THE COLD DARK HILLS OF TENNESSEE-
Chaos everywhere in the five county area and by the time I creep into the last ER I’ve had more than my fill of manic-depressives and opiate suicides gone awry. I drop my gear and sift through the patient fridge for a Gatorade G2.
“No Grape?” I ask Jody, the nurse.
Swiping her name tag, she ducks into the doctor’s lounge and returns with a purple drink.
“Thanks,” I say, twisting off the top. “So what you got?”
NASHVILLE, TN -
The other day I heard one of my favorite authors say it takes her at least a month to get a seven or eight page story right. Then another writer I like a lot twittered for feedback on the first chapter of his new book. He said he had rewritten the beginning, about five pages, at least fifty times but still didn’t feel good about it.
This helps me. I write and re-write. Let it sit, write some more. Go away, come back, keep a tiny piece and throw the rest away. Edit, refine, sharpen. And still never know if it’s any good.
NASHVILLE, TN.-
The engineer leaned back in his seat, shades on in a cold dark room, still very Cali though he’d been in Nashville well over a year. He worked awhile with Rubin, some other big dogs before most of the industry dried up or moved to Music City.
“Yo, you’re a Beastie fan huh?” he asked me.
“Oh yeah, sure.”
“Check this out,” he said, easing up the slider marked vol til weak beats and sub-par Fatboys style raps thumped clumsily around the room.
THE DEEP SOUTH-
Robert Ducote was sucking down ponies from a 24 pack and racing his souped-up Chevy 85 mph down Twin Bridges Road.
He lobbed an empty bottle over the top of his car and laughed as it shattered against the black and yellow sign.
Ducote had a smart mouth and we were always going back and forth, teenage boy BS, insults, threats and cockfight strut. In 8th grade we warred for class favorite. I heard I won by a landslide but Robert insisted he lost only by a few. “Nobody white voted for you,” he sneered.
THE DEEP SOUTH-
Ethical concerns over cloning and sexual robotics need not worry the righteous too terribly, not so much as our slowly shrinking ability to feel truth and honor, life and living, compassion not rooted in control or diffidence, of turning selves into spiritual clones and pop culture probots while religious zombie robots long to eat our brains and scurry voices around the drain, just as much a sign of the times as self-serve suicide, blacklight war crimes, lupine bloodlines, dot-com concubines and high tides colliding worldwide.
“If you’d like to speak to Jesus press nine.”
THE DEEP SOUTH-
I stop by the spot where the old bar used to be and dig through the ashes of days gone by.
We used to be the hottest college nightspot in town. Our Thursday night line would wind down to the Campus Fil-A-Sack and back but now they’re closed too. I heard a strip club came in but from the look of things it’s been shut down awhile. There’s nothing but the shell of a sign, some trash and scattered glass. Weeds growing up through cracks in the lot. A slit still exists in the blacked-out front door so I cup my hands around my eyes and peer inside. Other than the requisition runway and metal pole things still look a lot like they did so many summers ago…
THE DEEP SOUTH-
“Cigarette?”
“No sir, sorry,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”
It was 11pm, just outside the emergency room doors. The old man had on a blue jean jacket and a black fedora, white tufts of hair curling from the sides. He was unkempt but in a classy sort of way, like an old jazz player or a character actor on Touched By An Angel.
“I ain’t asked if you had one, I asked if you wanted one.” He scowled but the tone in his voice was playful.
“Oh - no sir, no thanks. You go ahead.”
TNB CITY-
balloon cartoon dude Typepad ate my words my little punani declarative sentences end with a comma you little coma comment swap comment culture #1 blacklight slip and slide suicide when Judas tied the noose TNB Jihad reno rich and me i am so not the savior of southern cutter girls who’s on top stop get what you give breakdown karma buried by the beasts knew my secret a stalker by August I swear Mother Zion drink Drano for squiggle wiggle Piggly Wiggly summer days of Super Zaxxon simi and the bees queen Dawn wash away these sins again Zoe’s flow viva los Kip ClaireBooseBaby ou est R.Kent postfest famines in tan and black birthday balloons cartoon thank Listi for 3…
NASHVILLE, TN.-
Thursday afternoon, June 25.
