Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in fredwemyss' LiveJournal:

[ << Previous 20 ]

Thursday, January 20th, 2011
1:37 pm	Tragedy: A Fragment by Frederick C. Wemyss Duffy sat in the wooden chair beside the rickety coffee table and tried to light his cigarette. The cheap lamp on the coffee table gave little light and Duffy couldn't quite tell if the match was striking the proper side of the matchbook. The one o'clock showing of the eleven o'clock news was in process, the volume painfully low. She couldn't hear. But Duffy had to read the lips at this low volume, and he couldn't watch the screen while trying to get the match lit. He paused, thinking she stirred. He wondered if she would be able to hear the match being struck. He resumed, and managed to get the match going. He lit his cigarette. He chuckled at the notion of exploding after inhaling. "Lot o' whiskey," he muttered. He was grateful for one thing. He'd ridden a bicycle this time. "There's mot a hell of a lot of damage you can do with a bicycle," Duffy thought. To reassure himself he thought back over his ride home. He'd left the barmaid a decent enough tip -- "Thank God," he thought, because he'd had to count several times to satisfy himself that it was fifteen per cent. "Seventy-five per five dollars, right." And out of sixteen-fifty worth of drinks, three-fifty was fine. It was good. And he'd left with a wave. She smiled back. It was a safe night. No off-color remarks had he made. Nothing untoward had passed his lips. Nothing which could be taken the wrong way had escaped from him. He'd even left the bar without putting a song on the jukebox before he left. He'd needed no fanfare tonight. He'd gone out the door and walked straight up to the sign post where his bicycle was tied. He'd seen one car along the way. It crossed the intersection near the bar. He was many feet away from it. All in all, it was a successful night. Duffy had almost leapt off the bicycle when he got into his driveway, but that enthusiastic move hurt no one, and dropping it by the hedges outside was sloppy but not totally out of order. She might have heard him lifting the lid in the bathroom. It had caused a loud sound. The lid of the garbage can in the kitchen might also have awakened her. He'd thrown it back to toss in orange peels. The process of taking the orange out of the refrigerator was done with true stealth, although stealth wasn't needed, there being nothing wrong with it. It was just he had to be quiet. The cold from the open refrigerator could possible have crept into the bedroom. Duffy put out his cigarette. He looked in the ashtray ruefully. "It's amazing how I worry," he said aloud, but very quietly. The weather report was being given. "Incomprehensible," said Duffy. The sports report came after the ads. "Incompre-fucking-hensible," said Duffy. He summarized the two reports with a question in his tone. "It's too cold and the Jets won?" He belched. "Duffy?" he heard. "She has arisen," said Duffy to himself. He sat still and listened. The scuffling of slippers against the kitchen floor met his ears. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her in the doorway. "You left the porch light on, Duffy," she said. "Oh, hello, Jane," Duffy said. "Did you know you left the porch light on?" Jane said. "Well," Duffy said. "Do the neighbors a favor and turn it off." "I already did turn it off, Duffy, just now." "Ah," answered Duffy. "It's not up to me to wake up and turn it off after you come home." "But you've taken it upon yourself to do it tonight. Thank you, dear," Duffy said. "Oh, go to hell," Jane said, and went back to the bedroom. After five minutes of sitting staring at the part of the T.V. just below the screen, Duffy whispered, "She's in rare form tonight." Some game show was on the screen now. Duffy got out of his chair and went back into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator. He saw a jar of maraschino cherries. He half-expected her to call from the bedroom, telling him to shut the door. He quickly took out the jar and closed the refrigerator. He remembered that maraschino cherries went well with vodka. "Was there not a supply?" he said. "There was," he said, as he opened the cabinet door. There wasn't much left, but there was enough to fill a smallish glass. With some juice from the jar of maraschino cherries, and maybe three cherries, it would be brimful of sweet-tasting evening splendor. The fluorescent light above the sink buzzed dutifully as Duffy quietly poured. It was the soft background to Jane's snoring. Duffy sang snatches of songs about twilight. He put four cherries in the glass and slurped from it before too much could drip into the sink. He sipped some more and walked carefully into the other room. Sitting down, he put the glass by the ashtray and lit another cigarette, this time with ease. He tried to ignore the game show. He could not fathom what they were trying to figure out. He found himself looking in the eyes of a woman contestant. He felt he understood her. She didn't seem at all confused. She was just trying to win money fair and square. The ludicrous surroundings of the show did not deter her. If she lost, she lost. Fame wasn't it. She could use some cash, he could tell. He looked at the ashtray. His