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

He gathered up his books then set them all on fire.  Leather bindings curled like dying hands. Gold-lettered promises blackened and split. The words of prophets, kings, apostles, and madmen rose together in the smoke as though heaven itself had finally exhaled. He burned every righteous word in one last righteous twist of fate. Had the words lost their meaning? Or had mankind simply outgrown the burden of truth? Truth had become unfashionable. An antique thing. A cracked photograph in a junk drawer. It had been traded away for bumper sticker theology, for slogans screamed through flickering screens, for easy little lies soft enough to swallow whole. No one wanted weight anymore. No one wanted consequence. Every phrase was disposable. Every conviction rented by the hour like a whore in a motel room on a forgotten highway. The world no longer spoke of commandments. It communicated in advertisements. He stood silent as Zechariah while each syllable ignited. Paper peeled inward like sk...

It's finally happening. My first book!  BODIES OK, I did an audiobook once - but that was years ago, and I did it (mostly) for a friend of mine. She was moving from one part of Australia to another, and wanted something to listen to on the plane. If you've been playing along on the home version, you know what life has been like for me the past few years. 2021 = 2 strokes. Lost my job, income, had to relearn how to play guitar, etc. Blah, blah, blah, wah, wah, wah. Life is rarely how we expect it.  Years back, I was inspired by the words of a Holocaust survivor, Alice Herz-Sommer. A hundred and some years old, and ridiculously positive. Still played piano every day. After all of the evil shit life had thrown at her, she managed to get out of bed every day and not be mean. Her philosophy was simple.  Everything is a gift. While a lot of life is unpleasant, that doesn't mean we can't learn something from it and come out better for it. At least that's what I learned. S...

Especially in America, a seemingly unattainable standard of beauty had long been pushed by corporate interests. The goal had always been the same: sell more products and generate an ever-increasing profit margin. People were, by and large, lazy. A healthy diet and exercise would most likely bring the desired results, but that took time, dedication, patience, and hard work. Worse still, there was no guarantee of a bikini body in time for summer. Other methods, however, were always available for those willing to pay a premium. Over the years, everything from fad diets to self-help books to appetite suppressants had been marketed as the latest breakthrough in the battle of the bulge. Most did little more than leave the buyer a pound heavier and appreciably less financially healthy. Then came GLP-1s. Originally intended for patients with Type 2 diabetes, glucagon-like peptide-1 drugs had an interesting side effect: dramatic weight loss. The public immediately lost its collective mind. The ...

She never bothered to tell me how drastic the temperature difference would be. If she had, I would've refused to go.  It was the mid 1990s, and winter time still meant sub zero temperatures and snow for at least a few months out of the year. I took some vacation time and flew to Arizona to get away from the cold. I guess she forgot. The night before my flight, I went to see Sleepy LaBeef play at The Decade in Oakland. As bars go, it was always an interesting joint. Three adjoining rooms, none of which were particularly spacious, with bars in the front and back rooms, and the stage in the middle room. Sleepy looked ginormous on that stage. At 6'6, he was anyway.  Needless to say, I woke up with a hangover and didn't give a damn. It was a cold, gray, snowy morning. This was before 9-11, so I didn't have to arrive hours before my flight. I probably never would have made it. I clearly remember watching them de-ice the wings and thinking it was a particularly shitty day to d...

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...

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...

He'd been trapped in his house for five years.  Not imprisoned exactly. No court had ordered it. No chains held him there. His own body had simply staged a quiet rebellion and won. A series of health problems had reduced his world to a few safe pathways through a three-bedroom house in a respectable neighborhood with a respectable yard. He had once traveled the world. He had stood on foreign streets where he could not read the signs or understand the language, and somehow had felt less lost there than he did now standing at the bottom of his own staircase. The stairs terrified him. They waited every morning like a dare. Go ahead, old man. Climb. One wrong step and they would finish what time had started. So his life became measured in reachable things. The bathroom. The kitchen. The chair beside the window. The distance from the couch to the front door on bad days. The slow geography of decline. His wife still worked. Still moved through the world with purpose. They loved each othe...

Sometimes old stories become songs. Sometimes it's the other way 'round. - MM The grass out back needed cut something fierce. Following the heavy afternoon rain, the whole yard shimmered in the early evening sun like diamonds had somehow taken root in the dirt and grass alike. Steam rose from the fields beyond the house. The air smelled of wet earth, fish grease, and mildew. Inside, the baby just would not stop crying. Eddie sat slumped at the kitchen table while Mama had just started frying bluegill in an iron skillet blackened by thirty years of suppers. He looked bad. Worse than he had in a good while. His hair hung damp against his forehead and there were dark half-moons beneath his eyes. His shirt was streaked with mud up to the elbows. He kept rubbing at his temples like he was trying to press the pain out through his skull. “Can Mary fry some fish, Mama?” he muttered weakly. “I’m as hungry as can be.” “I’m already fixin’ it,” Mama answered softly. Eddie lowered his head...

It started when he was 15. Pieces of her to play with...it didn't sound like the worst idea. Probably wasn't his best. His teachers would have told you the same, had anyone bothered to ask. Knives to filet and carve with. Cleavers. Hell, machetes, hatchets, axes, all in the shed and as handy as a sword. His mind was on which pieces and the best possible game.  It should have just been a simple play on words, but it turned into a lifelong addiction. Words and ideas came quick then - much quicker than now. His beat,  his attack...all slower than before. Even the fire burns more sluggishly now.  He'd be the first to tell you - the idea came from movies. Such bad, bad movies. Poorly written, and filmed for budget audiences; the types that frequented the drive-in picture shows on a Tuesday night with a case of Hamm's in the back seat. He noticed the audiences loved every moment, predictable as it was. A group of friends. Some pretty teens. Lack of supervision. Cigarettes, re...

 Aging sucks. He found that out the hard way.  The beer and liquor no longer flowed. The pills didn't do the trick anymore. A lifetime of crafting tales that thrilled a generation - gone. The well ran dry.  It's the fear of every writer. What happens when the ideas stop coming? No mere 'writer's block' - the reality outside his door was more terrifying than any fictional fear or foe he could cobble together from his own neuroses and phobias.  The government had come clean. It didn't give a damn about the people, the laws, or anything else it was supposed to. It came down to two things: money and power. Enough of either one assured the other. The people could live or die, it didn't matter. There would always be someone to take their place. Someone who had no choice, no say.  The Constitution had all but been abolished. Decades of embedding partisan plants in the judiciary had guaranteed it. The media, before it was forced into piracy, claimed that it all happ...

Teddy was already there. He usually was. Same stool. Same posture. Same way of sitting like he might have to get up fast - like he didn’t fully trust being comfortable. Bob didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. They were going through their daily routines. The bell over the door jingled. Teddy clocked it without turning. Habit. You always look. You just don’t always look . He knew who it was. He always knew. “…hey,” he said, not turning around. Marshmallow slid onto a stool. Not next to him. Not far either. “Hey, Teddy.” That was it. That was how they did it. Teddy nodded like that was enough conversation to last a while. He picked at a napkin. Folded it. Unfolded it. Put it back. Bob greeted Marshmallow as he moved. “Hey, Mellow.” He set Teddy’s plate down. “One burger of the day,” he muttered. Then, a beat later, another plate a couple stools over. “Made extra,” he said. “Don’t make me explain it.” Marshmallow looked at it. “Thank you, Bob.” He shrugged like it anno...