Category Archives: Neville Cole

FP2: SUCKS TO BE “D”

09 Thursday Jul 2015

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Paige567830993 is a registered Artist (Class D) and as such is required to serve food and drink at Ye Olde Tavern Bowl for no less than 20 hours per week. After six months of servitude she can freely apply for a 14 day break and after 12 months she may even qualify for a 7-day vacation at one of several Class D resorts. While at the Class D resort she would be able to book services from an array others Class D specialists: Nail Technicians, Massage Therapists, Fitness Trainers, Indoor Surf Instructors, Indoor Golf Instructors, Bowling Instructors and the like. As a result of these generous government concessions, many Artists (Class D) become quickly satisfied with their status and never even bother to apply for Class C recognition; but Paige is not like other Artists (Class D) she actually still has a vision.

Paige567830993 lives in a shared Class D apartment in the Chicagoville Unified Art District (CUAD); which, though clean, safe, and comfortable, always seems to have at least one major appliance that requires repair. It being summer, of course, it is now her air conditioning unit that is operating at about 40% efficiency and Paige is forced spend all her free time of late personally submitting a service requests.

“Yes, Ma’am. There is some air moving through the unit but not the kind of air that can fairly be described as cool by any stretch of the imagination.”

“I see,” the Service Technician(Class C) on the other end of the VIDCOMM paused to take note of this evidence. “Not cool air, huh. If not cool, the how would you describe the air coming out of the unit?”

“Have you ever had a dog stand by your face and pant? My air conditioning unit feels like a big old dog is breathing in my face.”

The Service Technician(C Class) was appropriately sensitive but non-committal. “Oh dear, that doesn’t sound very nice at all.”

“No, Ma’am,” Paige reiterated. “It is not a pleasant experience.”

“What is the unit’s current efficiency rating again, darling?” The tech had already requested this information four times. Paige couldn’t help but sigh softly; but she was careful not to actually flinch or display any visual signs of frustration. To do so would only serve to delay any useful activity on the part of the service technician. An actual outburst could result in disconnection and an immediate request cancellation. That would mean she would have to start over whole process over again the following day – after an appropriate cooling off period.

“Currently it is working at 42% efficiency, Ma’am. But, as it is now the middle of summer, I think that qualifies as an emergency level malfunction, doesn’t it?”

“The middle of summer is still 7 days away, dear.  And 42% efficiency is actually very close to acceptable operation for a Class D unit.” The tech paused, in part for dramatic effect but mostly to see – one more time – if she could get Paige to crack. Paige wasn’t falling for that old trick. She was resolute. “Ok. Let me see what I can do…how about I come around Friday morning first thing sweetie? Let’s see if I can’t get that old unit up over 80%.”

“That…” Paige gasped with genuine gratitude, “That would be so, so great. You don’t even know how happy that would make me.”

“Aw…ain’t that sweet. It warms my heart to hear you say that, darling, honest it does. But you don’t want to hear about anything being warm now do you, hon?” Satisfied that she had made this Artist (Class D) sweat it out long enough, the Service Technician (Class C) was content to move on and torment the next poor Class D sap she had waiting on hold. “See you Friday then, babe. Bright and early!”

“Thank you, again.” Paige added for good measure before disconnecting. “I really reallyappreciate it.” Then, as the screen went blank, she sank down against the wall and began to sob like a baby. “Damnit,” she snarled eventually. “If I don’t get re-classified soon I swear to god…” But, before she said out loud what she felt inside she decided to flip her whole mood. “myMuse.” She said quietly. “Access Beach Boys. God Only Knows.”

As a registered artist – even at the lowly Class D level – Paige had unrestricted access to most the art, writing and music did still exist. Most recorded music, of course, had been erased during the Last Great Data Dump (LGDD). It was actually quite a marvel that such an unforgettably beautiful song as God Only Knows was still around. It gave Paige a momentary glimmer of hope.

I may not always love you / but long as there are stars above you / You never need to doubt it / I’ll make you so sure about it. / God only know what I’d be without you.

“How could it possibly be,” she wondered out loud, “that a simple Company drone got a hold of something like this?” Before Paige had time to ponder this more, Sheridan634027008 burst through the door.

“Oh my god! It’s as hot as Madonna’s sweaty ass after an extended encore in here! When is that damn air conditioner going to work?”

“They’re coming Friday. It’s all taken care of, myMuse off.” Paige lifted herself off the kitchen floor as she knew that Hurricane Sheridan would soon carry her off on some new adventure.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Sheridan said, kissing the hot air around Paige’s face. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I don’t have the patience to deal with those people. You know I’d go right to: Bitch! You come fix this fucker right this very moment or… And then… Click, Zzzzip…and then I have to listen to that annoying-ass bitch that only knows how to say the one goddamn thing: Home and Energy Services welcomes your call. Please call again at a more appropriate time.”

Sheridan, like Paige, is an Artist (Class D). He also works at Ye Olde Tavern Bowl but he spends just about every other waking hour (and many of his non-waking hours) at the totally classless establishment known at L’Dragge Cabaret. You see, Sheridan634027008 is better known around the Arts District as, the one and the only Sheridan L’Dragge.

Cabaret had long been declared dead before Sheridan L’Dragge staged his now infamous Drag Resurrection. Officially, of course, drag is still dead. Were it not for the fact that the L’Dragge Cabaret rarely appears in the same location more than a few nights in a row, Rights and Permissions would have shut it down months ago as well.

This primary issue R&P have, of course, is Sheridan’s lack of a Performance House License and, in addition to that, there is his tendency to allow patrons of every class in to any show and then there is the totally unscripted and therefore wholly unregulated nature of his act. But, above and beyond all these misdemeanors, there is his peculiar insistence on using his pseudo-surname in all his publicity material. Surnames, of course, are deemed relics of The Age of Unenlightenment. Although they have not yet been outright outlawed, their on-going use by anything less than the few remaining traditional Class A “families” is most definitely frowned upon. It is widely known that if you are not a Rothschild, a Murdoch, a Koch, or, at very least, a Bush, you really have no reason to go around flashing a surname around in public.

“Girl,” Sheridan said twirling Paige around in a tight circle. “You are one hot mess. We need to get you out of this sweat box and pamper your soul with a mani pedi before Rock and Bowl tonight.”

“I got to get out of this dump, that’s for sure.”

“Well, let’s go! This one is on me, babycakes. I owe you for dealing with that service bitch all on your lonesome; but first, you might want to take a shower and put on something less…damp.”

As cool water splashed against her face and ran down the length of her body causing goosebumps wherever it flowed, Paige began to sing, quietly at first but line by line with more and more passion.

If you should ever leave me / Well, life you just go on believe me / The world would show nothing to me / So what good would living do me / God only knows what I’d be without you / God only knows what I’d be without you / God only knows

“Dang,” Sheridan said sipping on a pink kool aid margarita. “Girl’s got some serious pipes when she lets it all hang out.”

Future Perfect* 1 – Love and Bowling

01 Wednesday Jul 2015

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*future perfect: a verb form or construction used to describe an event that is expected or planned to happen before a time of reference in the future.

FP1: In Which Harold 263840771 Will Have Found Love

We are but open books. Our pages, torn and scattered, all too soon forever lost.