cigarette was almost burned out. He inhaled the last tolerable bit. It was distasteful. He lit another match but it flared up too suddenly and burned his thumb. He tried to light the final match but, over and over it yielded nothing. He went into the kitchen to look for more matches. He opened a drawer in the kitchen cupboard. The slippers made their scuffling sound. "What are you looking for?" Jane said. "Oh, hello, Jane." "I said, what are you looking for?" Duffy stood taller. "I wouldst have matches, madam," he said. "Why? Do you want to burn the house down?" "No." "You know, with you coming in stinking drunk all the time -- " "I am not stinking drunk." "Let me smell your breath." Duffy laughed. "I want to see if you've been drinking," Jane said. "I will not submit to this." "You've submitted before." "Well of course I've been drinking! This is a secret?" "Well then, you can't have matches." "Oh, for Christ's sake." "Well let me smell your breath." "Why do you want to smell my breath?" "To see how much you've been drinking." "Why should that matter in regard to whether I can have a cigarette?" "I only said you couldn't have a match if you've been drinking too much." "You are being evasive, woman." "There he goes with this 'woman' thing again." There was a pause in which Duffy wondered if he should smile or frown. "You've obviously had way too much." "All right," shouted Duffy. He said, more calmly, "You can smell my breath." He wanted a cigarette. She stood right in front of him. He exhaled. Jane backed away, waving a hand in front of her face. "All right," she said. "I'll light it for you." "Why," Duffy said, "This is disturbingly deferential." "I'm monitoring you," said Jane. "Get a cigarette." Duffy went into the other room. He picked up the pack and put it in his shirt pocket. As he got into the kitchen Jane produced a matchbook from the pocket of her nightgown. Her back was to him. Thinking she might not have seen him, Duffy quickly went back to the other room and took three gulps from his drink. He put it down and went back into the kitchen. He tottered. She turned to him and smiled. (Comment on this)
Thursday, November 4th, 2010
6:45 pm	Plus Walk two steps in the babbling brook, on the tops of the stones sticking up. Walk a third step on the following stone, and back two. Go forward twice, without falling in, and twice on the two coming up. See if there is a stone on the right and sidestep just once onto that. If there's a left one just past the next last, step leftward two times and stare straight. Solve your math problems with madness! When the train travels North from Chicago and the train travels South from Detroit, it's you that they want to collide with. It's you, then, who must be adroit. Take your right foot off the rock. Pivot while still on the left. Hop, on your left foot, three times in the air, and then land, with your right, on the bank. Don't let the left foot touch sand or the grass. Hop up and down on your right. Land twice on the bank and once on the rock. Pivot. The train from Chicago has gone to the yards and the train from Detroit passes by. The steps you have taken on rocks in a stream have prevented the carnage again. "Come on. Quit that. The picnic's starting." The rock on the right is sharp. "Get out of the brook!" Touch the edge with the left shoe-sole. Run the right sole on it twice. Twice more with the left. "Come on!" "I'll be right there!" "Quit tapping the stones." A truck carrying eight logs is bound for Orlando. In Savannah, the driver adds nine. The rock on your left is as smooth as your cheek. Eight logs plus nine bounce across the divider as the driver collides with a car. The water makes marks on the rock. The driver is minus his head. Jump in. "Oh, thank God! Hurry up. Let's run." "I got my sneakers wet." "Run. Run." Remember. -- Frederick Chambliss Wemyss (Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 26th, 2010
11:32 am	The Dogs Who Play Poker I'm thinking a great title for a book would be DOGS PLAYING POKER. A lot of people had a poster of dogs doing just that back when I was a twenty-something. Of course, the original painting was from something like seventy years ago, but my eighties compatriots adopted it as their own. Many a Superbowl party has been held in rooms featuring the poster. I think, howver, there already is a book with that title. If I were to call my book THE DOGS WHO PLAY POKER, it would be reminiscent of the Sondheim song, "Ladies Who Lunch." Here's to the dogs who play poker! Elaine Stritch might sing it, but, of course, "poker" has two syllables, which messes up everything. "Here's to the dogs who play hearts" just doesn't sound cutting edge enough. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 22nd, 2010
