Erma Bombeck and Honorable Mention

Although I was born in West Virginia and lived there until I was 15, I now reside in Dayton, Ohio. One of Dayton's claims to fame is that the world-renowned humorist Erma Bombeck lived and worked here for most of her life, before she relocated to Arizona (I believe). 

In honor of the fabulous Mrs Bombeck's legacy, the University of Dayton holds an Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop every other year in the spring. The workshop focuses on humorous write, I think and it is very popular, drawing attendees from all over the world. In conjunction with each workshop a contest is held for the best humorous short piece, and the contest also draws entries from all over the globe. First place winners each receive a cash prize and free tuition to the workshop. 

The workshop and contest were most recently held in 2016, and I entered and was awarded with an Honorable Mention prize, one of only two presented, if I remember correctly. I am still very proud of that, even if I didn't win. Of my story, the judges wrote: 

Judge #1: Good stuff. Great detail and visuals, and I loved the dialogue. Very relateable and amusing. 

Judge #2: I'm biased, but I'm a sucker for a dog rescue story. His descriptions of the dogs were spot on and laughter-filled. I saw the ending coming, but still enjoyed it.

I'll definitely be entering again next year. In the meantime, I've reprinted my entry below, in case you'd like to read it. 


DOG DAYS

   “I'm starting a rescue,” my wife announces one day at dinner. “A dog
rescue.” The children and I look up from our spaghetti, and a series
of images pass through my brain. Rescue: flashing lights, ambulances,
EMT's with stretchers. Dogs, however, remain conspicuously absent from
my mental picture.

   I swallow my mouthful of garlic bread – one tries to be polite with
children present – and ask, “A dog rescue?”

   “Yes,” she says. “I'll save unwanted dogs from the county shelter,
then rehabilitate them and adopt them out to local families.”

   That was two years ago – 14 in rescue years. Of the 51 dogs she's
re-homed, 32 have urinated on the couch, 19 have chewed on my shoes,
and one ate an entire pound of thawing chorizo. The garage, which once
housed our cars, is filled with dog food. I de-fur the furnace filter
once a month, strangers stop by at odd hours to donate blankets and
chew toys, and I haven't seen the postman since last spring. There's a
one-eyed dalmatian who lives in my closet, a shih tzu in the bathtub,
two pugs with allergies behind the TV, and a papillon with irritable
bowel syndrome who makes her home beneath my desk.

   Once, a typical evening of ours might be spent watching a movie with
the kids. Now, Friday nights might go something like this:

   Her phone rings. I pray it's her mother.

   “Hello?” says says. “Yes, this is Paws-4-Ever.”

   Her eyes light up. Her breath quickens. If I didn't know better, I'd
think she had a boyfriend.

   “He's hairless? Oh, no. And he has no teeth? Oh, the poor thing! Yes,
yes... of course I'll take him. We'll be there in twenty minutes.”

   “No, Beth,” I said as she hangs up the phone. “Look, I have to draw
the line. No toothless dogs. Please.”

   “But he's a chi-weenie!” she squeals, pulling on her coat and
grabbing her purse. I stand up, dislodging Taco, the chihuahua who's
been with us for 9 months. “Beth?”

   Brushing hair from my jeans, I reach for my jacket, laying on the
armchair under Kojak, the poodle with PTSD.

   “He's a stray,” she said. “The poor thing. And they found him
downtown, wandering alone. And he's HAIRLESS, Tim. Completely bald.
How would YOU like to be bald with no teeth?”

   She pauses as I pick up my car keys and smile at the mirror,
examining my gums and hairline, both of which, I notice, are receding
rapidly.

   “Okay, Honey,” I say. “We can bring in one more. But do you know of
any rescues for balding, toothless, worn-out old husbands?”

Joe Jackson - Steppin' Out Once Again

 [a slightly different version of this article first appeared in the Dayton City Paper on June 6, 2017]

Joe Jackson -- Steppin’ Out Once Again

Iconoclastic Musician Brings Current Tour to Cincinnati’s Taft Theatre

By

Tim Walker

    “I don’t think anyone knows what the hell to do,” says Joe Jackson when speaking to me recently about the state of the record business and his place in it. “The music industry now is like a bunch of chickens running around with their heads cut off.”