From future perfect by W.H. Hopwood​

It was a slow day at The Company. It often has been lately. Ever since the Great and Final Merger (GFM), things have basically taken care of themselves. Harold 263840771 learned long ago to take full advantage of days like this. He opened Listr and prepared to compile a new TO DO list. It soon became clear, however, that there wasn’t much left outstanding for Harold to do. His Aeron Ultima+MAX froze in rigid stillness, his eyes fixed intently on his UXHD180 monitor, his ten fingers poised over the keyframe, ready and willing to lay the groundwork for future success. Which is all to say, it was certainly somewhat shocking when Harold suddenly digirote out in all caps: FALL IN LOVE.

Harold stared at the words in silent disbelief. Did his brain really just direct his fingers to hit those twelve particular frames (caps lock and two space bars included) or was this strange message merely the result of some random reflex action? It was intriguing to be sure. The longer he lingered over the Listr note, however, the more import the moment took on. Harold’s love life, or rather the lack there of, was the elephant in the room. An appropriate life partner was the missing last piece to the virtual jigsaw puzzle that was Harold’s existence. It was time to complete the picture. It was a task, in fact, that was long overdue.

“Damn straight,” Harold muttered. “It’s high time this cowboy found his lady love. Maybe even get hitched.” Laughing off the idea of a marriage proposal for now, Harold scheduled a two-week reminder. Fourteen days, he reasoned, should be time enough to have had at least a candidate or two in place.

“Now,” Harold told himself, “I need to find someone to fall in love with.” Thankfully, Harold knew someone who he knew could help.

Stanley 038795011 had been in love literally dozens of times since he and Harold first met at The Original Company Holiday Party two years previous (before GFM). Stanley was probably the only real friend Harold had. Not a hang-out-after-work-and-go-bowling kind of friend exactly, but definitely a share-a-lunch-table-in-the-cafetorium type friend. Harold was glad to see Stanley alone in the cafetorium on this most important occasion.

“Stanley,” Harold said with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Mind if I join you?”

“Why no! By all means…” Stanley shot back, sensing instinctively that he should match Harold’s energy. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Harold was happy to get right to the point. He had no time for the tedious ritual of daily small talk to which so many seemed devoted. “I need to find someone to fall in love with. Preferably within the next two weeks.”

“I see,” said Stanley in all seriousness. “Well, you’ve come to the right person. I’m your man. First we need to gather data and align characteristics that describe your perfect woman. I do assume that this is a woman you seek.”

“Yes, yes. Of, of course…a, a woman.” Harold stammered in part because frankly he hadn’t even considered any of the other options Stanley was suggesting.

“You are in luck, my friend. I have recently developed an app that can pinpoint exactly who and how and, more importantly, where to find the lifemate of your dreams. I have been beta testing it myself for some time now; but I certainly welcome the opportunity for fresh data. I will need just 15 minutes of your time to develop a candidate profile. When would you like to start?”

“I’m ready any time,” Harold said excitedly.

“Sadly, I have to return to my desk in twelve minutes,” Stanley replied glancing at his lifewatch,” otherwise I’d say let’s do it now. How about we meet at Ye Olde Tavern Bowl after work and take care of this matter today?

“Great,” Harold nodded. “Ye Olde Tavern Bowl, after work. Certainly. Sounds like an exceptional plan. Well, that’s that then.” Harold reached out, shook Stanley’s hand, and wandered off in what can only be described as a mental fog. There were so many conflicting thoughts and confounding questions bouncing around his skull he could barely manage to control his basic motor functions. The anticipation he felt was so great that Harold could not help but check his lifewatch every few minutes all afternoon long. On several occasions he grew suspicious that time was actually folding in on itself and possibly beginning to reverse. He took this as a sign he should refresh his basic understanding of quantum mechanics and the time/space continuum which fortunately allowed the rest of the day pass much more rapidly and by the time Harold looked up from his monitor again he saw that it was indeed, after work.

It was Lawn Bowl Tuesday at Ye Olde Tavern Bowl and most all of the young Company associates of all four (or was it now five?) genders were dressed in classic whites and forming teams.

“Looks fun, doesn’t it?” Stanley said looking out over the artificially sun-drenched fauxlawn. “But we have work to do, my lovesick friend.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Harold agreed, pulling up a chair across from Stanley’s VituaPC mobile workstation.

“Is that the new VPC?” Harold asked. “I haven’t actually seen one before.”

“You simply must order one,” Stanley said without looking up. “It is the most powerful virtual mobile workstation ever developed. I couldn’t live without it. Now. First things first. You are no doubt curious why I didn’t just give you my app and let you input your data yourself.”

“It did cross my mind, yes,” Harold nodded.

“Well, here’s the thing,” Stanley said, finally catching Harold’s gaze directly. “I haven’t done much QC on this thing at all. You are frankly the first trial case other than myself. Though I must say my own results have been nothing short of spectacular. That said, my UX is rather rudimentary and my immediate fear is that erroneous data entry on the users part could seriously impede the output. I just want to ensure all the evidence is empirical, if you catch my drift.”

“Of course,” Harold said yet again, continuing to nod back and forth as Stanley talked like a bobblehead doll.

“And besides all that,” Stanley continued while pulling what looked like some kind of digital stethoscope from his backpack, “there is the matter of the input device.”

“What is that thing?” Harold asked.

“I’m toying with calling it the loveometer but I’ll probably leave that whole area to the branding folks.” Stanley leaned forward to attach monitor strips just below Harold temporal lobes. “Here,” he said, handing Harold the third strip. “Slip this under your shirt directly over your heart.”

“Over my heart?”

“Yes,” Stanley laughed. “It really isn’t completely necessary but I think it’s a nice touch, don’t you? The point of all this is that the loveometer does not require you to think at all. You don’t have to read anything. You don’t have to physically process anything. And that’s what makes it so powerful. You can’t lie yourself or simply imagine you know the truth. All you can do is listen and leave the rest to your instincts and the loveometer. Now. Put in these earbuds and close your eyes. Forget everything, Harold, and listen.”

Harold had no idea what would happen next; but had he guessed for a year or more he would not have been prepared to hear the two big bold A Major chords that followed or Reg Presley of The Troggs wailing Wild Thing!

It was a shock to the system to be sure; but before he could adjust to this stimulus the music changed and Lionel Richie was crooning quietly in his ear: Hello. Is it you I’m looking for? Then, immediately thereafter Harold was dancing cheek to cheek with Ella Fitzgerald. On and on the songs flooded into his subconcious. His mind was awash with sound, color and meaning. From When a Man Loves a Woman Harold tripped to The First Time Ever I Saw Her Face. Then Cherish was the word he used to describe and just as surely as My Baby Just Cares for Me, The Way You Look Tonight, lead Harold to The Power of Love. 

So many melodies, so many emotions… but Harold could see something was missing. He had no actual memories he associated with any of this music. That realization filled him with dread. As each new song was introduced he grew more and more impatient to the point of being physically repulsed. He thought he might soon throw up. By the time Brian Wilson’s high falsetto started to sweetly to swoon God only knows what I be without you, he could take no more. He violently tore at the earbuds, threw open his eyes, and blurted: “I’m not sure this is for me at all!”

