Months before the events inked here, here, here, and here, I found myself in Paris (actually two Paris’s—One Texan—One French). Confus’d yet? Stand by: it grows worse(r)
Let’s back up a mite (mites are hard to back up by the way, militarily that is: damn small and damn slippery, them mites… and they tend to mite-bite one, usually on one’s ass)
We call that “Green on Blue” and if you are following the recent news cycle, you will surely know that, that is inappropriate. But that is just how I roll. Fuck Afghanistan and their pretended bullshit “We gonna take over security of our country…” Won’t happen. But after ten plus years there (and some several months there by me, after Iraq–got ‘liberated’–now there is yet another joke, I can speak to the idiocy that is ‘our’ foreign fallacy.
I was in Sinai, 1978 (if memory serves), and I received a letter from my step-sis. This was not unusual back in those days, as we were still ‘speaking’. She sent me a rather long and boring letter regarding Honey Grove and all the ‘Happenings’ thereabouts. The letter was indeed ‘boring’ until I got to her ‘PS’. It read and I quote (loosely), “By the way, R is marrying J. Jesus-Beezus!”
This was, to me, devastation by way of bad, unspeakable news!
‘How could she?! She was MINE. Mine to mine and to have and to hold… just as soon as I finished with my wanderlust. How dare she?!” How DARE she?!
What to do?
Well, I had some R&R time ‘on the books’ so I hopped on a freighter (airplane), and flew back to Texas, ostensibly to break up the marriage, just like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. Problem was, was that I screwed up the dates and the logistics, and arrived not in time to bust up the wedding, but just in time to see the happy couple speeding off fast to Waco and their honeymoon…
Shit!
Never having been more depressed at missing a rendezvous, what to do? Rebound Son! Rebound!
So, I sought out Janet. Let’s call it a ‘bank shot rebound.’ I knew she was working at the Hopkins Lamar (See? To this day, I never know which county I am in) County Courthouse as a probation officer, so I timed (this time, my timing was spot on) my entrance during her lunch break: Intercepted her coming down the stairs of the courthouse.
“Hey Janet!”
“Lance?”
“C’est moi! How’s Trix?”
“You are supposed to be in Egypt,” she said.
“I escaped,” I said. “Wanna have lunch?”
“Uh… Sure. Why not?” (Why not indeed)
We went to lunch. Then she took the rest of the day. We went to her apartment and drank gin. Later that eve, after I had regaled her with fantastical tales of the Middle of the East, she took a drag from her Virginia Slim and asked, “So are you gonna fuck me tonight, or what?”
I said, “No Ma’am; I am gonna make love to you—something I should have done five years ago.”
So we did—I did—make love to her.
The problem now became that I had a plane to catch to that other Paris: that one in France. The other part of the problem was that my plane was waiting in Houston. I was about five hours at seventy miles per hour away from my Air France plane at Houston Intercontinental. I had to go. Now.
I hit the road to Houston, not really wanting to go, but I had promised my buddy, Bart, Black Bart, that I would meet him in Paris on such and such a day. Naturally, I ended up missing my flight and arrived Paree a day late. On the taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle airport, we drove under a bridge and the taxi car lost its windshield to a lone rifle shot. (my theory) “Terrorist?” I asked the cabby? (en français).
“Merde!” Was all he said, as he dodged the flying glass. (true story). I did not care anyhow, but this rather happenstance occurrence did not bode well for my first day in Gay Paree…
“There’s my hotel!” I exclaimed as he had managed to (somehow) keep driving.
I paid him off, got out of his now mangled, windshield-less cab and made my way into the cheap hotel lobby. Went up to my room, dropped my shit; then went looking for my buddy. Found him at last sitting on his rack, rather sullen in mood. I checked out his room. It had a wonderful view of the Eiffel Tower.
“So Bart,” I asked finally, “What have you done here in The City of Light for twenty-four hours?”
“You see that tower there?” he asked, pointing to the window.
“Yep,” I said. “That would be the Eiffel Tower.”
“Well, since you didn’t show, I went out on my own… and hey! Ya know, they don’t speak English here? I went out on my own. (You mentioned that) Walked over to that tower, looked up at it—kicked it—and said to myself, ‘Yep. That there Bartamus, that there is the Eiffel Tower. Then I came back here and took a nap. And would you please tell that France Maid that I do not want no fuckin’ breakfast? She wakes me up in the fucking morning with her biscuits (‘croissants’ Asshole) and lousy coffee.”
“Sure Bart,” I said. “I will post a note, en français on yer door.”
“You speak France?”
“Yep.”
“Well Hot Damn then! You be Bogey. I’ll be Bacall.” (of course)
“I weren’t able to bust up the wedding.”
“What?”
“The Wedding.”
“Oh you mean between R and J?”
“Yep. That one, you moron.”
“Yer better off,” he said.
“OK. Then why am I so depressed?”
“Dunno. Did you have any other adventures while you were back In-The-World?”
“Matter of fact, I did. I hooked up with Janet.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nope. No bullshit. Why I missed my flight, in fact.”
