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3SP: Oh, That’s Darling

I read somewhere that when Conway Twitty uttered the words “Hello, Darlin’” in concert a roar would rise from the audience so he got in the habit of waiting a couple extra beats before continuing the song. At one performance though he heard the proverbial crickets chirping. It was a private concert for a corporate client or convention [I'm a little fuzzy on the details at the moment] and the audience was nearly all men. And they just aren’t into the screaming for this song like the women are….

A college friend who is an excellent amateur musician loved to sing “Darlin’.” I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it played on the radio but my YouTube research turned up versions by several artists. I think this is the original.

Two of my favorite singer/songwriters, Steve Goodman and John Prine, wrote “You Never Even Call Me by My Name.” The stories they tell vary in some of the details, but generally it goes like this: They called it [with tongue firmly in cheek] The Perfect Country-Western Song. Then David Allen Coe pointed out several details [like Mom, getting drunk, trucks, prison, and dogs] they had left out. That lead to another verse and a hit song for Coe.

Vox Publishes Me Too

Well, I didn’t expect to have these announcements on two consecutive days. My poem “Reach” is now on Vox Poetica. It will be on the Today’s Words page today and then moves to the Poemblog page. I’m in such good company there too so make sure you take time to read some of the other great work when you visit.

POW, I’m Published

My microfiction piece “Valentia” was just published on Pow Fast Flash Fiction. Woo hoo!

Go look. And make sure you take the time to read the other fine fine work over there.

No Child of Mine

“No child of mine — ”

“Momma, please,” Samantha protested.

“Just look at what you’re wearing,” her mother continued. “Those bright colors… you’re not fit to be seen in public like that. And those shoes. How can you even walk in those?”

“You’re right, Momma. The shoes aren’t designed for comfort. They’re part of the overall look. And I’m not out in public that much — ”

“And that god-awful wig. What’s wrong with your real hair?”

“Nothing Momma.”

“And you must have a ton of make-up on your face. Do you paint that on with a roller? You have such a pretty face, it’s a shame to cover it up like that.”

Samantha’s frown could not hide her quivering lower lip.

“It’s just not decent I tell you. It’s disgraceful.”

Tears welled up in Samantha’s eyes.

“Go scrub that stuff off and change in to proper clothes. No child of mine is going to be a damn clown.”

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photo by steenslag

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Brow Down

I was in one of the malls on Sunday. [That in itself is so rare that it is almost blogworthy. But wait, there's more!] So as I walked along I noticed a store with a good size video screen in the window. Well, it was shiny and flashy and caught my attention so I looked at the name of the store: Brow Art. The huh?

They were showing a video of what I have come to learn is called eyebrow threading. Rather than tweezing or waxing or lasering or whatever form of medieval torture you prefer for contouring hairy bits, this place uses twisted threads to pull hairs out, follicle and all. [The video is not yet posted on their website as I write this, but there's a lot missing on the website. Not a great recommendation for any business in my book.] Aside from being a little creeped out watching an extreme close-up video of someone being threaded right there next to the eyeball, I’m thinking “mall rent is notoriously expensive and they can stay open just doing this?” I am in the wrong line of work. Besides, other than keeping enough space to avoid a unibrow I pretty much leave my brows alone.

Plus also too and another thing, THAT reminded me of a Saturday Night Live skit. All the stores in the mall were going out of business except one. All it sold was Scotch Tape, but all the other stores were coming in to buy tape to put up their “going out of business” signs.

I’ll be surprised if Brow Art is the last store to vacate the mall, unless everyone is coming in to get groomed for job interviews elsewhere….

A Good Book for School

Miss Loretta Bunker come to us one January and took over teachin’ duties from Missus Hutton who had slipped on the ice Christmas Eve and broke her hip. Now, we knew Miss Loretta hailed from up in Jefferson County and they just did things different up there than we do here in Gapville. Anyhow, for a teacher it seemed she shore did need more schoolin’ her own self.

She seemed to have the air let outa her the next mornin’ though. Seems Mary Louise was the only one t’bring one in and it sat there all by its lonesome on that shelf all week. It was a little worse for wear, but it was leather-bound quality and a good book for shore. It was King James version of course….

