“What did you do in The War, Daddy?”

It’s Fittin’

Or it isn’t.

‘Fittin’’

In my mind, I think I have written some incredibly good shit for this here blog, (approaching my one-year anniversary) but then again, who can account for taste?

Certainly not me.

Anyway…

I had some interesting emails of late:

Mostly of the “Jeeze! Yer not dead… I hope.” Strain. (vernacular??)

“No Virginia, I am not dead.”(And No: There ain’t no Santa)

Yet.

Nope. Not yet. (dead: not Santa—try to stay with me here Friends…)

‘So sorry…’

“Maybe next time.” Or as some of my ‘friends’ might say: “Next Year in Jerusalem.”

(But then, that is some other kind of different post, ain’t it?)

I am tired, so I will end this now.

Just wanted to post ‘something’ so that y’all would realize… I am still alive in here.

Peace,

Lance

P.S. Now, that right there is what some might call a virulent (?), brilliant stream of ‘conscientiousness’. Some might, in fact.

Personally, I call ‘bullshit.’ But that is just me.

Cheers Y’all,

Lance

And PPS:

I am gonna volunteer to go to Liberia.

Just to help.

If y’all think I’m jokin’, well then; you don’t know me very well, do you?

Hell! All who know me, know I will risk anything for money! Because ‘money’ is all I care about.”

(And if y’all believe that, well then I am not… aiming… at ‘My Audience’)

And I do have a bridge to sell. (cheap!)

–Lance

Just for fun:

“A Deputy Sheriff approached them in a manner rather rude…” 

Today, a magical thing happened to me.

I’ll edit this later…

But for now I gotta go see a goat about a man. Be right back…

******

I woke up.

I woke up happy.

This has not happened in some years.

Why? Why now? Why today?

Well shit! I have no fucking clue, but I do know this:

It was a welcome change. I woke up Happy!

Fucking Happy!

And ’till now, I have maintained it.

And I am gonna embrace it ’till it leaves.

***

Now I had planned a very verbose post about my theories of depression but then I said,

“Naw! There are others who dedicate their lives to depression. They live for this shit.”

Who am I? I just went passing through…

“Just passing,” Thank You,

“Mind the gap.”

(You probably have to be British to appreciate that last bit)

Here’s to “Happy Days Are Here Again!”

(I’ll take them)

Evey’ one.

Y’all should too.

well we will marry and tarry

There

Here is a happy song to get you ‘in the mood’:

The moodiness of happiness:

“The Line Forms to the Right”

Just choose Happy

 

Yes, I know: It Ain’t Thursday

But I swerved into this long-forgotten post, I posted while shall we say, I was ‘discombobulated?’

Incredible to me now, how this one survived the sober editing floor, and yet here it remains, sucking up Bandwidth. So now, I share my shameful pain with those who have never experienced this wonder…

And certainly comments are welcome. Especially if they be mocking, for self-deprecation is my forte. (and my compass)

(What the fuck was I thinking???)

Oh, and by the way: Please do not follow the links: For that way lies madness.

*************

“Generally, I do Not Like to Step on My Dick”

(Would love to, but he  has left the building)

However,

I will make an exception (in this case)

I love Blondie (Debbie Harry)

Yep

Do

Now… this post will knock my previous posts off your hit parade.

I know this

And I care not

(‘actuarily’ I do)

But who cares?

Watch the video, and take a trip back to the Eighties

Why not?

Call me:

lancemarcom781@hotmail.com

(I lied: it is GMail)

And… if you figg3r that out… Here’s to Texas!

P.S.

I Heart 🙂 Madonna too:

“Last night I dreamt of some bagels

Go Figure

 

Aw Hell! Thursday is Coming: “Don’t Rain Shit On My Parade”

Three A.M. and I was in the middle of a dream about ‘Shit River’ in Ologapo City, Philippines. (Freud would’ve loved me)

Then I woke up.

Woke up to a very un-dreamy-like smell of real shit. Real potent shit. Horrible smelling shit. Knock a buzzard off a shit wagon smelling shit.

I was living in an old two-story house in Commerce. Just outside my bedroom was the walk-in closet where I kept all the clothes I owned. I have never owned much in the way of clothes, by the way.

I heard something dripping like rain behind the door, but it wasn’t raining outside. I opened the door and sure as shit, shit was raining down from the ceiling.  All over my clothes. Spattering on the floor. My Chow Mix doggie, Tizzy, was obviously responsible.

Chow

I went around the corner, and there  he was  in that dog-taking-a-shit posture at the top of the stairway: Obviously with a really bad case of the doggie drizzling shits.

