Micro fiction----

So I started doing some drafts of a few things to eventually post one small vignette on a website hosting a micro fiction contest. This weird little piece is one of my installments that did not make the final cut. Cheers.

Great show tonight. And now that we’re back to the apartment, Mikey is going to give this lil’ girl the after show treatment. I see him toss the small blonde onto the bed; her purse lands just inside the doorway. Slam goes the bedroom door. I allow my right arm to phase through the wall and take her purse. They don’t notice anything. ID says Christy Ann Brown. Age 16. I go to my room. Our beds rest against the same wall.

“NO! No I can’t. Dammit NO! NO!”

Sounds like our little concert rat is regrettin’ sneaking into the show. Teen rebellion gone bad.

“Oh God help me. Stop. Please.”

“Shut up and be a good little whore.”

His head must be within inches of my own through the thin wall. The volume was low but so very clear in my ears. What to do? I pick up my cell phone and search for a number to the local newspaper. Got it.

Turning onto my knees facing the wall, I phase my hand and face through. Christy is face down; he does not see me. Shoving my hand into his skull I command only my finger tips to harden. I remove them and his limp body collapses atop his would be victim. The coroner will be scratching his head when the autopsy shows 5 finger tip-sized aneurysms that all blew at once. Phone ringing.

“Voice.”

“Take a Want Ad?”

“Sure.”

“Alternative band seeks Bass Player.”

Chachi really?

I recently celebrated my 36th birthday. And when I arrived at the office on that sad, sad morning, I found the above photograph pasted in a good many places. I had been Baioed in much the same way that Facebook has allowed people to Kanye themselves. The difference of course is that Scott “Charles in Charge” Baio is actually cool. Whereas Kanye is a douchebag lacking in respect, inner dialogue and impulse control.

I really have nothing to say. I just thought that the picture was great. And now people are calling me “Chachi” because people see this picture and perceive that through swollen, drunk eyes that there is a familial resemblance.

Cheers.

Good Richard Hunting

I have recently taken up listening to audiobooks. It is mush easier for me to enjoy a “read” (if you will) by attaching it to my ears and not to my eyes. As much as I enjoy a good read, time is really of the essence in this busy, hubbub life. My genres of choice have been classics and history. And this week I listened to Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. It is a great book from my youth; it is a great book now. And there are distinct funnies in the text now that obviously did not exist at its writing. So without further adieu I give you Treasure Island through the eyes of Dick…(All quotes come directly from the text.)


‘Dick’s square,’ said Silver.

‘Oh, I know’d Dick was square,’ returned the voice of the coxswain, Israel Hands. ‘He’s no fool, is Dick.’

‘Why, we’re all seamen aboard here, I should think,’ said the lad Dick.

‘But,’ asked Dick, ‘when we do lay ‘em athwart, what are we to do with ‘em, anyhow?’

‘I’ll wring his calf’s head off his body with these hands, Dick! You just jump up, like a sweet lad, and get me an apple, to wet my pipe like.’

You may fancy the terror I was in! I should have leaped out and run for it if I had found the strength, but my limbs and heart alike misgave me. I heard Dick begin to rise, and then someone seemingly stopped him…

‘Dick,’ said Silver, ‘I trust you. I’ve a gauge on the keg, mind. There’s the key; you fill a pannikin and bring it up.’

Dick was gone but a little while, and during his absence Israel spoke straight on in the cook’s ear. It was but a word or two that I could catch, and yet I gathered some important news, for besides other scraps that tended to the same purpose, this whole clause was audible: ‘Not another man of them’ll jine.’ Hence there were still faithful men on board.

When Dick returned, one after another of the trio took the pannikin and drank—one ‘To luck,’ another with a ‘Here’s to old Flint,’ and Silver himself saying, in a kind of song, ‘Here’s to ourselves, and hold your luff, plenty of prizes and plenty of duff.’ That’s what it begun with, but it went further’n that; and so my mother told me, and predicked the whole, she did, the pious woman!

‘Bring a torch, Dick,’

‘Give me a loan of the link, Dick,’ said he; and then, when he had a good light, ‘That’ll do, lad,’ he added; ‘stick the glim in the wood heap; and you, gentlemen, bring yourselves to!

I was in the apple barrel the night we sighted land, and I heard you, John, and you, Dick Johnson, and Hands

‘It was Dick,’ said one.

‘Dick, was it? Then Dick can get to prayers,’ said Silver. ‘He’s seen his slice of luck, has Dick, and you may lay to that.’

‘Don’t it, though?’ cried Dick with a sort of joy. ‘Well, I reckon that’s worth having too.’

‘Dick don’t feel well, sir,’ said one.

‘Don’t he?’ replied the doctor. ‘Well, step up here, Dick, and let me see your tongue. No, I should be surprised if he did! The man’s tongue is fit to frighten the French. Another fever.’

Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been well brought up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.

But Dick was not to be comforted; indeed, it was soon plain to me that the lad was falling sick; hastened by heat, exhaustion, and the shock of his alarm, the fever, predicted by Dr. Livesey, was evidently growing swiftly higher.

Dick, who had dropped behind us and now brought up the rear, was babbling to himself both prayers and curses as his fever kept rising…This grove that was now so peaceful must then have rung with cries, I thought; and even with the thought I could believe I heard it ringing still.



It was hysterical to hear...Cheers!

Snow...Licky Boom Down Down

There is snow on the ground. Flakes dropping with a consistency normally reserved for places further north than here. It’s a brisk, calm pretty through the glass of my window. But it’s a mirage of what is real. The truth is a city with Thoreau’s quiet desperation. Bread, milk and eggs pilfered from every store shelf. The white canvas contrasts with the dirty, slushy gray of tire filth on asphalt. Crushed metal on metal resultant of ignorance that was not bliss; people simply have no concept of what it means to drive in imperfect conditions. It’s as if snow is a heavenly pharmaceutical- a dumb ass Viagra. Winter in Louisville is like this.

So just write something...

I started this blog as a means of renewing my lifelong interest in writing. I can recall doing little 2-4 page stories in 3rd grade while I waited for my classmates to complete assigned work. I was always swift with completing assignments; creative writing made for a quiet, still student to my teacher Mrs. Logan.

My love for writing continued through Junior High School but somewhere in the Sr. High days my skills laxed. I did not take the time to write anything more than what was assigned. Instead I would gladly sit alongside an older student named Brent Zirnheld as he developed his stories and novel ideas. I recall throwing out silly scenarios and character names for spoofs. But that was where it ended for me. When Brent graduated, the yearbook included his Senior will. Though I can not quote it completely, he said something along the lines of "I will to Jamie Davis the ability to use his writing and creative skill. You've got it buddy so use it." I was stunned and humbled. I proceeded to enroll in an Independant Study class my Senior Year - Creative Writing. I wrote nothing. I considered no viable ideas. I lost a bit of my skill and style. I ceased writing...

I ceased writing until late 1994. I was living in TN. I had dropped out of college and decided to learn how to live as an independent, strong-spined man. I was between jobs. And on the day after Christmas I sat in my apartment alone. It was chilly because I had to keep the furnace temperature down to maintain ease of bill payment. My roommates were actual students at the local university and would not return for another 10 days. It was just me, the TV and my thoughts. Jamie meet Depression. Depression this scrawny, bewildered little bitch is Jamie.

I picked up a journal that someone had gifted me in the previous years; it was empty. I was depressed. And the only thing on TV was Dead Poets' Society. Pen meet Paper. Depression can be incindiary. I discovered that my self loathing, disappointment, loneliness and pain made for some really powerful strings of words - poetry. I filled that journal and then I bought another. My mind became stronger; my confidence improved; I found gainful employment. My writing became less. The journals kept being purchased year on year. And the ink on the pages became less and less.

I have written increasingly less (for my own personal pleasure) in the last decade. I fell flat on butt in love. I married. I have been granted a wonderful life complete with support, affection, income. I feel warm inside and happy most every minute of every day. And I have no idea what to say or what to write. My skill is weakened; my poetic bursts are nearly extinct. The bursts are like the polar bear, giant panda and the manatee.

I recently promised Lisa a 5000 word composition on anything that I wanted. I made this promise in preparation for my trip to India in September. I carried home pages of little notes about my experiences while there. I noted little things about my colleagues with whom I traveled. I took pictures; I noted colors and smells. I have done nothing more.

This blog (all 12 entries though weeks and weeks have passed since it's creation) is my sole enterprise for creative outlet. Yet very little is ever presented that is genuinely creative. My blips of thought are typically pragmatic not creative. It's commentary and not witty prose. It's a reminder of what I am missing so dearly - a genuine creative bonfire.

Thanks Walker Lamond

Yesterday I was listening to Book radio on Sirius. I was not listening to the reading of any particular novel but rather to an interview with a throwback hipcat named Walker Lamond. He was discussing his book 1001 Rules for My Unborn Son. It is a hodge podge of little things that he finds to be important, simple, endearing. It's a message for his lil' boy on how to be be a boy and how to be a good man. I found it to be both an entertaining interview and enlightening.

The book (I learned) is a collection of good advice, great quotes, photos and sincere humor. It started as a blog and became a hardback complete with vintage cover art.

Rules offered included things on appearance like "hem all your pants by 2 inches so they actually fit properly" and "wear a sports coat at the airport for an easier experience." Very true rules though the majority of us either do not know them or more frankly do not care. Our generation is the business casual generation after all. Walker also presents more social rules like "Don't ask where someone got their eyeglasses" and "Sometimes your best bet is to bet on her." Sound advice on all counts.

