the one with an origin story.

July 18, 2011

The fact that the wifebot was in a show recently meant that I was at a Theatre a lot over the last three weeks. This is something I’ll rarely complain about. I love the vibe, passion and energy that flow freely at a theatre when a show is up. Strangely the audience was usually made up of older adults.

(Strange in that it wasn’t the traditional plays being performed.)

I rarely miss a show of hers and this time was no different. I was at every single performance even the preview show. This means a lot of time around actors and directors, which for me is always a little strange. I dig them; it just always feels a little weird.

This also (generally) means I’m going to field the “you’re a playwright?” or “what are you writing over there?” questions. You can throw in the paranoia that I’m writing what they are saying or writing about them.

Now I’ve been known to steal conversations and clearly there is overheard Ohio but come on people. Not everything is about you. One night I was talking to an actor and they asked why I didn’t submit to the fest.

(And that is a story of my idiotic messing up of the deadline.)

As I talked over my glass of complimentary wine a dude who had been eyeing me as I wrote made his way to where I was sitting. As I returned from the wine table/my conversation he asked if I was going to be sitting there again. I told him he could have that seat as I was gonna walk around a bit.

He frowned and said “I was hoping you’d have a seat with me. I’d like to ask you some things.”

Jimi: Fuck that shit can’t you see I was working on some writing?

Or

Jimi: Sure why not.

I sat. He peered at me.

Him: I heard you’re a playwright.
Me: yeah.
Him: How does one go about becoming a playwright?
Me: Write plays? I mean I found my passion there and see things on the stage now.

The conversation went on from there. Mostly about how, what and why I write plays. He asked if I could talk about the play I was working on with him.

You may or may not know that the play I’m working on is a struggling playwright (ha ha) who gets dumped, fired, and rejected on the same day. He gets drunk and wants a simpler time. He remembers (and longs for) the time fondly when he was young and had an imaginary friend. His friend’s name is Percy T. Whale and yes he is a walking talking whale. He wishes for him and he returns. The problem? Percy is a drunk, annoying jerk who only causes trouble.

So I tell him this and he starts to get into it. He‘s asking questions and throwing out suggestions. He asks if I’ve considered letting someone writing a scene or two for me.

(Uhm?)

As the conversation continues it seems more and more like he’s hoping I’ll ask him to collaborate with me. Luckily Lindsay came and I was saved. The next week an older lady heard I’d seen every show—I help out the theatre doing whatever I can—and asked me why. When she found out that my wife is an actress and I’m a playwright she began asking questions.

I talked all the while hoping she’d ask me how I became a playwright.

Origin of a playwright:

When I was twelve I hated reading and loved math. I wanted to grow up and do something in the math field. One day while walking around and solving math problems in my head I came across a dog. I went to pet it and it bit my arm. I passed out.

When I woke up I was in the hospital and the doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I had a fever and just started writing and writing plays. I wrote until the fever went down and I’ve been a playwright ever since.

She didn’t ask but that will be what I tell the next person.


The one where I’m Daddy Warbucks

June 9, 2011

The following post is sort of a TMI Thursday. I mean if it was true it certainly would be TMI for you dear readers. This (if real) would be a glimpse you’d really not want. I should clarify this DID actually happen but at no point was it serious. It was one of those things I come up with to mess around with my lovely wife.

Recently I decided to undertake the mission of cataloging all of our books. We have a ton of them—one of them is ‘The Cleveland Creep’ by Les Roberts—which I will be discussing on here soon. The wife has a bunch of Anne of Green Gables books. I knew this. She also has a TON of craft books. Then I came across: The Anne of Green Gables Treasury.

Me: The Anne of Green Gables Treasury? What the blue blazes?

Her: Don’t you make fun of Anne of Green Gables!

Me: No, no of course not. (I look inside.)

Her: You better not.

Me: What the…is this a book of Anne of Green Gables themed crafts?

Her: Yes.

Me: Wow.

So I of course tweeted about it. That’s just what I do—allow you to glimpse into our marital bliss. A few minutes later I decided I’d go in the bedroom and mess around with her. As I made my way I changed my mind, and settled on a kiss on the cheek instead.

(How sweet am I?)

Just as I reached the doorway she calls out: “See! Look at the support!” That was when the previous plan switched back on. She sat on the edge of the bed and I came in and spread out on my stomach next to her. She showed me the support.