Took me until seven a.m. to clean up the shit and wash all my clothes.

I called in sick to work telling my boss,

“I feel like shit.”

“I fake it so real… I am beyond fake.”

How many of us cast out false perceptions to the web?

To get  willfully caught in the net and hauled on board–to the unsuspecting good-hearted Greek Fisherman?

You know: old photos, no date, no skinny clothes, make up, tanning lotion?

Personally yep. Mea culpa. Yep. I am culpable.

Of just that. (Ok, probably sans makeup)

And only that.

But… how many go further?

"Let me poison your ear, Othello."

“Let me poison your ear, Othello.”

Too much further?

How many actually deceive?

How many try to capitalize?

How many actually hurt people with lies, deception?

No one reading these words here tonight, right?

I do hope not.

Just pause though, and think on it.

That is all I ask.

And yes, this is me: LANCE MARCOM (Lance Marcom.com) asking.

Falstaff

And No! I don’t look like Falstaff At least not yet.

I am real.

Are you?

 

 

 

 

 

Do you fake it so real you go beyond fake?

Throwback Thursday: Please Don’t Shit in my Showers

Dispatches From Afghanistan: Mouses, Goats, and Snakes Oh My!

The Jordanians are coming: Specifically the JAF. (Jordanian Armed Forces) They will be living here in my LSA 2. Wonderful. Each of my tents have a capacity of 120 U.S. Marines. They ain’t comphy, but they cozy and U.S. Marines do not complain. They are Marines. The JAF contingent will top off at one hundred. They have been promised three of my tents. The math doesn’t work for me. I need every tent I have (twenty-four) to serve the Marines who transit through Dwyer on their way to the war.

After some lobbying (and predictions of pissed off Marines who won’t have a tent to sleep in), I got the JAF allocation down to two tents. Why after all these years the Jordanian government has decided to send troops to southern Afghanistan, I am not sure. But I have a theory:  U.S. Department of State. Yep. Not military necessity. Not a request from the coalition of governments already represented here. Not the U.S. Military. Nope. Politics.

I have nothing against Jordan or the Jordanian people. In fact, I love them. I lived and worked in Amman Jordan for six months back in ‘07 while working to close out the paperwork on the USAID Rural Water Project we had completed in Iraq. (Bechtel, the prime contractor, had decided there was no point to continually put our lives at risk in Iraq doing paperwork we could just as easily finish in their Jordan offices).

I had a meeting with the Mayor’s Cell here on Dwyer. (The ‘Mayor’s Cell’ is the term used for the administrative branch of the Marines who actually own Camp Dwyer.) All decisions of the Mayor are final. Except, I found out, when it comes to the JAF and their accommodations.  Apprehensive over the impending arrival of the Jordanians, I asked the Mayor, “Does the Mayor’s Cell have any special directive for treatment of the JAF?”

wpid-IMG_0685-2011-06-26-11-39

“Not at all Son. Treat ‘em like Marines.”

“Yessir!” (This was the response I had been hoping for)

With the help of the Labor Department and a few of my staff, I readied the two tents for the Jordanians. We were told to expect roughly one hundred men, so we set up fifty-five military cots in each tent. These tents in LSA 2 are best described as ‘Spartan.’ There are four ‘doors’ which are simply canvas flaps about four feet wide. When the wind is up the flaps flap open allowing Afghanistan to blow inside. The occupants are not allowed to tie the flaps shut, as this creates a safety hazard in the event of a fire—no quick egress. Each of the tents has two HVAC units. They are inadequate for the weather extremes here. The tents are in disrepair. They leak, they sag, they have mold. I cannot get approval from the Mayor’s Cell through DynCorp to provide anything more than patchy maintenance. “A lick and a promise.” That’s all. They tell me, “No more funding is available for LSA 2. Deal with it.”

Continue reading

It’s Thursday O’clock Somewhere

As I continue to struggle through a temporary writer’s block (Kind of like running in soft sand) figured I’d just throw this blast-from-the-past against the wall and see if it sticks.

Apologies to those who have already seen and read this one (both of you 😉 )

Happy Thursday to you, wherever and whatever time-zone you may find yourself in.

–Your Humble Servant: Merde Le Roi

***********************

Three A.M. and I was in the middle of a dream about ‘Shit River’ in Ologapo City, Philippines. (Freud would’ve loved me)

Then I woke up.

Woke up to a very un-dreamy-like smell of real shit. Real potent shit. Horrible smelling shit. Knock a buzzard off a shit wagon smelling shit. Bring out yer dead, Shit.

“Who’s that?”

“Must be a king”

“Why?”

