Now, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the forecastle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one’s sense of honour, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes.
And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.
What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave?
Tell me that.
Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way—either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.
-Melville: Moby Dick
So here I find me, working for pittance at UPS. “Seasonal Employee” they call it/me. Good. Seasons are good. I missed having ‘seasons’ when I lived in Southern California. Yes, seasons are good. Why, you may ask, do I take such a job, slinging parcels, dealing with antiquated computer systems, dealing with… well, dealing.
I do it for many reasons. I shall list them below:
I need to get out of the house
I need to ‘connect’ with real people again (No offense to all y’all out there in Radio Land), but yes: Real Folks
My job search to get me back to “The Sandbox”, “The War”, aka Mid East, has not brought me instant gratification.
I enjoy physical labor.
Beer money is needed.
I have never found anything wrong with honest, hard work.
Need I go on?
Didn’t think so
My philosophy on these matters has always been as was Melville’s. I take the job. Do my best. Never mind that I am always the ‘smartest-person-in-the-room’… I am good at acting, and even faux sycophanting (Is that a word? Of course it is)
And I must say, there is something rather endearing and fulfilling about having someone want you for gainful employment. I mean, it is good to be valuable to someone, or to some entity, n’est-ce-pas? Even if it is just seasonally…
I am only going to say this once (Thank Baby Hey-Zeus!)
The People Who Died On Nine – Eleven
Were NOT Heros!
THEY were VICTIMS!
That is ALL THEY Were!
Let us revenge avenge them!
Ed. Note: Of course the first responders Were, nay ARE Heroes and shall always remain such. And as Mark pointed out so were those civilians inside the towers who gave their lives trying to help their fellows escape. When I refer to ‘victims’ I am referring to the ninety percent who were just doing what we all do everyday: We get up, go to work, come home, kiss the significant other, pet the dog or the cat or the goldfish, and then next day, rinse and repeat. They were just innocent victims.
And I have been to war, and revenge is lame and not really strategic.
It is just… death.
(You figger out my meaning)
I am done here.
P.S. If anyone out there knows history of the Mid East….
I invite debate.
And I worked so hard… to get the “Stray Cat Shuffle” for y’all. And here it was, right here, all along:
And for some YouTube Reasons the above link don’t work: try the one below.
(Yeah! I am pissed at technol–Oh Gee!)
Don’t give up,
And remember: if your computer is ‘broken’, re-boot.
Solves ninety nine per-cent of problems…
These word ‘O’h These words!
From an’ old computer geek.
(And no! I never envisioned that day, that day, whereby, I would even think, let alone, utter, those words. Guess I have come full circle.)
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
As this (below) is a blogspot blog, I could not re-blog. So I did the next best thing: cut and paste a bit.
CNN was interviewing Yasmeen El Khoudary, the author of the blog, “Gaza Out of the Blue.” The ‘crack(d)’ CNN news duo, talking heads, apparently got bored or pissed at her (she was giving them some grief over their stupid questions, and rightfully so), and cut her off. Only FOX could have done worse.
Anyway, I managed to get her name and thus found her blog, which I am honored to be able to share below:
Morning hallucinations from Gaza هلوسات ساعات القصف الاولى
It’s 5:00 AM in Gaza and I’m unable to sleep. I pick up my book and read under the window, catching the lazy sun rays, given that we haven’t had electricity for about 35 hours by now. I happen to be reading “Kafka on the Seashore.” A few pages through, I find myself reading:
“The glittering airplane we saw way up in the sky reminded us for a moment of the war, but just for a short time, and we were all in a good mood. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, no wind, and everything was quite around us- all we could hear were birds chirping in the woods. The war seemed like something in a faraway land that had nothing to do with us. We sang songs as we hiked up the hill, sometimes imitating the birds we heard. Except for the fact that the war was still going on, it was a perfect morning.”
I thought for a moment of the ‘humanitarian ceasefire’ that was due to start in about 3 hours. Would the same paragraph apply to the young children who by now are too accustomed to the chirping of planes and the terrible songs of war? Would they be able to forget all that and remember the chirping of birds and the children’s songs for the duration of the humanitarian ceasefire?