5:54 pm	RIDICULOUS Is As RIDICULOUS Does RIDICULOUS Is As RIDICULOUS Does -- An Author In Search Of Himself (Discussing THE MOST RIDICULOUS THING YOU EVER HOID.) by Frederick Wemyss on Sunday, September 19, 2010 at 2:26pm Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: Thanks for sitting down with me for this interview. Fred Wemyss: You're standing up, so I'm standing up. This is a self-interview and you have no room in front of your computer for even one chair. Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: Hemingway wrote standing up. Fred Wemyss: And he fell down on the job most of the time. Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: Why the lack of a middle name? Fred Wemyss: Comedy is short and quick. RIDICULOUS THING needed a two-syllable author credit. "Andy Seiler" is four syllables, as is "Jim Beckerman." "Frederick Chambliss Wemyss" is five, or even six if you pronounce the "e" in the middle of "Frederick." Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: "Wemyss" is only one syllable? Fred Wemyss: When correctly pronounced it is. Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: But it looks like "Wemm Iss." Fred Wemyss: Think of Samuel Pepys, the diarist. Until about five years ago I assumed it was pronounced "Pepp-Iss." Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: But "Pepys" is based on the same principle as "Wemyss." Fred Wemyss: Indeed. Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: So "Wemyss" rhymes with "dreams." Fred Wemyss: Or "seems." Frederick Chambliss Wemyss (leaning in): I know not Wemyss. Fred Wemyss: Hamlet. Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: Have we lost the Facebook people who don't get this? Fred Wemyss: They get it. They just don't care. Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: Very good. Now, how did you get involved in THE MOST RIDICULOUS THING YOU EVER HOID? Fred Wemyss: It started at the Uniondale Mini-Cinema when I was thirteen. I'd been pestering my mother to drive me forty minutes west in order to see DUCK SOUP, which was showing there. I'd been watching Marx Brothers movies on Channel 5 and Channel 9, New York's stations for Depression-era classics and had been hooked on Groucho, Harpo and Chico for about a year at that point. DUCK SOUP was one I hadn't seen, and Joe Adamson, who wrote GROUCHO, HARPO, CHICO (and sometimes) ZEPPO had praised it to the skies in his book. My mother got my older brother and a friend to accompany me and when we got there, the theater was packed. To this day I have never heard such consistent laughter in a movie theater. From start to finish the audience was howling. It was 72 minutes or so of bliss. I imagine when my father was a kid and would spend an entire Saturday afternoon watching newsreels, cartoons and B-movies with his friends at the theatre in Kearny, NJ, that it was a similar experience. In any case, my generation probably had more exposure to Marx Brothers movies than even the generation which was around to see them when they first ran. Groucho played Carnegie Hall when I was twelve and a classmate of mine saw him. I peppered him with questions about it the next day. Groucho was about 80 then, as rakish as he could possibly be, in his French beret and holding cigarettes in an ivory holder. He was threatening once again, in a way he had not been in the YOU BET YOUR LIFE era. Counter-cultural Groucho was the one burned into my brain. Jump forward about thirty years and my fellow Marx-fan Andy Seiler contacted me. Andy is a veritable Smithsonian Institution of Pop culture. Old jazz bands, comic strips, movies, radio shows -- There are very few of which Andy is not aware. Andy contacted me and Jim Beckerman after becoming disabled. He asked us to finish a play he'd started. It was based on a 1932 radio series called FLYWHEEL, SHYSTER AND FLYWHEEL. Groucho and Chico were the stars of the series. Harpo literally can't translate to radio, so he was not on it. We put him in the play, added new songs in the Kalmar-Ruby mode and spun the material we could use, so as to give it a kind of a modern feel (whatever modern is in these post-modern days) and came up with a nice hour and a half show called THE MOST RIDICULOUS THING YOU EVER HOID. It was performed in Oradell, NJ last June by the the Bergen County Players at the Little Firehouse Theatre. Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: Can I talk? Fred Wemyss: No. I love the Little Firehouse Theatre, by the way. If you ever want to see a structure which symbolizes American stage, check out The Little Firehouse Theatre. It's been around since the thirties. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Groucho, Harpo or Chico had taken in a show or two there. Groucho lived in Great Neck for a while, you know. Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: Why do you point that out? Fred Wemyss: Because I'm from Long Island, as is Great Neck. Groucho was doing fantastically well in '29, just before the Crash. He saved astronomical amounts from Vaudeville and Broadway. Then they started filming COCOANUTS in Astoria. It's the only non-Depression era Marx Brothers movie. By the time ANIMAL CRACKERS was being filmed, the financial scramble had begun. You start getting jokes with punchlines such as "Dodge Brothers, 1929." Groucho lost everything. Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: And that's why you wanted to participate in THE MOST RIDICULOUS THING YOU EVER HOID? Fred Wemyss: Well, the mid-century seems to be the zenith of American humor. And people my age (Full disclosure: Both Fred Wemyss and Frederick Chambliss Wemyss slipped into this mortal coil in 1960) watched a lot of mid-century comedy on TV. Screwball comedies, Preston Sturges stuff, W. C. Fields, etc., etc. For some reason, book stores in Huntington, where I grew up, stocked a lot of collections of S.J. Perelman, who wrote for the Marx Brothers. These stores also had Dorothy Parker, James Thurber and Robert Benchley, who certainly knew Harpo pretty well as they sat at the Algonquin Roundtable. These people lived in tough times and devised a style never matched before or since. The GENERAL level of commercial humor was remarkable then. I don't think it's as easy to see these old movies now or get hold of the old collections of humor. But in New York in the early seventies, you couldn't miss Abbot and Costello, The Three Stooges or a lot of very sophisticated TV comics of the old guard in old age: Jack Benny, George Burns and, of course, Groucho. Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: So what are you saying? Fred Wemyss: I'm saying "See the show." Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: And Jim and Andy are geniuses. Fred Wemyss: Did they tell you to say that? Frederick Chambliss Wemyss: You did. Fred Wemyss: Oh, that's right! Frederick Chambliss Wemyss and Fred Wemyss: See THE MOST RIDICULOUS THING YOU EVER HOID, September 30th through October 12th, 2010, at Urban Stages, W. 30th St. between 7th and 8th in New York City, NY. RIDICULOUS THING is a Next Link Project selection of the 2010 New York Musical Theatre Festival. http://www.nymf.org/themostridiculousthing (Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 15th, 2010
4:12 pm	The Cookie-cutter Killer Once upon a time there was a murderer. He didn't like conformists. He'd sit at a table in a restaurant while people discussed politics and when someone would nod in agreement with someone else's opinion, he'd take a little cookie-mold out of his briefcase, hold it up in front of the person's face and say, "Cookie-cutter! Cookie-cutter!" Everybody at the table would look at him and, occasionally, one of them would say something. "You're going to cut somebody with that thing some time," one of them said once. One time the Cookie-cutter Killer slammed the cookie-mold on the table-cloth. The table-cloth was thin, so a Christmas-tree shaped indentation was left on the surface of the table. "How sharp is that thing?" someone said. "Sharper than your opinions," hissed the Cookie-cutter killer. He'd had a lot of Canadian beer that night. "Ever notice this beer tastes like Christmas tree smell?" a pale little red-haired person said in an attempt to change the subject. A plump girl nodded her head. The Cookie-cutter Killer made a stabbing motion, the cookie mold in hand. The girl put her hand in front of her eyes. A sleepy, curly-haired boy across the table from the Cookie-cutter Killer looked up. Suddenly, he was leaning across the table, pulling the cookie-cutter killer toward him. He wrenched the cookie-cutter from the Cookie-cutter Killer's hand. "I'll break your spine," he shouted. The table tipped over, the pitcher of beer shattered and the bouncers ran over. One grabbed the curly-haired boy and put him in a Half Nelson. The Cookie-cutter killer started backing away, but fell over his chair. He cut his cheek on a shard of glass when he fell. "You tried to cut a girl?" shouted the curly-haired boy. The Cookie-cutter killer flailed and the palm of a hand was sliced by another shard. A bouncer picked him up off the floor. The next morning, in the dormitory, the Cookie-cutter Killer looked at the mirror. He had stitches on his cheek and on his hand. He looked at his roommate's bed. His curly-haired roommate was asleep on top of the blankets, still in his plaid jacket, jeans and big brown boots. There was a knock at the door. There was a second knock. The Cookie-cutter Killer looked in the mirror again. The door opened. The plump girl and the pale red-haired person from the night before stood there. "You kill me," she said. "Here's your cookie-cutter," said the pale red-haired person, throwing it against the wall by the Cookie-cutter Killer's head. "By the way, this is Dean," the plump girl said. "Nice to meet you," said the Cookie-cutter Killer. The pale red-haired person stared as the plump girl said, "Dean drove us to the hospital last night." There was a rustling sound in the corner. The curly-haired boy slowly sat up. "Smells like beer and Christmas trees," he said. (Comment on this)
Friday, July 23rd, 2010
1:47 am	Public Statements The glass is in my hand. The floor is beneath my feet. The air surrounds me. The ceiling is above my head. (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 8th, 2010
12:59 pm	The Society For The Enforcement of Humorlessness In Government The Society For The Enforcement Of Humorlessness In Government would like to share with you its goal of creating The Society For The Enforcement Of Humorlessness In World Affairs. SFTEOHIG would remain the blanket upon which SFTEOHIWA frowns. (Comment on this)
Thursday, June 3rd, 2010
