Archive for the “Storytime” Category
It’s funny, the way things work.
A long, long time ago, Matticus the wise and powerful interviewed me as part of his series on getting to know other WoW bloggers better.
I was very flattered, and as long winded as you’ve come to expect, and what it turned into was my first storytime. One of his questions I just ran with and ran my mouth off with, and I had enough fun sharing that story that I decided to continue doing that off and on over the years.
These storytimes are pretty much a fire and forget missile. I send one off, and it’s in the past. I don’t think about them much anymore. I was there when it happened the first time, I was there when I wrote about it as a nostalgic tour, no sense going back to, like, read it, y’know?
All this to explain why I was surprised when Ganluin sent me an email to tell me the link I had on my blog to the interview over at World of Matticus was broken, and to give me the correct link.
My first thought was, “Matt still has that up there? Wow, I guess stuff on the internet really does linger on like the scent of a bad cheese.”
My second thought was, “Crap, I didn’t know anyone ever read those things anymore. That’s ancient history. Maybe I should, like, go back and spell check my shit.”
I fixed the link, but in following the link over to make sure it worked, I took the time to read the interview through.
I’m going to repost the story part down below, just to save it on my own site for posterity. I’m amazed it never occurred to me that I might like a copy of that someday. I’ve always thought of Matticus as living and blogging forever. He is an icon. An immortal, a living legend, the bringer of priestly fire. What if he were to fall? What if he got abducted by rabid wombats tomorrow? Wombats that needed the best healer in creation for a secret wombat mission?
What if, over the course of his quest, Matticus was overcome with mad wombat lust and chose to make his life among them, his new wom-batty people, and never returned?
What would become of his site then? What of my interview?
Reading through the interview, I realized on top of wanting a copy of the story, I had left out some key visuals that would have helped the picture I was painting.
I’m going to kill two Mogu with one swipe here, post the story bit from the interview, and include a few pictures afterwards that ought to make a key bit of the story a lot clearer.
From the interview with Matticus, my first storytime;
Your blog states that you served in the US Marines. You willing to share any good/humorous stories during your time there?
I assume that the statute of limitations still covers… yeah, okay, so those are out. Hold on, let me think. What can I say that wouldn’t incur legal fines or liability?
I’ll be nice and limit myself to a Marine story, and not include the subcategories of drinking, practical jokes, drinking, crazy physical stunts… oh, wait, that reminds me. Okay, I’ve got one. And I don’t think I can be arrested for anything in it.
So, I’m in the barracks with some friends, in the desert of Twenty-Nine Palms, California. And there are a bunch of us, and we’re bored, and it’s Saturday morning.
One of the guys has a car, which when you’re all PFCs or Lance Corporals, is a BIG thing. So someone suggests we get a shitload of alcohol, bundle some camping crap into the car, and head for Yucca Valley National Monument for some serious drinking and barbequeing, maybe stay over for the night.
Now, at the time I was the ringleader of our little clan, the resident Game Master of our gaming group. (Hell yes, Marines play role playing games. Best groups I’ve ever had in my entire life were with Jarheads. Intelligent men and women, tactically proficient and possessed of wondrous imaginations and low and evil cunning. God, I miss gaming in the service. Oh heck, where the hell was I? Oh, right.)
Right, I was the ringleader. And I usually organized games on the weekend, followed by everyone drinking, listening to Dr. Demento, and then having a steak and lobster tail barbeque in the beer garden outside. Beer garden? Don’t ask.
So I get us all organized, sort out who is going to bring what, then we hit the package store (where you buy your alcohol on base) and off we go out into the High Desert.
And we drive for miles, and miles, and miles. When we finally approach a likely looking campsite near some particularly fine rock formations, we are waaaaay out there.
As the car rolls up to where we’re gonna park, the engine makes some knocking noises… and then with a loud bang! we watch the hood of the car lift up with the force of a massive blow. The car stops. And I mean, right then and there.
So, we look at each other in the back seat, and then we look at the owner of the car. With a deadpan emotionless tone of voice, I say, “Engine threw a rod, Mark.”
He says, equally emotionlessly, “Yep. Looks that way.”
I say, “It’s a hell of a long walk back to the main road, man.”
He says, “Yep.”
I tell him, “Better carry a case with you when you go. And carry a bag. No littering in Yucca.”
He says, “Yep. Damn it.”
So off he went, with a case of wine coolers, to go flag down a ranger. Which he did, eventually.
In the meantime, heck, we had food, alcohol, and lots of free time. This was years before cell phones, so nobody had any way of getting the word out but by walking. Fortunately, it was Saturday, so we had two days to figure out how to get back to base before we’d be missing a movement, namely Monday morning formation. No worries.
Well, at the time I fancied myself a fair free rock climber. I went out fairly often, and enjoyed taking a camera with me to take shots from “How the hell did you get there” angles. I didn’t have any gear with me, but some of the rocks out there were pretty easy grades for a novice. I left the other guys to their drinking, and headed into the rocks.
So I went on in a little valley twixt the steep walls of rock, picked an approach, and started climbing. And the rock out there is nice, there are frequent and easy to reach handholds, indentations, fissures, you name it. I was just climbing to have fun, stretch out a bit. I was wearing jeans, combat boots, and no shirt, because I thought I was quite studdly, and I wanted to get some Sun for a tan.
I am sliding around a steep grade, feet inching sideways on a narrow crack as I work my way over to where I can see the way up is going to be easier. I’m a long way up, but it’s cool. I am pressed flat against the rock, arms spread wide and hands out, kissing the rock good and close, just kinda inching my way sideways.
As I go across this flat steep face, the rock is pretty gritty, and it’s suddenly smooth. It’s like sandstone, with a very fine grade of loose grit on the surface. And I start to slide down.
I force my body closer against the rock, I’m desperate for the rock to love me long time. I mean, I am seriously bear hugging this rock in a way that should require a marriage license and a hotel room.
