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

Just a big ol' WOW and Thank Ye Kindly! My 1st book (BODIES) is actually selling!  Publicly releasing an original work - whether it be a book, music, film, whatever - is somewhat nerve-racking. A person takes the time to create something - something that means something to them (which doesn't mean it's of any value to anyone else) - and they release it into the wild. I've heard it compared to a parent watching their child go out into the world on their own. I was always lucky, musically. I had enough of a reputation that some folks were, at least, interested in what I recorded. This guaranteed a few sales. In all honesty, some releases sold really well, some not so much. But I made them. They held their own. But a book? From ME? Why would anyone stop to give it even a cursory look? Is it the greatest collection of words ever committed to paper? Probably not. I won't even say it's the best I've ever written. But there are definitely some gems in there that I...

 This is less an excerpt than a stand-alone piece. If you haven't read A VERY TEDDY TUESDAY , I'd suggest it. Otherwise, you'll have no clue who Teddy is, where, and why.  On that note, here we go! Teddy was pretty sure that didn't belong there , but he was no expert on humans or their anatomy, biology, or mating habits. What he was seeing just felt off  to him.  Humans are, as he'd often noticed, an oversized, confusing mess of sights, smells, and sounds. He was pretty sure they didn't hear well either, as he had attempted to greet them on occasion. His goal had been civility, not deep conversation. I mean really, he was pretty sure their overall intelligence was questionable at best. But, trying to be a good neighbor, Teddy had, on occasion, chittered a pleasant greeting upon seeing a familiar human. The response? Nothing. Oh wait, sometimes they screamed. Maybe that was their greeting reserved for special encounters. He'd heard it before in the house. He ...

 My 1st print book now exists. What a strange way to put it. I've always enjoyed writing, even when I was a kid and it wasn't cool . Honestly, I never thought I'd do anything with it. It was just another outlet for all of the ideas banging around in my head. For decades, a lot of these thoughts became songs. Now I've returned to the simplicity of words. I write because I enjoy telling stories - pretty much the same with songwriting. The only difference is that now I don't have to go on a stage or into a recording studio. There I days I miss both, but who knows...maybe one day I'll do it all again. Writers write for different reasons. Some for acclaim or notoriety. Some for profit. Same as with music, painting, sculpting, acting - I think those goals are a matter of seeking validation. But for what? Doing what you enjoy is validation enough. For years I've written this blog. In some ways, it's the perfect medium for me. I do it, it's done, published, ...

My dad was difficult. I can't say we ever had a great relationship, but not for lack of trying. We saw in each other the parts of ourselves we didn't like - or just didn't know how to handle. Contrary to popular myth, dad wasn't a saint. He could be a sonofabitch. His own mother, who loved him dearly, would tell you the same thing. She often just didn't understand him. Sure, he saved a lot of people's lives, and kept many more going well past their sell-by date - but he wasn't a saint. Really, none of us are.  My dad was short-tempered. He could be violent. He was a typical only child and product of his time. He grew up in a very working-class household and strived for what he considered a better life. How that translated to moving to Steubenville, OH I'll never understand.  Actually, I do - but that's a conversation for a different time. As it's Father's Day, allow me to focus on dad's good side. He could never be accused of not being ha...

 I told myself I wouldn't do this. I didn't want to share any part of the new book yet. But - I'm enjoying it too much, and that feels selfish. Lord knows I don't write for any reason other than to share stories, so I edited a few bits down to this little excerpt. You might like it. Might not. Might think WTF?! Might ignore it all together. No matter what you think, or if you even read it at all, I'm enjoying writing it. Those who know me won't be surprised. Yet. - MCM 6/20/26 Mid-afternoon sun spilled through a dirty window, cutting across the living room in long golden beams. Dust drifted lazily through the light. Teddy the cockroach made his way up a dusty work boot. The boot had been there longer than anyone could remember. So had the body beside it. The humans who once occupied the old house were long gone. Their furniture remained. Their toys remained. Their guns remained. Even some of the humans themselves remained, though mostly as bones and geography. T...

I might not be posting much for a while. Allow me to explain... As a writer, I have on occasion had to stop and ask myself, "Good Lord, what have I created?" I'm currently having one of those moments. About 24 hours ago, I started toying with a story idea. It began with the premise of 'any given Tuesday'. Let's face it, outside of politics, Tuesdays are rarely exciting. The Monday blahs are over, the workweek has begun in earnest for most, and the clock is ticking away 'til the weekend. This was all well and good, until I started adding different elements to the thought of 'any given Tuesday'. That's when I let the weirdness in. I would, if I honestly thought I could , give you an idea of the basic story - but I can't. It's weird. It's complex. It's multiple perspectives of singular events. Overall, it's a challenging exercise in determining identity. There. I've made it sound even weirder and undigestible than is necess...

