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Myspace the Podcast

I WILL NOT BE INTIMIDATED

“The writer as reader,” my editor was trying to make a point. “The reader, as, umm, listener. You know the drill. The money’s all in podcasts and audiobooks and audiobook podcasts. That ilk. Hmm?” “I really don’t know what you want me to say,” I told him. I continued reading the words on the page. The words that I, umm, definitely wrote…. “I should say, Margaret, that if I grew a mustache without knowing it, then that is a pretty big deal,” I told my wife. “It took me nearly forty minutes convincing Ken that the sheen on my upper lip was nothing more than chicken glaze. I’ve been taking so much overtime lately. I don’t think he–” “No.” “No what?” “That isn’t the edit. Let me see that page.” My editor fumbled with some pages. “I mean, Mer, chicken glaze? What even is–” “It’s like the airborne residue that gets on you when you work at a chicken factory. I looked into it.” “Here. Here we go. Take this.” He handed me a page. “There is no question about the mustache, my friend. I don’t know where you thought you were heading with that and the chicken glaze and the other.” He laughed. And I suddenly felt very, very bad. “What the… You know. I think… Yeah, I need a minute. I’m taking five. Curtis?” I waved to Curtis who was manning the recording levels at the big fancy computer and soundboard. He gave me the okay symbol. I grabbed my coat and walked over to the window to put it on. I looked down at the city below. Alive. I could hear my editor sigh. “It’s your dime. Jeff said we could post on the feed once a day if we had the material. If being the operative word there, Mer. I get paid just the same, however.” “This whole deal is rotten to the core.” “That might be so, but a contract is a contract.” “Did you talk to him yet? Is he still going on about Q?” “R. And, yes.” “R?” “The ‘new’ Q, according to him. Odd bird.” “Huh?” “In his mind, there is an R now and no Q.” I was beyond lost and too tired to care at this point. “Whatever. Just get him to stop blabbering about it. I can’t see how this works as a podcast if his voice pops in from time to time spouting about conspiracy theory and nonsense.” “And sports.” “And sports? Oh, terrific. A bonafide loser.” “This is a terrible way to read isn’t it? With our dialogue running into each other on the page?” “I… I’m the reader, and it’s fine for me.” “You’re the reader now,” my editor said. “What do you mean?” He took a long drag from his cigar before responding, “You’re the reader now. But this is still a book.” “Isn’t it?” --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,021 – R and Q and You and Me

I looked at myself in the mirror, I thought. My suit was starting to stick to my skin. Mostly because of the hot chicken air on the line, and also the fact that I hadn’t taken it off in some six weeks…. They rebranded. Chicken Fillet E factory number sixteen was now Chicken Depot Supreme or C.D.S. and Ken came in beaming the day they got new uniforms delivered. “I’m not taking off this suit,” I told him. “Can’t really get into the specifics of the thing, but please understand it’s a non-negotiable position on my end.” Well, he wasn’t having any of it. Apparently his niece was involved in some way with the rebrand and aided in the design of the new logo which was an interlocking “C” and backwards “S” crisscrossing through a “D”–the “D” was a garish yellow and the “C-S” a sky blue. I, having some experience on the subject, felt it was an incredibly bad job if not completely botched. I thought, we’ll be lucky to sell a single cutlet, folks thinking this is some shitty amateur sports team with that mark and not a Class E restaurante. In my thoughts, my voice had a strange, maybe Mexican accent. What the hell was I to do about all that, though. But I wasn’t kidding about the suit. Non-negotiable. Ken made a remark about my mustache only I hadn’t grown one. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,020 – Phantom mustache

I left my editor’s office as unsure of myself as I’d ever felt. He didn’t care about the words. Only how the words sounded on the podcast. It was absurd to write this way. This wasn’t even “writing.” Even as I say these words into the microphone, I know how futile the whole the enterprise really is. All I ever wanted to do was write a book that would make Alpie, my prized alpaca, proud. Alpie, if you’re up in heaven, listening, I love you, good boy. They put me in touch with the guy who owns the podcast, or who is renting us the podcast feed? The whole thing is very confusing to me. Anyway, the guy is a goddam nutjob. Jeff. He immediately started talking about some conspiracy theories that I absolutely don’t want to be associated with. You know the ones. In the end, we seemed to come to an agreement about it since we’re now intertwined in such a way. I know my editor doesn’t like when I get off subject and so I can only imagine what he’s gonna think about this chapter. It’s really none of my concern. I can’t seem to write the book straight in this way. If I have to speak it as I go; if I have to have an open-ended “contract” wherein I get paid by the megabyte then I should ramble; let’s space this thing out; y’all want book length? Let’s. Fucking. Go. I can talk all–“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Mer, have you lost your damn mind? Stick to the script!” I looked down at the paper in front of me in the recording booth except the recording booth was just my editor’s bathroom and we definitely weren’t in the penthouse anymore…. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,019 - The Writer in 2021