And as I slowly slide down, I can feel a tugging on my pants as my belt is scraping along the rock. And then, suddenly, hella pain. Somehow, I make myself stop dead, possibly through heretofore unknown psychic powers, I don’t know.
What happened is, the belt buckle post grabbed on the rock, and my belt worked itself free, and the buckle, looped through the belt, came out of the sheath, but was still caught in the belt, all tangled up.
Oh, did I forget to mention that I was an amateur real-life leatherworker, and I’d hand-stitched my woven belt? And I’d used a belt-buckle palm dagger (what is known as a push knife) as the buckle with a sewn in sheath? Sorry, that must have slipped my mind.
Yeah, so the belt buckle came undone, grabbed on the rock, twisted on the leather looped through it, and pointed itself up… into my stomach. Braced agasint the rock.
And I was slowly sliding DOWN the rock face.
Yep, paints a pretty picture, doesn’t it?
So, let’s recap, shall we? I’m way up a rock face, I’ve got a dagger sticking into my stomach, I’m wearing no shirt, and I’m starting to slide down. And as I slide, the dagger is digging deeper.
Now, I calmly access the situation. I am not panicking, but I am 100% aware that I am the stupidest person on the face of the planet, and I’m about to die, die by being stuck with the dagger I myself spent hours crafting into a belt, and the worst part is I have 6 Fosters Oil Cans at the camp that I’ll never get to drink.
Such are the thoughts of a single Marine. Just so you know.
Obviously, I didn’t die. Sorry to break the suspense, but I thought I should mention that, just in case you were getting worried.
Instead, I kept on hugging the rock face fiercely. I slowed my rate of descent, kind of hoisted myself by the skin of my forearms straight UP and then inched the rest of the way onwards to my destination, since I had traveled a hard way up, and then eased my way back down to the bottom of the gulley.
When my feet touched down on soft desert sand at the foot of the rock, I gently pulled the dagger from my stomach, I unthreaded my belt from my pants, and then I threw the entire damn thing with all of my might as deep into the rocks as I could possibly get it.
I assessed my injuries. I had a nicely bleeding, seeping really, hole in my stomach, and the skin on my inner arms, from my wrists to my elbows, was gone. Sinmply gone. my inner forearms were raw exposed meat from being abraded against the rock to stop my slide.
I walked calmly back to camp, and I’ll be perfectly honest here… I derived a certain sense of satisfaction, knowing that my reputation as a bad ass was going to be ramped up a few notches by walking out of the desert covered in blood. Kind of a consolation prize for being a galactically stupid moron.
I proceeded to borrow a buddies’ shirt to wrap up my arms and stomach, after pouring beer all over my arms to try and wash away sand. I’m intentionally trying not to think about how bad that hurt.
I kicked back, had a steak grilled over an open fire, and drank Fosters for the next 8 hours or so, until Mark came back in a park ranger truck, and we carried our happy butts back out of the desert, and I made my way to the base sick bay.
And as I walked into sick bay on that Saturday night, contemplating how to possibly spin what happened so I wouldn’t look like such an incredible dumbass on the inevitable after action report… some corpsmen rushed a guy past me into sick bay on a gurney. And the guy’s mouth was covered in dried blood.
It looked like the guy took a punch in the mouth, but the corpsmen seemed VERY anxious to work on him, so naturally I asked at the counter what was up with him.
Turns out he’d been drinking with his buddies in the desert (surprise), saw a rattlesnake, and decided to show what a badass he was by biting the head of the snake off.
Except the snake chomped his tongue GOOD. And even though he succeeded in biting the snakes’ head off, the fangs wouldn’t release.
I stopped worrying about the reception my story was going to get. Apparently, on a base full of Marines in the desert on a Saturday night, my story wasn’t even gonna make the top three.
All right, so that is the story.
There was one key thing about that story that bothered me at the time, and when I re-read it, it STILL bothers me.
I know what the hell I was talking about with the knife belt buckle thing, and maybe a few other people who read the blog know what they are, but this falls under the category of exotic or obscure weaponry.
I know from some of the conversations I’ve had with many of you that I am not alone in having spent a large portion of my early years mastering exotic weapons. It’s too late for us.
If you are still in your youth, and you are about to embark on a year-long journey of tomahawk practice, this is a protip for you; not once in my entire life have I ever found it useful to be an expert with a blowgun, throwing knives, shuriken, tonfa, tomahawks or butterfly knives. Not once… okay, well, yes. Once. The blowgun. I think I even told that story somewhere, the blowgun mouse hunter. Fine, but that was a fluke, and a professional exterminator would have been a better idea anyway, so it shouldn’t count.
The point is, if you are still young and eagerly practicing your throwing knife or blowgun skills for hours on end… that’s cool, and it’s fun for a hobby, but don’t neglect marketable skills. The market for exotic weapons experts is on the down swing, unless a new season of Top Shot starts up.
In the story, I describe the leather belt I had woven, damn that thing was a piece of work. I spent hours weaving the leather and stitching it so it looked like it was grown that way. The belt buckle part was cute but stupid, and falls under the category of “I collect and play with dangerous things, maybe they’ll rub off and make me more dangerous, hur hur.”
I have not only found pictures of the exact kind of belt buckle push dagger I talked about, but also an example of it both in and out of a belt.
Taken from The Martialist, here are pictures of a belt buckle push dagger and belt almost identical to the one I had used in 1982.
If you look at these pictures from the excellent article at The Martialist, you should immediately see what I tried to describe. There is a steel post that sticks out of the knife body, goes through a hole in the leather belt, and continues to stick out far enough to fit through the tongue of the belt, holding it in place.
This clearly makes a belt buckle push knife one of the stupidest emergency weapons on the planet, since in order to get it into battle, you have to unbuckle your belt.