10:43 am	A Day At The Bank by Frederick Chambliss Wemyss I shall surely be imparted toward an earthly Limbo if I don't tell a single mortal of the time a friend of mine tried to have himself sent from all consciousness and being; out of life. In his sensitivity, he decided to retire from some war, in the hope that his absence would rid reality of a waste. I wished, the day of his attempt, to borrow his car. "There's a place I've gotta get to, Tom," I said to my friend soon after he let me into his apartment, and he smiled. "My car can't get you anywhere, it's been overused totally." But after I saw that the smile was a trembly one, and noticed the glazed galaxy-weary eyes, I put some charity into my laugh, and decided not to remind him of his car. "Well, I have another ride for sure, anyway." On a table was a card with a cartoon of abstract, smiling people and a smiling cat. "How's Mary? Did she get back from New -- " But that harsh outward breath of his surprised me. "Oh she doesn't..." Tom started telling me about their gradual dissociation. I nodded my head slightly, hoping Tom would lose a sense of oppression. "I probably should kill myself." Now I was sure Tom had cried "Mujoie!," not died the innocent victory death, and was watching the gruesome scene hearing a Satanic rhythm. "Even the best of us think of that sometimes, there's hope." "No. Every little thing is coming its way. For about three weeks, everything has been bad. Television depresses me." "Television's been pretty bad lately, but -- " "And art. I can't take those worried, unheroic guys who take your time up -- " I picked up the card of the cat and the people from Mary. "Tom, there's even something good in this." "Put it down." I put it back on the table noncommittally. I said, "Rest up, you'll find something worth living for." Outside the window I saw kids walking throwing a basketball back and forth. "I should have been part of a gang," Tom said. "Well, Tom," (and I stood up up and stretched) "I gotta be going now," I said after I showed him that I had let his words seep in. "Now?" "I told some people I'd see them in about a half hour. Well Tom," and I shook his hand and was practically at the door when he said, "Dave, do you really have to leave?" I wanted to be with these people very much, but I had to help revive Tom's spirit. I came back and sat down, saying, "No, it's alright." When I called them up after Tom asked me to, he sat looking grateful for my warning them that i wouldn't meet them, and depressed because the reason I gave was untrue. I hung the phone back up, and because I sensed he wanted to complain to me, looked him in the eyes receptively. Tom complained about many things now, about the past and the future and the present. "I hope you understand." "I understand." These sentences were spoken regularly, Tom's with a freshness of curiosity, mine I hoped with hope. Then he pulled a box out from under his couch and opened it. I saw a gun. About six feet behind him was a pantry hall. to his right about another six feet away was an open window. I sat in a chair across from him; between us was a fold-out table. To my right the couch faced the open window; there was a little kitchen in a recess behind me. Hanging above the couch was a print of a 19th-century drawing of a small man tip-toeing away from a battle. One foot was beyond the edge of a cliff over a rocky river. The printer's name and address were written in boldface. I got the license for this three months ago," Tom said, looking at me. He held the box in his hands a bit above the table. "I bought it yesterday." He reached into the box and pulled out the box of bullets. I didn't lean back or forwards. "Are those bullets?" "What do you mean? They're crucifixion nails." I thought the sound of my voice might keep him from acting. "What kind are they?" Tom put the gun box down and held the small box of bullets in both hands. Sometimes he'd move his thumb and I could see the ink rubbing off. "Well," he said, smiling, "They're the best for this sort of gun, that's what the guy said. They're pretty shiny, too, see?" And he opened the top and tilted the little box a bit so I could see. I leaned over to see, and they were shiny. There were little holes in the flat parts, and I asked him what they were for. "I don't know. Maybe there's a little metal stick that pushes into them and shoves off the bullet." "Do you think so?" "Well maybe. But not all the bullets are here though." "You mean you were ripped off?" He looked at me as if he were a religious convert who'd been asked if God were the creator. "No," he shouted. "I put them in." I tried not to seem petrified, but I couldn't move anyway, or think of anything to say. Tom leaned his elbow on the table, and put the little box down. With his other hand he lifted out the gun. I leapt back and my chair tipped almost all the way over as I stood up. Tom was completely still, looking up at me. A moment swept about, and Tom lowered the gun, but the opening faced me. He might not have done that deliberately. He sighed as he said, "Dave, sit down again." I did, trembly. Tom picked up the gun suddenly and it brushed his head and he scratched the back of his head with his fingers. He left his hand there, and he still held the gun in it as he spoke. "Why can't I find pleasure in anything? Why can't I walk down the street without wondering what the people would like to see done to me? Why is this and why is that?" Slowly moving the gun in circles in the air, Tom hunched over and leaned his other elbow on the table. "What's the point in going on?" I tried not to sound scared as I said, "There's always hope." He threw the gun into the box, shouting "No," and pushed the table at me. He left his chair and walked around the room with his hands together behind him. Once he had his back to me I slid the box over to my side and put it under my chair. "Never give up, Tom." I hadn't thought I should not interrupt him. "Why not?" he said in an honest voice. I think he was watching things on the street. "Because this happens to everybody." I wondered why the gun hadn't gone off. "What? They kill themselves?" Something outside sounded like an explosion, and Tom said, "What?" and leaned out the window with fascination on his face. I heard a car door shut and two people calling to each other. I was about to go to the window when Tom said, "She got a flat tire," and he laughed. I put my feet together to cover the box. Still staring outside, Tom said, "The lady's trying to get the kids away." I was feeling tired. "Hey lady, it's getting a little dark...Sorry," he shouted. I quietly brought the box to my lap, and pulled out the gun which had been so insensitive, and pointed it at him. Tom hit the window sill with his hand and closed his eyes. "Not a smile out of her." He faced me. "What does she want?" "Do you believe in God, Tom?" "What?" And he opened his eyes. I kept the gun trained on him with more skill than someone in a Holy War. When Tom was at the end of the pantry and I leaned back on his apartment door I said, "Alright Tom, I suppose you do, now. Soon you won't bother people, and this way you'll actually deserve association with those two intersecting lines." I was hoping he'd love life after it was over and that he'd decide not to consider forsaking himself again. After preparing myself for a hollow click and Tom's shout I pressed the trigger and was flung back on the door. The gun fell to the floor and another shot went off, putting a hole into the wall. I ran over to him. "Tom." "Don't touch me!" "Did I hit you?" He swung his arm to hit me on the head but I moved out of the way. As he moaned I saw the man in the old poster, dangling by a strip, and the General on horseback didn't have a hat anymore. He still looked surprised. "Are you alright?" He stood up under a shelf and banged into it and fell down again. "Now I'm not." The man over the cliff fluttered to my feet. I stood quietly for a while and asked Tom if I'd hit him. He didn't move. "No." "I didn't think you actually had bullets in it." "You scared me to death there." I sat down on the floor. "Dave," he said, "Should we fix the lady's flat?" We laughed all the way to the street. The lady had a "Hello, My Name Is ___" sticker on and when she saw us she said: "Good has won out." (Comment on this)
Sunday, May 30th, 2010
2:06 pm	The Inch-worm Roaster by Frederick Chambliss Wemyss One day, upon a summer beach, a crowd of young men and women were playing volleyball in bathing suits. Some of them had been in the water and some were wet and sandy from building sandcastles. They all played tricks on each other, made fools of themselves, and they went through their late morning without caring what other people did. A big guy with a beard smacked the volleyball into the head of an opponent. "Oh, I'm sorry. You alright man?" The other held his hands on his forehead and blinked his eyes rapidly. He let out a whoop and threw the volleyball into the big guy's stomach. The big guy charged into the net and the set-up fell down. Only these two and one girl were at the net now, as most of the others had gone into the water. They heard a clink, and a beam of bright light jumped around them. The big guy turned his head and saw, by a sand dune, a man about ten years older than he, with a wispy beard and one pointy ear, bending over a jar, holding a magnifying glass. A tool box and a cigar box lay near him. The three stood watching this man. "What is he doing?" said the girl. "What is he -- melting grains of sand, or..." said the skinny youth. The man with the pointy ear was sifting sand through his fingers, holding the magnifying glass with his other hand. "Hey, come 'ere," called the big guy to the water. "Roger, come 'ere." A tall, and also big guy came up, followed by a wet girl. "Yeah, Dean?" The girl who had been playing volleyball said, "There is this weird guy over there. There. He's wearing baggy shorts." "He's tryin' to make glass or something, said Dean. "Hey he looks sort of like that guy outside Lindy's," said Roger. Dean opened his mouth as he stared. "You think so?" "Let's go over there," said the skinny guy. And starting out laughing, they walked over to the man. They stood by him, quietly, for about a half minute, until the man looked up at them. "Just looking," said the skinny guy. "Sure, go ahead." "What are you doing?" said the volleyball-playing girl. The man stopped sifting the sand for a second, and said, "If you see an inch-worm in the sand, could you pick it up and give it to me? I'm roasting inch-worms." Dean looked at Roger, who looked at the skinny guy, and the skinny guy looked at everyone. The wet girl looked at the inch-worm roaster, and the dry girl looked at Roger. "Oh, here he is." The man got something green out of the sand. He held it up. "No...this comes from Cracker Jax." He threw it over into the sand dunes. "Are you kidding?" said the dry girl. "No, really. It's fun." He