"I'm just gonna say this one time, Mer. I love you and I respect you. You know this. But I am not at all liking this chicken thing. I really got to say... feels like a dead end." I was getting fed up with my editor. Every meeting about the book was worse than the last. I couldn't think of the last time he offered any helpful feedback... "I was thinking the other day. Doing a little brainstorming. Now, I'm no writer. I leave the writing up to you guys, the writers. You know this, Mer. But if we could leave the chicken thing alone for a second and just hear me out. Okay?" I sat there, speechless, which was my way of saying, "go on." I couldn't fight him any longer. "Alright then... So what's seems hot right, what really has people into the books getting hot is, like, a disaster or terrorist attack or genocidal thing or some kind of real evil thing, event–could be real, could be imagined, but probably better real–and then giving at twist of levity. People are saying this to me all the damn time, Mer. Okay, so here are the ideas I jotted down." My editor got out a legal pad which was scrawled with large, nearly illegible writing in a thickish red ink, or maybe even crayon. I didn't get the best look. "Idea numero uno is GUYsis. You see where I'm going with this?" I did not. "GUYsis, is like Isis, the terrorist thing, but for guys only. Now... Now. Now, look... I know what you're gonna say. You're gonna say–" he then did a fey, mocking impression of me, I suppose "–but isn't Isis already for guys? Don't they hate women already over there and whatnot? Yeah, well, there's, uh, that's the joke. The joke is multifaceted, multilayered. Of course, Isis is for guys. No shit! So, you know, let's do 'Isis for Guys.' It's Guysis." He threw up his hands like that was that. I did not get the joke, but the lack of any joke was, I had to admit, a little interesting. I allowed him to continue. "Second idea. Now... Now," he began to chuckle. "This one is wild. This one is a little con-tro-versial. You know morning shows? Daytime fluff, etcetera Well get a load of this... Good Morning Auschwitz!" Surprisingly, he didn't have anything more to say about that one. I digested it. Took a sip of water and said, "The Guysis one isn't... bad. But, listen, I'm not even sure this thing takes place in our world. Didn't you get the idea that was a different timeline?" My editor looked confused. "Timeline? Worlds? What the fuck are you talking about, Mer? This is America. This is... are you feeling okay?" --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,018 - Two bad ideas, but I still might use them

I was positioned between two twin teenage girls name Shirley and Shirlay on the poultry line. My manager, Ken, told me that he had been looking for the right person to separate them for quite some time. "Not cuz they ain't good at pulling chickens apart," he told me. "Cuz, frankly, they're too good.... frankly speaking." I was confused. "Listen bud," he continued. "We're a class E depot, and not one of the more popular ones at that. We pull apart too many chickens, we get a backlog of chickens. And what does that mean?" He wasn't really looking for an answer. "Dead chicken meat as far as the eye can see...." I could see what Ken meant. Shirley and Shirlay were a sympatico whirling dervish of chicken ripping. Their bodies flowed as one being and they did the work of a dozen or so men with ease. There was eight of on that line. Apparently, I replaced a guy named Roger who left under suspicious circumstances. In the beginning, my entire day was spent trying to avoid get poked by the sisters as their natural motion and inclination was towards one another. But eventually I figured out that if I talked to them, they would calm down. It was in doing this that I learned they didn't know how to speak. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,017 - Dead chicken meat as far as the eye can see

I began my journey as a junior line poultry puller at Chicken Fillet E factory number sixteen not knowing it would change my life. The deep, meditative motion of ripping dead chickens apart over the course of eight to sometimes as many as ten straight hours, led my mind to a pool of clarity I didn't know existed. I thought about my old job in the city.... For thirty-seven years I worked in the Pelican Building as a marketing man. I came up with the ideas for commercials back when there were still commercials for things, back when their were, you know, things. Of course, after the riots calmed down and the eternal fires were strategically lit in honor of the nearly 50% of the population who perished in them, we entered into the period of time which came to be known as The Great Relocalizing. The writing had, probably, been on the wall for sometime before then, but the dissolution of national media, national travel, and national life as we once knew it, meant a big ole "thank you, see you later" for folks of my ilk. We didn't put up a fight when they closed the door and shut out the lights. Even men and woman five, maybe ten years my junior had experienced life outside of the traditional bubble I was once deeply a part of. But still, I couldn't argue with The Great Relocalizing. It's amazing what these imaginary fences did to help forge a society based on truth and trust. I can't really explain it. But things are better now. Everyone is included. When we sit and eat at the deli together and feed our friends and families with our own fingers, we don't really think about how the reuben sandwich is just a combination of colored molds and gel and not real food. When we touch the inside of his mouth and feel his saliva on our skin and his teeth gently rub up against our fingers, it doesn't matter that this "meal" is completely void of sustenance. We simply "enjoy" it together and then proceed to grab some fresh tomatoes from the garden, or pick up some Chicken Fillet on the way home, or go hunt aardvark in the dead of night. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,016 – The old way of doing things