  I hosted a radio show for a while called It's About To Get Interesting! on Music From the 412 Radio here in Pittsburgh. It streamed all over the US, UK, and Canada, and the really crafty listeners were able to stream it as far away as Australia and Singapore! One of my favorite episodes was when I not only introduced the listeners to all sorts of 'East Bloc' rock & roll, punk rock, pop, etc., but got to interview my friends Abagar Quartet from Bulgaria!  For the next year or so, I heard from a lot of listeners who really enjoyed the show. I decided to do a second episode of it! I was looking for something to listen to while working on some home projects today, and I found the links for both shows, so here ya go! Just in time for the weekend, and the World Cup (for those who enjoy that sort of running around stuff).  There's great music out there, sometimes you just have to go looking for it!  STAY MOIST CITIZENS! click for this episode click for this episode

 I can now add Published Author to my CV.  If you're reading this, you already know I write. A lot. Always have. Probably always will.  For years, many have suggested I write a book - erm, perhaps those folks missed my audiobook .  In the past year or so, I've written a full-length novel (Tales From Americatown), and roughly four collections of short stories. So, what to do with them? I've found the publishing world to be as awful as the music industry. I've had conversations with a number of literary agents, as well a few small publishers. Color me uninterested. The next reasonable step was to look into self-publishing.  I have a few friends who have gone this route, to varying degrees of success. Mind you, we each get to define success our own way. To me, success is finishing a story (or a song, album, performance). These friends have freely given tips and pointers, and for that I'm eternally grateful. After looking through different methods of self-publishing...

Some books start but opt for a timeout before they're finished. This is an excerpt from one such book. - MM Yumi adjusted the microphone. Said something in Japanese. A few people nodded. Someone clapped once. And then - They began. Daniel didn’t know the song. Didn’t need to. It wasn’t about recognition - it was about feel. Something old. Maybe. Or something that just sounded old. There was space in it. Restraint. Notes that didn’t rush to be heard. Vince leaned in. “…okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah.” Yumi’s voice carried without pushing. Clear. Controlled. Effortless in a way that made effort feel unnecessary. Daniel glanced at Hiroshi. He wasn’t talking. Wasn’t smiling. Just watching. By the second song, the room had settled into it completely. Not applause-heavy. Not loud. Just - Present. “Good, yeah?” Hiroshi said quietly. Daniel nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Very.” Vince raised his glass slightly toward the stage. “Okay, Hiroshi,” he said. “You didn’t mention this.” Hiroshi shrugged...

Another day. The same aches and pains. When asked by the nurse, his answer is always 'just the usual'. The young nurse tries her best to inform him that most people aren't in pain. He reminds her that most people lie. Once we hit a certain age, some pain is to be expected. Sore feet. Sore back. For others, it's the knees, hands, hips and shoulders. For him, it's all of the above and more.  Fifty years of an autoimmune disorder plays hell on a body - but it's really all he's ever known. A truly pain-free day would be a disturbing surprise for him. He probably wouldn't know how to react.  Sure, some days are better. Some are worse. But most days the pain is just there. Bad enough to let its presence be known, yet not so bad as to incapacitate him. This wasn't one of those days.  The pain had been worse the past few days. He wasn't sleeping - and that always exacerbated it. Such was the constant battle waging in his body. It's how life had been ...

Maybe I'll finish the story...one of these days. - MM The cigar shop, the coffee shop, and the butcher shop were three of the places The Kid visited most often. Every now and then one of his uncles would send him to an old-man bar or a social club, though only during the daytime. Uncle Paul was adamant about that. "You don't need to be hanging around those places at night," he'd tell him. "That's when things get too wild." One afternoon, Uncle Paul told him to meet him after school at a particular social club a few blocks away. The Kid figured he was being sent to pick up an envelope or deliver a message. It was no different than any of the other errands he ran. He arrived a little earlier than expected. The main room was nearly empty. Not seeing Uncle Paul anywhere, he wandered toward the banquet rooms in the back. Voices drifted from one of them. One voice sounded familiar. Uncle Paul. And he sounded angry. The Kid followed the noise and stepped th...

The photo was old and scratched up. It looked like it had been handled and mishandled for years, and it probably had. Passed from hand to hand, tucked into scrapbooks, displayed in frames, stuffed into drawers, and rescued again. It had been looked at thousands of times. It was still his favorite. It wasn't historically important. Just a photograph of friends sitting in someone's back garden, sharing a few laughs and a few cold beers. The image was every bit as grainy as the memories attached to it. The colors had faded with age, drifting toward reds and yellows. Time had left its fingerprints everywhere. He was the only one left in the photograph. When his time came, would anyone remember those old glory days? Those years when importance itself seemed unimportant. When photographs weren't taken to prove anything, advertise anything, or preserve a carefully crafted image. They were taken simply because someone thought a moment was worth keeping. There was no guarantee the p...

 'Twas the Fourth of July when the thunder rolled in,  Not from heaven above but from bombers and men. The flags still hung proudly from porches and rails, But the smoke hid the sun and the screams drowned the bells. The papers all told us there'd be nothing to fear, That the gunfire was distant, not something we'd hear. But the rent had come due on the farms and the towns, And the men who had sold us had skipped out of town. Oh the mountains they trembled, And the rivers ran red, While the ghosts of old soldiers Turned uneasy in death. For the country they'd fought for Wasn't dying in war It had been sold out for profit Less than two years before. Well the leader appeared on the television screen, With his practiced cold smile and his old face scrubbed clean. He said, "It's a hoax," and he boarded his plane, But a bullet soon settled what remained of his reign. Then the columns came marching through valley and field, With their rifles held high and no...