“Well, I was just about pissed off at you, but now I unnerstand.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“Hey!” he said. “Let’s smoke a bowl and you can tell me all about it while we go and kick this town in the ass.”
“Light her up,” I said. We smoked and drank and then off we went stoned and semi-drunk and in Paris (France) Just two more ugly Americans (Texans)
Now Y’all…
I hesitated while choosing the vid to represent this post. Then I swerved onto this one below. It is somewhat depressing, yeah. But, but… This is how I see my life ending up. I hope you will take the time to watch, listen, and comment.
And “stuff” is who I am: This stuff that dreams are made of.
****
Suffering From Writer’s Block (and Laziness)
I have invented ‘Flash-Back Friday’The below never got much play, so we are gonna ‘Play it again (sic) Sam.’Here goes:
You will undoubtedly notice the absence of one “Lance A. Marcom” in the list of family members surviving one Ralph A. Marcom. But I was after all, the “Black Sheep.” I have, since the publishing of this obit,
spoken to Bill Palmer, (Its author and actually a very good friend of mine now.) regarding this and he told me that it—ME—must have slipped his mind, as I was always thousands of miles away in some desert or similar out-of-touch, unreachable “shit hole.”
Thanks Bill.
MARCOM MANOR
When my father met my mother at ETSU (East Texas State University) he was studying French and Drama. That really couldn’t pay the bills, so he later (forced by his father) became a physician, but not before working as a Disc Jockey in almost every small-town hick radio station in Texas, Oklahoma, and Missouri.
He also did a stint on a late night TV show in Kansas City in the early Sixties, dressing up as Dracula or Satan, running horror movies and doing all the commercials (Think Elvira in reverse drag).
I lived with him and my first step-mother there in Kansas City for a brief spell (before my mother hired a private detective, tracked me down, and kidnapped me back—
another story how/why all that had to happen) and don’t remember much of it, except hating my ‘evil’ stepmother (she forced liver down me, which I found disgusting then, but love now.). Years later I discovered she wasn’t all that ‘evil’ and that the only reason she forced me to eat liver was that it was ‘good for me.’ Okay, maybe she was evil.
Anyway…
Many years later, after doing that nickel (prison ‘vernacular’) in Fremont and a short stint with my maternal grandparents inEast Texas,I moved in with my father in Honey Grove and second stepmother (most decidedly more ‘evil’ than the first, and in more subtle and damaging ways, especially for a boy who was ‘coming of age’ and with all the teenage angst that that manifests.)
My father had purchased a three and a half story Victorian house (circa ‘Texas Victorian’ 1880) in HG and remodeled it beautifully.
The place resembled the mansion inhabited by The Addams Family. Literally. Daddy (Texans always call their fathers “Daddy” even when they are in their fifties–don’t ask me why because I don’t know) was by then a proper doctor, but his passion was magic (anything to keep performing, it would seem) and he was very good at it.
His specialty was ‘close up’ and he did become a semi-famous person, at least in the Magic Community. He also performed at Scarborough Faire, a semi-famous annual Renaissance Festival held in Waxahachie (Texas of course).
He converted the basement into a ‘dungeon’ and rigged up all manner of dungeon devices for his and his guests’ amusement. There was a coffin standing upright in one corner with a mummified statue inside. He told everyone that the mummy was his first wife. As far as I knew, my “mum” was his first wife and still remained very much Un-mummified, but it would have been poor form to point this out to the credulous.
My new step-mother had her own magic act performing asVampirahttp://marcomthemountebank.com/gloria.htmand family legend has it that she, Gloria, was offered the role of “Morticia” in the Sixties’ TV show Addams Family—which I seriously doubted then and now.
The fatal attraction between my father and Gloria was a foregone conclusion, and since the two of them married on Halloween, naturally Halloween became The Holiday for us (remember Madelyn? She was there too—one year my senior).
Every Halloween, she and I would go out to the ‘farm,’ a forty-acre tract of land outside Ladonia that my father had inherited from his father, and chop down the ugliest, scraggliest, dead tree we could find and bring it back to Marcom Manor. This became our ‘Halloween Tree.” Little witches, ghosts, goblins, spiders, snakes and whatever else seemed appropriate were hung on this tree.
Gifts were placed underneath. It was great fun and I did love our special holiday. In celebration of this anniversary my father and step-mother would throw a huge, and I do mean huge, party every year on the Saturday closest to Halloween.
Magicians and ‘civilians’ would come from all over Texas and also many from states as far removed from Texas as
New York and California for the party, which actually would begin on Thursday night and not end until Monday morning. Many of the guests arrived in motor homes or stayed at the house if they arrived early enough, and the other out-of-towners stayed at whatever motel they could find in Paris, Texas twenty miles away.
The house was perfect for such a soiree too. Madelyn and I had the entire third floor to ourselves and would invite all our friends upstairs for our own party. Black light posters (and others) all of Dylan, Zeppelin, Moody Blues, and Beatles were in abundance as music, a different kind of magic, was our dominate theme.
The second floor was where my father had his study with a large round table (antique oak) where he would hold court and mystify all comers with his close-up magic.