The next morning I woke up determined to get a job at Chicken Fillet A. "Chicken Fillet D through M is more your speed, dear," Margaret said with a smile. I didn't appreciate that, even if she was probably right.... After the food riots–what feels like a hundred years ago now–the government instituted  the Chicken Fillet factory strategy. The goal being: if you wanted a hot plate of bird you could get always get one, free of charge, from one of a thousand or more full-service chicken factory and restaurant combos. Their motto was "From hatchin' to digestin' these squabblers ain't restin'!" It was a confused motto to say the least. Of course, you could still hunt and gather any other means of sustenance you liked. The shots of a rifle taking down a bear, a squirrel or an aardvark became just as common as music coming from a radio once had. People couldn't be expected to survive on chicken alone. But still, the Chicken Fillet factory strategy was how most people got their meals and it was divided by class. We were C or maybe B folk before retirement and kept that rank on paper, but the nature of our age and perceived uselessness to society made us E or F people in practice. It wasn't unusual for a retiree to apply for a Chicken Fillet position. If I got lucky, I'd land a managerial position somewhere at one of the A, B and C factories where Margaret and I were still allowed to shop. There, the chickens still looked like chickens.  When I entered by credentials into the computer and it immediately spat back out to me "??????? ?????? ? - ?????? XVI (??) - ?????? ???? ??????? ??????," I shouldn't have been surprised. But it still stung. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,015 - Chicken Fillet E–XVI

My sudden bout of clearheadedness did not come with a reprieve of fatigue, much to my chagrin. But I found an energy in that frustration, somehow, and I suspected it to be the source of my awakening, if I could dare to call it such.... It had something to do with the new suit Margaret had laid out for me. I didn't even realize it was new when I first put it on. And I still didn't realize it when I left Josef by the fire, kicking dirt upon it, screaming, trying in vain to extinguish it, such as he did after every night which we concluded there. "I swear to god," he said. "That this fire was on my side of the creek when we moved in. And now it won't ever go out!" That was my cue to my leave. It was as if our encounters by the fire were playing out on a loop. The same conversation, over and over again, however many times we had it. The only thing different on this occasion was my suit. I never wore a suit. Or at least I hadn't since I quit my job and moved out of the city. When I got back inside the house that night, the night of my seventy-seventh birthday, I looked in the mirror and finally noticed the suit. It was brand new. Something about the suit said, "You are ready to find some salvation in your lack of sleep. As long as I am on you, nothing can go wrong." I laid down next to Margaret. "Are you wearing that to bed?" She asked. "I'm never taking it off for as long as I still have to live." "Okay." She turned over and I settled in for another sleepless night. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,014 - The new suit

The dinner had been a delight, much to my wondrous surprise. I didn't know what to chalk it up to. My personality was not one apt to sudden, positive change. It was as if The Cravendorfs were never really there. Obviously, the deafening squalor of aardvarks in heat had something to do with it... Had my birthday always corresponded with the aardvark mating season? It certainly didn't feel like– "Ya gotta lose the aardvarks, Mer. You're killing me with these aardvarks. It's bad enough you're not developing these characters, my man, but these... what is the obsession with these–" "Not developing my characters?" I said to my editor. "How... Where do you get that idea? Henry is the unreliable narrator, unsure of himself, on a quest but only he doesn't know he's on a quest. Margaret is the wildcard wife, ceaselessly and needlessly adventurous. Marjorie is quiet, pensive, a potential victim, a seeker of truth, the shadow to Margaret's feminine light. And Josef is the lurking evil, your classic antagonist. Or is he." I wasn't so much asking the question not because it wasn't a question but because I wasn't interested in what my editor had to say about it. Over one thousand chapters in, and only now he was piping up about the damn aardvarks? The working title of the book had been 'Aardvarks in America' all the way through Chapter 600 and something. Where did he get off. He sat there, smoking his cigar, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse office. He wouldn't bite on offering a non-answer he knew I wasn't looking for. "Ah, fuck it," I said. And turned back down to the page. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,013 - Aardvark mating season