Me: One person doesn’t mean a thing.

(I rubbed her back.)

Her: No, don’t touch me you jerk!

Me: You’re a big fan of Anne of Green Gables huh? I bet I know what you’d like.

Her: Ha!

Me: Now, is that anyway way to treat me?

Her: Yes.

Me: Oh come on Anne. I’m sorry.

(Rub her back.)

Her: What?

Me: Relax. What you’re feeling is natural Anne. (Kissing her elbow and arm.) You know you like Daddy

Warbucks doing this—oh wait that is Annie isn’t it?

Her: What the hell is wrong with you???

Daddy Warbucks: What?

Her: First off sick and second off that is NOT Anne of Green Gables.

Daddy Warbucks: I know I said that. Fine who would Anne screw?

Her: What?

Daddy Warbucks: Anne who would she get it on with.

Her: Gilbert I guess but he’s her age.

Daddy Warbucks: Well that is a dumb name. I think Daddy Warbucks should be allowed—yes actually Daddy Warbucks came to Green Gables on business. He likes what he sees Anne.

(Kiss her arm again.)

Her: You are gross.

(I get up to leave.)

Daddy Warbucks: Fine I’ll take my leave for now. I will return later to see if my little Anne—wait—that make it sound like you are underage. Young Anne—there because you’d be of age—Daddy Warbucks would bide his time till you were—

Her: What the hell is the matter with you?

Daddy Warbucks: You’ve upset Daddy young Anne. I shall leave but when I return I hope you are a little more shall we say loving. You don’t want to cross the Warbucks!

Her: Get out of here you sicko!

(Warbucks exits.)

A little bit later I returned.

Me: Hey honey…

Her: What?

Me: Now is that any to talk to your Gerald? He’s come to sex you up.

Her: Who?

Gerald: Being coy isn’t always sexy Anne.

Her: You mean Gilbert.

Gerald: Who the fuck is Gilbert?

Her: The dude in Anne of Green Gables is named Gilbert.

Gerald: Gilbert? What a weirdo. That’s just as bad as Gerald. You are forbidden from ever reading or watching Anne of Green Gables ever again!

Her: …

(Gerald/Gilbert exits.)

For the rest of the evening I peppered her with sexual innuendoes involving Anne and Daddy Warbucks. She’s a lucky woman.


Sleeping with my wife part the VI

February 8, 2011

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And everyone’s favorite little segment is back.

(I know I know you perverts like the TMI sex posts the most!)

(Settle down!)

It’s been a while since I’ve delved into the virtual treasure trove of blog fodder that is “Sleeping with my Wife”. I chose to do so today because it’s quite easy to blog about this than anything else. As of late the stress of not having/continually searching for a new job has bested me. Not only does the job search prevent me from writing as much as I like to but stress has crept in too.

I won’t bore you with the whines and moans. Stress can foul up a lot of things and writing is no different. So I wanted to keep this place flowing and get the feel for blogging/writing consistently. What better way than a short piece on something that generally writes itself?

(Laziness FTW)

So there we were sleeping as a happy little family. Rasputin was scrunched up on her pillow and Csonka was curled up in a ball by my feet. I’d slept a little bit and then got up to do some writing. I’d recently returned to the bed and had been dozing when she began to stir.

“Huh?” She said.

Then she got up and mumbled something as she swung her feet off the bed. She made her way slowly around the front of the bed and stopped.

“Meow” Csonka warned. A few shuffled steps later and she was next to me on my side of the bed. She stopped.

“Meow.” Csonka said a bit louder.

I shifted as the wifey bent over. Great she’s going to Kung Fu me again! Nope she felt around the small drawer next to the bed. She felt the side of the bed.

“Where?” She searched lower. “Where is it?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Oh no. Oh no.” She looked some more.

“It’s okay come back in bed honey.”

“Oh no.”

“Come on back to bed.” I rubbed her leg.

She quietly got back in bed. I got up and turned the light on and asked her what she was looking for. She said she didn’t know. I kissed her head and we went back to sleep.


the one with a job search monster

January 31, 2011

So it seems as always the job monster attacks. It ruins any and everything in sight. It makes cups of coffee go cold and writing not get done. After applying to job after job I really don’t feel like writing. The cheap seats here seems to suffer the most, but my poetry and plays do too. I’ve taken the liberty of making a horrible paint shop drawing of how it happens.