“Hold on, I’m gonna kick your ass just as soon as I take off my pants!” Impressive battle cry heard nowhere at all ever.
What happened to me was that the metal stud sticking out of the knife caught on the stone, and all of my body weight was on that one point, pulling my belt up towards my stomach as I slid down. The leather stretched around the stud, until I slid off the stud, causing the tongue to slide partly out of the belt, loosening the belt, and giving the knife enough slack to come completely out of the sheath, and then, still caught on that DAMN STEEL POST, twist around and get the knife point up, tangled int he belt which was still looped through and around my waist.
When I wrote it the first time, I knew what happened but I couldn’t think of a good way to describe it. I did my best, but i hope now with the inclusion of these pictures you can see for yourself what a galactically incompetent moron it took to almost get killed by my own pants.
I almost got killed by my own pants!
Still just amazes the hell out of me, and I’m the one that freaking did it!
I’m glad it happened. It’s moments like that, that are well and truly lived. I’ll never forget that moment in my life, everything that led up to it, the whole thing. What I ate that week, what I was doing on base, so much is gone and might as well have never been, but that moment, hell that entire weekend will live in my memory for the rest of my life, and that makes it part of the only life that matters, the part that I can remember and experience again, if only secondhand.
Please, if you take anything away from this story, anything at all, it’s to get your ass out of your house, get out there and do something, anything that is out of the ordinary, because the ordinary fades into nothingness, but the special, the unique, the crazy or weird will remain with you forever.
Provided you live through it, of course.
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I was given the greatest compliment I could have earlier today, as Jon told me he had been reading and enjoying my stories for years. It’s been a long time since I’ve done one, but this storytime bearwall is for you, Jon. Put another way… this is all your fault.
Back when I was a cub even younger than my son is now, I lived with my mother in Miami.
I don’t talk much about those years for various reasons, but I do have one story I thought might be fun to share.
My mother had a lot of family living in South Florida, mostly in and around Miami. The world that I knew was fairly close, geographically.
One relative, my mother’s sister, lived in the distant, far off land of Fort Lauderdale. To my then-young ears, rumor said Fort Lauderdale was where all the hookers, sluts, pimps and white trash hung out, and my aunt chose to live there because that was where she fit in best. If tyou think that language is bad, you should hear what they actually said.
In later life, of course, I learned that Fort Lauderdale was no better or worse than anywhere else… but those years held other horrors in store. Specifically, the fondue craze, and macrame. Just, macrame. How many flower-pot holders does one house need, anyway?
If you have no idea what I’m talking about, if the words “disco”, “fondue” and “macrame” do not send shivers of terror racing up your spine… bless you. Some viruses must not be propagated.
There was at the time only one other relative I knew of that was regularly absent from the South Florida area, and that was my mother’s brother, my Uncle Charlie. Uncle Charlie was a truck driver by profession, who it was said had once traveled as far north as Orlando, but I scoffed at such tall tales. I knew the map was a lie, told to install false hope in children that there was a possibility of escape from Hurricane Alley.
Ah, my Uncle Charlie. He lived in a rathole apartment, brewed his own beer in a closet, carried a gun in the cab of his truck, always had a full beard and wore a Peterbilt ball cap 24/7… what a great guy. He was who I always wanted to be when I grew up. I’m pretty sure I became a truck driver just because, hell, Uncle Charlie did it.
Anyway, this one hot Miami winter, my mother announced out of the blue that we were going on vacation.
I knew that she wanted to get away from her life for a short time, she’d just had another bad relationship fall apart, and whenever that happened she wanted to get a change of scenery.
Normally, that meant leaving our one room apartment for a week or two to live at the grandparents, next door to the Hialeah Race Track.
In other words, an advance insight into what purgatory would be like.
People talk about zombie apocalypses, but they hold no fear for me. I spent summers living in my grandparents house in Miami.
How to describe what that was like? A place where, during high summer, no windows could be open, no fans were active, breezes were never to be seen, Charlies Angels and the Rockford Files were the highlights of black and white television, and the yard was where you escape to, to see if you can hunt lizards with lego robots. Swift movements were frowned upon, and loud noises forbidden.
I still remember, the highlight of my entire week one time was they had a Texas Instruments calculator in a desk, that was the size of a Bible and had red glowing digits when fired up. I learned how to type 7734 on the calculator, and other words of deep personal meaning. It gave me something to look forward to sharing when I returned to school. That was a banner week, all right.
As you can imagine, when my mother announced we were going on vacation that hot Florida winter, I was… unthrilled. The lizards would be hibernating! What the 7734 would I do for fun?
Mother quickly corrected my mistake. This was no ordinary vacation. Oh, no.
No, this vacation would lead us… out of the state. Across the state line to hillbilly hell. Out of the state, to some strange, far off distant land known as North Carolina.
To my mind, this meant I was going to where the damn Yankees lived. There was a North Carolina, and a South Carolina, and we had had a war of the north against the south called the Civil War, and so North Carolina must be where all the Damn Yankees lived, and South Carolina was where Johnny Reb lived.
Would we be in mortal danger when we crossed those battle lines?
At the time, my mother said no. Now, I know better.
But how could we possibly leave the state? Where would we go? How would we live? I’ve heard of winter UP NORTH, they have, like, snow and shit. I heard tell that it felt like living in your ice-cube tray all the time! And I’ve stuck my head in the freezer section before, everything in there is all hard, cold and has sharp corners. Sounds painful.
My mother shared with me a story of far off distant kin that lived amongst the great smoking mountains, in and among the green and verdant valleys. She painted a picture of a vacation spent in a place where deer run wild, bears eat the unwary, and there is this stuff on the ground, its water, but somehow it’s solid, too, but not like the ice cubes in the fridge, more like this soft powder shit, but not cocaine either.
I grew up in Miami, even at that age it was important to make the distinction.
