulders, licked my face, then ran into our room and jumped into the middle of our bed.
“Well, we tried. Goodnight y’all,” I said as I picked myself up and headed in to join Charley.
Barbara had provided a collar and leash for Charley and we used to have great fun taking him out to the night clubs in Lake Charles.
(Lake Charles was a really cool town back then, and Louisiana folks really did not seem to find it at all strange when someone walked into a bar with a cougar. But I will say this: when we did, the crowds always parted, making it very easy to belly-up to the bar. Charley became a regular guest at our most–frequent hangouts.
And he was the most awesome chick magnet in Calcasieu Parish.
But I still never managed to get laid in that town—very puzzling to me—but I did have a theory:
Since all the places we hung out were Greek Joints (My high school buddy was a Kappa Alpha, and insisted we only hang out with the ‘Brothers’ an’ ‘Sisters’), and since I was an ‘Independent’ and actually despised everything “Greek,” there was just no way any self-respecting sorority girl was gonna give it up for me, Cougar or no Cougar.
“Well, screw ‘em,” I finally decided. (Although, I was a little disappointed, ‘cause I found some of girls very appealing & screw-able in demeanor.)
If I could have just found Farrah… We had Cougars-in-Common.
Summer turned to fall and one day my buddy and I had to leave Lake Charles in a hurry (forreasons I cannot discloseuntil I check the ‘statute of limitations’), and head back to Texas. I hated to leave Charley and my other good friends, but I had a mind to leave the U.S. altogether and there was just no way I could take Charley with me.
I reapplied for theSinai Field Missiongig I had wanted ever since I was eighteen and had first heard of it. As luck would have it, they agreed to hire me (Since by then I met their minimum age requirement of twenty).
About a week later, Halloween 1977, I arrived in the middle of the Sinai Desert.
This is a long series. Anyone who slogs thru it gets a free Mickey Mouse Pencil Sharpener–Color of your choice. Free shipping. (Links to the chapters are in the bodies of the bodies…)
For Louisiana
And for all the Dark-Eyed, Dark-Haired, Dark-Demeanor’d Dark-Complicated–Dark-Complexion-ated Cajun Womeninthe world.
(Those with the Sloe-Gin Eyes–and all that implies.)
I “Almost” Had A Cajun GF in Lake Charles,
But I Somehow Managed to Fuck That UP!
As is Always My Wont
Cajun Cajun Raging Cajun Woman
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
“Any resemblance to persons living or dead should be plainly apparent to them and those who know them, especially if the author has been kind enough to have provided their real names and in some cases, their phone numbers.
All events described herein actually happened, though on occasion the author has taken certain, very small liberties with chronology, because that is his right as an American. Warning: this story will [eventually] have drugs in it [specifically, Pot] read at your own annoyance.”
–Stolen From Various Sources while illegally surfing the internet using a U.S. Government Network and Computer
*********************
It was the Summer of ’77 and I had just dropped out of college (yet once again). There was an old friend of mine from high school living in Lake Charles, and pretty much on a bet I loaded up my ’68 Chevy Impala and drove to Louisiana to look him up.
Of course I had no idea where he lived in Lake Charles or what he was even doing there, but I knew Kim John and I knew that he would not be difficult to find even in a town of over one-hundred-thousand.
Really all I had to do was to find McNeese State University and ask around. For you see, Kim Jim/John was probably the most charismatic, outgoing, affable guy on Earth and I knew that even if he had only spent one week in Lake Charles, everyone would know him or know of him. He went to East Texas State in Commerce just long enough to pledge and become a Kappa Alpha.
That was his only driving ambition in life: to become a KA like his big brother and hang out with the Brothers. I despised Greeks and all their ways.
(Still today, these are not my favorite people. Kim James was my best friend, next to Peanut, and for many years before, even though we did not see eye-to-eye on many things and most especially, things Greek.)
It took me all of about 45 minutes to locate him once I arrived. He was living large in a beautiful apartment complex close to the university in the best apartment they had to offer: Two-story with four bedrooms, a large den/living room, three baths, a decent sized kitchen with a breakfast nook, a porch facing the pool—‘Classy” is all I could say when he showed me around.
He had a stereo in every room (All of them ‘Marantz’ because years before I had told him “Marantz makes the best, (and most expensive) audio equipment you can buy”.
He apparently never had forgotten that and I was properly impressed. Kim Jim always did his best it seems to impress me. To this day I am not sure why. It was just his way. Actually it was probably because I was the only one who really knew he was a fake and he knew that I knew.
In addition to the large pool, there were two tennis courts, a game room, outdoor dining room, a sauna, and all the ‘beautiful’ people of McNeese lived there, or so it seemed to my small-town eyes.
One of the upstairs rooms had a balcony overlooking the pool and the tennis courts. Wonderful.
*****************
Against my better judgment, I will continue this story, if I get just one request. It is rather long…
Someone let me know, but be not hasty in your remarks, as this one could land that fictional character in prison.
Is the prose worth it?
Well, the story is just that good, so I suppose so, since the author will be the one to do the hard time.
I never gave two shits for the heat anyhow…
(In light of recent events in NYC, I retract the above statement, 22 December, 2014)