“I’m sorry,” the server who was at that very moment placing a blueberry pomegranate wheat ale in front of Harold replied. “Your friend told me that’s what you would want. Is there something else I can get you?”

“What? Sorry… Oh? No. This is fine. Where… Where did he go?”

“I’m not sure,” the server said. “He was here. Wow, you are really into music aren’t you? What are you listening to?” The server, who Harold was just beginning to realize was quite young and quite blond and very attractive, picked up his earbud off the table and held it to her ear. “Oh, my god! I love this song. No wonder you were a million miles away. Wait? It’s changing? Oh, this one is great too. You have excellent taste in music.” She handed the earbud back to Harold. “Funny…”

“Funny?” Harold repeated.

“Don’t take this the wrong way. But… You don’t look like the romantic type. What’s your name?”

“Harold,” Harold said shyly. “Harold 263840771.”

“I don’t need your number, Harold” The server laughed. “We’re not getting married. Not yet anyway. I’m Paige”

“No, ha!” Harold blushed. “Of course. Not yet. Ha. Nice to meet you, Paige.”

“I don’t know that I’ve seen you here before, Harold. Are you just visiting?”

“No. I…” Harold wasn’t quite sure how to explain himself but he knew he didn’t want to admit the truth. “I work for The Company. Ah, my friend and I were thinking about taking up bowling.”

“Oh you should. We play every Wednesday. Rock and Bowl Wednesdays. Have you heard of it? You’d like it. Great music.”

“Oh, yes? That sounds…pretty awesome.” It was the first time in Harold’s whole life that he had uttered the phrase “pretty awesome” and he was not entirely sure why he had done so just now.

“What are you, doing?” Stanley burst into the conversation in full panic mode. “The data! You’ve ruined the data! Why did you stop?”

“I’m sorry,” Paige said stepping back from the table. “Did I do something wrong? I just brought over your order.”

“No, no,” Harold told her. “Not at all.” Then he attempted to stand and therefore ripped both monitor strips from the sides of his skull. “It’s no problem. Think nothing of it. Every thing is fine. I was just…testing a new app for my friend. It’s…all good.”

“Ok,” said Paige. “Well, nice to meet you… Don’t forget about Rock and Bowl Wednesdays.”

“No. Yes…” Harold nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it. For sure. Sounds…awesome.” After that Harold stood about shifting his stance and smiling unconvincingly while Stanley fretted over his data, and Paige looked puzzled, then laughed sweetly, and finally moved off to check on another table.

“Harold” Stanley said slowly lifting his head from his workstation. “This is quite remarkable. Don’t ask me how or why but data does not lie. It is very clear. Right here. She’s the one!”

“I know, Stanley, I know” Harold laughed and a shit-eating grin grew across his whole face. Then suddenly he remembered something that shook him from his reverie: “Damn! Stanley. Do you know how to bowl?”

The Last Elf

25 Thursday Dec 2014

Posted by in Neville Cole

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before the journey

 

Story and Photographs by Neville Cole

I have managed to secure the services of a local Inuit guide, Akkikiktok, to help me on my expedition. He assures me he knows the way to Santa’s Workshop like the back of his hand and can get me there “no troubles.” He also tells me I made “the best choice for a guide in all of Barrow. Ask anyone,” he laughs with a broad single-toothed smile, “Akkikiktok mean ‘very cheap.’’ I have since confirmed on google that Akkikiktok is Inuit for “costs little” so at least he is a man of his word.

Venturing by snowmobile out into the dark, winter wilderness has me more than a little concerned; but Akkikiktok is supremely confident all will be well. “We just keep going due North two days, maybe three. Can’t miss it.” As we race across the frozen tundra I can hear him hollering a familiar refrain.

“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer…”

barrow

Arctic Ocean (somewhere north of Barrow)

I have to admit I expected this night within the Arctic Circle mid-way between Barrow and Santa’s Workshop would be a lot more miserable but Akkikiktok’s seal skin tent is surprisingly comfortable. We travelled for probably 14 hours or more before Akkikiktok pulled over to set up camp. As there is no day this time of year, there is really no point in stopping out here until you are almost too tired to go on. Camp was pitched in no time flat and before I knew it we were both sitting down to a during a delightful meal of hot tea and cold muktuk (whale blubber). But it was the after dinner show that made the whole experience worthwhile. You have no truly lived until you have witnessed Aurora Borealis in all its wild glory.

Up here you don’t see Aurora Borealis, you are Aurora Borealis. The whole universe is alive and breathes pumping color and energy directly into your soul: somewhat like a standing alone in a silent trance party. No. Come to think about it. It’s better than that. It’s like a glow stick paradise at burning man north. No that does do it justice. Oh, to hell with it…trust me, you had to be there.

aurora

Santa’s Workshop, North Pole

Those of you lacking any Christmas spirit have probably already checked the internet and noted that it would be plainly impossible anyone to ride a snow-mobile to the North Pole in “two, maybe three days” from Barrow, Alaska. This is quite true. Santa’s Workshop is not exactly at the North Pole. In truth, it used to be but what with satellite tracking and google maps they just started getting too many visitors at the old address and simply up and moved the whole operation one summer to a tiny, uncharted island in the middle of the Arctic Ocean: think of Gilligan’s Isle with snow and ice instead of sand and palm trees.

At first glance, Santa’s Workshop seemed smaller, more rundown and far less Christmassy than I imagined; but that was before Akikiktok and I made our way inside. When we did so, what I saw would have made Dickens himself retch with disgust. No happy holiday carols being sung with elfin glee. No bell laden reindeer prancing about in excited anticipation. No cherry-cheeked gentleman in a red fur gown making a list and checking it twice. No happiness at all. No sound at all. No body at all. Save one glum-looking little fellow in faded knickers and a flea-bitten old coat.

“Gipper!” Akkikiktok cried out as soon as the miserable old elf came into view. “I have brought you muktuk and vodka! And this guy who wants to interview you.”

“Interview me?” Gipper the elf sighed. “Whatever for? What a bore. Vodka sounds nice. I’ll end up on the floor, for sure!” Then he shuffled off into another room with so much as a “howdy do.”

“Akkikiktok?” I whispered suspiciously. “What is going on? What are we doing here? Where is Santa? Where are all the busy elves? Where are the blessed reindeer, for heavensake?”

“What?” Akkikiktok hollered. “What century do you think this is? Oh boy, wait till Gipper hears this.”

“Hears what?” says a tiny helium-like voice suddenly appearing out of the shadows.

“He wants to know where Santa and the reindeer and all the other elves are! That’s a good one, no?”

“Oh yeah,” Gipper mumbles morosely. “That is too funny for words.”

outside santas workshop

Santa’s Workshop Again (Later That Same Night)

After another hearty bowl of muktuk (fried up this time in its own fat) and a glass or two of vodka, Akkikiktok and Gipper finally started to make some sense and I decided that this lonely, old elf was indeed a worthy interview subject. I wanted to know what was really going on. When did everything change? How is it that Christmas continues when the engine that drove it for some many years is gone? Fortunately, the alcohol loosened Gipper’s tongue, Akkikiktok’s giddy, child-like energy seemed to ignite his waving Christmas spirit, and before long the story of the last elf was told to us all by a comforting, crackling fire.

muktuk Ed's note - looks delicious, Neville :-(

muktuk
Ed’s note – looks delicious, Neville 😦

“You should have seen this place fifty, sixty years ago,” Gipper smiled, light from the flickering flames dancing across his eyes. “It was all you imagined it would be and more. I tell you no Hollywood movie ever could have done it justice.”