The ground floor had a dining room with another antique oak table (which would seat fourteen) and also contained one of the five fireplaces that were in the house. The kitchen itself was probably larger than a small apartment. On every floor there was at least one coffin and everywhere there was ‘Adams-Family-esque’ décor to the point of making the entire place almost a caricature of itself.
In my father’s study directly behind his chair was a complete skeleton he had ‘liberated’ from med school. He kept the top half of a human skull (which he told me once belonged to Hitler–Hell! I was credulous) in front of him which he used as an ashtray for his King Edward cigars.
A small balsa-wood box contained a genuine shrunken head from Bora-Bora, or Ecuador, or some such place. One wall displayed no less than 30 hand guns, all loaded. I once asked “Daddy, why do you keep all the guns loaded?” He replied, “Son, if I need a gun, I will most likely need one in a hurry, and there is nothing on Earth more useless than an unloaded gun.”
Over the gun display hung an airplane propeller, half of one anyway, splinters and jagged edges where once had been the rest of it—all that remained of my Father’s first two-seater plane. Apparently he was a self-taught pilot in his youth. And far too many other things like that to describe here…
To complete the ambiance, the outside of the house was patrolled by black cats—usually no less than thirteen
(I swear, I am not making this up) and a goodly number of those did double duty as house cats as well. For a while we kept a “token” white cat, but, never really standing a chance, he disappeared a few months after we introduced it to TheFamily. There was an old black Lincoln in the carport, right out of The Godfather—hell it was probably used in the movie.
My father and I never did see eye-to-eye however (and I do, maybe somewhat unjustly, blame a lot of this on my step-mother), and as soon as I graduated high school at seventeen, I moved out and rarely returned at all for visits. After the Houston andLake Charles period(almost a year, as I recall), I came home just long enough to announce (with some satisfaction) that I was leaving for the job in theSinai Desertand would not be back for at least ten years. I did have a love for the overly dramatic back then. I had just turned twenty.
My father and I were dangerously alike and I have spent a lot of energy over the years trying to overcome some of the character flaws I inherited from him. I must admit I have also lost some of the good characteristics he possessed. When I think of an example of one of those, I will be sure to let you know…
My Father used this quote on me and more than once:
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
To have a thankless child! Away! Away!
–Lance, The Black Sheep
Baaaa, Baaaa, Baaaa
My father died sometime late 2010.
I was not there.
I was in some shit-hole, half way around the world.
You will undoubtedly notice the absence of one “Lance A. Marcom” in the list of family members surviving one Ralph A. Marcom. But I was after all, the “Black Sheep.” I have, since the publishing of this obit,
Marcom the Mountebank
Ralph Anson Marcom, D.O., M.I.M.C. March 30, 1934 – October 13, 2010
MarcoM the Mountebank has left the building.
I first met Ralph Marcom at a Texas Association of Magicians convention in Abilene, Texas, in 1972. He was a rotund, albeit somewhat taciturn fellow with a Saturnine countenance whose gift for humor and wit and whose intelligence struck me as something quite beyond the pale.
I watched him perform in two different contest shows, one of which was quite serious, the other quite comical. He won the Comedy trophy that year. He was one of only a few performers who won three trophies at T.A.O.M. conventions. In 1971, he won the close-up trophy and in 1973, he repeated his win of the comedy trophy. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Ralph Anson Marcom was born in Levelland, Texas, a small town about 30 miles west of Lubbock. His father was an osteopath, but Ralph expressed no interest at all in going into the family business. Because of a peculiar eye ailment, his doctor prescribed that he spend as much time as possible in dark places, so he chose to do this in the local movie theater. As a result, he became a veritable goldmine of movie trivia. Woe to the would-be trivia expert who challenged Marcom in the field of the cinema!
His heritage was part English, part French and part Gypsy. He grew up next to an Italian family, and as a result spoke English, French, Italian and Rom with equal fluency. He also managed to pick up a bit of German, some Russian and some Arabic as well.
During the Korean War, he served in the Marines, as a drill instructor, and later, as a medic. After the war, he got a job as a radio announcer in El Paso, Texas. He kept this job for several years, and then decided to go into the family business. Soon Ralph Anson Marcom became Ralph A. Marcom, D.O. and he set up shop in Honey Grove, Texas.
Ralph had a penchant for the theater. In the early 1960s, he happened into Douglas Magicland, in Dallas, Texas where the lady behind the counter, Gloria Jacobsen Palmer, caught his eye. In 1968, they married, and he took her away from “all that.”
The Marcom manse in Honey Grove, Texas was legendary for its Addams family-like appearance. The basement contained a dungeon, complete with rack and iron maiden, and the decorations were, shall we say, just a bit out of the ordinary. If one climbed the stairs to the third floor, one would encounter a stuffed orangutan, dressed in morning coat and striped trousers, safely ensconced in a child’s casket.
