Rent – A – Sailor: Part One

Land Down Yonder

Vid/Music Cred: Men at Work

Back in ’89 halfway into my last WestPAC (Western Pacific Deployment) bobbing about in the Pacific, onboard the USS Frederick LST 1184, we had already spent much time in Subic Bay, Hong Kong, Guam, Korea, Fuk-Ya-Mama Japan, and possible some other ‘Ornamental’ ports I do not recall.

Well, we were steaming along in the South Pacific one day when word came down the pike that we had new orders to sail to Sydney.

What?

What?!

Hell Yes!

“But why?” I asked the first ‘Old-Salty-Squiddy’ I could find.

“Some idiots from a tin can (destroyer) dropped a pallet of high explosives on top of the Great Barrier Reef. We have to go retrieve it before shit jumps off. That reef is some kind of fuckin’ national park or something.”

“Why us?”

“Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares? We get to go to Australia! Australia! In Australia, they still LOVE us. There is this thing they do. It’s called ‘Rent-A-Sailor’ and you’ll see.”

“Hell you talking about? ‘Rent-A-Sailor’?”

“When we dock, there will be tons of women on the pier to greet us. They will all have paid real money to ‘host’ us while we are there. They love us. Maybe ‘cause we saved them from the Japs back in doubya doubya two.”

Hostesses for the Most of Us

“I see your point. Sounds great!”

“Just wait. You’ll see,” he said again breathlessly. I must admit, his excitement was contagious.

***

Now, do not get me wong (wrong). I love Southern Pacific Eastern ‘Ornamental’ Women and this is well-documented, but I, we, all of us, were in the mood for a female change of scenery. We wanted to see some ‘Round-Eyes.’ And before anyone accuses me of being ‘racist’ you may want to do some research on my blog—this one—and then get back to me.

All that shit spake…

We turned the Freddy Southbound-and-Down toward Sydney. Estimated steaming time to Australia: three days.

We were all very excited.

I Went looking for the ship’s barber to get me gussied up…

To be continued… Here. Y’all hear??

He Went to Paris: I can smell the Darkness

Yet another one do not read!

paris.jpg

And he went to England; played the piano, married an actress named “Kim:”…  She was a good wife… ‘I’ loved her.

This is a continuation, albeit a flashback, to my story of Janet and Random Memories from The Middle East.

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.

Vid Credit: 

John1948SevenA

Cheers,

Lance

To Be Continued… Hopefully.

“Losing his hearing, but he don’t care what most people say.”

“Lately I been thinkin’ I just might quit drinkin’…

“I feel like Hank Williams tonight”

JJ Walker

tex flag

Women (I Know) I KNOW

This is stupid.

But I repost it anyway.

I write a lot about my relationships with women.

Why? I don’t know. Or… perhaps I do know. It grows tiresome for most. (especially former Girlfriends/wives) This I know. I also know I have to write what I remember and know, and what I feel/felt, and knew. I recently re-watched “Alien”, a movie that kinda, sorta defined what I ‘was’ in the Sinai Desert in 1979. Not sure how to explain that one… but, yet… Sigourney Weaver…

Anyhow, I write about women. I write about women, and my relationships with women, because I love women. Most of them don’t love me, but none of them (them ‘wimmens’) can ever say they were ever bored with me…

Point is: I love women. I write about my experiences with women because my experiences with all the women in my past have made… me… a feminist.

I love the way they look. (And yes! I love the way they ‘cook’–metaphor–I am the ‘best cook’) I love the way they dress. I love the way they un-dress. I love the way they talk. I love the way they walk. I love the way they incite. I love the way they excite. I love the way they dance. I love the way they romance. I love the way they taste. I love the way they smell. I love the way they mostly… don’t tell.

And most of all, I love the way they piss me off,

(And drive me crazy.)

Yes. I love women. 

The way they Made Me: Made me who I am.

And I like that.

I like this man called ‘Lance’, that a woman created in me

Him I like instinctively (No Choice)

But, what the hell?!

“That’s what comes from too much pills and liquor.”