“He hasn’t got shit all over ‘im”

I was living in an old two-story house in Commerce. Just outside my bedroom was the walk-in closet where I kept all the clothes I owned. I have never owned much in the way of clothes, by the way.

I heard something dripping like rain behind the door, but it wasn’t raining outside. I opened the door and sure as shit, shit was raining down from the ceiling. All over my clothes. Spattering on the floor. My Chow Mix doggie, Tizzy, was obviously responsible.

Chow

I went around the corner, and there he was in that dog-taking-a-shit posture at the top of the stairway: Obviously with a really bad case of the doggie drizzling shits. Made me miss my ant farm.

Or my spiders.

Obviously, I was “not a king” (see above video)

Took me until seven a.m. to clean up the shit and wash all my clothes.

I called in sick to work telling my boss,

“I feel like shit.”

Then I did the only prudent thing that came to mind and would give me peace.

 

Please Don’t Shit in My Shower

Dispatches From Afghanistan: Mouses, Goats, and Snakes Oh My!

The Jordanians are coming: Specifically the JAF. (Jordanian Armed Forces) They will be living here in my LSA 2. Wonderful. Each of my tents have a capacity of 120 U.S. Marines. They ain’t comphy, but they cozy and U.S. Marines do not complain. They are Marines. The JAF contingent will top off at one hundred. They have been promised three of my tents. The math doesn’t work for me. I need every tent I have (twenty-four) to serve the Marines who transit through Dwyer on their way to the war.

After some lobbying (and predictions of pissed off Marines who won’t have a tent to sleep in), I got the JAF allocation down to two tents. Why after all these years the Jordanian government has decided to send troops to southern Afghanistan, I am not sure. But I have a theory:  U.S. Department of State. Yep. Not military necessity. Not a request from the coalition of governments already represented here. Not the U.S. Military. Nope. Politics.

I have nothing against Jordan or the Jordanian people. In fact, I love them. I lived and worked in Amman Jordan for six months back in ‘07 while working to close out the paperwork on the USAID Rural Water Project we had completed in Iraq. (Bechtel, the prime contractor, had decided there was no point to continually put our lives at risk in Iraq doing paperwork we could just as easily finish in their Jordan offices).

I had a meeting with the Mayor’s Cell here on Dwyer. (The ‘Mayor’s Cell’ is the term used for the administrative branch of the Marines who actually own Camp Dwyer.) All decisions of the Mayor are final. Except, I found out, when it comes to the JAF and their accommodations.  Apprehensive over the impending arrival of the Jordanians, I asked the Mayor, “Does the Mayor’s Cell have any special directive for treatment of the JAF?”

wpid-IMG_0685-2011-06-26-11-39

“Not at all Son. Treat ‘em like Marines.”

“Yessir!” (This was the response I had been hoping for)

With the help of the Labor Department and a few of my staff, I readied the two tents for the Jordanians. We were told to expect roughly one hundred men, so we set up fifty-five military cots in each tent. These tents in LSA 2 are best described as ‘Spartan.’ There are four ‘doors’ which are simply canvas flaps about four feet wide. When the wind is up the flaps flap open allowing Afghanistan to blow inside. The occupants are not allowed to tie the flaps shut, as this creates a safety hazard in the event of a fire—no quick egress. Each of the tents has two HVAC units. They are inadequate for the weather extremes here. The tents are in disrepair. They leak, they sag, they have mold. I cannot get approval from the Mayor’s Cell through DynCorp to provide anything more than patchy maintenance. “A lick and a promise.” That’s all. They tell me, “No more funding is available for LSA 2. Deal with it.”

Continue reading

Don’t Rain Shit On My Parade

Three A.M. and I was in the middle of a dream about ‘Shit River’ in Ologapo City, Philippines. (Freud would’ve loved me)

Then I woke up.

Woke up to a very un-dreamy-like smell of real shit. Real potent shit. Horrible smelling shit. Knock a buzzard off a shit wagon smelling shit.

I was living in an old two-story house in Commerce. Just outside my bedroom was the walk-in closet where I kept all the clothes I owned. I have never owned much in the way of clothes, by the way.

I heard something dripping like rain behind the door, but it wasn’t raining outside. I opened the door and sure as shit, shit was raining down from the ceiling.  All over my clothes. Spattering on the floor. My Chow Mix doggie, Tizzy, was obviously responsible. I went around the corner, and there  he was  in that dog-taking-a-shit posture at the top of the stairway: Obviously with a really bad case of the doggie drizzling shits.

Took me until seven a.m. to clean up the shit and wash all my clothes.

I called in sick to work telling my boss, “I feel like shit.”