Marcom authored a number of books, including: The Magic of MarcoM MarcoM Presents Magic MagicaLimericks Licentious Limericks This Rough Magic (I & II)(Lectures) MarcoM Magic: Tricks You Can Do And The Winner Is… Rimes Without Reason A Slim Volume “…from the table of my memory…” Lord of Legerdemain
His column, “…from the table of my memory” ran for several years in the Linking Ring. His other awards include the close-up trophy at the Midwest Magic Jubilee, 1974, 1976 and 1977, and at the IBM convention in 1979. He was the SAM Limerick Laureate in 1978. His close associates included the late Frank Caple, the late Van Cleve, the late Logan Pritchett, the late Jay Palmer, Earle Christenberry, Jr. and his wife, Gladys, Bill and Irene Larsen, Joe and Martha Stevens, and a host of other truly memorable performers.
He came out to see me one year at the Texas Renaissance Festival, and immediately recognized this type of venue as one to which he was extremely well-suited. Within a year or so, he was a regular at Scarborough Faire in Waxahachie, Texas, and a performer at the Texas Renaissance Festival, as well.
Ralph was a member of The Society of American Magicians, The International Brotherhood of Magicians, The Texas Association of Magicians and the Magic Circle of London (Member of the Inner Magic Circle, with Gold Star). He was a charter member of the Tyler, Texas Magic Club.
There lay a heart of gold beneath that Saturnine countenance. Often, when performing at Scarborough Faire, he provided free medical attention to those performers and other participants who had no way of actually paying for it.
He did not tolerate fools gladly. One afternoon, the management of Scarborough Faire presented him with a letter from a disgruntled patron who apparently was a member of a group called “Texans Against Ritualistic Abuse.” The letter stated, “We wish to complain about your magician, the one who wears the pentagram — not that nice Merlin fellow, but the other one.”
Marcom was very angry about this; not because they didn’t like the pentagram, but because they couldn’t remember his name! He said, “I say the phrase ‘O Great MarcoM’ at least twenty times during that show! How could they miss that?”
In early 2003, Ralph suffered a massive stroke. Ron Boulden, former entertainment director of Scarborough Faire called me, and told me that Marcom was “out of it.” I called Ralph, and he was completely impossible to understand. I immediately called his daughter, Madelyne, who got Ralph to the hospital in nearby Paris, Texas. From there he was flown to Park Lane Hospital in Dallas, where he remained for almost a month. He gradually recovered.
Unfortunately, in early October, he suffered another stroke, but this time, nobody knew until it was too late. He was taken to the same hospital in Paris, Texas on October 9.
He passed away in the same ICU as his late wife Gloria, who died in 2002. He would have appreciated the fact that he died on October 13.
Ralph Marcom’s survivors include his daughters Madelyne Marcom and Nicolette Palmer, his son Thomas Palmer, Jr. and thousands of friends and fans world-wide.
There will be no funeral services, but a broken wand ceremony will be held some time in 2011.
spoken to Bill Palmer, (Its author and actually a very good friend of mine now.) regarding this and he told me that it—ME—must have slipped his mind, as I was always thousands of miles away in some desert or similar out-of-touch, unreachable “shit hole.”
Thanks Bill.
MARCOM MANOR
When my father met my mother at ETSU (East Texas State University) he was studying French and Drama. That really couldn’t pay the bills, so he later (forced by his father) became a physician,
but not before working as a Disc Jockey in almost every small-town hick radio station in Texas, Oklahoma, and Missouri. He also did a stint on a late night TV show in Kansas City in the early Sixties, dressing up as Dracula or Satan, running horror movies and doing all the commercials (Think Elvira in reverse drag).
I lived with him and my first step-mother there in Kansas City for a brief spell
(before my mother hired a private detective, tracked me down, and kidnapped me back—another story how/why all that had to happen) and don’t remember much of it, except hating my ‘evil’ stepmother (she forced liver down me, which I found disgusting then, but love now.).
Years later I discovered she wasn’t all that ‘evil’ and that the only reason she forced me to eat liver was that it was ‘good for me.’ Okay, maybe she was evil.
Anyway…
Many years later, after doing that nickel (prison ‘vernacular’) in Fremont and a short stint with my maternal grandparents inEast Texas,I moved in with my father in Honey Grove and second stepmother (most decidedly more ‘evil’ than the first, and in more subtle and damaging ways, especially for a boy who was ‘coming of age’ and with all the teenage angst that that manifests.)
My father had purchased a three and a half story Victorian house (circa ‘Texas Victorian’ 1880) in HG and remodeled it beautifully.
The place resembled the mansion inhabited by The Addams Family. Literally. Daddy (Texans always call their fathers “Daddy” even when they are in their fifties–don’t ask me why because I don’t know) was by then a proper doctor, but his passion was magic (anything to keep performing, it would seem) and he was very good at it. His specialty was ‘close up’ and he did become a semi-famous person, at least in the Magic Community.
He also performed at Scarborough Faire, a semi-famous annual Renaissance Festival held in Waxahachie (Texas of course).
I am So Ashamed of Texan Me! Je Parle Francais, Yeah, I Almost Married An Actress Named ‘Kim’ ‘er…’Monique’–Whatever
Author’s Note: WordPress Posts Are A PAIN-IN-THE ASS TO TRY TO EDIT!Try to change one-simple thing, then WP Jumps in and fuks up three more things!!! Arrrrgh! ‘Bout to Go Medieval On WP’s Ass! And, Yes: I am never with hesitation to call them on the telephone. “WordPress Standby for some more un-happy words from me. Cheers!”