 

Vid Credit: 

Felipe Ruiz de Chávez

And of course, Joel Gray (and of course  Bob Fosse.)

Token Males… To defend the race of men who think (better).

My “Journey” Through Life With Wonderful Women on My Arm.
I have Been Blessed To Have Known A few—More than a few, Actually.

Yep: Blessed (And Very Lucky)

When you love a woman
You see your world inside her eyes

******

I am NOT a Fan of “Revoltin’” Bolton,

But I do like his rendition of this Original Percy Sledge song.

I am not callous, nor vindictive, and I do appreciate talent when I experience it.

Just One More Example of a Woman I love, Admire, and Respect:

“If I were younger…”

********

Just For Levity:

Dedicated To The Michaels Bolton

(Both of Them)

And Never Forget:

Life is A Cabaret

Enjoy it While it Lasts!

Shonnie The Biker’s Wife Part XII: “Back to the Real World”

With nothing else to do and still somewhat pissed at Shonnie for putting us both in a bad situation, I walked over to The Las Vegas Club just across the street from the Union Plaza.

My intent was to pass some time playing a relaxing game of roulette. I have always enjoyed roulette. The pace is slow and generally the game draws a more serene clientele. A quiet casual game of roulette would afford me the opportunity to calm my Shonnie-Generated anger and pleasantly pass some time.

The minimum bet was one dollar, so I bought a hundred bucks worth of two-bit chips and began scattering them about the table. Never really scoring big at roulette, I did not expect anything but a hundred dollars’ worth of entertainment and some free bottom shelf booze.

I had a few wins but mostly losses and as my initial investment evaporated along with about an hour and a half of time, I cashed out the remainder of my stake (about ten bucks which I used to tip the Croupier), drained my glass, stubbed out my Marlboro and headed back to The Plaza.

I discovered Shonnie face down on the bed, hair a mess, legs splayed out all akimbo, a forsaken cigarette burning in the ashtray.

Somehow I saw myself in that cigarette.

I sat down beside her.

“You awake?” I whispered, gently pulling some strands of hair from her cheek.

“Owwwie… Is that you Honey?”

“Yes Dear.” (I was aiming for a sarcastic, pissed off tone—failed—I just loved her too much to sustain my displeasure) “Yeah. It’s me,” I repeated. “You were perhaps expecting someone else? George maybe?”

“Huhhh? Who’s George?

“Never mind. How’d you come out?”

“Won ‘bout four hundred an’ change. Proud of me?”

“No,” I said. “You nearly got me into trouble.”

“Always about you,” she said, turning on her side to face me with suddenly awake and angry blue eyes.

“We did have a plan, you know. What happened?”

“I couldn’t get shed of that moron.”

“You mean ‘George’, yes?”

She sat up abruptly. Sincerely pissed off now. “How th’ hell you know his fuckin’ name? I don’t even know his fuckin’ name and I had to sit next to the asshole for four hours. I tried to run him off! Goddamn it!”

“How hard is it to walk away from a blackjack table?”

She looked down at the bed and added quietly. “I was having fun.”

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“Yeah, I am. Be my hero and light me a smoke.”

“I already did my hero bit tonight when I showed up to rescue you from George and the El Cortez.”

“It would’ve been awkward to just get up and leave with you. The casino dudes might’ve gotten suspicious.”

“Shonnie, they had gone way beyond ‘suspicious’ by then. If you had just accepted my offer of a drink at the bar…”

“I know. I know! I was acting like a little bitch. I wanted to find out if you were willing to fight for me is all.”

“Damn it Shonnie! You know damn well I will fight for you, but only if it is warranted and necessary. You created the situation. You could have ended it. Easily.”

She gave me a sorrowful, pouty look, then softly, sweetly said, “Cig?”

Whatever remained of my anger was melted away by her voice and her look.

I lit two Marlboros and handed her one. She took a long drag and asked for a cold beer. I fished two Bud longnecks out of the cooler, wiped them off on the bedspread and handed her one.

“You gonna be a gentleman an’ open this for me?” she said while aiming the longneck’s neck at my chest.

