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.


The one with a real scumbag

May 2, 2011

This could have been a serious post

(Hey it’s been known to happen from time to time.)

It COULD have been a serious post. Maybe one about how I feel, or where I was when I heard the news that Osama Bin Laden had been killed.

For the record: I was in our library (read dining room) watching a WWE PPV.

I mean there are tons of possibilities to go with that story. One could chronicle their emotional response or even their logical response. Hell I technically started work on some fine poetry. I could post that.

(No no don’t leave I’m not going to post my poetry!)
(Did you stay?)
(Whew.)

I’ll get on with it. I’m only doing a post to help ease my nervousness. You see I’ve got an interview in a few hours and have to call back another place too. I’m a little freaked out by the whole process and well writing a frivolous post would help. Don’t worry the post isn’t just this. Oh no if you stuck it out you get a story.

So the other night the wife and I were getting ready for bed. Neither of us had fallen asleep yet. We talked it up a bit and then this happened:

Her: (Some sort of joke making fun of me.)

Me: You’rrrrre a reaaal scumbag.

(Silence.)
(Silence.)
(Suspenseful no?)

And then we both just sort of started cracking up. I mean full on hardcore laughter. It lasted about a minute. Then she got up to turn the fan on and one of us said it again.

“You’rrrre a reaaal scumbag”

And we were laughing again. It was laughter that was very loud and way after midnight. This lasted about 5 minutes in total. This was earlier in the week and well it still cracks us up. If either one of us makes fun of the other, tries to annoy (etc) the other will bust it out.

We will laugh no matter when or where we are. That dear reader is how you win at marriage.


The one with tragedy

March 7, 2011

The one with tragedy

This weekend was a full one. It was the weekend of the wifey’s Absinthe and champagne party. It was planned a while ago but like most things these days really came upon me out of nowhere. It was of course to celebrate her 30th birthday, and you know drink champagne and absinthe.

It was also marking my first attempt at making chocolate covered beer flavored marshmallows. I found the recipe thanks to Lead Paint Cookbook and knew I had to try it. The Champagne and absinthe party seemed like the best excuse to try. So of course I went ahead with it. I decided to use Guinness as the beer. It was an easy choice. I love Guinness, its flavor is bold and well I had some.

(Yeah I’m cheap I know)
(Also unemployed you jerk faces!)
(Now that was unpleasant. I accept your apology.)

Now it just came time to make it. I was worried because the whole baking thing isn’t really my forte. So I bugged my lovely wife a lot but I did a majority of the work.

Where is the tragedy you ask?

(You sick sons of bishes!)

It was not in the making of the beer flavored marshmallows. No they turned out pretty yummy. I’ll post about their yummy gooeyness in some other post. Why? Because I’m in charge here! Also this is about tragedy not triumph.

Later on as the party neared I was helping with finishing things up. I had just cleaned up the kitchen and washing the dishes. As I put one of the bowls away it slipped out of my hand. I almost caught it but managed to just send it higher up and then of course back down. It bounced on the sink’s edge (didn’t break) and barreled into our good great friend General Pressem. Gen. Pressem was the name of our French Press.

The bowl blindsided him as he sat drying. He never stood a chance. He flew off the counter and down to his explosive demise. He shattered and shattered. I watched in horror unable to save my friend. Pieces of his body went everywhere—including my hair.

We have some great memories of our time with him. He was always smiling and such a jokester!

He got along so well with our kitties:

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Oh man did he party it up in the Keys:

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He could roll a 300 blindfolded:

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R.I.P General Pressem


Sleeping with my wife Part VII: The New Blood

March 1, 2011

Hello,
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone home?

I’ll give you a moment to recover from the vague Pink Floyd reference or the coughing fit caused by the dust of 10 straight days without a post. Go on take your time.

(Don’t take your time we haven’t got all day. I’m sure YOU should be working.)

(Slackers!)

As you know (from the title) it’s time for another installment of slepping with my wife. You also would see that I’m still awesome at making vague horror movie references!