So what brings me to this blog entry besides unoriginality? The answer to that is honestly very little. The interview included a portion wherein Mr. Lamond admitted that he gets a lot of hate mail from California because his rules indicate faux pas that are perfectly acceptable there. Walker is a NYC resident; he admitted in the interview very proudly that he is a Northeasterner. I thought on that comment and concluded that some rules are universal and some may be environmentally-influenced. The universal ones are even subject to the eye of the beholder.

So here are a few of my own. I think some are universal; some are Southern. And some are bullshi- (or they may be to you):

• Be eclectic. Culture, music, film and literature are diverse and beautiful.
• Memorize, embrace and love the poem If by Rudyard Kipling.
• Don't wear a kilt to dinner.
• Learn to defend yourself.
• Read.
• Iced Tea is always in season.
• Play Chess.
• You never get too old to look at the toy aisles in any store.
• Learn to dance (it might be the only thing that gets you laid).
• Question everything respectfully but still question.
• Listen to Frank Sinatra, REM, The Temptations, VAN MORRISON and Mozart.
• Spend money on great food and drink.
• Real men say "I love you"
• Don't be a douchebag.

If you want to know more about Walker Lamond he is on Twitter (rules_unbornson), Facebook and his website is http://www.rulesformyunbornson.com/.

Cheers.

Haggis New Year!

On New Year's Eve, my beloved wife and me decided that we would have a nice meal and then retire to our neighbour's home for a quiet, WII-filled celebration. It was low-key and easy compared to the more exciting days of youth. But at this point it's a perfectly acceptable option for toasting away the decade that was the single digits.

We failed to make a reservation for dinner at any of the finer restaurants in town. So after some banter we decided to venture across the city to an Italian chain restaurant that serves a fine steak for the money- Carraba's Italian Grill. For anyone who has not tried the Filet or Sirloin, do it. It's a great, great meal in spite of not being a traditional steakhouse. And better than some steak house steaks in my humble opinion. I digress.

Anyway our drive to the restaurant was fine; there was minimal traffic given that it was the 6 o'clock hour. The restaurant had a crowd but the wait was not ridiculous. So we took a seat in the lobby alongside a few other parties and the usual waiting game began. This is where my New Year's Eve ceased being like any other. The waiting game shifted to something very different- it became peachy, wrinkled.

A woman walked into the restaurant; she was in black garb complete with a purse covered in skulls and crossbones. Her dark hair was short and appeared to be colored even darker black than what was probably a nice auburn or brunette color. She was a good-sized lady who clearly embraced her plus-sized frame. A moment later she was joined by a man who was at least 6 feet tall and somewhere in the territory of 275lb (perhaps even a 300 pounder); Lisa remarked that he looked like a wrestler. He had a bald head and a red goatee. His appearance matched his partner's in pride and volume. This was a huge dude - a huge dude in black boots, black coat and a pride-plaided kilt! Lisa remarked that they were probably going to have a nice Italian meal before enjoying the New Year at O'Shea's or some other pub in town. A likely plan in my opinion- an evening that I am certain I too would enjoy.

We watched quietly observing. They talked for minute or two whilst others waited to be seated until two seats opened on the bench opposite us. Like a true gentleman he motioned to the seats and his lady walked to take a seat with him following. She sat. And then he stepped to her left, turned around to face us and sat straight down. He sat like a strong man- a man with real posture. He sat like a man wearing a pair of pants. But he wasn't. No he was not wearing pants. He was wearing a kilt. A kilt that clearly fit him far better at 240 pounds. The man skirt rose with the straightness of his spine and underneath there was no thong or tighty whities. Nope. The noble Scot was a traditional lad. And his red-headed, wrinkly ballsack greeted the Davis family. Lisa's head snapped to the right with whiplash speed. My eyes diverted like Chandler Bing in a familiar Friends episode. The only difference being that shift of focus apparently came with an involuntary vocal response.

"Ohhmahgoodness..."

It was apparently loud enough for them to hear because out of the corner of my eye I saw his position change complete with a hand on his no longer bare lap. The goth, big girl seemed to go a tad pink under her powdered cheeks. Lisa was silent. I was mute. And no one dared to make eye contact with anyone. The damage was done. We had seen his scrotum. His Andre Haggisie. The only saving grace was that the sausage did not appear with the potatoes.

Shortly thereafter a young blonde girl greeted us with menus and took us to our meal. We walked directly past the couple still not looking at one another. The couple eventually took their seats a few tables from us. And he faced the other direction. Thank goodness.

Needless to say, we had our steak for New Year's Eve dinner. But we had some haggis first.

Cheers!