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The Well of Lost Souls

I recently found a student ID in the cafeteria and went this afternoon to the media center to turn it in. As I handed the card to the clerk she exclaimed, “A lost soul!” and began looking up the student’s schedule on the computer.

As I turned to leave I heard another clerk chime in, “I bet we could sell their souls.” And they both laughed.

“I always knew y’all were evil,” I called over my shoulder as I exited the building.

[I almost typed "I existed the building" in the sentence above. That reminds me -- don't ask why, it's just the way my brain [doesn't] work — that every time I approach a building with a sign declaring “Entrance” over the front door I think that if I ever build my dream house I will put a sign over the front door that says “Enchant” instead.]

Granted, this is not much of a story but I got a chuckle out of it. Plus, one of the media specialists sent us an email today alerting us to Literacy Week [which is next week] and gave me an idea for a Friday Flash that I now have planned for this week. Overall, I think that’s the most I have ever gotten out of our media center….

And here’s a final thought: going green is all the rage in certain circles these days. At the bottom of the email referenced above is this handy green tip, “Do you really need to print this email?” And I’m thinking, “Shoot, most of the time I don’t even need to read your emails.”

RRR: Tapestry

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.
This was originally posted on 25 August 2005

Colors bright and beautiful
Add interest to the day
So vivid and so brilliant
Life’s visions on display

Snags and snarls and tiny rips
The edges all are frayed
The fabric of my life unravels
And I am hanging by a thread

The End of Fred and Ginger

“So there IS someone else!” Ginger spits the words at me.

Seeing her lovely face all red and blotchy cuts me to the core. “Sweetheart, you know it’s not –”

“Don’t you dare call me ‘Sweetheart’ you bastard! My name is Ginger. Got it? Ginger! Not Linda. Not Julie. Not Suzanne. Ginger!”

I never tried to hide the fact that I changed their names when I edited pieces for publication. I never expected her to get upset over it though. “OK. Ginger. See, those are just pseudonyms. It’s still you in all those stories. After all, actors don’t use their real names when they play a character.”

“Hah! Actors! I knew you would bring that up. Just because people picture Astaire and Rogers when they see our names. Is that our fault? You’re the writer here. You thought this would be a good idea. It’s your fault. Yours!”

“I know Ginger, of course it’s not your fault. It’s mine. And I take full responsibility. But more than one reader has complained that these names pull them out of my — YOUR stories.”

“We don’t even look like them,” Fred adds. “In fact, we work hard to look different every week! Besides, we let you post that creepy animation a couple weeks ago. THAT was embarrassing.”

He had me there. That was embarrassing. “But, that’s part of the problem. I know you look different every week. You’re my little changelings, taking on the appearance of the characters in each story. To me, you ARE different. Not everyone can see that.”

“Pffft. If you were a better writer they might.”

Ouch! “And then,” I blunder on even with that knife in my heart, “people see Fred and Ginger two weeks in a row and think we’re continuing the same story. Do you know how hard it is to get someone back for a third week after that? They don’t need to come here to get confused.”

“See! It’s YOU, Tim. You made this mess. You said names weren’t important. I think you were just being lazy. And now you say you’re done with us?”

“I’m not done with you. You’ll still be in the drafts I write. It’s just… I need to change your names before I publish the stories.”

“Careful, folks,” Ginger waves both hands above her head, “he has an eraser and he’s not afraid to use it! Go ahead, make that stupid ‘getting rubbed out’ joke. You know you’re dying to….”

I can feel my face getting red. I’ve been pwned and punned in a single stroke. I never expected this to be so difficult… archive the old stuff, tap a few keys, a global search and replace. Now my characters are copping an attitude? What do they want from me?

“You know,” Fred chimes in, “we’ve tried to be everything for you — friends, siblings, lovers, spouses. Hell, we’ve KILLED and DIED for you. How can you just write us off like this?”

I look at them both. “I know. And I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful. It’s just… I guess I always knew it would come to this someday. In order to grow, I need to move on.”

I move the cursor to highlight their names. My hand hovers over the delete key.

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[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim]

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What, Me Worry?

You can tell me
not to worry.
“Yes, dear,” I’ll say,
but I will worry
anyway.