slipped his hand into the cigar box and took out a maple leaf. He opened up the plastic jar, and stuck the leaf in. "How long have you been doing this?" said the dry girl. "Oh, since May. I collect them up at Janey's Park. Use up a lot of sun-tan lotion, though." He was shaking his hand in the jar a bit. "But inch-worms are nice insects," said the wet girl. "Oh, they're not insects, I think they're," and as he talked Roger and Dean were a few feet away with the skinny guy just able to hear. "Janey's Park, Roger." The man pulled the leaf out of the jar, and an inch-worm on the stem bent itself and stood up. "Now. I hold the leaf, and place the worm on wax paper." He grinned, and took some wax paper out of his tool box. "Now girls, I hold the leaf above, blow," and here he blew at the stem, "and this little creature plops onto the sheet." The inch-worm almost rolled off the paper into the sand. The group watched and listened. "Now. Enough of this little English magnifying glass. Time for the one from The People's Republic of China. First, though, I fold up the edges of the paper -- maybe a bit late, but we don't want him to be buried alive." He folded all the sides up. Dean folded his arms and kept staring. The man opened the tool box, slid a door in the top with a clang, and pulled out a rectangular magnifying glass about six inches wide and a foot long. He shut the box, and held the glass over the paper. "That's awful big," said the wet girl, dripping on the cigar box a bit. "Well, you'll see why." He started tilting the magnifying glass. "Excuse me, Sue, could you move a bit that way? Is that your name? You look Sue-ish." "How did you know that?" said the wet girl, and she moved to her right, and shook her hair back. "Well, to tell the truth, I see the 'Sue' writing on your bathing suit." "Sue? On my bathing suit?" She looked down. "That's the name of the company," said the dry girl. The girls laughed, and the others watched the man at work. The inch-worm began to twist and turn over. "Well, if you were a corporation, I'd buy shares in you," said the man, looking at Sue. "What's YOUR name?" "Lucinda," said the other girl. "Wow. That name cooks." Plopping sounds came as the inch-worm fell on the paper a few times. "My name's Denny Tufts, to put you out of suspense." The skinny guy looked at Dean, and mouthed the words: "Dan O'Toots." Dean looked back at Denny Tufts, and inhaled loudly. The inch-worm now seemed to be stuck in one spot, and just wiggled his ends. "The wax now softens in a circle around the inch-worm." "You mean it's gonna drip all over him?" said Lucinda. The man held his head back. "No. He's gonna go all over it." He put his hand in the tool box, and quickly brought out a long pin. He brought it down to the inch-worm, and rolled him about half-way. "There's wax all over his back," said Dean. "That's right." He now rubbed the side of the pin over the inch-worm, which wiggled in many directions. A few of the others came out of the water and stood around. "Hey you guys, watch this," said Lucinda. "Alright," said Denny Tufts, "This guy's dead. Time for the festival." He took the plastic jar, got the lid off, and, putting a leaf at the opening, dumped the rest of the inch-worms onto the paper. The new people started asking Dean and the skinny guy what he was doing. "He's doing strange things to inch-worms." "They love the leaf. They fall on the paper proudly. I now roast them all on their dead friend in the hot wax." He held the magnifying glass closer than he did before, and some inch-worms welded together. A sound like spit being sloshed through teeth came from this pile as the inch-worms squirmed in the heap. Roger had gotten behind Denny Tufts. He grabbed his hair and pulled it all back straight. Dean shouted, "You guys, isn't that Dan O'Toots?" Denny Tufts was shouting. "He's the Gahnny-Soon guy from Lindy's." A few people in the crowd said they remembered him. Roger pulled his hair tighter. "You tried to sell us the Gahnny-Soon Spirit Book. You and your fellow freaks." Dean shouted, "You pony-tailed God freaks." Denny Tufts slipped his hand under the wax-paper and shoved the pile of hot inch-worms behind him into Roger's face. Roger let go and ran into the water. Denny Tufts tried to run into the sand dunes. He shouted, "The ozone layer will split and Gahnny-Soon messenger rays will twist you!" Everyone was running after him, and they surrounded him. Dean walked closer to where denyy Tufts was standing, and the others began to kick a little sand and then they got closer. Denny tufts jumped up, and stretched out a leg, hitting Dean in the face. dean fell down and Denny Tufts ran out through the empty space and lept onto a small sand dune and disappeared. The skinny guy and a few others started running after him, but they had to climb a sand dune fence, and all they saw when they reached the top of the dune was Denny Tufts pulling out of the parking lot on a green motorcycle. He stopped for a second, seemed to smile, and gave the toll booth lady the beach money. The skinny guy and the others ran back to the crowd. A girl was kissing dean's cheek, and Roger was wiping his face with a towel. Sue leaned on his shoulder. Lucinda said, "That guy was sick." Roger threw up. (Comment on this)
Friday, May 21st, 2010