Like, you can pick the shit up, and flop in it, and it’s cold. But it’s really water! I know, right? I’m calling bullshit on this powdered water on the ground thing. I’ve seen our freezer, that shit is hard as rocks. Cold sharp rocks? Oh yes, sign me up for the cavorting.
No, she explained to me, it’s like the stuff on the walls of the freezer when it needs to be defrosted.
OOOOHHHHHHHHH. Now I get it.
So the idea is, these far off relatives who I had never, ever heard of before in my life supposedly lived in the mountains of North Carolina, and had a cabin at their tobacco farm we could stay at for a few weeks, up where the Great Smoky Mountains divide the land between the Carolinas and Tennessee.
Now, this excited me. Tennessee? Hee Haw was my FAVORITE SHOW EVER!
Gloom, despair, and agony on me.
Deep dark depression, excessive misery.
If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at alllll.
Gloom, despair and agony on me.
Or my other favorite,
Where oh where are you tonight?
Why did you leave me here all alone.
I searched the world over and thought I’d found true love,
You met another, and PBBBHHHT you was gone.
Hell ma, why didn’t you say so? Let’s get on the road!
Off we went… with our thrift store winter coats packed and ready for a winter adventure.
The drive was going to be fairly long, but I was used to long roads trips of even as much as an entire hour on the road. This would just be a little longer than that, right?
It turns out that driving from Miami to the Great Smoky Mountains takes a tad longer than an hour. Fortunately, I was able to stretch out and sleep for most of it, and read books and comics. We had a big old boat of a car, and this was back in the 1970s, where the rules were vastly different.
There were no child car seats, and nobody used seat belts, let alone seat belts in the back. Where did I sleep? Sometimes I slept stretched out on the back seat, and sometimes I climbed up into the ledge of the window well above the back of the seat and slept up there, like a cat in the Sun. It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it?
The change from sunny Florida to chilly North Carolina mountains was… dramatic. It was already a winter wonderland covered in snow when we arrived, and it was like something from a picture book.
Our relatives turned out to be fairly prosperous tobacco farmers, and their “cabin” a two-story stone and brick structure accompanied by a big curing barn for leaf tobacco tucked up in the high country, crowded by dense hardwoods.
We pulled up and unloaded our scant belongings, and were shown into the “cabin”, which to our poor asses was as luxurious as a freaking mansion. Cabin? How do you call a multi-room structure with separate living and dining areas and kitchen and nice furniture and a wood burning stone fireplace a cabin?
First round of culture shock. Where I grew up, “cabin” was semantically equivalent to “dinky little shack”. The word cabin just seemed too puny and insignificant next to this opulent splendor. Hell, they even had a bookshelf with boxed puzzles for whiling away the long winter days snowed in! Talk about posh!
I felt very much like a fish out of water, thrust into a very unfamiliar world. We were shown around the property and up into the treeline, where we were told about the deer we might see, and I’m not talking your Florida deer which are little more than small dogs with antlers. I’m talking DEER, like the things Marlin Perkins might talk about on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, narrating a scene. “And now, as I enjoy this lovely cup of coffee, Jim will cautiously approach the vicious, brutal man-eating deer to scratch it behind the ears. Let’s watch. OH MY! Well, that will certainly leave a mark. As we leave jim to extricate the antlers from his posterior, may I suggest you protect your children from the mauling of massive marsupials with an insurance policy from Mutual of Omaha?”
The folks that showed us around were dressed well in many layers of heavy winter clothing. We, of course, were dressed like idiot Floridians that thought long sleeve Henley shirts were a bit too much. Our relatives, it turned out, were sober, respectable tobacco farmers. They had all their teeth. They did not talk about “Gittin’ Johnny Reb”. They DID talk about the deer hunting that year, and made jokes about how they’d have to take me up on a hunt, get me my first deer and smear deer blood all over me as part of the grand hunting tradition of the Great Smokies.
I wanted to ask if that was anything like the blood I got all over me in my first school knife fight, but saying that kind of thing around strangers was one of the fastest ways to get my mom to beat the shit out of me in public, so I managed to refrain. She was in one of her ‘good moods’, and those were to be cherished and encouraged as much as possible, usually by being invisible.
Still, the talk of killing deer and being covered in blood (which, in my mind, meant my thin clothing would be sopping wet, and damnit I was already cold) left me feeling happy when the “grownups” all headed back into the house to chat and visit with each other and catch up on lost time, and I was left outside to explore.
Not long after they all went inside, a guy came roaring up the narrow dirt path that led to the property. He had this incredible piece of shit for a car, all rust and bondo and patches welded on, cracked windshield, just a piece of shit. He layed down on his brakes, scattering rocks and dirt everywhere, and when he got out he hopped straight up the steps to the house as if he owned the place.
He was a complete stranger, of course, but so was everyone up there, tall and thin with whiskers and overalls. Basically, he looked like a country version of my moms infamous “Fort Lauderdale white trash”.
He came bopping out of the house minutes later, hurried over to his car, and then noticed me standing there, watching.
What follows is a fairly accurate recreation of what happened next.
He looked at me, and yelled, “Hey boy, you want to go for a ride in a race car?”
“Well, hop on in boy, let’s get going.”
I ran over and approached the passenger side of the car. I tried to open the door, but there was no handle… just a flat patch of bondo. The guy reached across and opened the door from the inside, and pushed it out. I climbed on inside, and I didn’t have to bother with a door handle, because the door slammed closed as he rocked it from zero to fifty in nothin’ flat, spinning around to head back down the, did I mention before, NARROW single lane dirt trail that led back to the road.
Thus began my misty mountain hop, as we barreled down a single lane dirt road at up to 60 mph, with no hope to survive if someone happened to be coming up that damn road at the same time.
I grabbed ahold of the armrests and the door handle, as he hit the road at full speed, skidded into the turn and got us pointed in the general direction of ‘down’.