I took the bottle, twisted off the cap with one deft motion, tossed it at the television and handed her the beer.

 She drained about half, belched loudly and said, “Cotton mouth.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Fuck you. I have a wicked-bad headache.”

She laid her head back on the pillow with a groan.

I kissed her lightly on the forehead and said, “We need to head outta here tomorrow by noon. I have to be back on my boat…”

“Okay! Okay! I got it. What time is it anyway?”

“It’s later than you think.”

She sat back up, drained the rest of her beer, threw her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, lay down, rolled over and went immediately to sleep. ‘Just perfect,’ I thought.

I took some minutes to finish my beer and my cigarette, then got undressed, curled up next to her and was soon fast asleep myself.

***

Next day we managed to check out of our room and hit the road by about twelve-thirty. I stopped for gas and a six-pack at Whiskey Pete’s, or as I prefer to call it,

“The Last Dance Texaco”

Fun Fact: Rickie Lee bears an eerily striking resemblance to Shonnie, though No Where near as beautiful as Shonnie, At least she can sing. Shonnie can’t sing. So there’s that. But, I’ll still take Shonnie any day. And every day. And in every way.

***

Whiskey Pete’s almost straddles the Nevada State Line. It’s the first, or last, depending upon one’s direction of travel, opportunity to make a charitable contribution to the Casino Industry’s Good Cause(s).

“Hey Baby, we got some time. Wanna see something really cool while we’re here?”

“I cannot look at another blackjack table for a while.”

“C’mon. This is different.”

I parked the car and led her into Whiskey Pete’s and straight to the Bonnie and Clyde car exhibit.

“Look at that! Isn’t that cool?”

“It’s just a car all shot fulla holes. I’ve seen a few already.”

“Baby, this ain’t just any car. This is the legit ‘Bonnie and Clyde Death Car’.”

“Oh.”

Sometimes even my very best efforts to impress my girl fall flat.

Other times, I don’t even have to try.

If I could just manage someday to find the key, my life would be so much easier.

And devoid of magic.

Nope, I’ll keep my mysterious, mystifying, disconcerting, and sometimes infuriating Shonnie over any predictable plastic boring version.

The Joni song below is about seventy-five percent perfect in illuminating the very complex relationship Shonnie and I shared.

***

“You know the times you impress me most

Are the times when you don’t try

When you don’t even try”

Credit for Video Montage: DJ Bayonic

***

We reverse-road-tripped westward toward San Diego, arriving about six in the evening. I dropped Shonnie at her mom’s and headed back to the Callaghan. I hit my rack and slept like the dead.

I had duty the next day, so I could not leave the ship. On Tuesday at sixteen hundred after liberty call I donned my civvies and hit the beach. Found a pay phone on the pier and called her up.

“Hello?”

“Hiya Baby. How Y’all doin’?”

“Why didn’t you call me yesterday?” She sounded pissed.

“You know damn well I had ‘the duty’ yesterday,” I shot back.

“Oh… Yeah. Sorry. I forgot.”

“Where do you wanna meet up?” I asked.

“Seaport Village. In the back of the parking lot. In thirty minutes. And don’t make me wait.”

“Make you wait?! That’s rich Shonnie, very rich, given our recent ‘make me wait’ experience. Make it forty-five and we’ve got a bona-fide rendezvous.”

“Okay!” Loud click in my ear as she not-so-gently ‘placed’ her receiver back in the phone cradle.

I laughed out loud as I gently returned my receiver to the pay phone.

‘Lance can be a ‘button-pushing’ little bitch too.’

***

I pulled into the parking lot at Seaport Village around five p.m. No sign of Shonnie. I killed the Toranado but left the stereo playing (Tom Waits: “Warm Beer and Cold Women…I just don’t fit in.”)

Pulling from a pint of Jim Beam, I lit a cigarette and watched some seagulls diving on scraps in San Diego Bay.

A haze-gray-and-underway-piece-of-shit was heading out to sea, black-shoe-sailors were manning the rails wearing dress whites.