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The one with Princess Leia

January 3, 2011

Now, this is the story all about how
My life got flipped-turned upside down
And I’d like to take a minute
Just sit right there
I’ll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air

Errr uh Bensonhurst. That’s right…New York, New York, New York, New York oh State of mind (New York City)

Seriously did my shtick change? Now I’m just Mr. Insert random song lyrics the whole time? So some of you may have known but l spent the majority of last week in NYC. Actually it was Brooklyn to be more specific and Bensonhurst if you need to be REALLY specific.

(God you people are so damn anal. Oh that was probably a poor choice of words for this place.)

AnyBum you may have heard I was on my first NYC trip. You may also have noticed that this place was dead last week. That wasn’t my fault (hey if Han Solo can say it so can I!) The place we were staying was promised to have working internet access and it did. The problem being that my friend (hence forth known as Williams or Harkness) could not remember the password. His soon to be ex wife (who he texted to ask) could not remember either.

This may need a bit of explanation. Williams and his wife are in the middle of a divorce. It appears to be at least generally “friendly” and moving forward. They lived in Brooklyn at the time it was decided. He goes to Cleveland State and moved back to Cleveland. She stayed in Brooklyn where she teaches. Last week she was due to be back in Cleveland and he took that opportunity to go back and pick up some of his stuff.

Anypointless info the time finally came for us to begin. Now originally I intended to make another Fresh Prince joke here. I was going to use the lyrics from the song about the cab and all that jazz but decided against it. Don’t worry it’ll be on the DVD extras. So we headed off—well actually first we (read he) had to go to the Ohio DMV. On the way there he decided he needed Starbucks—this would be a theme of the trip.

There is a Starbucks on every damn corner in NYC. Also Williams will attempt to go into every single one of them.

So we pull into a drive thru Starbucks over by Golden Gate Plaza. Before I go on (I know I know) another interlude. This happened or probably happened. Okay the point is I’m not embellishing this story. We may have miss heard her but this is what is believed to have happened.

The drive thru voice crackled out to us. “Welcome to Starbucks my name is Princess Leia, what can I get you today?” A confident female voice asked.

So at this point there is a slight pause on our end.

“Did she just say Princess Leia.?” I’m thinking over in the passenger seat thinking to myself

“Hi Princess Leia this is your brother Luke Skywalker.” Williams chimed in with from the drivers seat. There was a pause. No not true. There was a

PAUSE

And then Crickets. There were lots and lots of crickets. After this she once again asked us how she could help us. No acknowledgment of what had just passed between us all. Nothing at all. It was business and business and only. So Luke Williams ordered.

“We’re out of that.” darkly stated.

“Insert whatever he ordered next” (I don’t remember.)

“Oh I’m sorry we’re actually out of that too” Said with all the sympathy of Emperor Palpatine.

(Nervous laughter.)

Finally something was settled on and we drove around. Unfortunately she was only the order taker and not the drink giver. Perhaps she was never a she and the dude who gave him his drink was good with voices. Who knows? We never heard from Princess Leia again.

Now the trip and the real trouble could begin….

(You can go now.)

(No really that’s all for now)

(More stories tomorrow.)

(Probably)

(Wow still reading this?)

(Really?)

(You go home now.)

(That last one will be funny a couple stories from now.)


Sleeping with my wife # 3: Things get poopy

December 22, 2010

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Today we return to that familiar pool of ideas. Yep that’s right my wife.
(Congrats you read my crudely made banner for it.)

I’ll warn you now like I warned my wife a long time ago: This will be a short one.

I’m just joking. Okay? I am huge. I mean HUGE. Jimi be packing some serious heat here. King Kong ain’t got shit on me!

(Woo Training Day reference!)

On a side note (I know when has this been anything but a side note?): I just realized the likelihood that the only people who will be reading the jokes about my general are my mom and my sister. Great. Fun times and all but shall we move on? This post will be a shorty.

Like a lot of these instances I stayed up later than she did. She went to bed around midnight. I stayed up taking care of some cleaning up. Also I hoped to get some good writing done before my sister was here for the weekend. So I was up pretty late. I think I ended up getting bed about 3am or so. I was as quiet as I could be and it seemed to work. I managed to get into bed without her shifting or waking up even a little bit.

(Hooray!)