“Hey boy, you like racing?”
What followed then was an absolutely indecipherable running discussion of K cars, Detroit steel, Nascar, stock car racing (all I knew about race cars were the Utah Salt Flats and the rocket cars that went for the world land speed record, a fascination I had at that age. Nascar? WTF was that? If it didn’t have a rocket engine, how could you call it a race car?) and bootlegging in the mountains, and how racing all started from good old boys running moonshine through narrow mountain roads.
All this being said while we are blasting through narrow country roads in the high mountains, weaving in and out and occasionally hitting gravel shoulders on the turns. Gravel shoulders overlooking some truly gorgeous scenery. Just, stunning. In my expectation of sudden, imminent death at the hands of this COMPLETE ASSHOLE, I was gratified that some of my last moments as I lay dying would be of such beautiful snow-covered mountains.
Eventually, we arrived at the very bottom of the mountain valley, and came to a stop next to a trailer home, rust spotted and with cars up on blocks around the acre sized lot that looked to be in better shape than the piece of shit he was driving, and of which he seemed so proud.
He got out of the car, and a couple more good old boys came out of the trailer.
My driver opened the trunk, got out a few glass jugs of what looked like water, and handed them over. The three of them pulled a cork, a no-shit yes I am dead serious cork out of one clear glass jug and drank right from the jug. They passed the jug around while the two trailer guys talked to my driver, and it turned out, holy shit, the race car the guy was talking about was the PIECE OF SHIT HE WAS DRIVING.
I was thirsty, and so when one of them offered me the jug, just a straight “here, want some?” I said sure, I usually hate water, I’m more of a Kool-Aid drinker, but I’m thirsty, screw it.
Did you know that, when distilled properly, moonshine really is perfectly clear and indistinguishable from water? I didn’t. I had no idea.
I think I could be excused for not knowing this information previously, though.
Why? Probably because I WAS SEVEN YOU STUPID REDNECK ASSHOLES.
From there, we climbed back into the car, with an empty clear jug left at the trailer behind us, for the trip up the mountain to take me to the ‘cabin’.
It kinda blurs from that point. I was drunk and didn’t know what drunk was, I knew the maniac driving the car was a crap driver who kept taking it right to the edge, I was out of my mind with fear and expected to die at any moment.
But, and I want to be clear about this, I still had my pride. I was DAMNED if I was going to show this son of a bitch how scared I was by his driving. I may be about to die, absolutely certain of it, but I flat-out refused to show it. Fuck you, drive it off the cliff, I don’t give a shit.
Who said you can’t learn anything of value in public schools? I already knew how to spit in the face of death.
When we finally came roaring up the dirt lane, the cabin was deserted. He told me to get out, and then took off like a bat out of hell.
I wandered around for a while, wondering where everyone went. I was in a daze. I was still drunk, I was still alive and felt kinda cheated by this, since I’d gotten all the worrying and fear out-of-the-way already. After all that, to just be wandering around a snowy barn and stone house seemed… lame.
The barn was open, so I went inside where all the aromatic leafy tobacco was piled up in a massive mound. It smelled pretty good.
Uncle Charlie always chewed Old Red out of a pouch, and that looked fairly easy, so what the heck, right? If my Uncle liked it, must be pretty good stuff. It hadn’t occurred to me until right then to wonder why I never saw any kids chewing tobacco. Everyone I knew smoked like a chimney, so it must be all right.
I got a wad of leaf and stuck it in my mouth and started to chew.
Right then, I heard an engine straining to make it up the drive, and I walked outside the barn, but I was still focusing on chewing this stuff that, wow, you know that stuff is really pretty nasty, and why do I suddenly feel lightheaded and dizzy, good lord everything is buzzing and tingling, okay this is some good shit, I have a lot of juice in my mouth though, gotta move the chew around and swallow some of this OH WHOOPS BAD MOVE….
And this is how I was when my mother got out of the car after spending two hours with my relatives frantically driving all over the mountain trying to find me after I “vanished” with the bootlegging, moonshining occasional farm hand and all around lunatic that had just been fired by my relatives.
Wobbly. Drunk. Buzzed off my mind from chewing tobacco. And sure as hell that there was no way, NO WAY, that I would ever get in a car with a Nascar fan ever, ever again.
If that’s how a Damn Yankee acts, God save us from the rednecks!
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I was watching a review of a movie recently.
I read and watch reviews, but I have little respect for those that write the ones that are extremely critical of story flaws.
Simply put, when I see someone dissect a story, tear it to shreds and be a snot about it, my first thought is, “If nothing out there measures up to your standards or is worth a shit, then by God write one that is great and show us all how it’s done. If you can’t, then stop tearing apart those that actually try.”
OOOH! Now I remember what I was reading, it was a feminist tearing apart Disney’s Brave as being a horrible piece of shit. That’s what it was, got it.
Please note, I’m not labeling the critic a feminist, it is what she labeled herself. I don’t tend to slap labels on people, myself.
Except asshat, that one I throw around quite freely. Perhaps too freely.
Anyway, the saying goes, “Those that can, do. Those that can’t, criticize.”
Actually, it goes “Those that can, do. Those that can’t, teach. And those that can’t teach, teach gym class.” But never let the facts prevent you from delivering a good line.
So, I really liked Brave. And I didn’t understand a lot of the reviews I saw about it. Mostly when I heard refrains along the lines of “Tired old princess story I’ve seen a million times before”, and I kept wondering, “When did we see that same movie? Ever? Because I want to see those, too.”
Many reviews about it mentioned “this type of story.” Meaning the princess story.
And I’ve been looking around, and noticing other such terms and labels used in criticism. Talking about types of stories.
“Oh, this was a decent example of the buddy story.”
“Oh, this was a fairly boring version of the classic fish out of water story.”