As An Aside:
Thomas Jefferson spent half his productive life in Paris, France—Just Sayin’
***
“He Went to Paris:
I Can Still Smell the Darkness or…
Guess I Could Never Do Nothin’ Right.
Or I Just Need a ‘Round Tuit’
Then I Can Get to — It
An Illusive Tuit:
***
Jerry Jeff Walker –
“Guess I Could Never Do Nothin’ Right”
Or…
“The Lamp is Broken On The Mantel”
My Mind is Blown and…It’s turnin’ away”
If you listen to nothing else—
Please
PLEASE listen to this one
Mark The Words
Yet another one to not read!
Paris!
I Had a
Wondrous, beautiful Texan GF Once–I played her this song–
She was so wondrous beautiful and Innocent Wife Once–I rectified that…
She Cried–That was, ostensibly the end of the end of our much cultivated romance. Yeah! I fucked up! Letting her go!
This is An Incredibly Sad Song Please do NOT Watch It
Willy William feat. Cris Cab – Paris
And he went to England; played the piano, married an actress named “Kim:”… She was a good wife… ‘I’ loved her.
Months before the events inked here, here, here, and here, I found myself in Paris (actually two Paris’s—One Texan—One French). Confus’d yet? Stand by: it grows worse(r)
Let’s back up a mite (mites are hard to back up by the way, militarily that is: damn small and damn slippery, them mites… and they tend to mite-bite one, usually on one’s ass)
We call that “Green on Blue” and if you are following the recent news cycle, you will surely know that, that is inappropriate. But that is just how I roll.
Screw Afghanistan and their pretended bullshit “We gonna take over security of our country…” Won’t happen. Will NOT Happen.
But after ten plus years there (and some several months there by me, after Iraq–got ‘liberated’–now there is yet another joke. I can speak to the idiocy that is ‘our’ foreign fallacy.
I was in Sinai, 1978 and I received a letter from my step-sis. This was not unusual back in those days, as we were still ‘speaking’. She sent me a rather long and boring letter regarding Honey Grove and all the ‘Happenings’ thereabouts. The letter was indeed ‘boring’ until I got to her ‘PS’. It read and I quote (loosely), “By the way, R is marrying J. Jesus-Beezus!”
This was, to me, devastation by way of bad.
Unspeakable news!
‘How could she?! She was MINE. Mine to mine and to have and to hold… just as soon as I finished with my wanderlust. How dare she?!” How DARE she?!
What to do?
Well, I had some R&R time ‘on the books’ so I hopped on a freighter (airplane), and flew back to Texas, ostensibly to break up the marriage, just like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. Problem was, was that I screwed up the dates and the logistics, and arrived not in time to bust up the wedding, but just in time to see the happy couple speeding off fast to Waco and their honeymoon.
Shit!
Never having been more depressed at missing a rendezvous, what to do? Rebound Son! Rebound!
So, I sought out Janet. Let’s call it a ‘bank shot rebound.’ I knew she was working at the Hopkins Lamar (See? To this day, I never know which county I am in) County Courthouse as a probation officer, so I timed (this time, my timing was spot on) my entrance during her lunch break: Intercepted her coming down the stairs of the courthouse.
“Hey Janet!”
“Lance?”
“C’est moi! How’s Trix?”
“You are supposed to be in Egypt,” she said.
“I escaped,” I said. “Wanna have lunch?”
“Uh… Sure. Why not?” (Why not indeed)
We went to lunch. Then she took the rest of the day. We went to her apartment and drank gin. Later that eve, after I had regaled her with fantastical tales of the Middle of the East, she took a drag from her Virginia Slim and asked, “So are you gonna f*#k me tonight, or what?”
I said, “No Ma’am; I am gonna make love to you—something I should have done five years ago.”
So we did—I did—make love to her.
The problem now became that I had a plane to catch to that other Paris: that one in France. The other part of the problem was that my plane was waiting in Houston. I was about five hours at seventy miles per hour away from my Air France plane at Houston Intercontinental. I had to go. Now.
I hit the road to Houston, not really wanting to go, but I had promised my buddy Bart, Black Bart, that I would meet him in Paris on such and such a day. Naturally, I ended up missing my flight and arrived Paree a day late. On the taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle airport we drove under a bridge and the taxi car lost its windshield to a lone rifle shot. (my theory) “Terrorist?” I asked the cabby? (en français).
“Merde!” Was all he said, as he dodged the flying glass. I did not care anyhow, but this rather happenstance occurrence did not bode well for my first day in Gay Paree.
“There’s my hotel!” I exclaimed as he had managed to (somehow) keep driving.
I paid him off, got out of his now mangled, windshield-less cab and made my way into the cheap hotel lobby. Went up to my room, dropped my shit; then went looking for my buddy. Found him at last sitting on his rack, rather sullen in mood. I checked out his room. It had a wonderful view of the Eiffel Tower.
“So Bart,” I asked finally, “What have you done here in The City of Light for twenty-four hours?”