Half an hour later I was still awake when she of course sat up. I looked over at her and she was just sort of sitting up on her knees. She wasn’t moving but appeared to be thinking something over. I was about to tell her to go back to bed when she said:

“Poopy.”

It was said with a sort of disappointed tone. Then there was silence. I waited. The radiator whizzed and then finally I rubbed her leg.

“Lay back down honey.” I rubbed her leg again and opened up the covers for her. She quietly got under them and went back to sleep. We never figured out (really) what the disappointed poopy was about.

Good times.


the one with shoes

November 30, 2010

So there was that one time I was perusing the internets

(did you know they have that on computers now?)

and came across this:

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Yep. Facebook and twitter shoes from Adidas. Say whaaaaat?

Well say it I’ll wait. No really say it!

I’ll take your word that you said it. Now as ridiculous as the shoes are they are kind of sweet. Anyshoes it got me thinking what would be more entertaining? What other web themed shoes could there be? So I came up with some stuff.

(Yeah you got to deal with my horrid paint shop stuff. The fact that it is so horribly done is the best part. I know it looks like a blind epileptic angry chicken did it. All for you people.)

First up: The Youporn.com shoe.

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and then the 2 girls 1 cup shoe:

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TMI Thursday: Brownaconda Attacks

November 18, 2010

I’m weird. This is something the wife tells me all the time. People’s eyes tell me this all the time too, but my doctor said I should stop saying stuff about talking eyes.

(I’ll be here all week.)

Oh look the parenthesis are back. I don’t know why that started. I don’t know when either so don’t expect an answer or a link.

(Mostly too lazy)
(Shut up)

Whatever. You stopped reading after the title I’m sure. Now I’ve developed a fun (depending on who you ask) habit of naming my pooping ventures. Sometimes I announce the names to my wife as I head into the bathroom. Sometimes it doesn’t get a name until after the fact. This is usually based on amount, size, difficulty and or color. Oh and generally (read always) these excursions are named for some movie. For example:

Off to film The Hunt for the Brown October.
I just got done shooting Pooptanic.
Just got off the set of Brownaconda.
Indiana Jones and the temple of Poo.

The best instance had to have happened in Florida. After filming I come into the bedroom where kat and Pelvic Joann are and say:

Me (very seriously): “Have you seen Alec Baldwin?”
(Now after some initial ignoring I finally get a response)
Me: Yeah just finished shooting the sequel to Hunt for the Red October…Hunt for the Brown October.

I don’t do this every single time and I try to mix it up and not use the same one. Carissa—which if you aren’t reading here you should be—has convinced me to create a list. I am and so thank her for that disgusting list when it happens.

Anypooping back to the tmi. This happened late at night (like 2am) so there was no announcing of a shooting schedule. The wife was sweetly tucked away dreaming of sugar plum or murders. More likely she was dreaming of murders and kidnappers but that’s another story. Check one out here. So I went to the bathroom without being able to say some witty movie name.

(Poor jimi)

I’ll spare you the details of the actual event. I will say that there was quite a lot of it in the bowl afterwards. Now above the toilet on a rack sit her collection of duckies. You know the little rubber duckies? They have different versions. You know like punk rock duck, bad girl duck, Hitler duck,devil duck, irish duck, Jean Bonet Ramsey duck.

(Horrible jokes jimi)

So they’re up there. I finish my business and wipe and all that. As I finish I happen to put my hand up there. I knock poor Chicago duckie off balance and he falls. I like Spider-Man grab out for it. I catch it but the Green Goblin comes along and distracts me and Chicago duckie falls out of my hand. I almost catch it again but instead as it falls out into the air leaps the fabled Brownaconda and snags it into his jaws.
Sorta like this:

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Yes we apparently pee and poop into a misshapen bucket. We classy like that. It was horrible how angry it sounded as it grabbed poor poor Chicago duck. It fell pretty much directly into the poop and sunk in too.

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So I don’t know if it was because it was late, I was sleepy or the trauma of the brownaconda attack but I without hesitation reached right into the misshapen bucket the toilet. You know brownaconda and all. I grabbed Chicago duckie (sunk in a bit more as I did) and it I swear made a sort of plop-pop sounds as it pulled free. I managed to not get anything on my hand. I’m still not sure how because there was a ton in the bowl and poor Chicago duckie was covered in it. I tossed it into the shower and turned it on. After it was all gone I dried the poor fellow off and replaced him. I thought about not telling her about it but I did first thing the next morning. For 2 reasons I knew I’d use it on here and I wanted to gross her out. So I told her about the spin off to Anaconda.