“So…” I said with all sincerity, “what happened?”

“Globalization, of course, Gipper said, throwing up his hands. “What else? Why would this place be any different to any other business anywhere in the world? In fact, it happened here first. This should have been the warning shot heard round the world. We simply couldn’t compete with those Chinese elves. We couldn’t match the customer support teams in India. We couldn’t match FedEx and Amazon’s delivery systems. By the mid-eighties the writing was on the wall. Most of the elves move on right away and got other jobs. Silicon Valley? That place was built by us elves! Only they got smart and called themselves nerds and nobody even noticed. Hell suddenly nerd was cool! Suddenly nerds ruled the world! I was a nerd revolution. Nerd revolution my foot! I’ll tell you what it was…it was an elf revolution plain and simple. I’ll tell you something else. No one codes like a Christmas freaking elf! Sure some of them went to China to run the factories there. Shoot 14 hours days is a picnic for Christmas elf and from what I hear the cost of living is cheap, cheap, cheap. But we held on here as long as we could until the big guy packed it in and moved to Key West.”

“The big guy?” I asked. “You mean Santa? Santa is living in Florida?”

“Yeah,” Gipper smiled wryly. “He and the missus moved down there in the early 90s… just like every other retiree with enough dough socked away to live the good life. I hear tell he and Mrs. Claus never miss a Fantasy Fest and one year he won the Hemingway Look-alike competition. Must be nice.”

“You mean to tell me you are the only elf lest in Santa’s Workshop?” I said, once all this finally sunk in. “What do you do all day? Up here alone.”

“I’m head of wooden toys.”Gipper answered. “Not a lot of call for wooden toys anymore; but if you buy a wooden toy one there’s a good chance I made it. I can make pretty much any damn thing out of wood in no time flat.” Got rooms full of them all over this place. Of course, thanks to a contractual obligation I got to stamp most of them “made in china.” I was grand-fathered into the ChinaToyCo agreement of 2001. Don’t get me started; but I ain’t gonna quit I’ll tell you that right now!”

Gipper was well into his third glass of vodka by now and his slurring more pronounced and his language more raunchy with every sip.

“I aint gonna quit. I’m staying in this shit hole. Making piles of damn wooden toys that no one wants. Cause you know why? You know why? Cause I’m all that’s left of Christmas! Look around. I am the damn ghost of Christmas present. You want to save Christmas? Tell this to everyone in your story. You want to save Christmas? Buy wood!”

It was a long way back to Barrow and Akikiktok was anxious to move on before weather set in. As happy go lucky as Akikiktok is even he didn’ want to get stuck with cheery old Gipper for a week. I bought a wooden rocking reindeer for the nephew and we made our home. My you should have seen the Aurora Borealis show on the long ride home.

 

 

On Rejection

09 Thursday Oct 2014

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 Story by Neville Cole

I am quite used to rejection. I’m not saying I’m good at it; but I am very used to it.

Way back when, before I got old and comfortable, I was an actor. So, yeah… I was dealt a heavy dose of rejection very early on. Rejection for an actor is constant, immediate, and pretty much soul crushing. In fact, right behind the almost total lack of monetary reward, rejection is the worst thing about being an actor.

All of which is to explain why, after 10 mostly forgettable years, I couldn’t take it anymore and got a real job. Yes. It’s true. I gave up the actor’s life before I hit thirty. I am the very definition of a corporate sellout. It wasn’t as hard a choice as you might imagine. In fact, very soon thereafter I noticed something quite strange: I was happy.

I started doing fun things like go to the grocery store and buy supplies without first figuring out exactly how much it would all cost. I even did a few truly crazy things like buy health insurance*.

*Author’s Note: For those of you reading this outside the general realm of United States, note that health insurance in the US costs approximately twice what the average actor makes; at least it sure did back when I was still doing it.

Still, despite all this positive change, and despite all the years that have passed me by; deep down in my soul, a tiny but mighty creative flame still glimmers. All I need is the barest flicker of hope to ignite that spark.

Some dry tinder was thrown on that fire recently in the form of a playwriting competition. Specifically the temptation I could not ignore was an invitation to enter the WORST Play Ever Contest. It was an opportunity too perfect to resist.

“Hello. I thought. This is right up my alley. In fact, it’s perfect! Theater is in my blood. It’s part of my DNA! Why, I have stacks of horrendous material and ideas to draw from!”

I threw myself into the project without delay. I have to say, the bad playwriting process is unlike any other I have encountered. I fell immediately into that trance-like state known as the zone. Epically terrible dialogue flowed through me like… well, like fecal matter through a shit tube. I sat there, hunched over my laptop like a gargoyle on a gothic cathedral, motionless except for my ten furious fingers flailing away. Imagine Kerouac, hepped up on bennies, banging out the scroll for his magnum opus On The Road and you get the picture. Before I knew it, all in one marathon sitting, I was done. That is to say, over the course of a couple of hours. It takes a couple of hours to run a marathon, right?

Having spewed out such a violent torrent of words, I didn’t even consider anything as onerous as editing. In fact, mere moments after I finished typing “The End,” my masterpiece of stupidity was off to the review committee at a lightning fast 18 megabits a second. The rush I felt faded the moment I hit send.

Those of you familiar with rejection know all too well how quickly creeping doubt seeps into your consciousness. At first it was little more than nervous whispers.

“Are you sure that was your absolute worst work? Wouldn’t it have been better to wait a day or two to let it sit so you could review it with a clear mind? Do you really think it was a good idea to base the play on actual events? Couldn’t having some form of plot and character work against you in the long run?”

Not an hour had passed before despair hit me like a 2×4 to the noggin. “You idiot,” I screamed. “That pathetic piece of crap is nothing close to your worst work!”

The dread that followed was almost too much to bear. With each passing day I became more and more convinced that rejection was inevitable. I knew with absolute certainty that a cruel dismissal of my creation could hit my Inbox at any turn.

“We’re sorry,” I imagined it would begin, “but your play was too good to be considered for this contest.” Before the rejection officially arrived I set about to mend my broken psyche.

“Tomorrow will be another day.” I reassured myself. I will rise again. I will put on my suit and tie (my business costume) and head off to the safety of my office where so little is expected and everything not done can be put off till next week. “I will survive this,” I said wiping back tears of regret. “I always do. I always will.”

And then, today, my friends…something magical happened! This was in my Inbox!

Hello Horrible Playwright,

I regret to inform you that your play has been selected as a finalist in the WORST Play Ever Contest to be performed on Oct. 12th.

Who says dreams have to die? Who says we have to live under the brutal heel of rejection’s dread? Not I. Not today! Today I revel in the words of the great American essayist, Ralph Waldo Emerson, who famously wrote: “Do not waste yourself in rejection; do not bark against the bad, but chant the beauty of good.”

Then again, there are five other finalists still. I bet one of their plays is worse than mine. Hell! All five are probably much worse than mine. There’s no way I can win. Oh well… I better get to bed. I have to get up early and get to the office. I have a big conference call in the morning.