4:03 am	See The Musical "The Most Ridiculous Thing You Ever Hoid" Here's a webpage I've set up for a musical I've co-written with Andy Seiler and Jim Beckerman. We all wrote the book and Jim and Andy wrote the music. We have a cast recording as well. The show, as I've said in the subject header, is called "The Most Ridiculous Thing You Ever Hoid." Here's the web address: http://www.ridiculousthingthemusical.com (Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 27th, 2010
4:16 am	Writers Of Yore Besides being writers, what did the following people have in common? Henry James Mark Twain Jane Austen James Joyce Herman Melville None of them had an editor. They had people who rejected their work occasionally. They had people who said, "Take that out or we won't print it!" But neither of them had a Svengali coaxing brilliance out of them. Nobody spurred them on. Mark Twain was the only one of them who knew anything about newspapers. Henry James may have had to meet a deadline or two but certainly didn't have to work for a living. Jane Austen wrote so she could show her books to her friends. Melville only started writing great novels when he reconciled himself to the fact that the kind of writing he wanted to do wouldn't make money. His books made money before he started getting profound. He started losing money when MOBY-DICK was published. James Joyce told Lady Gregory, who'd paid his and half of literary Ireland's bills for many years, that he had no use for her views on FINNEGANS WAKE. In short, there was a time when a serious writer had the last word on the shape of his book. I'm not talking about writers winding up under the censor's knife. Joyce had to fight tooth and nail and toenail for the right to be published without being charged with obscenity. Melville, after his novel PIERRE was accepted by the publisher, snuck to the printer's and inserted several chapters without the publisher knowing about it. In these chapters, the main character, who, in previous chapters, has shown no literary bent, suddenly becomes a writer who has trouble with his publisher. But neither Joyce, nor Melville, nor James, Austen or Twain had to deal with a publishing-house dramaturge. These authors were not subjected to paid hand-holders or marketers. They didn't give interviews. They didn't solicit blurbs. Twain went around reading, but, since he was, in effect, a stand-up comic, he got paid to read. These weren't book-signings. He didn't have to travel from place to place unloading copies of his book. He gave autographs, of course. But this was because he was outrageously famous in himself. These were writers, not team players. (Comment on this)
3:03 am	Work Tomorrow work tomorrow: workto morrow work tom orrow work tom or row wor ro mot krow worro mot krow worrom otkrow :worromot krow work tomorrow work tomorrow work tomorrow work tomorrow work tomorrow work tomorrow work work work work tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow work work work work Call in sick? Call in sick? Call in sick? Work tomorrow. (Comment on this)
Friday, December 4th, 2009
9:36 pm	Banks Of The Ohio I'm singing the song as I remember it from JOAN BAEZ VOL. 2. Joan Baez sang it with the Greenbriar Boys. i used to listen to the record all the time when I was ten or so. (Comment on this)
Saturday, November 21st, 2009
1:48 pm	Please Here's a song I first heard when I was in ninth grade or so. A neighbor had given me her 78 albums. This was from something called "Crosby Classics." 78 albums contained 7 discs.) The cover showed a Crosby who looked considerably younger than the one I saw each year on TV doing the Christmas specials or year-round in the orange juice commercials. He also looked younger than he did in the movies he'd made in the forties with Bob Hope. This was Crosby before the USO tours, before he became a sort of Santa Claus figure. He was still the playboy. I'd say the song was probably recorded around 1936. My rendition, of course, repeats lyrics over and over because I can't remember the rest of the song. But I think I sing the entire melody. (Comment on this)
Saturday, November 14th, 2009
4:04 am	Unfurrowed Love -- Lyrics by Wemyss, Music by ? (Comment on this)
Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009
4:15 am	She Could Never Be Late, by Frederick Chambliss Wemyss Here's my latest... (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 31st, 2009
1:10 am	Don't You Believe In Ghosts? This is my new story. (Comment on this)
Thursday, October 1st, 2009
12:51 am	The Fiery In The Snuffy: Harmony Vocal Frederick Chambliss Wemyss sings a song he learned from his father. Fred (and I'm Fred), recorded a vocal onto a cassette tape in a low voice, then, playing the tape as his camera rolled, sang along with it in a higher register. The above video is the result. (Comment on this)
Saturday, September 26th, 2009
1:32 am	A Voice Without Instrumentation Frederick Chambliss Wemyss sings his own song. Recorded in September, 2009 (Comment on this)
Friday, September 25th, 2009
1:23 am	Sin City, Sung By Wemyss (Written By Gram Parsons & Chris Hillman) I'm singing with myself here. The song is The Flying Burrito Brothers' "Sin City," which, of course, was written by Gram Parsons and Chris Hillman. (Comment on this)