Young happy couples were walking hand-in-hand heading toward the boardwalk. I began allowing myself to entertain some second thoughts about my relationship with Shonnie: 

Was it going anywhere?

Was it worth the risk? Was she fun? Was she great in the sack?

Was she not beautiful?

Didn’t I truly love her?

My mindless debate was abruptly and noisily ended as she pulled up alongside me, screeching tires and slinging gravel. 

Grand Entrance! 

She exited her ‘La Bomba’ and walked toward my vehicle.

She looked absolutely California Texas Stunning.

She was sporting tight faded blue jeans with some holes in them, à la Dwight Yoakam ‘cowboy hip’ style, a halter top, cowgirl boots, cowgirl hat, and carrying a fifth of whiskey and an attitude. She ‘runway’ sashayed over to my window and inquired,

“Hey Sailor, New in town?”

Aiming for ‘laconic’ I said, “I’m the ’Only’ Sailor for you Little Cowgirl and I’m Fair to mid’lin’. You?”

“Finer-n-frog hair,” she said.

“Don’t be mockin’ a good ol’ Texas Boy,” I said back.

(Yes! I truly did love her of course but even worse, I was In-Love with her: Madly and Beyond Redemption. There never really was any doubt.)

“I have a surprise for you Lover.”

“I’m not particularly fond of surprises” I said.

“You’re gonna love this one, and it’s gonna save you some money too.”

“Okay, go on. What’s the surprise? And please don’t tell me I’ll know when we get there.”

Enthusiastically she announced, “I’m ‘house-sitting’ my aunt’s condo in La Jolla this week. It’s all ours!”

“Your ‘aunt?’ ‘Condo?’ In ‘La Jolla?’ No way!”

“Yes! Way!”

“Well, ya know, I’m kinda partial to parking lots and sleazy motel rooms,” I protested.

“Don’t be an asshole and don’t be ridiculous,” she said as she climbed into the shot-gun seat of my Toranado. “Drive. I’ll show you the way.”

So I drove.

(With some anticipation tempered with some trepidation)

***

Previously:

***

Coming Soon:

“Shonnie The Biker’s Wife. Chapter XIII: La Jolla”

Update: Part XIII is Up.

***

If you are new here, or a long-lost returning Pilgrim, you may want to begin your Shonnie Journey Below

And then simply “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” i.e., The Lancelot Links:

***

Below You Will Find Most Of The Original Posts. Once / If You Arrive At Thirteen There Are Links To The Final Few Chapters. Please keep in mind however, that each and every one of them is in the process of being rewritten: first to last. This will probably take at another week or so.

But if you can’t wait… Here ya go!

Parts One  Two  Three  Four  Five  Six  Seven  Eight  Nine  Ten  Eleven  Twelve  Thirteen

***

Comments from the original post:

16 THOUGHTS ON “SHONNIE THE BIKER’S WIFE PART XII: BACK TO THE REAL WORLD”

LAMarcom October 8, 2020 at 04:22 Edit

Thank you John

johncoyote October 3, 2020 at 04:59 Edit

When Vegas, drink and road trip are together. Some hell raising days are coming. I liked the set-up of the story and Shonnie. Is a interesting lady. A very entertaining chapter my friend.

LAMarcom February 16, 2015 at 05:15 Edit

Reblogged this on Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics and commented:

Not sure why, but I thought I’d re-blog this. (Probably ’cause I like Tom Waits)

Oh! And I miss that woman: Shonnie

LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:37 Edit

Hehehehe.

Yeah, from Day One with Shonnie, I had that same bad foreboding.

Thanks Friend.

Tony Single July 22, 2014 at 18:53 Edit

Where on earth is this going? I’ve got a bad feeling about this…

LAMarcom July 14, 2014 at 16:03 Edit

Shonnie was the one who ‘introduced’ me to Tom Waits and for that, I am eternally in her debt.