No my wife is not Jason Voorhees.

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Today we return to the fertile ground that is my lovely wife. It’s her birthday tomorrow so wish her a happy birthday on twitter!

Last Friday night was a very weird night. I want you to know I resisted the urge to quote the Katy Perry song ‘Last Friday Night’ there.

It was hard though.

(That’s what she said!)

Swoon. So hot.

(Shut up)

Okay so last Friday (during the day) was mostly uneventful. I was mostly searching for jobs and battling the gloom bug. Around the time the wifey came home (about 4:45 or so) I decided I’d be taking a nap. That really turned out ugly and I slept essentially till 8. Grub and tv time followed.

The time came to get into bed.
(Bow chikka bow wow)

The wifey (as most usually) was asleep pretty much as soon as her head hit the pillow. I had a bit more trouble, which of course made sense. I after all did sleep like 4 hours during the afternoon. The only problem was I was VERY sleepy. I felt like I could sleep for days but sleep never came. I was a lump of wide awakeness on the bed. The kitties joined me but they too quickly went right to sleep.

I was alone.
All alone.
(You say awwww now.)
(Do it.)

I listened to sports radio. I got up and had some water. I tried my left side, I tried my right side. Nada. I got up and watched some bad TV and did a little bit o writing. A very little bit. I got back in bed. I was still just a lump of sleeplessness. Then as I tried to plunder dream land the wife sat up.

Then she got off the bed. She stood there for a split second and then began to chuckle.

Me: Something funny.
Her: Yeah.
(Chuckles.)
Me: Gonna share?

(Now she’s on the move. She went around the bed and stopped near the door. She laughs some more.)

Her: I can’t believe I forgot. So much to do. (Laughs.)
Me: What are you doing?
Her: I forgot about it.

(She goes out of the bedroom and looks back in. Then she slowly closes the door.)

Me (to one of our cats): Should I go get her Rasputin?
Rasputin: ….
Me: Good answer.

(About a minute or so later she came back in.)

Me: What were you doing?
Her: I don’t know…I thought….

Then she was in bed and back to sleep. I however didn’t sleep again until about 9 in the morning. She apparently had a dream that people from work were coming over and she forgot about it. She thought she needed to get busy cleaning because they’d be there soon.


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 where I kill a man

December 7, 2010

It happened in the Alcazar. We were one of the first to arrive. Melvin sat on a couch and rose to greet us. I lied and said it was nice to meet him. His handshake wasn’t firm, but then neither was mine. He broke into the usual chit chat with Kat. I slid out of my coat and dropped it on a green chair. I reached out and shook the chair. It wasn’t something I normally did. I couldn’t tell you why I did it either. I moved it. I looked. I saw. My mind slipped down a rung.

He slumped in the chair the weight of the world ready to push down on his shoulders. As he sat his gray suit bulging at his stomach more than he remembered. With a sigh he pulled his hat off and hoped this night would end soon. The door barely made a sound but he heard it open nonetheless. The hat fell to the floor a distant memory. He spun out of his chair producing a small pistol as he did. Pop. Pop. He did all this without thinking. The man hardly out of the door way crumpled. Slowly he walked over. Carefully he toed the man’s gun away. He was dead. He knew this but checked anyway. It was time to go. Gunshots aren’t the sort of things you stick around after but he needed to say it. He needed to send this man off properly and with the reverence he deserved. Straightening up he glanced out the door and then he spoke in a hushed tone.

“Do you need anything young man?” he said in a shaky old lady voice.

Son of a bitch.

I looked up and sure enough I had wandered a little too close to the help desk. There was an older woman waiting for my answer. There was a younger man (which younger really wasn’t too hard to be) in the back office and he was staring at me. I matched their looks and then smiled. I lifted my notebook up allowing it once again to be my shield.

“Oh no I’m just looking and writing. I’m just waiting for the rest of the group.”

I fixed my ninja turtle stocking cap. Raphael met them head on. They’d be no match and I held back a laugh. I watched as he jumped over the desk and planted her with a kick to the stomach and a sai to the chest. Before the young guy had a chance to move he was downed with a sai tossed into his forehead.

