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

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...

People have been asking questions about my books, and I think that's great! A common theme seems to be about how much and how often I write. The reality is that I write all the time. Always have. I usually have a notebook or some bit of paper nearby, just in case. This doesn't mean it always turns into something - but sometimes it does. The bigger question, I think, is that I've started to publish a lot. 3 books in 3 months seems prolific to some folks. The reality is simple. I have a backlog. In all honesty, this makes it difficult for me to move forward. It's just how I've always been. When The Rowdy Bovines split up and I formed The Tremblers, people were surprised at how many 'new' songs I'd already written. The songs weren't 'new' to me. I'd been writing them all along. I had to do something  with them. So - new band.  My books function along the same lines.  One thing I enjoy is working on the covers. I'm no great artist by any ...

I was moving files to my external drive the other day (as one does) and noticed that I've written an insane number of short stories. If you've read BODIES or LITTLE GUY , you get the idea. In fact, I have yet another collection coming next month (stay tuned for details).  What struck me was the sheer number of stories. So, as I'm prone to testing my theories, after wondering what an Unabridged Metzger Collection might look like, I moved a large number into Libre (my software of choice) and formatted them like a book. Mind you, this wasn't ALL of my shorts, prose, etc... just the bulk I had at hand. HOLY LOGOPHILIA BATMAN!!!!!!!!! If I were to publish this as a standard hardcover book, it would be over 1000 pages - not counting table of contents, foreword, glossary, etc. That's a lot of scribbles!  Just because, as most of yinz already know, I have a weird sense of humor - I'm almost tempted to publish a handful of copies and just leave them in those little free ...