 

What’s Eating Tony Abbott?

24 Tuesday Jun 2014

Posted by in Neville Cole

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US-AUSTRALIA-DIPLOMACY-OBAMA-ABBOTT

Story by Pig’s Arms North America Correspondent, Neville Cole

The best thing about being the Pig’s Arms North American correspondent is the unspoken freedom I have to do whatever it takes to chase down a story.  Interestingly, I have learned over the years that the best stories don’t have to be chased. The best stories come to you. The trick is letting them find you.

This can be tougher than it seems. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve sat for hours at the bar of some swanky hotel eating mixed nuts and ordering overpriced cocktails waiting for something important to happen; but, every now and then, it does.

Case in point… Not long ago I was hanging out on the beltway, working the angles, trying to wrangle an exclusive with President Obama when quite by accident (or was it fate?) I happened to spot this miserable-looking bloke sitting all alone in a dark corner. He appeared to be quite literally crying in his beer.

When he lifted up his face to the flickering light, I could just make out that it was none other than reigning Australian Prime Minister, Tony Abbott. I decided to see if couldn’t cheer the poor bastard up. I ordered up two Pink Fizzes and wandered over to make my acquaintance. Here’s how our conversation went:

Me: Hey bud… You look like you could use a drink.

Tony (wiping eyes): Wha? Who? What?

Me: Pink Fizz?

Tony: Oh… Ah… Sure. Why not?

Me: Tough day?

Tony: Wasn’t supposed to be. This was going to be my chance to shine. I met with POTUS today.

Me: You met with the President of the United States? Wow!

Tony: He’s POTUS, so what? I’m the PMA. I was born for this job! People know I get stuck right in to it and that’s exactly what I wanted Barack Obama to find out for himself. I didn’t tell him just what he wanted to hear either. I let him know what I thought of his taxation policy for a start.

Me: How did that go over?

Tony: How do you think? He looked at me like I had just floated in to town on a boat.

Me: That’s not right… He may be the leader of the free world; but you’re the wonder down under and if anyone knows about unfair taxation policies, it’s you.

Tony: Thanks, mate. That’s kind of you to say; but, to tell the truth, I don’t feel like the wonder down under. Right now, I feel a lot more like poor old Jesus.

Me: Jesus?

Tony: Cause I’m being crucified in the press.

Me: What for?

Tony: For one, they’re all saying I’m not a real conservationist.

Me: You’re a terrific conversationalist! I can tell that right off the bat…

Tony: That’s what I was telling that Barack Obama. I told him I reckon we all should rest lightly on the planet. I let him know that the terms “conservative” and “conservation” have common root cause both of them mean keeping all the good stuff for ourselves.

Me: Sounds like the two of you had a very constructive and genial discussion.

Tony: I thought so. I just want to do the right thing by our planet, you know. That’s why I keep in such close contact with all them forestry blokes and mining companies…they’re the ones out in the field. They are in touch with the earth every day. They know what’s going on. But this Barack Obama…to be honest, I don’t think he got where I was coming from.

Me: Too bad George W isn’t running things still…something tells me you and he would’ve see eye to eye.

Tony: Of course. You see. The great thing about GW is… he knows Jesus. I was trying to tell Obama that he needs to get his Immigration thing under control. I told him that Jesus was the answer because he knew that there was a place for everything and that’s it is not necessarily everyone’s place to come to Australia or America either for that matter. Obama looked at me like I was from outer space… then I remembered… he’s a Muslim.

Me: Of course!

Tony: Well, everything went to hell in a hand basket after that. Who would ever imagine that you can’t talk about Jesus in America? He was practically born there! Still, if there’s one thing I’ve learned being the PMA, it’s that with great power comes great envy. You find out real quick that everyone is out to bring you down. You know right away that every little thing you say will be taken out of context and blown up completely out of proportion. You can’t even have a laugh with a 62 year old sex worker anymore. You can never take a single step wrong. Until you walked a mile in my shoes you don’t know what it’s like to be me. No one can live up to all these expectations.

No one can be the suppository of all knowledge! Not even me…

Me: I’m…lost for words.

Tony pulled his mouth into a tight smile, put a hand on my shoulder, and said quietly, almost wistfully: “I know mate, I know. Me too.” Then he thanked me for the Pink Fizz and walked off alone in the Washington night.

Editor’s note:  Neville didn’t specifically say that Tony didn’t pick up the tab.  He’s that kind of guy.

Hung One On Whitman

08 Thursday May 2014

Posted by in Neville Cole, Poets Corner

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poets_pub

Story by Neville Cole

I’ll admit it. I tied one on with Hung One On down the Pub last night. As I recall, it all started amicably enough. All the locals were there celebrating the 5th Anniversary. Viv’s spread was a real treat. Gregor took to the mic early on and told some raunchy jokes. Big M was singing Karaoke. I had a grand old time catching up with Algy, Shoe, Voice, Asty, Lehan, Gerard, Helvi, Warrigal and, of course Emmjay. But, much, much later, as closing time drew nigh, things got a little…well, strange. Hung grew increasingly introspective, almost wistful, as the night went on and we began to talk – as we often do when we get this way – about life, about love, and about…poetry.

“Some day, Mate,” he says to me, “I’m gonna go walkabout. I gonna drop this…” he paused for a moment to choose just the right word, than added: “façade…and start living.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I replied, appropriately emphasizing exactly in exactly the right way as I downed my last Trotters.

“I think you do. I think you do. I know you do!” Hung said with a sudden smile. “You and I aren’t the types to be penned in by… by rules…and, and rules. We are the truth tellers. We are the rebel alliance. We are poets, man…and we should be out there poeting our guts out.”

“We are poets,” I agreed with him. “When I look at you that’s exactly what I see.” I was at this time somewhat fixed on the word exactly as you might have already guessed. But I continued nevertheless: “You, for sure, are a fucking poet, Hung. Walt Whitman’s got nothing on you, brother.”

“Walt Whitman!” Hung leapt to his feet like a sleeping dog woken by a noisy cat. “That’s it!” Hung cried climbing his stool to reach the bar.

“Hey, hey,” Merv sang out. “Closing time, Hung. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

“Hear him out, Merv,” I said quietly. “He’s on a roll.”

“Warrigal kept to himself. Quietly sketching away in the corner; but I saw a wry smile break across his face as Hung began to recite a poem in a loud, clear voice.

“Song of MY self,” Hung announced to the almost empty bar. “By Hung One On Whitman.

And what followed, I recorded exactly as it poured from his soul…’cause no one would believe it if I didn’t write it down.

 

Song of my self

 

Come breathe the musk of morning
sit silent at the desert dawn;
Listen for my breath
Here me cry the empty sky
into being
Bathe in the light
I am not lost
nor hidden in rock
I am not dead
you are not dreaming
we are Life eternal.

Throw off your shoes
Did toes in solid earth
Draw kindred souls into your veins
There is not end in sight
no apocalypse is nigh
there is not one of us will die
we all are Life eternal
we are the one supernal
I take you in as you do I
Give yourself to the forests and the seas
We are all what feeds the other
There is no turning back
This is a never ending track that leads back to an open door
no floor
no ceiling to block the light
you are in my sight
no need to fear the night
Feel my warmth on you skin
Let me in
Turn your face to me
Give me a smile for today
You are Life eternal.