It’s been making me wonder about writing, and where people are coming from.
This may surprise you, but I tend to be very analytical about some things. I examine beliefs, my own and others, I examine how things work, I try to get at the understanding of the why, in order to better appreciate the how.
I also write a lot. Some of this, which you do not see, is the writing of fiction. Stories. Stuff what I done put on this here hard drive.
When I write, I do not set out to write a certain kind of story. I don’t really even know about that stuff. I don’t chart it all out ahead of time.
I’ve heard before that there are no new stories, everything has been done, and it’s becoming clear to me that a lot of people have spent a lot of time doing the dissection and analysis of the structure of the story.
Perhaps that is what some folks think it takes to write a story, or maybe it’s what critics use to prove something isn’t original, by comparing it to similar things the author might never have even heard of. Who knows. Maybe it’s very helpful to know what everyone thinks are the only types of stories in existence, so you can choose which one you’re doing this time. Again, really? Okay, I’m not that educated, what do I know. I’m winging it every day, what do I really know.
When I write a story, it’s because I get an idea for something that seems cool to me, including a vision of the people or personalities involved. I want to know more about that story, so I write about it. If it turns into one of these tired old devices, then that’s just the way it works out.
Just because that’s how I’ve been doing it, doesn’t mean I can’t try something else.
What if I actually tried to write a story the way critics describe them?
What if I picked a format, and then intentionally tried to write a story like that?
That’s when I thought to myself, “I haven’t seen fresh creative writing from some of my blogging friends in, like, forever. This feels like a joint venture. Writing challenge time!”
So here is the challenge.
You pick a type of story, and then once you have the type picked out, write a short story of that kind. Then critique yourself.
How did writing that way feel? Was having a structure or framework in mind helpful to you in bringing the story to life, or did you feel restricted or hemmed in by self-imposed rules?
I am going to pick the fish out of water type, and if you’d like to do the same, go for it. Or pick any other type of story structure that suits your fancy.
I am going to sit down at some point this weekend, and try to intentionally write a fish out of water style short story.
When I’m done, I’ll post it here along with my own self-critique.
See, the thing is, I think critics are full of shit. I don’t believe that writers sit down and go all coldly analytical about what they’re going to write about, create flowcharts and graphs, count numbers of male characters versus female characters, brown lizard people versus green lizard people, dogs of small size versus dogs of large size, numbers of night time scenes versus daytime, inclusion of types of food or whatever the hell kind of bullshit I read about.
I think writers get a story stuck in their head, and sit down to get it the hell out of there and onto a surface, any surface where they can look at it in peace.
Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe most writers do sit down and graph everything out in advance, try to write something to cater to a particular audience, then go back and flesh it out.
Really, what the hell do I know? I just peck at the keys, and you can tell I’m a Druid by how well I can mangle.
If you’re interested in taking part, just for fun, I think it would be great to see some more of the wonderfully creative, powerful writing that I saw last time we did a challenge. I also think there is a good chance I’ll learn something new from this exercise, about myself and my writing. So, fuck it, it’s worth it for that alone.
As always, if you do write something, please let me know so I can link to it and feature you here.
P.S. Just to be clear, it doesn’t have anything at all to do with World of Warcraft. Whatever inspiration guides you… once you pick a structure, that is.
I’m actually leaning towards doing a storytime. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve done up a proper storytime. We’re about due for more personal anecdotes and embarrassment around here.
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Attention, all bloggers and/or writing enthusiasts.
I have a little creative writing challenge for you… purely for fun.
My challenge is simple.
Write a short story. I don’t care how short, or what kind of story, or even what form your story takes. BUT… your story, poem, dirty limerick or whatever you choose to do must incorporate within it in some way the following words;
If you accept this challenge, then write whatever you’d like incorporating those words into your tale, but do not publish right away!
No, once it is ready, please hold off on publishing it until next Wednesday, March 21st.
At that time, either publish it as a comment here, or publish it on your own website (if you have one) and leave a link in the comments here as to where we can find it.
I will publish my own on Wednesday as well, and no, it’s not even begun yet. I pulled those words entirely out of my butt, this is all fair and square.
I have a couple reasons why this sounded fun to me.
First, I’m following a lot of bloggers on my blogroll these days and every single one, yes you too Blackbear, just blow me away with the quality and imagination of their writing. I’d love to see if any of them would be willing to give this a try, and give me more of a chance to enjoy their writing.
Second, I repeatedly say that everyone has their own unique writing voice, their own way of crafting their distinctive thoughts into words. I often get people replying that it’s hard to recognise the difference in their own voice or viewpoint to what other people write. I agree that it can be hard to compare your own style with what other people might do… so I think it would be delightful to see all the different ways a common group of words can become something unique to each and every person out there.
What do you think. Sound fun?
Then go for it! Any length, any form, take those words as a seed and create something all your own!
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Love it or hate it, this story is true. If nothing else, I hope you find it momentarily distracts you from whatever blahs you may be enduring today.
There once was a young boy named John whose parents found it necessary to divorce.
John, though he was but seven or eight at the time, had no worries that he might have been the reason mommy and daddy were breaking up, because even then he was wise enough to know that his mommy was batshit crazy. So waste not a tear at the plight of poor, sad John.
John’s father, far from being batshit crazy, seemed to personify the very essence of manliness to the young, impressionable lad.
I know I’ve mentioned this before, but for newer readers, John’s father had been a submariner in the US Navy, a police officer all the rest of his life, and an avid ‘manly stuff’ hobbyist and sportsman. Bushy cop mustache, live the stereotype!
Hmm, a batshit crazy psycho who liked to scream and run around chasing people with knives, or an incredibly macho badass? Who do you think the boy would choose, if given the chance?
The courts, as the courts were wont to do, did not ask John which parent he would like to live with, nor did anyone ever ask him if he feared for his life living with one or the other. John was not consulted in any way. This was because he was not an equal member of the family in the eyes of the courts of that time, in that state… in a custody dispute, he was simply the prize.