“You see that tower there?” he asked, pointing to the window.
“Yep,” I said. “That would be the Eiffel Tower.”
“Well, since you didn’t show, I went out on my own… and hey! Ya know what, they don’t speak English here? I went out on my own. (You mentioned that) Walked over to that tower, looked up at it—kicked it—and said to myself, ‘Yep. That there Bartamus, that there is the Eiffel Tower.
Then I came back here and took a nap. And would you please tell that France Maid that I do not want no f*#kin’ breakfast? She wakes me up in the f*#king morning with her biscuits (‘croissants’ Asshole) and lousy coffee.”
“Sure Bart,” I said. “I will post a note, en français on yer door.”
“You speak France?”
“Oui.”
“Well Hot Damn then! You be Bogey. I’ll be Bacall.” (of course)
“I weren’t able to bust up the wedding.”
“What?”
“The Wedding.”
“Oh you mean between R and J?”
“Yep. That one, you moron.”
“Yer better off,” he said.
“OK. Then why am I so depressed?”
“Dunno. Did you have any other adventures while you were back In-The-World?”
“Matter of fact, I did. I hooked up with Janet.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nope. No bullshit. Why I missed my flight, in fact.”
“Well, I was just about pissed off at you, but now I unnerstand.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“Hey!” he said. “Let’s smoke a bowl and you can tell me all about it while we go and kick this town in the ass.”
“Light her up,” I said. We smoked and drank and then off we went stoned and semi-drunk and in Paris (France) Just two more ugly Americans (Texans)
Now Y’all…
I hesitated while choosing the vid to represent this post. Then I swerved onto this one below. It is somewhat depressing, yeah. But, but… This is how I see my life ending up. I hope you will take the time to watch, listen, and comment.“
Months before the events inked here, here, here, and here, I found myself in Paris (actually two Paris’s—One Texan—One French). Confus’d yet? Stand by: it grows worse(r)
Let’s back up a mite (mites are hard to back up by the way, militarily that is: damn small and damn slippery, them mites… and they tend to mite-bite one, usually on one’s ass)
We call that “Green on Blue” and if you are following the recent news cycle, you will surely know that, that is inappropriate. But that is just how I roll. Screw Afghanistan and their pretended bullshit
“We gonna take over security of our country…” Won’t happen.
But after ten plus years there (and some several months there by me, after Iraq–got ‘liberated’–now there is yet another joke.
I can speak to the idiocy that is ‘our’ foreign fallacy.
I was in Sinai, 1978 and I received a letter from my step-sis.
This was not unusual back in those days, as we were still ‘speaking’. She sent me a rather long and boring letter regarding Honey Grove and all the ‘Happenings’ thereabouts. The letter was indeed ‘boring’ until I got to her ‘PS’. It read and I quote (loosely), “By the way, R is marrying J. Jesus-Beezus!”
This was, to me, devastation by way of bad.
Unspeakable news!
‘How could she?! She was MINE. Mine to mine and to have and to hold… just as soon as I finished with my wanderlust. How dare she?!” How DARE she?!
What to do?
Well, I had some R&R time ‘on the books’ so I hopped on a freighter (airplane), and flew back to Texas, ostensibly to break up the marriage, just like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. Problem was, was that I screwed up the dates and the logistics, and arrived not in time to bust up the wedding, but just in time to see the happy couple speeding off fast to Waco and their honeymoon.
Shit!
Never having been more depressed at missing a rendezvous, what to do? Rebound Son! Rebound!
So, I sought out Janet. Let’s call it a ‘bank shot rebound.’ I knew she was working at the Hopkins Lamar (See? To this day, I never know which county I am in) County Courthouse as a probation officer, so I timed (this time, my timing was spot on) my entrance during her lunch break: Intercepted her coming down the stairs of the courthouse.
“Hey Janet!”
“Lance?”
“C’est moi! How’s Trix?”
“You are supposed to be in Egypt,” she said.
“I escaped,” I said. “Wanna have lunch?”
“Uh… Sure. Why not?” (Why not indeed)
We went to lunch. Then she took the rest of the day. We went to her apartment and drank gin. Later that eve, after I had regaled her with fantastical tales of the Middle of the East, she took a drag from her Virginia Slim and asked, “So are you gonna f*#k me tonight, or what?”
I said, “No Ma’am; I am gonna make love to you—something I should have done five years ago.”
So we did—I did—make love to her.
The problem now became that I had a plane to catch to that other Paris: that one in France. The other part of the problem was that my plane was waiting in Houston. I was about five hours at seventy miles per hour away from my Air France plane at Houston Intercontinental. I had to go. Now.
I hit the road to Houston, not really wanting to go, but I had promised my buddy Bart, Black Bart, that I would meet him in Paris on such and such a day. Naturally, I ended up missing my flight and arrived Paree a day late. On the taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle airport we drove under a bridge and the taxi car lost its windshield to a lone rifle shot. (my theory) “Terrorist?” I asked the cabby? (en français).
“Merde!” Was all he said, as he dodged the flying glass. I did not care anyhow, but this rather happenstance occurrence did not bode well for my first day in Gay Paree.