Look to the sky
Not a cloud to block the blue
This is my gift to you
This blue sky
that greenish-yellow leaf
the purple pinkness of the flowers
the richness and ceaseless variety
you are wrapped in a multitude of color
all for you this glorious display
I paint the world this way
To make each day your canvas
Take it in
Hold it with you to look upon
During the hours of grey and black
Remember my gift
Seek it out
The new day is just beyond the horizon
It will not be slowed or stopped
It will not hold back from you
Even if you doubt or despair
Even if you curse and cry
Even if you lose your way
Even if you forget
A new day is coming
Every moment
a hundred million every second
all across the Earth
a billion others like you and I
feeling with us
We are Life eternal.

Hung stopped for a moment, then a moment more, then paused, then graceful as a dancer, he bowed deeply and humbly. Emmjay and I cheered. Even Warrigal rose to his feet in applause.

I don’t remember much that happened after that. It’s a bit of a blur. I remember watching the sun come up a few hours later and replaying Hung’s poem in my head; but that’s about it. Still, it was a top notch 5th Birthday bash and I can’t wait till next year’s party.

 

I Started a Blog

28 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by in Neville Cole

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Phoenix enlargement - in progress

Phoenix enlargement – in progress

Story by Neville Cole

Actually I’ve started probably a dozen blogs; but I’m hopeful this latest one might actually have some kind of payoff. It’s been a long, lean road so far.

Many years ago I convinced my company that I should go to a social media conference in Las Vegas and learn everything there is to know about blogging. My company still considers the word blog a four letter word but I took what I did learn and got to work on my own projects.

My first blog post “Oyster call Oystralia home” was probably my most successful effort to date. Somehow this fellow in Australia name Therese Trowseroff (or some such thing) miraculously discovered it the day of posting and invited me to be the North American Correspondent for something called The Window Dressers and Pig’s Arms. That fellow has quite an imagination. Wow. I thought, one post and the world is watching. This will be a piece of cake.

I sat at home and puzzled over one of the tips I learned in Las Vegas. Write what you know. I know, I thought I could write an advice column! I give brilliant advice. I created a character called Aunt Mary loosely based on a cross between Dear Abby and Dame Edna Everage. Who better to spew advice to a willing world, I thought.

My first Aunt Mary post was an qualified hit. Therese – who had changed his name to Emm or some such thing – sent me an email with the header “Holy Hits Aunt Mary.” Subsequent posts, however, did create such a draw. I also started to run out of advice.

That’s when I decided I was a modern day Charles Dickens. I would post – chapter by chapter – my tales of great adventure around the world, slowly gathering fandom until, at the conclusion of my story, I could self-publish a bone fide hit! I made it about 12 chapters into From Here to Nairobi before I was hit with the aching realization that this really wasn’t much of a tale and my projected sales would probably amount to about two days work in the office.

Undaunted, I hit upon the idea of using a blog to imagine a set of fanciful characters that could someday develop into a comic book series or animation. Chimp George, Pistol Palin and Smoking Rabbit never did catch on.

Intermittently I wandered back to the internet to do research. Why was I failing so consistently to create any kind of following? Sure I picked up some “followers” along the way but the only people who ever provided any feedback at all were the fine patrons of the Window Dressers and Pig’s Arms. They did say lovely things and Mike Jones (he changed his name again, I think) was incredibly supportive and thankful for my every effort.

The experts all over the Internet told me I should be blogging about gadgets, sports and/or fashion or providing brilliantly researched posts focused on important subject people need to survive or make money, or such. Hmm…maybe one on how to create a buzz in social media would be good. But, research and entrepreneurship is not really my thing. For a start, I’ve got a full time job; one I actually quite like and one that, knock on wood, I could potentially do till almost the day I die.

That said, I can’t shake this whole blog fantasy. Recently I read a quote from Stephen King about writing. “Write with the door closed”, he says. “Edit with the door open”. Brilliant, thinks I. I can write away on a novel idea alone, then post it out to the web and edit it with the world watching.

How does that song go? I started to cry which started the whole world laughing? We’ll I started a blog my novel which started the whole world reading anything else. Maybe, the problem is the whole world is too busy blogging to read anymore.

Anyway, long post short… I’ve started another blog about something I know: where to go out for a good time in this old town of mine. I’ve called it Around Phoenix. It’s full of good advice, local knowledge and a little bad humor for spice. I end each post with the catchphrase. See You Around Phoenix. The perceptive among you will notice at tip of the hat to Anchorman. It’s better than “Stay Classy San Diego” and nearly as memorable as “Go F#ck Yourself, San Diego.”

In the About section of my new blog, I say Around Phoenix only has one rule. I will only review places I really like. For one, I think reviewers who spew lots of vitriol about how bad some place is should probably just post on Yelp. For two, if I were looking for a restaurant or bar, I’d rather know I can go to a site where I know everything they suggest is good.

I also figure people with restaurants and bars are often pretty desperate for any good review and if they like what I write they may help promote my page with a reblog. I’ve got 5 followers so far (and one of them has 21 thousand followers), so who knows? The only potential problem is…what if I have to decide between giving a good review to a place with lots of followers and my promise to only review places I like? Oh well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I don’t have lofty goals as yet. I’m pretty much only hoping that maybe one of the places I review will offer me a free appetizer or a bottle of wine on the house or something. Hell, at this point if someone makes a comment I’ll consider that a victory.

But if this does start to pick up steam I got a lot of great ideas. I could write off my restaurant and bar bills on my taxes. I could let other people write reviews for me and just manage the content. I could set myself up for a second career as a social media expert in case my company has another round of layoffs. I can even picture an Around Phoenix app, or maybe a local TV series…and think of the franchise opportunities!

So anyway…I started a blog. It’s called Around Phoenix. Come visit if you’re looking for somewhere to go around Phoenix. God, I love that catchphrase!

The Soulard Swing

21 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by in Neville Cole

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The 460 riders of the satirical Krewe D'Etat turn onto St. Charles Avenue as they roll down the traditional Uptown route with their 22-float presentation entitled "The Dictator's Reading Room" Friday, Feb. 8, 2013 in New Orleans. (AP Photo/The Times-Picayune, Michael DeMocker) MAGS OUT; NO SALES; USA TODAY OUT; THE BATON ROUGE ADVOCATE OUT

From: The Buddha of Soulard by Neville Cole

Mardi Gras is winding down for the night. Geary St. is a ghost town.

“It’s Monday, okay, but this is bizarre,” thinks Buddha Bailey. He pronounces bizarre bee-zah in his head. Buddha likes making up new ways to say old words. He can’t hardly help it. For a moment Buddha stops in his track to ponder a realization: tomorrow’s the parade, the biggest day of the year. Could it be the whole of Soulard has gone home early to rest? That didn’t seem likely. Buddha never gave a thought about resting. Long after midnight, three hundred and sixty-five nights a year, you will find him wandering the streets of Soulard with his big bass drum, sound system, trumpet, ukulele, and assorted odds and sods in tow.