So of course, they assigned custody of John to his mother.
Yay, me. You may now allow one and only one tear to trickle down your cheek, no larger than what a medium-sized crocodile might shed, if such be your desire.
Fast forward a few years.
I’m living with mom in Miami, near to where she grew up. She went back to live close to her parents and relatives, amidst familiar surroundings with an emotional support network.
Which is ironic, considering how desperately she hated and envied all her relatives, and how bitterly she raged about them when nobody but me was around to hear. But enough about that. Let’s get to the fun.
While my mother and I were settling into life in Miami, my father was busy doing what police officers usually do when they find themselves suddenly single and without kids in the area - get hooked up with cop groupies and run through a string of quickie marriages and even quicker divorces with lots of weird, messy drama.
When my father Tony was about six months into living with wife number two (who was so heavily freckled and with such a wide, flat nose that I mentally dubbed her the “buckshot mallard” the moment I laid eyes on her), he invited my nine year old (or so) butt up to stay at his rental apartment for a weekend to have a great time, get to know each other better, and of course have a chance to meet his blushing new bride.
Mostly to meet the blushing new bride and see how happy he was.
The psychology of these kinds of events are so transparent that even I, at such a supposedly naive age age, knew what was up. I was to see how wonderful my father’s new life and new wife were, and then bring those tales back with me in order to torment my mother.
Relationship judo. Hai-yah! Ah, the games people play.
Surprisingly enough, things didn’t go according to his plan.
He did succeed in two things; he made one hell of an impression on me, and I definitely got to know my dad a lot better.
The weekend was, as are most such summer weekends in south Florida, hot, muggy, buggy, humid and miserable. Note to future vacationing travelers; Southern California, being a desert with water extravagantly pumped into it, actually has the weather Florida only pretends it has. The humidity makes all the difference. If you’re on the coastline, and able to get those offshore breezes, it’s divine. Get further inland, and oh my.
South Florida, in case you missed it, is a swamp. Everglades. Gators. Mosquitos. Lizards. Sword palms and snakes. Spiders larger than your fist.
Actually, it was pretty fun, now that I’m reminiscing and don’t actually live there. Made for a great introduction to a world of excitement, adventure, and antivenom.
For this singular weekend excursion, Tony drove down in his rugged blue Jeep to pick me up and haul my butt back up north to Boca Raton.
He was full of ideas of what we would do while I was there. I believe there was some leatherworking, model rocketry and shooting on the agenda, exciting stuff for a young boy to look forward to. The excitement! The thrills!
Halfway through the drive up, things spun on me a little. The first rush of “I’m finally spending time with my dad!” started to wear off, and the “Who the hell is this old fart” thoughts began to kick in.
“It’s my dad, I’m spending time with my dad, oh boy, oh this is great, dad, woohoo, hey, wait a minute, who the hell is this old guy anyway? I haven’t seen him in two years, I don’t know this guy, this isn’t the dad in my memories at all. Was he always this tan? Did he always have that gold chain, and come off like a smooth-talking used car dealer?”
The changes a few years made to my father in person when compared to the one frozen in my memory were nothing compared to the shock of being introduced to his new home.
Here was my dad, changed and different, but the place he called home was a complete turnup for the books. Just as I had expected him to have remained exactly the same since I’d last seen him, somehow my mental picture was of his still living in our old apartment, with everything exactly the same as it was, including the furniture placement.
Not just no, HELL no. My mother, as part of her batshit craziness, is a functional obsessive/compulsive when it comes to everything being clean, neat, orderly, squared away and perfect in the home. Better Holmes and Gardens might be coming by any minute to ask to take a few pictures, and you need to be prepared, don’t you know.
Additionally, it was part of her cover for visitors. It worked very well, too. Her home was perfect and clean, so she must be perfect and clean. Since most families with kids that I knew were kind of, well, harassed and let things like coasters on tables or toys all over the place slide a bit, she came away from any comparison looking good. Don’t knock it if it works.
My dads new home was, umm, not so nicely kept. Or tidy. Or clean.
Turns out, Tony was a born slob, and his new bride clearly came from the Flower Power side of the sixties. The new apartment was, well, not bad. Physically. What it was, was a living example of two vastly different and conflicting lifestyles recently rammed together into one space. There was no melding, there were demilitarized zones, and there were quarantine areas.
This was the man area, there was the woman circle, scattered throughout the rooms and on every surface, each clearly defined by the lack of someone else’s stuff in the mix, but with a very studied casualness.
It was a total shock to me, being so used to perfect cleanliness and order, to see a house crammed with crap, magazines scattered everywhere, full ashtrays, burn marks on the furniture all over the place where cigarettes had been set down ’for a minute’ because the ashtrays were out of arms reach and left to smoulder out, plants, potted plants, hanging plants, dangling plants, macrame hangers with plants, some more potted plants, guns, makeup cases, just shit everywhere.
And there were some plants here and there, too.
What was this plant? What was it’s purpose here? These magazines, from whence did they come? My dad reads Shooting Times and Guns and Ammo, where did Cosmopolitan come from, and what alien life form reads it? What the F&@# is a porcelain statue of a little naked boy with chia pet hair doing on the end table amid lighters, loose ammunition and Hoppes #9 gun cleaner? Coffee cups everywhere, dear lord they all have green mold and cigarette butts in them, shit I don’t want to sit down in this place, damnit!
Oh my god, is that the kitchen? Holy shit, what is that, is something growing on the stove? What IS that? Did it move? I think I saw it move! HELP!
So I’m looking around nervously, Tony tells me to have a seat and get comfortable in the florida room (what would be a three season screened-in porch if Florida had seasons… since all Florida has is the one season, hot, it’s an all-season porch, or the florida room).