I moved on. The lobby was warm and well lit. A couple of old ladies sat on one of the vintage looking couches. The décor was a mixture of wood pieces and thrift store chairs. The walls were a white faded brick. I circled the lobby. I walked past the couches and the bathrooms. I stopped at the rack with brochures with things to do in and around town. I searched for any sign of the man from earlier. I would take either one of the men—dead or alive—but they were gone. I fingered a community paper from last month. I hoped to find a headline that would catch his eye. I shoved the paper in his pocket but his coat was just a ghost like he was.

They were watching me now. Not necessarily with the eyes of hawk’s or any suspicion but more with a confused wonder. I touched the sign that told us all visitors had to check in at the desk. To the left was a table with a pot of water for coffee and some blueberry muffins. I wondered if he was hungry.

No of course not don’t be stupid. I looked to my right and there was an old work desk. Above it there were books and papers, and a puzzle box. On the desk sat a puzzle half made. I crossed the room. There was a pile of the pieces waiting to be used.

Begging almost.

He remembered begging. It was often a part of death. He kneeled next to the dead man who he didn’t know. For a brief instance he thought about looking for his wallet. He wanted to say his name to commit his name to memory, but that wouldn’t help anyone. Softly he closed the eyes of man he just killed. This wasn’t helping. He stood and whispered.

“vaya usted con Dios.”

Then he did the sign of the cross. He checked outside one last time and then picked up his hat. As he crossed the lobby a large black man entered the room. His voice boomed. “What is up everybody? What are all of you doing here?’ There was laughter and once again the man in the gray suit faded.

Unnamed.

However the large black man did have a name. It was Oatman or Michael. Which one depended on where you stood on the first or last name debate. He smiled and greeted everyone personally. The night was ready to begin. We sat down first in the lobby and then headed into another room. We sat around a giant conference table. Mints and water made their rounds. There was laughter. There was seriousness. Discussions were had. Ideas were floated. Everything was chummy. I sat in the background watching. Everyone was relaxed.

The violence that came did so swiftly from left field.

I said something. Nobody heard it. I said it a little louder this time standing up. The eyes of everyone fixed on me as I pushed forward. My target on the other side of the room and I was on him before he could react. I kicked him in his large gut. He toppled over. The rest of the group just watched.

One slap. He cried out.
Another slap. He mumbled and struggled. I kicked him. Hard.
A third slap produced a trickle of blood from his mouth.

He looked around but there was no help to be had. I kicked him some more and with a hand that didn’t feel like my own pulled out a sharp knife. He flailed and begged. His eyes locked with the group’s leader. I looked that way myself. One large black fist rose up and came back down as thumbs down.

I kicked him hard one more time just for the fun of it and then slit his throat in one long quick motion. It slurped and sucked and blood sprayed up. He chocked and fell silent. I pulled back blood on my face and neck. The knife fell from my hand. I was his executioner and I didn’t even know his name.

“Vaya usted con Dios.” I whispered.

Just then a lady came into the conference room. She was slim and aging. Her glasses hung around her neck. She asked something. The group startled and mumbled at her. Oatman asked her for two more minutes.
The play reading was about to start. The actors and playwright quickly scribbled in new additions and well one big cut. The blood of that cut was on my hands. I had spoken up. I spoke honestly and from the point of view of another playwright. The body in the corner was that of the psychiatrist and meant its actor would have 1 paragraph of dialogue at the end of the play. When I say the end of the play I mean it literally. It is on the last page. They are the last words heard.

All in all it was an interesting experience. The reading was well received. I always enjoy seeing the wife do theatre stuff. There isn’t a time where she seems happier than when doing stuff like that. She is never as beautiful as when her passion flows like that.

Danger Will Robinson. Danger! Wow that was sappy huh?

It’s my blog and I can be sappy if I want to. Sappy if I want to. You would be too if it—

I know. I know.

(Shut up)


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