“There’s my hotel!” I exclaimed as he had managed to (somehow) keep driving.
I paid him off, got out of his now mangled, windshield-less cab and made my way into the cheap hotel lobby. Went up to my room, dropped my shit; then went looking for my buddy. Found him at last sitting on his rack, rather sullen in mood. I checked out his room. It had a wonderful view of the Eiffel Tower.
“So Bart,” I asked finally, “What have you done here in The City of Light for twenty-four hours?”
“You see that tower there?” he asked, pointing to the window.
“Yep,” I said. “That would be the Eiffel Tower.”
“Well, since you didn’t show, I went out on my own… and hey! Ya know what, they don’t speak English here? I went out on my own. (You mentioned that) Walked over to that tower, looked up at it—kicked it—and said to myself, ‘Yep. That there Bartamus, that there is the Eiffel Tower. Then I came back here and took a nap. And would you please tell that France Maid that I do not want no f*#kin’ breakfast? She wakes me up in the f*#king morning with her biscuits (‘croissants’ Asshole) and lousy coffee.”
“Sure Bart,” I said. “I will post a note, en français on yer door.”
“You speak France?”
“Oui.”
“Well Hot Damn then! You be Bogey. I’ll be Bacall.” (of course)
“I weren’t able to bust up the wedding.”
“What?”
“The Wedding.”
“Oh you mean between R and J?”
“Yep. That one, you moron.”
“Yer better off,” he said.
“OK. Then why am I so depressed?”
“Dunno. Did you have any other adventures while you were back In-The-World?”
“Matter of fact, I did. I hooked up with Janet.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nope. No bullshit. Why I missed my flight, in fact.”
“Well, I was just about pissed off at you, but now I unnerstand.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“Hey!” he said. “Let’s smoke a bowl and you can tell me all about it while we go and kick this town in the ass.”
“Light her up,” I said. We smoked and drank and then off we went stoned and semi-drunk and in Paris (France) Just two more ugly Americans (Texans)
Now Y’all…
I hesitated while choosing the vid to represent this post. Then I swerved onto this one below. It is somewhat depressing, yeah. But, but… This is how I see my life ending up. I hope you will take the time to watch, listen, and comment.
There Probab’ly Exists Somewhere A ‘Chapter Four’, Denouement,
But I Am Too Lazy To Look for it
“Non, je ne regrette rien”
No, I Regret Nothing
I first met her as “Paige” via eHarmony. She taught French at a High School in Springfield, Missouri. I was working and trying to stay alive in Mosul, Iraq, circa 2008.
After about a week or so, we ditched eHarmony and exchanged emails, more photos, and phone numbers. And she confided to me that ‘Paige’ was her middle name and that her first name was ‘Elizabeth.’ I told her that if she didn’t mind, I’d prefer to address her like that. She said, “Bien sûr!” (Of course)
About two weeks later, as Parsons owned me an R&R I broached the idea of her rendezvousing with me in Paris (France, not Texas).
She was all for it, but then confided in me that she did not have the funds for the plane ride.
I laughed.
“Silly Girl! I will purchase your plane ride and I will pay for everything else—I am Rich!” (She would ‘rectify’ this ‘situation’ a few years later—but I am getting a little ahead of my narrative.)
She could only get one week off from her HS French teacher job and I had two weeks of R&R owed me, so I told her I would spend a week in Dubai and then meet her in Paris.
Good to go.
So I went to Dubai, stayed drunk, and hung out at the pool every day in the Five-Star Hotel where I was staying. (I wanted a tan so as to look my best for her.)
I even brushed up on my Français, hoping to impress her with that in case my awesome tan and hard body did not move her (I had been working out like a mad-man in the weight-room there in Mosul)
I was READY for some Great Sex.
On the short plane ride from Dubai to Paris, I downed a few vodkas (Prepping myself).
Hooked up with her at Orly International Airport and we grabbed a taxi to our hotel.
She demonstrated her command of French, speaking to the taxi driver.
I was properly impressed.
Oh, and yes! She was just as advertised in her photos:
Long blonde hair, six feet tall, and absolutely stunning.
Built like a Brick Shit-House, to use the Texas Vernacular.
She had a soft, very sexy voice, but I knew this already from our many telephone conversations, but live and in color it was even mo’ bettah.
I was already in love.
Pretty sure she was falling for me too (Yeah, I was that confident and vain)
I could not wait to get her into bed.
But she said to me after we had settled into our hotel,
“Can we take this kinda slowly? Maybe go down to the Champs-Élysées and hit a side-walk café, like Café George V. It is one of my favorites. They have awesome Canard à l’orange.”
“Sure, I said. We can do that.” (Over the course of our time in Paris The George V Café became ‘Our Place’ and we went there at least twice a day—sometimes for food, sometimes for coffee, often for vin rouge. (Red Wine)
Our hotel was within walking distance of the Champs-Élysées so we started walking. (I had picked the hotel for its location and it was very expensive, but I didn’t care. I had a woman to impress.)
As we were walking to the café, she said this, “I thought I smelled alcohol on your breath when you picked me up at Orly.”