When Buddha reaches his mother’s door he takes things real slow. He cracks the door all silent like and avoids the light switch so as to avoid his ol’ Ma. Yeah, Buddha still lives at home. I don’t want to get into that right now. The point I’m trying to make is that it’s pretty late and very dark and maybe even that Buddha is a little tipsy. That’s why he’s trying to creep as quiet as a mouse, you see, but his damn Doc Martens they are squeaking with each timid little step (like mice, come to think of it), so Buddha, he figures he will kick them buggers off. Big mistake. How so? I’m trying to tell you. Picture this. Buddha is making his way, shoulder to the wall (again, much like a mouse would do), and, sure enough, just as mice often do when that travel this way, Buddha walks right into a trap.

Now, this is something I suggest you avoid if you can. In fact, one the last things you wanna be stepping on in socks is a rat trap. That thing snaps shut and Buddha hurls himself away from the wall and starts twirling round and round like of them whirling dervish fellas until he can’t spin no more and then, he topples. “Timber!” some subconscious lumberjack cries and, before he can right the ship, inertia takes over and crunch-snap-grunt-thump… Buddha Bailey is down but good.

“Don’t move!” a hysterical voice cries out from the void. “I’ve got a gun.”

Buddha makes out Ma, silhouetted in the faint moonlight glinting in at the end of the hall. She’s swinging something large and threatening around her head. Before he can think to speak, she clobbers him right on the noggin.

“Ow! Fuck Ma!” Buddha howls.

“David Patrick Bailey,” his mother screeches. “You scared me half to death!”

“You nearly beat me whole to death. Jesus, Ma! I’m bleeding here!”

“What are you doing creeping round in the middle on the night stinking like a sewer rat? And why didn’t you say it was you when I gave you the chance?”

“You call that a chance? That was assault and battery. You done brained me so bad I’ll bet I probly get some kinda syndrome.

“A couple of classes at community college and this one thinks he a lawyer,” Ma says all snide like. “Maybe if you hadn’t thrown away that scholarship you coulda been one; but you decided to be a street bum instead.”

Buddha got a feeling as soon as them words left her mouth Ma regretted saying them ‘cause she quickly changed the subject. “Get yourself into the kitchen and I’ll fix you up some comfort food,” says she. “I might as well put this frying pan to proper use now that I done got it out. You want some eggs and bacon, baby boy?”

“Mmm, okay,” Buddha replies and hauls himself up off the floor. Things were definitely getting worse round the Bailey place and things had never been good. But bacon sizzles and eggs bubble and Buddha’s skull throbs and those two miserable sods say nothing further until the midnight snack hits the table just out of Buddha’s reach. He leans over to grab it with a heavy sigh.

“What’s the matter with you now?” Ma snaps; then, without so much as a heartbeat she yaps on and on: “I swear to Jesus in heaven,” says she, “I never did see such mope in my life.” Ma sits down to the table and lights up a smoke.”

“Nothing’s the matter, Ma,” Buddha lies, “I just got things on my mind is all.” Then he starts up to go grab a beer but crazy old Ma she beats him to it.

“Sit. You eat. I’ll fetch you a beer,” says she. “It’s the least I can do, I suppose.” Mean ‘ol Ma is out of her chair and to the fridge before you can say Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Well, before Buddha could anyways. He always did have trouble with that bloody stupid word. “How’s that head of yours?” Ma says as sweet as parsnip (that is, not too bloody sweet-ha ha). “Has the bleeding stopped? she adds.”

“I’m fine,” Buddha mumbles. ‘Cause honest how he gonna stay mad with a big plate of bacon sitting under his chin?

“Well, just maybe I knocked some sense into you.” Ma says as she sets a beer in his vicinity and drops a half-smoked, still burning butt near an already overloaded ashtray. Buddha never seen her like this in years. You would of thunk she was conducting Beethoven’s Fifth with all the waving and pointing she was carrying on with.

“Anyway, I glad we got this chance to talk. There’s something I’ve been waiting to tell you all day long,” says Ma. “I was speaking today to that nice Mr. Fletcher, today. The one from bingo?” She looks at Buddha like he should know all them idiots who go down the Lafayette Bingo Hall of a Wednesday; but he just shrugs so she goes on. “He owns that Fletcher’s Pawn” says she, “and he’s looking for someone just like you to help him out. Isn’t that the most wonderful news?”

All Buddha could hear was “Dah dah dah duuuummm. Dah dah dah duuuummm.” But once he figured she had finally shut up and was waiting on him to speak, he goes: “I got plenty of jobs, Ma.” Buddha is sucker for punishment you probably noticed. What they call a sadocist.

“I’m talking regular employment, Buddha” she starts up again. Doris Bailey only calls her son Buddha when she’s trying to butter him up. She’s such a broken record, he can’t even listen no more but she goes on conducting nevertheless. “This is a real job, Buddha. Not that two-bit hustling you get up to every night. Besides, this is a day job. You can carry on with all that other business any time you want.”

Buddha can’t but help himself, and he tries to explain to her one more time: “Things are just starting to come together for me, Ma.” Says he, sweet as can be. “They might hire me and the Soulard Swing as a regular band at Big Daddy’s after tomorrow. I done a tryout tonight already.”

“And what will that pay, pray tell?” Ma snaps. “All the beer you can drink?” Meanwhile I’m left keeping the lights on on my disability alone? I already told you. You can get up to whatever mischief you want nights and weekends but you are going to see Frank Fletcher tomorrow and get yourself an honest income ‘cause I’m here to tell you the gravy train has left the station. It’s time for you to pull your own weight.”

At the mention of weight Buddha stops ‘cause he knows that a punchline is soon to follow. And sure enough after two beats she adds: “All two tonnes of it…or whatever you up to now!” Bah-dum-dum.

Buddha don’t like fat jokes. He sits in silence and imagines he’s alone. This trick sometimes gets her to leave the room; but not tonight.

“Well?” says Ma.

“I can’t go down tomorrow. It’s parade day, Ma! I’ll pull in two hunderd easy. I’ll see that Mr. Fletcher fella right after Mardi Gras, I promise.”

“Mardi Gras ain’t nothing special, you know,” says the all-knowing, all seeing St. Doris. “It’s not Christmas day. It’s just an excuse to get drunk instead of going to work. You want to do something special tomorrow? Get yourself out of bed bright and early and go see Mr. Fletcher first thing, ‘cause I’m telling you right now, if you don’t…well, you don’t have bother coming home again.”

There’s no point arguing anymore once she’s dropped the “don’t bother coming home again” line. Buddha knows least that much by now. So he just say, “fine,” and push himself back from the table. “I’ll drop by and talk to him in the morning,” he says as he head out the door. “I just hope he don’t mind me wearing my parade day get up.”

Buddha’s already out the door and she don’t try following him. Still, he can hear her screeching down the hall. “You’re not even a real Catholic, you know. Well, I don’t think you are, anyway. Who knows for sure? Mardi Gras…” Ma says bitterly. Ain’t even a real holiday.”

“Thanks, Ma!” Buddha calls back happily. “Good talk.” Then, before she can say another word, he shuts the door behind him. Peace at last.

Like a smoker desperate for a puff, Buddha whips out his ukulele. It’s the only thing he’s allowed to play this late at night. Ma cries out again at the very first strum: “And don’t stay up all night plunking that damn ukulele,” she bitches. “I’m not deaf, you know. I’m blind.”

