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

Здравейте, приятели! Ето за вас още една зле преведена история, мое дело. Идеална за сезона на Хелоуин! Приятно четене! - MM Беше му студено. Това поне знаеше със сигурност. Мускулите му бяха схванати, сякаш бе спал накриво върху неудобна повърхност. Главата леко го болеше. Бавно отвори очи. Докато зрението му се опитваше да привикне към сумрака, в ума му изплува една-единствена мисъл. „Къде, по дяволите, се намирам?“ Първото, което забеляза, беше таванът. Пожълтяла мазилка, напукана на няколко места, с тъмнокафяво петно, разпростряло се от мястото, където някога вероятно е имало лампа. От дупка близо до средата висеше късо парче електрически кабел. Лежеше върху гол дървен под. Дъските студенееха под гърба му, а във въздуха се носеше слаб мирис на влажно дърво и стар прах. Под него се долавяше и друга миризма, едва забележима, но несъмнена. Застоялата, землиста миризма на нещо, останало затворено много, много дълго. Бавно се подпря на лакът. Стаята беше малка, може би три на четири мет...

He gave his life away. Most people thought he was nuts, but no one ever said he was stupid. His own family knew he was different and just didn't view the world around him the same as others. He simply wasn't interested in the status quo.  He'd been homeless. It didn't bother him. He'd been wealthy. That did bother him. He dropped out of university after growing tired of arguing with professors - and winning. He didn't see the point in spending money for that particular piece of paper. He figured art was a better investment. He inherited a house. It became his prison. A life sentence. His family figured they would be able to keep an eye on him this way. Only one problem; he was rarely home. He was busy giving his life away. Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. Whoever needed him, his talents or his time - he was there for the asking. He was usually surrounded by the mentally ill, the homeless, or characters considered unsavory by most decent people; pimps,...

Anyone who knows me in any way knows my stance on so-called "tribute acts". They're bullshit. I, like any working musician, have played other people's music. It's kinda how being a working musician operates. My classically trained musician friends routinely perform the works of the great composers; Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, etc. Anyone who's played in a bar band in the past 60 years has probably played at least one song by The Rolling Stones or Chuck Berry. Nothing wrong with that. Never has been. But at what point did folks switch from doing covers to paying "tribute" to another act, essentially creating entire commercial enterprises built around imitating the identity, appearance, sound, and presentation of established performers (aka FAMOUS BANDS)? OK, say you really, really like U2 ( I'm sure someone does ). You know that you're highly unlikely to reach their level of success. So, you do the next best thing: pretend you ARE them! Y...

A busted-up wheelchair  on cracked concrete. Just another day waiting for a call from St. Pete. Pants soiled. Eyes open. God won't take my calls. No coffee, no cigarettes. Just wondering where it all went wrong. A life of memories and too many regrets. I fought your damned war  along with all the other vets. The doctor told me I need pills but never said who'd pay the bill. Told I gotta work  by a guy in a suit who doesn't know the meaning of the word. Demons in my head. The Devil on my mind. Social media says AI will end mankind. What's left to lose? My eyes? My sight? My ears are ringing and have been all night. You gaze right past me. Just walk on by. Never a kind word. No Hello. No good-bye. The temperature is falling just not fast enough. The sun refuses  to let me give up. I push myself further my legs a mere joke. A mile in a day. I heard the Lord spoke - to dozens or hundreds or thousands or more. Yet no one was listening. They all locked their doors. Nothing...

I was watching a video posted by an online acquaintance from Siberia, and it brought back a memory that I find amusing.  My first wife was Russian. I don't mean her ancestors were from Russia. She was. Born and raised. To make matters more interesting, she grew up in the old Soviet Union. We had a lot of cultural differences to contend with, at every level. Those who might have been around us then will probably remember that she and I did not get along at all when we first met. In fact, within minutes of meeting each other, we got into a shouting match. It wasn't the last.  One day I saw her waiting for a bus as I drove by, going in the opposite direction. I honked and waved, trying to be polite and friendly. Later, she gave me hell for not turning around to offer her a ride. It wasn't like I might have had something more important to do - like work.  One night I ran into her at a party. Her presence made an already unbearable social situation worse, so I started making p...

It wasn't the first time he'd passed out in the old blue Adirondack chair in his yard. Over the years, his habit of drinking alone until the wee hours had grown from occasionally to usually . He'd reached the point in life when most of his friends were married, had families and lives, and heavy drinking just wasn't part of their world anymore. Being a bachelor and a man of singular habits, he'd merely accepted it. What woke him was the sensation of something cold and wet nuzzling his inner arm, followed by what felt like a surprisingly large tongue licking his hand. This was different. Without any great response, he looked down to see a bear cub licking his hand. He didn't move. He knew better than to scare a wild animal. He looked around and saw another cub rooting through a now presumably empty bag of Doritos.  His yard was lit only by the light above his garage and the dying embers of the fire pit. He noticed empty beer cans on the old picnic table. From the ...