    During his nearly four decades as a working musician, Jackson has released a total of twenty albums, albums which run the gamut from power pop and movie soundtracks to jazz and neo-classical orchestral music. Refusing to be pigeonholed, the artist has toured the world numerous times, written books (1999’s superb A CURE FOR GRAVITY), won Grammy awards and other industry accolades, and has seen firsthand the changes that the internet and digital downloading have wrought upon the recording industry. And yet, Jackson remains unsure about the future of the music business.

“All of these questions about the state of the music industry now,” the musician says, “They kind of give me a headache, because it’s such a weird time. It’s changed so much, and it’s still changing so fast, that I don’t think anyone knows what to think or what to do. And I think that includes all the people who are are supposed to be the smart people -- the big time managers, the big publicists, and so on.” Jackson pauses to collect his thoughts before continuing. “My feeling is, how does it affect me? The more I think about it, the more I realize that the only thing I have any control over is my own work. So the only thing I can really do that might make the world a tiny little bit better is to make the best music I can, and put on the best show that I can.”

Joe Jackson brings his current tour, the fourth in support of his most recent album, 2015’s FAST FORWARD, to Cincinnati’s Taft Theatre on Tuesday, June 13th. The show, which starts at 8pm, features Jackson and a band featuring longtime sideman and crowd favorite Graham Maby on bass, with Teddy Kumpel on guitar and Doug Yowell on drums. Tickets are still available through Ticketmaster and the Taft box office.

When asked what people can expect to see at the upcoming show, Jackson laughs and replies, “Some old stuff, some new stuff. And a few surprises.” When it comes to making good music, performing live, and being surprising, Joe Jackson knows what he’s talking about. His first album, 1979’s LOOK SHARP, featured the acerbic hits “Sunday Papers”, “Fools in Love”, and “Is She Really Going Out With Him?” and was hailed by music journalists as a leading example of “New Wave” British pop. The Joe Jackson Band’s two stylistically similar follow-ups, I’M THE MAN and BEAT CRAZY, were also successful, but it was the breakup of the band and the artist’s subsequent solo releases like JUMPIN’ JIVE, BODY AND SOUL, and BIG WORLD which saw him approaching music from a variety of angles and styles, some of which admittedly proving more popular than others. He struck gold worldwide in 1982 with the guitar-less pop of his NIGHT AND DAY album, which featured the MTV-fed smash hits “Real Men”, “Breaking Us in Two” and “Steppin’ Out”, still his biggest-selling hit single, which received two Grammy nominations and practically made him into a pop star.

Full disclosure: I am an enthusiastic Joe Jackson fan. I’ve followed the man’s work since I first heard his music as a teenager in the early 1980’s. While those handful of pop hits may define Jackson’s career for many, it is his music from the past two decades which I find myself returning to again and again. 1999’s SYMPHONY NO. 1, which won the 2001 Grammy for Best Pop Instrumental Album, is like no other -- a four-movement orchestral piece for jazz and rock musicians, the album was released on Sony’s Classical label and features Steve Vai and Terence Blanchard. 2012’s THE DUKE, Jackson’s 17th album, is a stirring tribute to Duke Ellington and debuted at #1 on Billboard’s Top Jazz Albums chart.

When asked, Jackson, who turns 63 later this year, insists that at this point in his career he makes no assumptions when releasing a new record into the marketplace. “I have no expectations at all, when I finish a song or put it out,” he says. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if no one gave a shit, if it never got heard anywhere at all. How do you define a successful record? There are lots of different ways to define it now, whereas it used to be a lot more obvious. The only time I really feel like I’ve made a connection is when I play live, and that’s one of the reasons I keep doing it, keep going back out on the road yet again, because I love it, and I love being able to make that connection. I think you only really get that when you play live.”

Playing live at the Taft Theatre on June 13th, Jackson and his band will no doubt bring to life his own unique brand of challenging, inspired music, and whether you’re a fan from years ago -- like I am -- or a newer convert, chances are it will be a show you’ll long remember.

[Joe Jackson will perform at Cincinnati’s Taft Theatre on Tuesday, June 13th, 2017 at 8pm. Tickets are still available. For more information call 513-232-6220 or go to www.joejackson.com]

The Silver Memorial Bridge

The Silver Memorial Bridge spans the Ohio River and connects Gallipolis, Ohio to Henderson, West Virginia. The bridge was completed in 1969, two years after the collapse of the original Silver Bridge, which occurred on December 15, 1967. 46 people lost their lives in that disaster, and in the years since many have attempted to tie the tragedy to then-reported sightings of the Mothman near Point Pleasant, WV. I lived in Point Pleasant and attended junior high school there back in the 1970's. 