“Blind my foot,” Buddha says so quiet only ghosts and spirits could hear. “You don’t miss a thing.” With that he sits up, puts down the uke, reaches for his pen and writes.

Mean Ma’s Swing he jots. Then he scribbles a call and response. She blind as a bat / But she don’t miss a thing / Hold on to ya hat / When that Mean Ma Swings! It weren’t going to be easy for the Soulard Swing to record this. It will probably take three dozen takes at least. But, Buddha knows: if you’re gonna be a one man jazz band you got to have plenty of patience, perfect timing, and you got to know how to swing.

Underground Men

21 Friday Feb 2014

Posted by in Neville Cole

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Fyodor Dostoyevsky, 1879

Story by Neville Cole

My latest project is The Underground Men, an informal band of literary brothers led by the original Underground Man, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. The Underground Men are willing to serve just about any intent or purpose for a nominal fee

 

Ernest Hemingway

Ernest Hemingway

Here follows the first meeting between Dostoyevsky and Hemingway during which they discuss matters of the heart.

What is LOVE, Mr. Hemingway?

An uppish fellow named Hemingway came by my office today. I could not endure him. He was earnest enough but simply would not be humble. He was: “just up from the Keys and soon was bound for Cuba,” he said. He carried with him a typewriter with which he punctuated his sentences by clanking its keys in a disgusting way.  He was, he noted with smug glee, a writer of some artfulness and, much as I hate to add, displayed a rugged charm that many (I’m sure) find intoxicating.

I decided to probe him relentlessly OUT OF SPITE. For I sensed our interaction had turned and I was now on trial, not he. He paraded the room, clanking those damn keys (a ROYAL typewriter, no surprise) while I hunkered in the corner behind my desk, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in this century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of fifty years. I am fifty years old now, and you know fifty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer than fifty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live beyond fifty? Answer that sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! … Stay, let me take breath.

You imagine no doubt that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble (and I feel that you are irritated) and so, begrudgingly, I return to my interview with Hemingway.

“You strike me, sir,” I interrupted him mid-clank, “as a somewhat mercurial, volatile, extreme even, someone who did and still does terrible things.”

“True.” He answered simply, without elaboration bar the raising of one glorious eyebrow. “Yet I have known and married several incredible women, not pushovers, independent, feisty, fearless and clever and each one tolerated my behavior, my wandering eye and my forever fondling hands. If I had been such a monster all the time, I don’t think any would have stuck around.

Hemingway and Jean

Hemingway and Jean

Such confidence! Such boasts! Yet, this was no veneer, gentleman. I cannot exaggerate the incredible depths of his charisma and he was, of course, jaw-droppingly handsome to boot.

“Sir,” I finally interjected. “This is all well and good, but The Agency, you understand, has certainly expectations. An Underground Man must have qualifications beyond peer.”

“Ask me your questions,” he said directly, finally setting aside his typewriter, “I tell no lies. Lies are for men who have never had to fight off their last breath. Lies are for those who will not stand before the charging bull. The man who has killed the lion knows the only truth there is. Only he will not lie.”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “I get the point. You are, it is clear, a man of words and letters. That is good. Our clients are more in love with words than money or looks. Why sir! They are more in love with words than life. But words… (I asked this ONLY to try and catch him up) Don’t you find words have their limit? What more can you offer a woman of means than words?”

“NO!” Hemingway bellowed like a bull elephant struck a heavy blow. He instantly pulled himself to his full height and began to pace the floor with heavy, crushing steps his eyes blood red and his fist pounding any piece of furniture that dared cross his circuitous path.

“Words are the only means,” he cried. “You see, a conversation with a woman is like moves of a chess game in which you must be careful not to stare and not to look away. If she’s angry, you can’t tell her to calm down or else she will scream louder; if she’s depressed, you can’t tell her to cheer up or else she will cry harder. If she’s anything besides angry or depressed, you’re not speaking with a woman. (In which case: congratulations.) And if you suggest a solution to whatever inconsequentiality has vexed her now—because you’re capable of logic—she’ll just go crazier, and then neglect to thank you when your brilliant fix works. Because she doesn’t want you to solve her problems; she wants you to validate her invalid emotions. She doesn’t want to hear your voice of reason; she wants to hear her voice complaining, and wants to make it the soundtrack of your life. To hell with women, anyway. If there’s one thing I hate it’s bullshit. And women exhale bullshit like men exhale carbon dioxide. I won’t put up with bullshit. When I’m with a woman I lay it out straight. Take off your pants, baby, I say. We’re all friends here. Let me tell you something: I was a perfect husband to my wives. Aside from cheating on them in quick succession. And, uh, slapping one. But like I like to say at the end of a first date: I didn’t want to kiss you goodbye — that’s the trouble — I want to kiss you good night — and there’s a lot of difference.”

“You have a highly original view of love,” I noted finally after he stopped pacing but then I held my tongue for I could see he was still talking but quietly now, almost reverently:

“I believe that in love that is true and real creates a respite from death. All cowardice comes from not loving or not loving well, which is the same thing. And when the man who is brave and true looks death squarely in the face like some rhino hunters I know or Belmonte, who is truly brave, it is because they love with sufficient passion to push death out of their minds. Until it returns, as it does to all men. And then you must make really good love again. Think about it.”

“Sir,” I said, when I could see that he had no more in him to spare. “Welcome to the Underground Men.”

You can follow more tales of the Underground Men at -iamasickman.wordpress.com

Bumper Christmas Edition 2013 – The Real 12 Days of Christmas

25 Wednesday Dec 2013

Posted by in Neville Cole

≈ 12 Comments

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12_days_of_christmas

Neville Cole

On the first day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

The cat ate the partridge and the pear tree lost all its leaves overnight.

On the second day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
2 Turtle Doves

Both of which the cat is eyeing hungrily.

On the third day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
3 French Hens

I think they are French. One is wearing a tiny beret.

On the fourth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
4 Calling Birds

Enough with the birds! There’s bird shit, feathers and bits of wing all over the living room. The cat is so fat she can barely stand.

On the fifth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
5 Golden Rings

I was excited until one of the “golden” rings turned my finger green.

On the sixth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
6 Geese a Laying

Oh boy, my true love is really getting on my nerves now! Hello, I live in an apartment!

On the seventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
7 Swans a Swimming

There are currently seven swans a swimming in my bathtub and six geese a laying on my bed. Best Christmas ever!

On the eighth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
8 Maids a Milking

Ok. I have to admit, after seven days of disappointment this seemed promising; but cows are even messier than geese and swans.

On the ninth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
9 Ladies Dancing

There wasn’t room for the ladies to do much but gyrate in place but I was fine with that.

On the tenth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
10 Lords a Leaping

The lords got drunk, trashed the place, ran off with the ladies and the maids and left me with the eight cows.

On the eleventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
11 Pipers Piping

This one just about did me in as I had hit the eggnog a little too hard the night before with a bunch of dancing lords.

On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
12 Drummers Drumming

It took me twelve days to figure out my true love didn’t want to be my true love any more. She sure knows how to hurt a guy. I’ll never get the smell of bird shit and rancid milk out of my rug.

Merry Christmas, Everyone! I hope you got all you deserved for Christmas and more! I know I did.