My wife and I make a pass through the Adventure Science Museum for the new Planetarium show.
“Let’s climb the pyramid first,” I tell her, bouncing a bit on my toes.
“Baby it’s 4:15, we only have a few minutes.”
(more…)
THE DEEP SOUTH-
Because the artist is
that rare and
fragile bird
with little armor for
this cruel world
THE DEEP SOUTH-
I step into the isolation cell, deep in the belly of the county jail.
“James?” a voice calls from the darkness.
THE DEEP SOUTH-
Mary waits in the drunk tank, shackled at the wrists and latched into the dark green restraint apparatus known as the “pickle suit.” Looking like a cross between a catcher’s guard and a straitjacket, it immobilizes the arms and legs, preventing the inmate from harming self or others.
“Where you want to see her?” asks the desk Sarge.
“In there’s fine, it don’t bother me,” I say, pointing to the 6X8 patch of reinforced glass and pushing open the heavy metal door.
NASHVILLE,TN-
It’s just us family and friends here and I’ve been reading folksy writers like Quaker pastor Phillip Gulley lately so let me just get real here, tell you where I’m at these days.
I’ve been thinking about money and mobile homes.
THE DEEP SOUTH-
Hot Atlanta afternoon and I was holed up in the back booth of the infamous Clermont Lounge watching Holly the Latex Amazon bump her freakishly high hip bones against the Creature from the Black Lagoon pinball machine.
AMOUR-
“Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love
is stronger than death.” (Song of Solomon 8:6)
Men: Speak softly and praise your wives. Kiss them often and with lips undefiled. - Elder Holland
Valentine’s and she stands, still with a dancer’s grace
in the kitchen
dark except for the light over the stove
THE DEEP SOUTH-
(please enjoy this opening clip from “The Wrestler” starring Mickey Rourke)
FADE IN:
MUSIC: DEF LEPPARD - “ROCK ROCK (TILL YOU DROP)”
The sounds of a SCREAMING, CHEERING CROWD overwhelm us. Over the images, RINGSIDE ANNOUNCERS boom commentary:
—-”Randy The Ram Robinson giving absolutely everything he’s got! This is the very definition of heart!”
—-”Just listen to this crowd! The entire Garden, 20,000 people, are on their feet! Ram climbing to the top rope… The crowd going wild…They know what’s coming…”
Randy standing on the top rope, his bent arms pressed against the sides of his head like RAM’S HORNS.
—-”Uh-oh, the horns are out… Here it comes…”
THE DEEP SOUTH-
Mickey Rourke is gonna break your heart. Make you bleed inside, just with his eyes, with an expression or the way he hangs his head while talking on a pay phone. He’s that good. And Tormei is right there with him. Their chemistry and chops will light you up. (The vintage clothes store to the bar scene will make you want to throw money at the screen. Seriously.)
Washed-up 80’s actor Mickey Rourke portrays washed-up 80’s wrestling icon Randy “The Ram” Robison. A wrestling movie? Isn’t wrestling a joke? Nah. This is a throwback to the roots of wrestling. The art of storytelling, hope of humanity over existential angst, overcoming despite the odds, good versus evil - and Rourke wrings out every bit of emotion in this great little gritty flick.
THE DEEP SOUTH-
The bottom of my socks are dirty, filthy even.
“Where are your shoes?” my wife inquires.
“Um….”
There’s a four-story corkscrew slide in the giant glass pyramid jutting from the roof of the Nashville Adventure Science museum. The sun has dropped behind the hills and the place is nearly empty. My wife and I have been sliding, in pairs, head first upside down, having great fun.
“OK, this time…put your feet behind me and kick me down –”
“Kick you?” she asks.
THE DEEP SOUTH-
Holy Hannah peeled off her white patent leather pantsuit and ran naked as the day she was born through the cascade of fountains in the county square.
Her skin squeaky and pink, eyes shining like new moons on the first clear night of Summer. The words of the old pastor ringing in her ears as the water came down.
Until you have been born again, of spirit and water, you cannot enter the Kingdom.