John Scalzi Profile in the Dayton City Paper

This week's edition of the Dayton City Paper (cover date: June 27 - July 3) contains a profile I wrote about well-known science fiction writer John Scalzi and his involvement with this year's Antioch Writer's Workshop.

You can read the short piece HERE.

A List of Rejections

[The writer is basking in the afterglow of a great weekend spent camping with family and friends.] 

Today was a good day. I went to the bank this morning, stopped by the library, then to Kroger and bought my wife some red, white and blue flowers. We took the kids to Toys R Us where they picked up some fun things, then we all went to Cracker Barrel for a late lunch and then home for baths before I had to come to work -- I am here now in the DJ booth as I type these words.

At Cracker Barrel I saw a sign which read: "Life is Too Short to be Anything But Happy."

Amen. 

Jac Jemc is a talented writer from Chicago who has come to my attention recently. I haven't read much of her work, but she has a new book coming out entitled THE GRIP OF IT which has been praised by a number of reviewers I respect, one of whom is a good friend of many years, the novelist William J. Grabowski. I have a copy of the book ordered and I'm looking forward to reading it -- it sounds like a good one.

I was at the Dayton Metro Library's Northwest Branch this morning, as I said -- I stopped by on my way to the bank. While there, I printed out some information from a few different websites: a long article Jeff Vandermeer published in The Atlantic magazine back in 2015 about his Southern Reach trilogy... an interview from The White Review with Catherine Lacey, author of THE ANSWERS... and a short interview with and piece of flash fiction from Jac Jemc. The story is entitled "Lya Lys & Innokenty Smoktunovsky", and the interview is about a blog she maintains at her website, a blog made up largely of tracking rejections she receives from various publications.

The rejection list is not what you might think -- there's no whining or complaining here. Having your work rejected is simply part of the life of a writer, and the rejections (and acceptances) are documented in a simple and straightforward fashion.

You can see Jac Jemc's Rejection List here

You can see William J. Grabowski's blog The Night Run here

You can pre-order Jac Jemc's new novel THE GRIP OF IT here

You can read Jeff Vandermeer's article I mentioned here

currently reading: gingerly approaching BIRD BOX by Josh Malerman
currently watching: various things on my 2-week free trial of Hulu
currently listening to: my 900-song Spotify playlist, "Spermatikos Logos".

Prince: 1958-2016

Purple Reign. Prince: 1958 - 2016

by

Timothy Walker

Music is what he was, and music was what he did, and he did that better than damn near anyone ever has. Talk to me about Mozart, preach about Miles, sing the praises of Elvis or Michael or Bowie or Beethoven… Prince was a man touched by God. Glory glory, hallelujah, and Amen Un2 the Joy Fantastic.  

Prince Rogers Nelson, born in Minneapolis in 1958, was tragically found dead there at Paisley Park in April at the age of 57. In the time we were blessed with his presence on Earth, the musician created works of art so beautiful, so breathtaking, so universally admired, that the man… Prince, himself, the human vessel through which that otherworldly talent flowed for so many years… was simply unable to endure the adulation the world gave him in return. He retreated from fame. He changed his name, scrawled “Slave” on his face, and tried to hide. He built a white castle for himself there in Chanhassen, Minnesota. He stayed away from prying eyes and rarely emerged, except to play his music. He lived and worked there in his castle, always recording, a creature of the studio, transcribing his inimitable purple genius into notes and phrases and brilliant albums which he presented to us common folk like Moses just come down from the mountain.

I saw him once, and when he stepped onto that stage in Louisville, when he plugged in that guitar and felt the power begin to flow, he showed us all what it means to be alive. To love. To kick up our platform heels and dance, and push away death. To play and sing and laugh and, most of all, to rejoice. He was purple rain, he was lovesexy, he was dearly beloved we have gathered here today to get through this thing called Life.

He sang about sex and he sang about God, and he sang about love. He was vulgar and devout and ageless and beautiful.

And now he is gone. But the music, and the message, remain.

 One nation, under Donald

By Tim Walker
“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.”