😉

Mélanie July 14, 2014 at 15:59 Edit

OMG! Tom Waits – a living legend… 🙂

lauramacky July 14, 2014 at 10:15 Edit

lol

lauramacky July 14, 2014 at 09:42 Edit

😛

LAMarcom July 14, 2014 at 09:22 Edit

I completely agree with you on Roulette. I have ‘experienced’ Roulette all over the world from Europe to Africa to the Far East (and of course Vegas). Love the game and the atmosphere of it.

Exile on Pain Street July 14, 2014 at 06:21 Edit

Roulette really is the most elegant game in the house. You don’t have to concentrate the way you do with craps. And I like the accouterments. The wheel. The ball. The clakity-clack sound.

Lots of smoking in these stories. I get cotton mouth just reading them.

LAMarcom July 13, 2014 at 23:26 Edit

Just a ‘Tale of Two Cities: San Dog and Vegas…’

😉

LAMarcom July 13, 2014 at 16:17 Edit

Hi Sadie,

‘Captivated’ readers are the best!

😉

Thank you for the kind words.

Cheers,

Lance

LAMarcom July 13, 2014 at 16:11 Edit

😉

~ Sadie ~ July 13, 2014 at 14:18 Edit

Can’t wait for the next chapter!!! I think this series would make a great short story, or possibly novella 🙂 You definitely have me captivated! 😉

lauramacky July 13, 2014 at 09:18 Edit

You little dickens

He Went to Paris: I can smell the Darkness

paris.jpg

And he went to England; played the piano, married an actress named “Kim:”…  She was a good wife… ‘I’ loved her.

This is a continuation, albeit a flashback, to my story of Janet and Random Memories from The Middle East.

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.

Vid Credit: 

John1948SevenA

Cheers,

Lance

To Be Continued… Hopefully.

“Losing his hearing, but he don’t care what most people say.”

“Lately I been thinkin’ I just might quit drinkin’…

“I feel like Hank Williams tonight”

JJ Walker

tex flag

Women (I Know) I KNOW

I write a lot about my relationships with women.

Why? I don’t know. Or… perhaps I do know. It grows tiresome for most. (especially former Girlfriends/wives) This I know. I also know I have to write what I remember and know, and what I feel/felt, and knew. I recently re-watched “Alien”, a movie that kinda, sorta defined what I ‘was’ in the Sinai Desert in 1979. Not sure how to explain that one… but, yet… Sigourney Weaver…

Anyhow, I write about women. I write about women, and my relationships with women, because I love women. Most of them don’t love me, but none of them (them ‘wimmens’) can ever say they were ever bored with me…

Point is: I love women. I write about my experiences with women because my experiences with all the women in my past have made… me… a feminist.

I love the way they look. (And yes! I love the way they ‘cook’–metaphor–I am the ‘best cook’) I love the way they dress. I love the way they un-dress. I love the way they talk. I love the way they walk. I love the way they incite. I love the way they excite. I love the way they dance. I love the way they romance. I love the way they taste. I love the way they smell. I love the way they mostly… don’t tell.

And most of all, I love the way they piss me off,

(And drive me crazy.)

Yes. I love women. 

The way they Made Me: Made me who I am.

And I like that.

I like this man called ‘Lance’, that a woman created in me

Him I like instinctively (No Choice)

But, what the hell?!

“That’s what comes from too much pills and liquor.”

 

Vid Credit: 

Felipe Ruiz de Chávez

And of course, Joel Gray (and of course  Bob Fosse.)

Token Males… To defend the race of men who think (better).

My “Journey” Through Life With Wonderful Women on My Arm.
I have Been Blessed To Have Known A few—More than a few, Actually.

Yep: Blessed (And Very Lucky)

When you love a woman
You see your world inside her eyes

******

I am NOT a Fan of “Revoltin’” Bolton,

But I do like his rendition of this Original Percy Sledge song.

I am not callous, nor vindictive, and I do appreciate talent when I experience it.

Just One More Example of a Woman I love, Admire, and Respect:

“If I were younger…”

********

Just For Levity:

Dedicated To The Michaels Bolton

(Both of Them)

And Never Forget:

Life is A Cabaret

Enjoy it While it Lasts!