Sitting down and feeling comfortable ain’t going hand in hand here… but what the hell, I can always wash my clothes afterwards. So I go on in, wondering if I just made a big mistake for the weekend, and sit down.
My dad comes in a few minutes later and sits down across from me. He’s in talky-talk mode, all fake exuberance about how awesomesauce the weekend will be, us buddy-buddy guys getting to know one another again, how much he missed me, how incredible this will all be. Oh, and Kim the new wife is at work but will be by soon, so let’s talk about how we’re supposed to act when we meet her.
So there we are, we’re both sitting in the Florida room, I’m feeling pretty disoriented and taking it all in spectator style while my dad is talking up our big weekend, and IT happens.
My dad stops talking in mid-sentence, his gaze drawn by movement from the doorway off to my side.
I look over there to see what distracted him, and I can see something alive moving through the dense wilderness of houseplants that choke the entrance to the Florida room. This is inside the house, you understand, moving from the porch to come deeper into the rest of the house, possibly on the way to the kitchen.
What fresh hell is this?
Oh wait, it’s a cat.
Oh cool, my father has a pet cat!
In all the time I knew him, my father had never had a cat, nor did my family ever have any pet except working breed German Shephards. Ever. He was a dog person, a big dog person, and I had never, ever pictured him having a cat. In fact, it would be safe to say that the existence of cats, while possible in theory, were not something that at the age of nine I would have been prepared to swear to in a court of law.
But here was a cat, and a fine, proud specimen of the species it was.
It poked it’s whiskers out of the fronds of the potted plants, and ventured further into the room. It’s stride was confident, moving with an oiled grace that spoke of a long heritage of jungle cats, great hunting beasts that are choosing, right at this particular moment, to refrain from eating you, but will be keeping it’s options open for later, in case he feels peckish.
This magnificent animal glided forward, following the space along the wall between my father and I, and then, just as it reached a point midway between us, it paused, and swung it’s head to meet my fathers stare, as if it felt the weight of my father’s eyes upon it.
My father, frozen as he was in the act of speaking, had remained sitting there, watching the cat. The cat, now paused mid-stride, watched him back.
They passed through this extended moment of motionless silence, as a hush fell over the house. All was still. Silent.
It was a moment straight from an old west gunfight showdown.
Standing cat and sitting man, each sized up the other. I could feel the intensity of their wills as they tried to stare the other down, each daring the other to break first, to move, and in moving, lose the true fight, the ultimate battle of the warrior spirit.
Then, the cat hissed at my dad.
With that sudden movement, the room exploded into a flurry of chaotic action.
Before the sibilant sound had barely registered on my ears, my father’s hand flashed towards the nearest table, and came up with a massive stainless steel revolver, a Ruger Redhawk chambered in .44 magnum.
The moment his hand twitched toward the table, the cat had leapt forward, making a mad dash for the far door to the kitchen.
I recoiled in stunned surprise as my father came up with the pistol in his hand, whirled, and from his seated position opened up with his hand cannon at the fleeing cat, the roars deafening my ears, muzzle flash rocking my eyes, the force of the expanding gases leaving the barrel slapping me in the chest with each devastating shot.
Six concussive bursts slapped me back in my seat, and I clearly saw the hindquarters of the fleeing feline jerk towards the wall with the force of some impact as the explosive shots blasted forth.
As the sound of the last shot rang in my ears, the wisps from the smokeless powder filled the room with their scent, and the afterimages of the muzzle flash danced in my eyes, I stopped looking in the direction of the long-departed cat and turned instead to stare at my father in complete disbelief.
He calmly put the gun back down on the table, muttering under his breath all the while. He seemed lost in his own little world. He then turned back to me, and calmly picked up his conversation from where he’d broken off.
Something from my stunned expression must have gotten through to him that, perhaps, just perhaps, what had happened might need further discussion.
My father then explained to me that there weren’t real bullets in the pistol. Oh no, it was just wax, that’s all. He said that he melted paraffin in a tray about half an inch thick, let it cool and harden, and then pushed his reshaped cartridge casings inset with primers into the wax, resulting in each casing having a half inch wax bullet, ready to be propelled by the force of the primer alone.
In other words, it’s okay that he was shooting at the cat in the house, they were just wax bullets which probably couldn’t kill it anyway.
Wax bullets that of course turned into little molten slugs of hot wax under the force of the expanding gases to get stuck in the fur wherever they hit, and possessed the same mass as they did when solid.
I think something in my expression must have gotten the idea across that I was thinking, “That’s still not fucking right.”
He explained further, as if this all made perfect sense, that the cat was his new wife Kim’s, and the cat hated him. They had a personal vendetta, one against the other, and waged it with a passion amongst the hidden battlegrounds of the home… at least, whenever wife Kim wasn’t around.
This was all related in a conspiratorial way, as though he and the cat were just playing big practical jokes on each other, aren’t we all big kidders and love good practical jokes, but there was real hatred underlying his tone of voice.
If there was a closet full of shoes, the cat would find the most expensive, comfortable pair of my father’s work shoes to pee in. If he bought a $50 roll of cured leather to work on, the cat would jump up on the workbench, get in the leather, unrolling it with his body, and then take a dump in the middle of it.
The list of imaginative attacks made by the cat upon my father was impressive, but I noted that nowhere among them could be found “Made special dad-shooting ammo and kept loaded guns around the house, just on the off chance an opportunity for a snap shot presented itself.”
I know he thought me ungrateful, but after that, the magic of the weekend with my father was somewhat lost on me.
As I said, part of his purpose was accomplished. I walked away from that weekend with a far greater understanding of exactly what kind of man my father was.
Sometimes, when looking back on my childhood, being raised by the batshit crazy one until I was old enough to recognize and resist buying into my father’s attitudes lock, stock and one smoking barrel doesn’t sound so bad after all.
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