"Every year," Josef started. "Every year it seems like this fire is getting bigger." He paused and sticked the fire. Was this the same stick he always used? How had it not burnt down into a nub by now? "Don't you... agree.... Henry?" The fire was getting bigger. I imagined the fire would one day form a wall on this side of the creek and then a tiny fireball would leap across the water and start the process anew on the other side. Who's to say what would happen to the creek in between two walls of fire. We wouldn't be able to see it through the fire. But it would just take one side worth of a firewall to burn the tiny bridge connecting the two properties. So the fireball wouldn't be necessary. One wall would be sufficient to fuck this fucker out of my life forever. The sound of mating aardvarks grew unbearably loud and I don't think that Josef heard what I had to say about the fire. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,012 - The Fire

"My connection to Erwin? I don't... I don't have a connection to Erwin, I don't believe" I told Marjorie, who had popped over to borrow a cup of flour in the middle of the day. The timing and framing of her question was suspicious to say the least.... "Josef tells me your'e interested in buying our old cottage, which I... I found that odd. The young couple who lives there now just seem so happy, and I called Elise, she's our agent, and she said the house isn't even on the market. So I just..." Marjorie trailed off. Margaret was off running errands and it felt odd to be alone in the home with Josef Cravendorf's wife. I don't believe we had directly conversed like this before. "Hmm," I tried to gather my thoughts. "Where... You know... I'm not sure how Josef... Could have gotten that idea from.... So... Yes.... Where is Josef right now?" I asked. "Perhaps I should have a quick word with–" "No!" Marjorie shouted. "We mustn't wake him. I mean, he is asleep. He, uh, he sleeps." "Well, yes, certainly. I didn't mean... Don't we all take naps from time to time..." "No," she replied. "This isn't a nap. He sleeps for weeks at a time. And he cannot be awoken. Because, you know, he sleeps. He sleeps for weeks." Marjorie's eyes filled with tears. "And then he doesn't sleep at all." --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,011 - Erwin

"I still own that cottage out past Erwin, but heaven knows don't say anything to Marjorie about it." I was out to lunch at the local deli with Joseph, well before he killed my dog. We were hand-feeding each other reuben sandwiches as had become the custom in that time.... "Why would you keep that a secret?" I grumbled through a bite of corned beef, sauerkraut, and Russian dressing covered in melted Swiss cheese on toasted rye bread. Josef's fingers lingered in my mouth after presenting me the bite. It was difficult to speak and even more difficult to discern what exactly he was up to. He settled on one of my back teeth. "Ah, here we go," he said. "This one's rotted to the core." Not long after that lunch my teeth did, in fact, start to fall out, one by one. And on the day I lost my last tooth, I found Jude's dead body in the creek. "I thought you were a doctor, not a dentist?" I asked, annoyed, when Josef finally removed his hand from my mouth. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,010 - Odontophobia

It was sometime in the second grade when I stopped sleeping well. And sometime in my early twenties when I fixed the issue, temporarily. But I can't seem to discern when it got bad again. I would occasionally find some peace in the night. On occasion, it would be a week or two at a time. But in the scheme of a life, fleeting is not the right word for a week or two. What is an appropriate amount of time? I do not know.... "Seven years," I said to Margaret. "Seven years, what?" "Seven years of sleep." "You want to sleep for seven straight years?" "No. Well... no. I don't want to be asleep for seven years. Not for the duration. I think I need seven years' worth of good sleep to feel good again." "Henry, dear..." Margaret paused. "You're an old man as it is. What is this talk about seven years, how do you even come up with a number like that." Margaret resumed her knitting of a pot holder embroidered with a swastika. She knit one swastika pot holder every single day. At the end of every month, she would take the pot holders–sometimes thirty or thirty-one, or twenty-eight in February, or twenty-nine in February in a leap year–and she would amble on down to the fire by the creek and throw all of them in. It never rained in Red Sparrow Falls and the fire never went out. Margaret claimed her relatives were Holocaust survivors, or perhaps it was victims. But she was not Jewish and they were not. She was a compulsive liar. Though the gesture remained the same, and it seemed in bad faith and somehow anti-Semitic to deter.  --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,009 - Sleep

"I'm ill," I said, defeated. The Cravendorfs were due over in about an hour for my birthday feast. "I'm too ill for company." "Hogwash," Margaret said. "I have your suit hanging in the bathroom. It's all ready." I closed my eyes so hard that it hurt.... "Henry! They'll be here in about fifteen minutes. Get out of that bed now," Margaret yelled from the dining room downstairs, between humming what sounded like a funeral march as she set the table. I could hear the clink of the fine china. It had a different tone than the normal plates. I eventually did get up and go into the bathroom. I put on the suit and looked at myself in the mirror. "Just like you've done a thousand times before, I told my reflection," I said. And I sat down on the toilet, lid up, pants on. None of this was real. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

Ch. 1,008 - Doing things that you just don't want to do

Everyone has a podcast. But they don't have mine. Welcome to Myspace the Podcast. New episodes daily between 4 seconds and 14 hours long. Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/myspace/support

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Myspace the Podcast

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