The Real Memphis Mike (don't settle for imitations)

Inspiration can come from the most unexpected situations. - MCM Everyone in town knew Wynn Rainey, but no one really knew Wynn Rainey. Even today, in and around Downey Bluff, the Rainey name will get folks to talking. As far away as Norwich, people still remember him. Everyone has a story, and more importantly, an opinion. Depending on who you talk to, some will say Wynn Rainey was a man of means. The Wenberg family, who owned and ran the local savings and loan, did a lot of business with him, if stories are to be believed. Oddly enough, there never seemed to be an active account in his name. The same people who told these tales were the same ones who’d tell you that assets are better than cash. Wynn Rainey always seemed to have the latter. Usually at least a pocketful. Some would tell you he was loose as a goose with his money. Some would tell you he could squeeze ten cents out of a buffalo nickel’s ass. Lots of the old timers will share stories of Rainey paying everyone’s tab at...

I thought up a darkly comic spoof and thought it might be fun to share with my writer friends. Nothing serious (unless you want to it to be).  A working knowledge of Margaret Atwood's HANDMAID'S TALE and/or THE TESTAMENTS will be useful. If you've only seen the television adaption, fine. Have at it.  The Premise : Something resembling a zombie apocalypse has begun in Gilead. The dead are rising, seemingly in fulfillment of 1 Thessalonians 4:16: “the dead in Christ shall rise first.” They have returned to claim their new bodies. Everything else is up to the writer. Then the rules: 1. NO ROMERO SILLYNESS.   No automatic headshots, brain destruction, shambling hordes, “one bite and you're infected,” or other inherited zombie rules. If your dead have rules, invent them. 2. The dead are not necessarily zombies.  Characters may call them zombies because that's the cultural reference available to them. The writer should never assume that diagnosis is correct. 3. 1 Thessalo...

Seven bottles of booze collecting dust on the liquor cabinet; each filled with varying quantities. One bottle of his favorite bourbon stood unopened.  What was he waiting for? And better still, why did he feel the need to notice them at all? The contents contained different keys that unlocked different memories. The vodka reminded him of his ex-father-in-law. The gin reminded him of a lost love. The rum reminded him of numerous youthful hangovers. The homemade wine reminded him of his old hometown. The Southern Comfort reminded him of a cheap hotel in Chicago - the night he shattered her  heart into a thousand pieces. The flavored, blended whiskey - a gift from friends. He'd probably never drink it. But the bourbon? The good stuff! For years it fueled his writing. When he still wrote a regular column, conducted interviews with notable figures, and was read by thousands every month, he would often finish half a bottle while typing the day away - and he never felt it.  Then...

 It smelled like rotting meat. The bite was starting to hurt like a sonofabitch. The kid that bit him couldn't have been more than twelve but looked practically feral. How long had it been since the attacks began; the bombs, the guns, the bioweapons? Six months? A year? Longer? Time no longer held the same meaning. Back then, time was measured by plans and productivity. Now it was a matter of survival. Make it one more day, another hour, another minute. Planning was impossible. The only plan was STAY ALIVE. The world had been reduced to what you could see in front of you.  In the best of times, a human mouth was a disgusting thing. Even the most hygienic smile harbored bacteria. He remembered when he was a kid, being told that a dog's mouth was cleaner. God only knows what came with the bite he received.  If there were any doctors left alive, they were stuck in the same hell he was. Poisoned air, poisoned water, dead bodies, and rubble. The weeds did their best to reclaim...

We went to a picnic over the weekend. This is nothing new. I've gone to this same picnic almost every year for the past 20+ years. It's always a good time. It's all about community, social acceptance, and all of that so-called WOKE stuff.  I enjoy a good nap as much as anyone, but this ridiculous "woke" concept is really nothing more than what used to be called "decency". I'm old enough to remember that certain things weren't discussed in polite conversation; politics, religion, dubious social opinions, etc. It always made sense to me.  Humor, like languages and social norms, evolves. That said, if I'm around people I don't know well I tend to keep my joking PG13. It doesn't always work. If you're a regular reader of my blog, you know my sense of humor. It can be dark Dark DARK. I'm lucky to be married to a woman whose sense of humor is every bit as dark.  We met a young person - probably in their 20s - at the picnic, and this...

I can neither confirm nor deny the facts of this tale. Not only was alcohol involved, but it was also an integral part of the story. Not merely a few drinks - but an epic drinking session based on national pride.  Simply put, could a visiting Yank outdrink an Australian? As the Seppo in question, I'll say - with as much honesty and humility as I can muster or recall - it was a tie. Traveling isn't rare. Millions do it every year. Some for business, some for pleasure. That's why the bored-looking customs agent always asks the nature of one's visit. Stats must be compiled! There's profit to be had! I would wager that most who travel for pleasure miss out on the realities of the places they visit. Most visit the tourist sites. Even in the US, few will venture far off the main roads to enjoy the hidden treasures. When in doubt, ask a local where the best place is to get a sandwich. But I digress. In 2003, I made my first visit to Australia. The flight is hellish, no mat...