Brownaconda: Dead Duck

I of course embellished some of the details of the story for her. I may or may not have said something about
pieces of food sticking to her duckie.
You’re welcome.


Excuse me maam: Virginia Style

November 9, 2010

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Yep. It already happened again. This time it took place in the lovely mountains of Virginia. The Three Shillelaghs were up there on our traditional trek. The last time we were up there a brewery was being built. This year it had been up and running for a while.

Everywhere I go I like to try a local beer. So we immediately made plans to head up to The Devil’s Backbone Brewery and Restaurant. After a beautiful and relaxing morning we headed out. We stopped at an awesome place named Graves where I chased down that elusive Choco Taco! Yeah!

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We headed up the mountain—Blue Ridge Parkway. This is also a tradition. We do enjoy our traditions, you may have noticed. Anyhoo we get up there and park. There be some optimal picture taking area. The area is beautiful and pics to come—maybe.

Oh come now (That’s what she said!) stop your whining this is another kind of post.

The day was nice. The sky bright blue and had a few puffy white cotton balls floating around in it. It wasn’t too chilly down below (TWSS!) but up on the mountain it was nippy. We enjoyed the view and snapped pictures before heading back down

Devils Backbone had a pretty full parking lot. The restaurant was no different. The sun was slowly creeping down as was the temp. There was an option given to us. Wait for who knows how long to sit inside or have dinner on the patio. It was a nice patio and a nice view too.

It was cold though. The patio did have heat. It consisted of a very lovely fireplace, two hanging heaters and then two moveable heaters. They also offered blankets. The wifey enjoyed the fireplace because she was right next to it. I was to the side/behind of it and Pelvic Joann was across the table of it. The two hanging heaters only helped the tables they were above. Those were the prime seats. The moveable heaters were not on.

In their fairness we didn’t ask about why. Eventually (as we neared the end of dinner) one was turned on and brought over to us. I sat with my hoodie on and up. The ladies took advantage of the blankets.
They were the cause of the post. I mean the blankets not the ladies. Dinner consisted of delicious meatloaf (kat), coffee braised steak (me) and the bone smoker platter (hahaha) for Pelvy. They had bread pudding for dessert.

During the meal some woman sat at the prime table in front of the fireplace AND under a heater. They eventually left and were replaced by some raucous men probably in their 50’s. I made eye contact (my face and beard clearly showing) several times. They were fans of really bad jokes and ribbing one another with even worse jokes.

As we left the ladies left the blankets on their chair. One dude tried to stop them I think. I vaguely remember hearing “hey” as I made it to their table. My front was facing them before turning my back to scoot between their table and the fireplace. My hoodie still up and my hair tucked into it. I get this tug on my arm.

“Miss. I think you ladies left some…oh never mind.”

I turned to face him at this point. Now either he noticed the blankets weren’t ours or that I had a beard and was clearly not a lady. I kept going and he turned back to his table of mid life crisesers.


New Poem: Blueberry Ale

November 2, 2010

Here is another poem. It is part of the book titled: Love is a Donkey. Now for some interaction (should you choose to accept your mission.) from you all. The poem is titled Blueberry Ale (right now) but the wifey thinks it should be titled “The Art of Giving Blow Jobs”. What say you dear reader? As always any comments appreciated.


After the third bottle the topic turned to sex.
This was usually the case but never with so many people
mulled and munched veggies. The party should’ve been over.
Rick finished off the hummus by himself. It was thick and homemade.
We found him on the toilet a joint in one hand and the other knuckle deep in the bowl.
“At least he’s not jacking off again” Johnny offered. He was right.


Two years from now he’d jump off a highway over pass.
His body smashed through the windshield of a brown Taurus.
He always had to take someone down with him. A pocket full of peach schnapps’
I got drunk at his funeral. “I always hated smooth tongued Johnny Ray.” I quipped
to the pretty girl at the bar. I undressed her with my eyes.
It turned out to be his sister.


At one point I must have met her. She may have even been at the party.
Pieces of poetry and scraps of art were thrown about.
It was the last of its kind. The only one where we were all friends and artists
If we had known that it may have changed things.
Of course in the end we’d still be high and debating the art of blow jobs.


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