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

He sneezed so hard that he was almost sure a piece of his frontal lobe shot out of his nose.   This wasn't the first time he'd felt like this. A lifetime of seasonal allergies, head colds, sinus infections, and various flu bugs had prepared him for such eventualities. His first trip to London had culminated in an allergy attack, the likes of which he'd been unprepared for. Plane trees. His reaction to the pollen had been swift and brutal. What should have been one of the most fun trips of his life was spent in a tiny, rigid bed in a single room at the Dolphin Hotel. Nothing he'd picked up at the local chemist did much good, so he toughed it out the best way he knew how. Rest, fluids, and lots of tissues.  In the twenty years since, he was never unprepared. With age, his allergies grew worse - yet somehow, the sinus infections eventually vanished.  It seemed his wife had taken on that particular infirmity. So severe were her sinus infections, she eventually had to hav...

A friend of mine recently posted on social media about the perceived evils of musicians/bands/etc. using "generative AI" to create their "art / fliers/ visual promo material". He attempted to make the point that folks should be "hiring and supporting friends of theirs who provide that service". Let me be clear: I get his point. But (and there's almost always another POV)... This isn't the first time I've heard this complaint. A friend - who happens to be the proprietor of a small venue - made the same complaint last year. We had a good conversation about the subject of AI. He admitted at the time that he uses it - but for different things. I've noticed that in the time since the conversation, he and his venue often feature 'art' generated by AI. My friend's recent post added the complaints about data centers and humans losing their jobs. Welcome to capitalism. Like it or not, it's what our country bases itself on. (quick not...

The Bible was always clear on the subject: the dead would rise again.  Thessalonians, Corinthians, Isaiah, John, Revelation - they all foretold it happening. Even the Torah and Quran gave fair warning.  I guess no one took the advice too seriously. Most folks just preferred quoting the parts that felt personal. Scripture has long been used in attempts to justify our inhumanity toward one another. But then it happened. Evans City, Pennsylvania was a small town of fewer than 2,000 people. Another 4,500 lay buried in its cemetery. It was the latter figure which presented the initial problem. No preacher shouted, " the dead in Christ shall rise! " There was no warning at all. Scripture had always been clear on that too. One by one, the dead did rise. And they were angry. Imagine resting peacefully, presumably for eternity, and something wakes you. Not unlike disturbing an afternoon nap, they rose groggy, confused, and downright pissed off. And they were hungry too. Maybe they gue...

There is, among the older settlements north and east of Pittsburgh, a class of stories which sensible men ordinarily dismiss as the natural offspring of isolation, excessive winter weather, and the habitual exaggeration of country people. These tales persist nevertheless. They cling to the valleys the way mist clings to the hillsides. One hears them in fragments beside potbellied stoves, in the back corners of feed stores, in hunting camps after midnight, and occasionally from old women who lower their voices without altogether realizing they have done so. The subjects vary. Certain ridges are avoided. Certain hollows are said to “carry sound wrong.” There are roads where livestock refuse to pass after dark. And in the deeper Pennsylvania country, where the fog settles low and stubborn among the hills, there remain whispers of a people once known as - though never openly discussed -    the Shim-O-Mites. I first encountered mention of them during the winter of 1856 while t...

There’s old folks up through the hills of Pennsylvania who’ll tell you, plain as day, not to whistle after dark. Most young people laugh at it now, of course. They laugh at haints too, right up until some lonely night when the woods start sounding a little too alive. But the old folks always knew better. My gran used to tell us this story whenever the evenings got still and the thrushes, warblers, and whippoorwills started up beyond the fields. She’d sit out back with her old pipe, rocking slow, the tobacco glowing red in the dark while us kids huddled around trying to act brave. “Don’t you kids go whistlin’ after sundown,” she’d say. “Ain’t nothing in them woods meant to answer back.” Then she’d tell about Elias Griggs. This would’ve been a long time before I was born, back when there were still logging camps scattered through the hills and whole stretches of mountain where a body could walk half a day without seeing another soul. Elias Griggs lived alone in a little cabin near the ti...

He had a head full of demons - and they always had questions. “WHY?” was the loudest. Why did he do that? Why didn’t he do that? Then came the endless parade of shoulda-coulda-wouldas. How and When appeared less often. The devil, he suspected, wasn’t nearly as interested in details as people liked to believe. Only if they served his twisted purpose. He’d noticed a behavior pattern emerging among his aging contemporaries. A desperate need to relive the same dreams they’d spent entire lifetimes chasing. They were all old men now, though some refused to accept it. Maybe they’d simply avoided the physical cruelties of time. Maybe they were more stubborn than he was. Or maybe they were too damned blind to see the world in front of them. His own relevance had risen, dwindled, and changed shape more times than he could count. Most days he just wanted a nap. Another cup of coffee usually sufficed. He didn’t miss the hangovers, though he occasionally missed the feeling that induced them - that ...