That is George Orwell’s line, of course, straight out of his novel “1984,” and it makes me pause as I set down my paperback and look at the clock. I was 19 years old back in the year 1984, the first time I read Orwell, and my head was full of dreams. Ronald Reagan was in office, a Republican, I recall, an actor and a man so many were afraid of. What a joke. Of course, it isn’t 1984 anymore—today’s date is April 30, 2017, and it is Donald Trump’s 100th day in office. Ronnie wouldn’t recognize his beloved country anymore, and those idiots back then didn’t know the first thing about fear.

President Trump himself hasn’t made any public appearances in over a month, of course, not since that third assassination attempt, the one that almost got him. He blamed it on ISIS, but everyone knows it was really homegrown terrorists, probably members of The Faction or Los Hermanos: both groups swore revenge on him after the railroad cars filled with “Undesirables” began rolling south toward Mexico (I’ll never forget those images of pleading, grasping hands reaching out for some sort of human contact as the trains began to roll away). Several of the rebels were captured by Trump’s Patriotic Guard when they claimed responsibility for that last bomb—their bodies still hang from the lampposts on Pennsylvania Avenue, right down the street from the White House.

Congress was locked up first, almost immediately after Trump took the Oath. I almost laughed—almost—at the looks on the faces of the top GOP members as they were dragged down the steps of the Capitol in leg irons. Paul Ryan was crying. “Treason” and “Crimes Against America” were the charges, and they’re all guilty, of course. We’re all guilty, in fact, every American citizen, for allowing this to happen in the first place.

Trump’s ego just could not accept a balance of power. He had to feel like The Man in charge, and so two of the three branches of government were silenced; they were “Stonewalling me and standing in the way of this country becoming great again,” as he said. So, once he had Congress in chains, Trump dismantled the Supreme Court. Surprisingly, they were treated with more respect—they were simply “retired from the bench.” With the Constitution suspended indefinitely and the Patriotic Guard in control, what good would a Supreme Court be anyway?

What we didn’t know during the campaign was that Donald Trump had powerful people backing him, people who controlled the secret power corridors of Washington, D.C. Angry generals, Black Ops agents—the people who had bristled under Obama’s directives, who had always hated being told what NOT to do, and who had been waiting for a weak, egotistical, stupid man who needed their support and who would agree to do their bidding in order to get into the Oval Office. They were waiting for Trump, so they could enact a military coup of our government and make that orange-faced buffoon their figurehead.

Trump’s tweets and video appearances continue on a daily basis, of course—not even IED’s could stop those—and executive orders have flowed from the bunker beneath the White House in an unending stream ever since Inauguration Day, a torrent of angry directives and twisted hate that it has been nearly impossible to keep up with. Constitutional scholars—those who haven’t been arrested—have long since stopped criticizing the President for violating his oath of office. Silence, it appears, is the best course of action for academia these days.

Hillary and Bill fled the country almost immediately after Election Day, once Clinton conceded and Trump began calling for their arrests—rumor has it they’re being protected by friends in the Saudi royal family, but who knows? The Obamas simply disappeared when it became clear that our country had elected a madman who was willing to stop at nothing in his quest to Make America Hate Again.

Skirmishes between the rebels and the Patriotic Guard don’t take place as often now, but it’s hard to tell with all of the newspapers gone. The Star-Spangled Banner, our so-called national newspaper, is nothing more than cheap propaganda, not even fit to line the birdcage. I’m sure people read it—hell, people will read anything, remember USA Today? But only an idiot would think that the endlessly happy stories and tightly controlled feel-good pieces reflect reality.

This was once America, the land of the free, as it was said so often—a nation under God. The Great Satan, our enemies once called us. Look at us now—look at what we’ve become. Thinking back, it all seems so clear…  how is it that the voters back in November couldn’t see what was coming? The crowds who showed up for his rallies, all of them fell right into line as he whipped them into a frenzy of xenophobia.

I don’t know. It is what it is, and none of it matters anymore. The dream that was once the United States has become a nightmare, but I’ll have to finish this journal entry later. I have to leave now—I don’t want to be late for the Public Tortures.

Tim Walker is 51 and a writer, DJ and chili cook. He lives with his wife and their two children in Dayton, Ohio, where he enjoys pizza, jazz and black T-shirts. Reach him at therevtim@gmail.com or on Twitter at @StretchYrBrains.

(this story copyright and reprinted from the Dayton City Paper, www.daytoncitypaper.com)