“Uh, I had a glass of wine on the plane,” I lied.
Busted!
Anyway, we got to George V Café and spent a wonderful afternoon there, over duck, red wine, conversation, and some building sexual tension. We were very hot for each other. This was obvious.
When it had reached critical mass, I quickly used my French and said to the garçon, “l’addition s’il vous plaît” (Check please)
Then we hastily beat feet back to our hotel and fucked each other’s brains out.
And it was glorious!
But then as we were basking in the warmth of the sexual afterglow, she said something incredibly stupid:
“Lance, I have never been faithful to any man in my life.”
This honest revelation of hers threw me into a tailspin.
(Fidelity was important to me back then, especially when relating to a woman I intended to wed.)
She had sucked the wind right out of my sails.
It was rather devastating, in fact.
And from that day forward, that one concise statement became an albatross around my neck.
I eventually married her anyway.
(Against My Better Judgement)
To Be Continued…
Addendum:
My much admired and respected by me, Great, Good Friend, John Coyote, wrote this recently.
I had to lift it, as it perfectly adds to and fits my narrative
Light and dark collide when I found you. You are my black magic woman who make me wish for enchanting nights where you and I. Are free and wild. Free of locked door and dormant passion. We will become wild in spirit and we will try to consume the night like the wild beast.
My Gypsy woman. Let’s find the sea and share some vodka and juice. Let’s dance for the midnight moon and the stars. Let’s pray to the sleeping gods. Pray for them to come alive and join us in the dance of freedom.
Damn your eyes. Those eyes make me forget I’m a prisoner of controlled and useless life. You make me want to stripped down to nothing. Run nude and denounce my ordinary life and self-made prison. I want to be locked-up in your eyes and your embrace.
You and I have found the sea at Monterey. The Monterey sleeping ghosts come alive for us and we danced the movement of freedom. You and I. We beckon sacred place where love can be true and we can show real face. Dispersed of fake goals and dreams. I whispered to you. Your eyes, your face, your wild heart make me want to live and die in your embrace.
Tonight we will live and tomorrow?“
–John Castellenas/Coyote
*************
BREAKING NEWS!
UPDATE!
This is just a ‘Teaser’ for my upcoming Chapter Two On Elizabeth.
I emailed her Chapter One,
(Which if you have come this far, you have already read above)
Not sure how it would ‘fly ‘with her.
I gave it fifty-fifty: Pissed, or Flattered.
Turns out she did not ‘Flame’ me.
But She was gracious and sent this respond. Perhaps She and I could give it another go?
Naw!
Never gonna happen, but is a Pleasant Fiction to Ponder.
I did love her once.
“You write well, and your talents are known by just a fortunate few.You are so full of words, but with me, you don’t need to be. We were more than words.The other day this song came on the radio, and my Lance Anthony came to mind immediately. I trust you remember how I referred to this song- about you, about us.”
–Elizabeth
She attached this song,
(Pasted in a few lines in below)
And so very apropos, given our history.
“Ela, you were never much for words, but you spoke volumes to me in other, better ways.”
I still love you.
I never stopped loving you in fact:
I just could not live with you anymore.
Alison Krauss – When You Say Nothing At All
****
I will send this Joan Baez back at her.
It describes me (and her—and our ‘Relationship’ to a T)
She talking at me, not really verbally.
(Verbosity was MY THING.)
But her message was always clear.
“Well, I’ll be damned; Here Comes Your Ghost Again.”
“Now you’re telling me You’re not nostalgic Then give me another word for it You who are so good with words And at keeping things vague.”
Video Credit: Dave Bing
Hey Asshole Dave Bing! We do not need the lyrics fucking up this vid! Most of us have ears.
Here is a Teaser Song which will be a Centerpiece of Chapter Two.
(Elizabeth, How I first Saw you–Us–Together–A Wicked Game, but so, oh so… captivating!)
“Ela, I once called you ‘Ethereal’–I meant it when I first said it, and I say it again–Some things I hang on to, and will never let go.
You were My ‘Magical Mystery Tour-de-Force.’
I am playing a very dangerous, potentially deadly–for my heart–game with Elizabeth.
She is the quintessential Game Master–Mistress.
I am good, but not in her league.
Not even close.
She is much more skilled than me.
I may be in over my head.
****
But you know what?
I love The Game, or to quote Omar
From “The Wire”,
“It’s all in the game Bro.”
And it never fails to excite or stimulate
And as an aside, & IMHO,
Christine McVie was/is The Most Underrated Member of The Super-Group
That Calls itself
‘Fleetwood Mac.’
Stevie Stole All The Glory.
Now, Do Not Mistake Me:
I love Stevie Like Cash Money, but…
Christine was/is also
‘Top Shelf’ and Deserves
More Recognition.
Much More Recognition
Most people who write about ‘Fleetwood Mac’ Write about Stevie. I write about Christine.
Lovely, Wonderful, Talented Christine
BEAUTIFUL
I only drop this one in for Elizabeth.
Of course She was the only one who understood that “The Joke” was always on me.
But instinctively I knew it too, but did not care:
