It seems like a favorite of my stories for listeners is the one I titled, “The Time I Peed On My Leg”. Apparently people enjoy hearing about embarrassing moments and I’m more than happy to be the guy you turn to when you need someone for a good point and laugh. To my mother and my wife’s dismay, I’m a person who enjoys sharing the little things that most people would rather forget. I revel at the thought of seeing the faces of those around me when I tell one of these stories in a crowd and I invent expressions in my mind for those who hear these tales after I record them.

     This will be one of those stories. And although I fear I might have spoiled it a little from the start by offering the reveal in the title, there’s still a lot of meat in the middle for you.

     I’ve been gone for a while. I’ll get to the reasons why after the story because that’s what you came here for, isn’t it? The story? All I will tell you right now is that I had pretty much given up on Funny Messy Life and I had good reasons for it. But after listening to an audio book about good storytelling, I discovered there was still something left to give. I might just need to adjust a few things to get it right.

   So to get things started in the way familiar to regular listeners, I’m Michael Blackston and I invite you now into a painful, and an embarrassing part if you think about it, of my Funny Messy Life.

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     I’m about 18 years old and we, my mom and stepdad, have just moved into a new home. We’re all trying to acclimate to our surroundings, so I don’t think any of us are sleeping well, which may account for the reason my mom was so quick to jump to my aid. Mom’s attention to things that go bump in the night aren’t the details to be observed at this moment though. Right now it’s the extra tall glass of eggnog that I’m pouring for myself right after downing two burgers slathered in cheese, mayo, mustard, and parmesan. Mom’s fried burger patties are a favorite of mine and so is eggnog, but I don’t think the creators of those two delicacies ever intended them to be smashed together into one meal like a caveman might do.

     But I’m 18 and I don’t think about things like healthy eating, healthy sleeping, and the very real effects that can happen to a body - both loudly and painfully - when one or the other is ignored.

     There’s a football game being played and the pictures and sounds coming from it do nothing to help me with my frame of mind. It’s all about what’s going on between the hedges in Athens, Ga and I’m celebrating a victory for my Dawgs the only way a non-drinker who couldn’t get a beer without help anyway because he’s underage can. I’m cramming anything and everything that’s edible down my gullet.

     That’s a bit of an exaggeration, actually. I am a human, so two fried burgers with cheese, both american sliced and in graded fake parmesan form, and a sloppy lake comprised of mayo, mustard, and ketchup, coupled with a herculean sized glass of eggnog, is enough to make any referee throw a flag for unnecessary stuffedness. 

     The 37 to 27 win against Auburn justifies my gluttony and what is waiting for me just a few hours from now holds no weight as far as consequences go. We have triumphed and all that exists to do in the moment is celebrate unabashedly, rewarding the players and coaching staff, and the entirety of BullDawg Nation by injesting grease and fat and sugar. I’m jubilant to say the least. We will lose three games this season, but tonight … tonight the stars blaze with the fire of victory! If God had shown Eve this game before telling her not to eat of the fruit, she may well have gnawed down the whole tree without thinking about it. Rabid jubilance will do that to a person.

     We jump ahead now a few hours. Enough time for the ingredients I’ve partaken in to mingle and find that they have nothing in common. They bicker and insult each other so that before long, there is turmoil. Turmoil I do not see coming.

     I’m sound asleep in my bed, dreaming about being naked in high school and late to take an exam for a class I haven’t attended.

     There is an interesting feeling now in the bottommost area of my intestines. I feel a dull ache beginning to swell there. In my half woke state, I perceive it as a round sort of pain, but it quickly develops into a different shape. Something sharp and pointy, like a knife or one of the daggers that pierced the flesh of Caesar on the Ides Of March.

     This is a new pain for me. I’d snapped both of the bones in my arm at once after a fall when I was twelve and endured the pain of them setting the break. That was so painful that through my tears, I begged my mother to allow me to say the “ess word”. She said no, but I let loose a string of them at the apex moment anyway and she never mentioned it. I once fell face forward while carrying a jagged stick between my teeth and nearly sliced off my uvula. I once had the top of my head sliced open by an errant log when the neighbor kid was tossing it over me and didn’t get enough air under it. And when I was seven, I got beat up by a six year old girl.

     Nothing compares to the pain I’m feeling now as I leap from my bed and plow my way down the hall to the bathroom, heedless of anything in my path.

     I could take it easy on you and say that it’s nothing much. Just gas. But I’d be lying to you. I’ll not go so far as to compare it to what a woman goes through during the throws of labor, although I will eventually come to refer to the feeling as “labor pains”. I will, however, admit that I truly believe it’s the closest thing a male will ever get to it. I’m told that passing a kidney stone is far worse, but I’ve thankfully never had that experience. If you want to debate, I’ll cede you the win because I understand a person who has passed a calcified brick through their urethra is pretty passionate about hanging onto the trophy for the worst pain experience. 

    The knife twists within my lower bowels and it feels as if all I need to do is release a great big gush of gas to feel better, but then the pain subsides. It goes away completely. Alright. Wonderful. Time to go back to sleep.

     I stand and take two steps forward toward the door and it’s back, doubled and now feeling less like a twisting knife inside me, but more like a flock of drunk elves operating a mining drill down there.

     I slam myself back down to the toilet and pray. My skin goes cold and gooseflesh pops up all over my body in response. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I want to call for my mommy, but I can’t. I could never look her in the eye if she had to hold my hand while I sat on the porcelain throne through a rough bowel movement.

     Then like the first time, it has passed. I’m skeptical. There’s no pain now, but nothing else has happened either. I’m reminded of earthquakes and how the aftershocks can be worse than main tremor. I sit in the dark and begin to pray.

     Dear God, I know I’ve done wrong. I see now that there is no room in me for this caliber of gluttony. I have sinned and I beg your forgiveness, so please take this from me. Sober the drunk elves inside me and show them the way to turn off the drill. I’ll never try to have a baby, for I see that you have made man incapable not only by physics and also by pain tolerance. And I shall promise to always humble myself in the face of one who has passed a crystallized brick of calcium through the narrow opening of their urethra. Please just take this burden and let me be as far from it as east is to west. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

     The pain is still gone, so I stand. I wait in place for a while, beginning to see specks of light in the darkness where something is happening to my eyes. Then the pain comes again and I fall to the seat of the toilet. At least the seat isn’t cold. It has taken the warm temperature of my body. Which is odd because I feel my skin grow cold again as one last aftershock, the worst of them, wrecks my body. The drunken elves have called their friends and a demolition team has arrived. The specks of light converge in front of me in the darkness so that suddenly I see a white hot flare and then there’s darkness again.

     Now the surface holding me up is cold and it supports the entire right side of my body. Cold, hard, unforgiving floor tile.

     I hear a knock. I didn’t realize I locked the door behind me when I came into the bathroom and behind the knocking is the voice of my mother. She has come for me anyway. Good old mom. Always looking out for me. Always there.

     I don’t feel the pain anymore. Something tells me the worst is over and I sigh, relieved.

     “Michael! Michael, are you alright?! I heard a crash. What happened?!”

     “I’m alright,” I tell her. “It’s just gas.”

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     All true. I’ve only passed out once in my life and it was while I was on the toilet. Later in life I ate something similar and had another episode that resembled the one I just took you through. It was then that I realized I can’t have dairy after I’ve eaten greasy beef. Lesson learned.

     Quickly, let me tell you where I’ve been, what’s been happening, and why I’m back. I promise it will have nothing to do with bathrooms, football, or poor eating choices.

     Frankly, it boils down to time management. I have to prioritize some things and over the past few months, I’ve focused on my novel and the subsequent, seemingly endless revisions needed to get it print worthy. There was a long while that I had decided to let Funny Messy Life be over. Fortunately, I kept paying the bill to make it available to new listeners and I kept seeing people drop by for a download or two. Then I was listening to one of my favorite podcasters and podcast coach, Dave Jackson, and heard him mention for the eighteen-hundredth time that there was a book all storytellers should read. It’s called Story Worthy by Matthew Dicks. I had a free credit on my Audible account, so I used to get the audio version of Matthew’s book.

    It changed my thinking about this podcast and blog. I realized I was indeed doing wrong for someone who is telling stories about their life. I learned a lot from the book and have started trying to apply the principles in it whenever I tell a story, whether I’m verbalizing it or writing it down. I decided to regroup when it comes to Funny Messy Life.

     So here's how it’s got to go if this train is to have more track.

     I’m ramping up some things in my life that absolutely have to be at the forefront to find success. While I love Funny Messy Life, hence the reason I just can’t seem to let it go, The other irons in my fire have the potential to actually change my life in a positive way.

     My novels, my plays, and the production company I hope to start take a lot of time, effort, and concentration. I’ve decided that to keep Funny Messy Life going, it will be necessary to pare down the amount of content if I’m to keep it consistent.

     Therefore from here forward, I plan to make this a once per month podcast/blog. I think I can dedicate enough time to write out episodes once a month.

     The other thing is all about style. From here out the format of my storytelling will have a decidedly novelistic feel to it. I intend to do further things with these stories, including making them into a book of short stories, so writing them in that form from the start will be beneficial to me as well as great practice.

     As always, there will be ways to contact me for comments or to tell me your own stories, but I’m not going to beg for it. There will be a mention at the end where you can go to reach out, but other than that, I won’t put that burden on you. All you need to do is listen and enjoy.

     With that being said, I know this first episode back from a long hiatus may have been a lot of literal potty humor, but it won’t all be that way. I hope you have a fantastic month and we’ll talk again in a few weeks. Until then, I’m Michael Blackston and I thank you for listening to another instance from my Funny Messy Life.

The past few weeks have been extra hard on me, and as I sit here and write this out, I really don’t feel like it. See, on top of everything else that’s going on in my life, my son is graduating high school, and I never thought about the idea that we would be experiencing so many “lasts”. I’m definitely a proud dad, but there is pain that tags along with it. So I think it’s time to vent a little as my oldest child becomes a man. I’m Michael Blackston, and as much as I don’t want to have to admit it, these are necessary events along the path of my Funny Messy Life.

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    Pomp and Circumstance rings loud and quite obnoxiously in the distance. I used to like that song. It’s regal. It tells a story of celebration and accomplishment. And lately it rudely smacks me upside the head with the sour flavor of truth. Now the song doesn’t ring as jolly as before, because my son Noah is graduating.

    Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for him. Any parent with a strong-willed child who doesn’t like to be told what to do can relate to the sigh of relief that comes with the aspect of never again having to make sure projects are done on time and homework is turned in. We’ve had some epic battles over the years, but that relief is bittersweet. It means we also lose the anticipation and excitement of football season and sitting right next to the band so we can glance to our left for most of the game and watch that handsome boy play his saxophone in his snazzy uniform.

    So let’s start earlier. Way earlier.

    When I was in sixth grade, the band teacher at the middle school came around to test the students and see which ones were suitable to start band the next year. To my recollection, they gave us some sort of ear test and graded us based on how we understood tones, beats, and the essential elements of music. I think the grades were something like, Superior (obviously the best grade), Good, Okay, Good Enough To Play The Triangle, and Just Give Up And Join The Chess Club.

    I believe I was the only one in my class to be graded a Superior. I might be wrong, but I’ve worn that badge this long, and I don’t intend on taking it off until someone tells me differently. I do know I actually scored a Superior, and I remember the band director begging me to join the band. I didn’t though, because I was already going to be in chorus, and I was terrified of learning an instrument.

    My wife’s story is similar. I don’t know how they were tested, or what she scored, but I know she never joined the band, even though she has always had a gift for music, and eventually earned a degree in Vocal Performance. She tells me to this day how much she regrets never joining the band, and I feel the same way about my decision.

    Our son Noah, did join the band, and began as a trombonist. He liked the instrument, and had a knack for it, but it wasn’t long before we found he was better suited for something else, and he took up the saxophone. He would sit in his room at night and wail away on that horn, actually making the right note once in a while, and we loved every second of it. Once a friend made the statement that he bet I couldn’t wait to find a reason to get out of the house when that started, and I surprised him. I told him it was just the opposite. I often sat in the recliner just outside of Noah’s door and soaked in the notes - every single one, good or bad - that came from the lungs of my son, and out of his sax.

    And I wasn’t lying. Kayla and I both found immense joy in those moments, and soon enough, more and more notes found their marks until songs and rhythms began to fill our house.

    In eighth grade, he was asked to join the high school marching band a year early, an honor not everyone gets. Next thing we know, the concerts and recitals, of which there have been so glorious many, were replaced by the grueling business of band camp, practice every day after school, and Friday nights under the lights of one of Georgia’s finest, and most notable stadiums, The Granite Bowl.

    Year after year, we sat in first sweltering heat, then rain as the season changed, then crisp cold as we watched him play. We sat just to the right of the band and the pride we felt is something I hope I can hold onto until I take my final breath. He would look over in our direction every once in a while, between playing and having the time of his life with his friends, and he would catch us staring at him. I’d give him a goofy smile and look away, letting him know it was okay to be making those memories on his own.

    I took so many pictures when he didn’t know the camera was on him, and looking back over them, I see him change and grow from a little boy who struggled to carry the weight of the instrument after a long day of rehearsal, to a young, vibrant man full of confidence to take on whatever the world could throw at him. Before our eyes, he has become a person those around him look up to - a leader. He only just missed getting appointed to be Drum Major his senior year. He was upset at first, but seems to have learned from it.

    The band experience has developed a deep love for music of all kinds. He has a wide range of appreciation and you never know what’s going to come up next on his playlist, but specifically, he has picked up the guitar. That’s normal, I know, but my son thinks big, and he showed it in one of the coolest ways just the other night at one of his last concerts with the band. I wasn’t surprised to see him step up there and thrill the audience with his sax as he and three others played in an impressive saxophone quartet, but it was the finale that felt liken a scene right out of a movie.

    The band teacher introduced EC Pop - the first ever rock band comprised of students from the band who got together and decided it was time to ratchet things up a bit. They performed Daft Punk’s Get Lucky, and my boy, shiny red electric guitar in hand, walked to center stage as the lead singer and frontman of the group. It was a dream come true for him, and by the time the song was over, they had the crowd eating out of the palms of their hands. One of the students watching from the band section pulled out their phone, lit the flashlight, and started to wave it back and forth as the band onstage rocked out. Before long, people all over the audience were doing the same thing, and my heart was about to burst. What a night! What an experience! What a boy!

    There’s only one of those “lasts” that rivals that one, or maybe even beats it, at least in the hearts of the band kids and their parents.

    With every marching band, there is, of course, the school fight song. Of all the music that is played, it’s the fight song they know the best because they’ve played it so much. A thousand times, it seems, they blasted out their melodic battle cry to spur on the Blue Devils, and it never occurred to me that there would come a time when they would play it for the final time.

    I’ll never forget the way my heart felt broken, and at the same time somehow jubilant for them. At the end of the final home game, the underclassmen stepped aside and allowed the seniors a gift. They would play the fight song one last time in that place. I watched with tears in my own eyes as those kids who would soon have to leave childhood behind, proudly proclaimed with horns, and woodwinds, and percussion, their allegiance to not only a school that gave them so many great memories, but also to each other. Because no matter where they went from there, or how far apart they were, there would always be one thing that held them together. Elbert County High School band, Class of 2022.

    We’re going to his final concert tonight, and I’m already in an emotional place, so I’m not sure how well I’m going to take it, but I’ll have to take it. And on May 20, he’ll walk across in front of his class in that same football stadium that echoes with music and memory, accepting his diploma, and resolving a melody that it took years to play.

    For Noah, he looks to the future, although he’ll peek fondly back on those times, all too soon remembering them as “The good old days”, but for me, it’ll be a little hard to swallow. I’ll always look back to the boy who didn’t like to turn in his homework, but never, ever failed to make me proud. 

There’s a snarky saying about how women change their minds. It goes something like, A woman’s mind is cleaner than a man’s because she changes it more often.

In my experience, women won’t mind you saying that when you’re with a group of people and everyone is smiling, laughing, and generally having a by-golly swell time. Experience has also taught me that there is a time and a place for everything. Saying that when it’s only you and your wife in the car after you’ve been arguing about where to eat because at first she wanted a burrito, but now she’s decided she’s in the mood for baked ravioli, and she’s already giving you the stank eye because you said something like, “Make up your mind”, … you probably ought to think about not whipping that nugget out of your grabbag. She ain’t in the mood for your shenanigans.

I don’t really think it’s that fair of a quip anyway, because I am A Man, By Thunder, and men can be just as wishy-washy. From Atomic Red Studios, which is being moved again because I keep changing my mind about where to put it, I’m Michael Blackston, and I’m about to highlight some decision making issues from my Funny Messy Life.

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Ladies, don’t let your man get away with it. I’m on your beautiful indecisive sides all the way. He’s likely to one day say something about how you can never make up your mind, and if I’m right, you’ll immediately be able to bring up some of the things he’s guilty of in that same arena. For me and a lot of other guys I know, it’ll show up in the category of our toys. We’ll tidy it up and call it collecting, or upgrading, but in reality, it often comes down to indecision.

I know musicians - especially guitarists (Good LORD, guitarists are bad about it) - who are never satisfied with the last instrument they bought. They saw it in the guitar store, played the most impressive riff in their personal catalog, while pretending not to care who’s listening, loved how it felt, and just had to have it. Then when they get it home, they decide it doesn’t play right. The action isn’t as good now as it was in the store when they were hammering out Eddie Van Halen’s Eruption as everyone else around them secretly rolled their eyes. There’s a funky twang in the pickups they suddenly don’t like. And Is it me, or does that sunburst look different in this light? They have changed their minds.

Case in point, Atomic Red Studios, and my setup for recording these podcast episodes and other audio. I’m not going to try and remember exactly how many different versions of my studio there have been, or in how many different places I’ve tried to put it. It doesn’t matter, because here’s the problem: I keep going to great lengths to make a new, better version, then changing my mind about it. This last place seemed to be perfect. I was allowed to convert a small room at my church, free of charge, into the perfect studio space. My house is small, and there’s just no room for a sound studio, so I went to great lengths to set one up at the church. The plan was to record Funny Messy Life, as well as audio books, and do voiceover work. Okay, I counted, and if I’m not leaving anything out, there have been approximately 562 versions of my studio, none of which gave me the great audio I was looking for. The problem with the church site is, any time I want to record, I have to get stuff together and go there. A home studio is more convenient for me because none of the stuff I do so far earns me one red cent..

I have, at last count, ten different microphones. I started with one - a SURE SM58. Old Reliable. The trustworthiest of trustworthy microphones. It’s so durable you can glue a hook to it and use it as a fishing lure, and it’ll still work when you plug it in. It’s been a standard in the professional vocal world since the beginning of time. The SURE SM58 is the microphone God used when He said, “Let there be light.” But I heard about another microphone that would be better for my podcast. It would give me the rawest, most natural sound for my voice, and I could always do adjustments in editing. The guy at Sweetwater swore by it, so I bought it. The new mic cost me $250, and I loved the way it sounded. At least I did for a minute. When I decided my voice sounded richer with the SM58, I said to my wife, “Wife, I hereby change my mind! I shall returneth to my SM58. And henceforth, I shall call it my favorite. So sayeth me.”

She didn’t believe me, of course. She’d been down that road before, and she was right. It wasn’t long before I realized I needed something of good quality that I could take on the road and use to record podcasts in my hotel rooms. It needed to connect directly to my laptop via USB port, and before I knew it, Dave Jackson of The School of Podcasting fame was recommending a dandy little microphone by Audio-Technica.

“I must have it!” I decreed. 

Luckily my wife was nowhere in sight, and I was near Birmingham, Alabama. There’s a music store there that had it in stock. 

“I shall journey forth to the store, and there avail myself of the equipment I require. Then, and only then, shall I find contentment.”

I bought it, and I loved it. I still do. But I also continue to find myself drawn to my SM58.

Then I heard through my research on successful voice overing, that the RODE NT1 was a fantastic microphone for serious voice actors getting started. Michael was moved within his spirit to act, and thus, he sent a message to the owner of the ad.

“Is this microphone still available?”

The owner replied, “Yes. Yes it is.”

”I must have it!” Michael bade and light shone upon his face. The angels rejoiced, and glory shone upon the face of the earth.

In reality, God was probably shaking His head. “He never learns.”

I bought it and used it quite a lot, but …. I’ve recently gone back to using the SM58 mostly. 

I feel like this is boring. It probably is, but it serves to show just a hint of my own indecision. Like I said, there are ten microphones altogether, as well as other equipment, each supposedly better than the next.

I mentioned the restaurant thing earlier, but I’m worse than my wife about it. I have days when I wasn’t something, I’m starving, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is I really want. It’s not that there’s an epic battle going on in my mind between pancakes and pita bread. I don’t want any of it. Nothing! I’m about to die to eat something, but I don’t want anything. It doesn’t make sense. It’s like a culinary glitch in The Matrix. It happens to me all the time, and I’m helpless to do anything, but flop around on the ground like a tantruming child, flailing my arms and legs hither and yon, and whining about life worse than an overly woke socialist.

By the way, if that last statement offended you, we likely aren’t a good match.

So where was I? Ah yes, arms thrashing, and legs akimbo.

“I wanna eat, but I don’t want nuthin’, but I’m hungry, but nuthin’s good, but I wanna eat!”

It should not surprise you that in these moments, my wife has perfected the art of the side-eye. She’s never gone as far as to say, Idiot, out loud, but it’s there on her face. She doesn’t appreciate the highly evolved man-cision system I have in place, and how because I have such a developed and complicated process to navigate regarding the intricacies between one thing and another, there is sometimes a disruption that causes a failure of calculation, resulting in said flailing arms and legs akimbo.

When she reads this, she’s going to give me the side-eye. I know it.

I still don’t know whether or not to use this piece for the podcast/blog/swim in Lake Me at all. I’m having a hard time making that decision. It’s difficult finding the time to record these episodes lately anyway, but I guess I could get some pvc pipes and blankets and carry a sort of portable studio with me on trips. Seems like a lot of trouble, though. I’m not sure. I could cut the pipes in half and connect them with joiners. That way I could throw the whole thing in a duffle. But what kind of duffle should I get? Plain? Black? Georgia Bulldog red? Something with a logo? Maybe I could make an Atomic Red Studios logo and print it on a plain, Georgia Bulldog red duffel. That would be neat. The Atomic Red Studios duffel could actually carry the Atomic Red Studios. Is that over thinking it? I don’t know.

I can’t decide.

Let’s see … how should I describe my back issues? Um …. If there was a further sublevel of hell past anything Dante came up with where the devil himself would say, “Nope, nope, nope!”, then you pushed into a dank corner of the sewer system of that hell where stagnant, rotting remnants of the bowels of the worst demons that have ever existed have gotten caught in a gooey, churning cesspool, it might - and I say might - come close. Because, my friend, your humble host recently slipped a disc in my back, and the subsequent agony was the worst thing I’ve ever endured. It’s part of the reason for another lengthy delay in episodes of this podcast, and I’m about to tell you alllll about it, including the lessons I’ve learned, both spiritually, and in the area of my own stupidity.

From Atomic Red studios, I’m Michael Blackston, and if you thought a whiny man with a cold can be bad, wait till you hear about this latest test of my endurance straight out of my Funny Messy Life.

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I sit and prepare this episode of the show feeling rather comfortable and relatively pain-free. The name of the restaurant I chose rhymes with Hizza Put, and I’m enjoying a simple order of breadsticks with extra seasoning, and a cup of alfredo sauce, instead of marinara to dip them in. (Yes, you can ask for that.) I’ve sort of gotten addicted to the breadsticks from Hizza Putt because when this whole thing started, it’s all I could think of when people insisted I eat something to stay alive. And once I decided it was an sensible enough request, it was just easier, when my wife annoyed me by asking me to make decisions in my state of pain, to scream, “Breadsticks!” 

Now, let me be clear. My wife was not actually being annoying. What she was doing was trying her best to take care of a man in his late forties who was floating in a pool of hell’s poop water. In reality, my wife, God bless her, was an absolute saint, along with several others who helped me, or prayed fervently for me, or both. In fact, I found out just how amazing my support system really is.

So here’s what happened. I’m going to go back to before Christmas, because I believe it’s the start of the whole thing.

I’ve known for years that I have a weak back, and there are a couple of reasons for that. Since I was a teenager, I’ve dealt with back trouble because:

1. I have always hated to exercise, so I have a weak core, and …
2. I gots Gamp Back.

“Hey, Mike … what in the name of all sewer stankwater pain is Gamp Back?”

I’m glad you asked. If you listened a few episodes ago when I talked about my perfect Christmas, you’ll hear me emote lovingly about my grandpa and how he would sit quietly watching his family as we lived our lives around him. He called himself The Gamps, obviously a babytalkish way to say Gramps, and it stuck. So while he was watching us, there were likely times he was doing so in agony from a back that gave him trouble, and because genes have this cute way of repeating themselves down a family line, a whole bunch of us ended up with torsos that easily make the decision to test the boundaries of our pain tolerance by taking a spinal version of Rumspringa. That’s the period of time where young Amish people are allowed to break from tradition and do shameful things, like chewing gum and moving their feet slightly to a beat.

During Spinal Rumspringa, members of our family will develop the aforementioned Gamp Back. Knowing this was a possibility, I should have insisted that my son, who is a young, strapping 17-year-old, change his own tire. It was that last stupid lug that did the trick. Whoever put it on must have summoned the power of Thor, and like the God of Thunder’s hammer, the lug did not want to budge. I was apparently not worthy. Yet, I insisted I was still man enough to do it, and I did, but not before I felt a slight twinge in the lower left side of my back.

“Haha. That’s gonna smart for a few days,” I laughed like a character from Father Knows Best, and finished the job.

But it bothered me a little from then on. I mean, it wasn’t bad enough that I paid it much attention, but it was constantly there, putting a damper on all of my tide yuling, shelf elfing, and Christmas tree oh-ing. Then right after Christmas, I started noticing some pretty severe sciatic nerve pain that didn’t want to go away. I wanted it to, just like you want those shiny strands tinsel to stop showing up on your clothes when you get them out of the dryer, all the way into August.The only thing worse than that is the flake green plastic Easter basket grass. Regardless of how I describe it, the pain was relentless.

My wife got tired of hearing me complain about it. It’s not that she wasn’t sympathetic with my injury, but after a while, it was clear I needed to see a doctor and and get on some kind of medicine that made me loopy to see if I could get some relief. Me being me, though, I thought that was just silly.

“You need to go to the doctor about that, and get on some medication that makes you loopy to see if you can get some relief.”

“Nah. It’ll go away. I’ve had it before, and it just has to work itself out.”

“It’s more serious than that. You really need to make an appointment. You need something for the pain.”

“Silly woman, I know my body.”

“Why would you refuse if they can help you? You’re not a young, strapping 17-year-old boy anymore. You’re not even strapping.”

“The waiting room would be crawling with COVID. I ain’t goin’. OW! My Leg!”

“WE NEED SOME RELIEF!”

I also needed to see my doctor about getting back on a serious plan for my diabetes, so she threw that at me and said, “Oh, and by the way ... You’ll be mentioning your leg and back.”

Fine. I made the appointment and he gave me some steroids for the pain, along with a good talking to about Cadbury Creme Eggs and the role I’ve allowed them to play in my life. Spoiler alert: They are not the hero.

To my surprise, the steroids made me feel a LOT better, and pretty fast. So fast, in fact, that just before going on a trip to Alabama, I moved a block of granite in my backyard without help because I STILL would not believe that I was neither young, nor strapping. Then I worked a weekend where I set my posture badly and didn’t move for about six hours, then turned around and drove home five hours. I think I also found an early stock of Cadbury Creme Eggs and crammed them into my face like a honey badger.

I soaked in a bath once I got home, and it felt great after the drive. It was hot, and it was soothing … for a couple of minutes. Then I noticed something. The muscles in the lower left part of my back and my left leg began to tighten in a painful way.

I removed the pretend pipe from between my teeth, and stated, “Gee, that doesn’t just smart. That’s a sure enough, gosh-golly bite from the jaws of a hell hound. And is that sewer water I smell?”

At first it was uncomfortable, then worse, then unbearable. Now, as you know from earlier, I’m not one for doctors, but I quickly decided to calmly, make another statement to my wife. I said, “OH GOD! YOU GOTTA TAKE ME TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM! I’M DYING, KAYLA! THIS IS IT! I AIN’T GONNA MAKE IT OUTTA HERE, BUT WE HAVE TO TRY. WE HAVE TO TRY!!!”

She rushed to my aid, and we rushed to the hospital. That, itself, is its own story, but not for right now. Actually, the hour ride to the hospital that’s NOT run by drunk llamas wasn’t bad. Something about the way I could place my legs gave me a decent amount of relief. I was seen by the ER, given drugs that made me loopy, and sent home. The next few days went as follows:

MY WIFE - “How are you feeling?”

ME - “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

MY WIFE - “Still that bad? Is there anything I can do to help the pain?”

ME - “You can … GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I’M DYING! BRING ME A PEN AND PAPER! I NEED TO WRITE OUT A WILL!!!!!!!!!!

MY wife - “Let me at least get some food in you. What would you like?”

ME - “AHHHHHHHHHHH …. BREADSTICKS! HIZZA PUTT!!!!!”

During the night, I writhed and moaned like a baby because I could get no relief, no matter what positions I tried.  Sitting up, lying down, legs in the air, legs off the side of the bed, Bound Lotus, Congress of a Spider Monkey … all of them. Kayla couldn’t sleep, but she did everything she could to care for me. Again, she’s been a saint. That was pretty much the long and short of our lives for most of two weeks until we could get in to see a chiropractor. I’d never been to a chiropractor before, and I was skeptical. I hobbled in like Quasimodo, and answered their questions as best as I could.

“Where does it hurt?”

“GAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”

“How long has it been hurting?”

“AAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!”

“Are you able to eat?”

“BREADSTICKS! HIZZA PUTT!!!!”

And then, a man entered the room. There was a heavenly glow surrounding his head. At first I thought he was holding a lamb in his arms, but it turned out to be a white towel to put under my head. He gently took my leg into his hands and taught me a motion that moved in concert with him to loosen the nerve. He bent my body in a couple of ways I never would have thought possible, much like I used to twist and contort my sister’s dolls when I wanted to practice ancient torture methods, but somehow, this felt amazing. He then leaned in, pressing his body weight into me with the skill of a medical Samurai (please don’t come at me with something like, Chiropractice, Chiropracticality? Chiropractation? Chiropractation! … isn’t technically medicine, fah fah fah!) I don’t care. It was to me. Actually, it felt like a miracle because when I left, I could actually walk. And that night, I could sleep. And the next day, I considered moving around some of the blocks of granite in my backyard. 

Actually, I took his advice, and have been doing everything exactly as he instructed. I saw him the next day for another adjustment, and saw him twice a week for the next six weeks. And after that, there will be at least a monthly visit for the rest of my life because I am a staunch believer now.

It wasn’t just him, though. There was a ton of prayer and promises to act right, pray more, read my bible, and never ever again attempt the congress of anything with the name of an animal in it. In addition, my family doctor advises that I steer clear of as many burgers and creme eggs, and make more of a habit of visiting something that rhymes with Balad Sar.

So it’s a good news/bad news sort of thing.

The good news is that I’m nearly completely recovered now from my back injury, and relatively pain free.

The bad news is that to stay that way, I need to engage in a healthy lifestyle. But these breadsticks with extra seasoning are SO GOOD!

Part of a conversation with my friend, Toni King from a previous podcast called, "Cue One Go - The Theatre Show". We're talking about things that happened onstage.

Due to my busy schedule, I'm going to be giving you a look back into the history of my podcasting. In this episode, I'll introduce you to my friend, Toni King, who co-hosted a podcast with me called, Cue One Go - The Theatre show. I really miss C1G and I hope listening to this episode brings you as much joy as it did for me.

The Uncanny Consequences Of Being Me

The title of this piece reads like a fancy-pants movie they’d show at a film festival where the people in the audience all eat their popcorn with a fork so they won’t get their fingers greasy and spot up their turtle necks and skinny jeans. I’m sorry about that. I don’t mean to make you feel like you’re one of those people. You might prefer your popcorn the way I do … floating in a bucket of butter oil that resembles a gigantic vat of cereal that’ll stuff your arteries like a Thanksgiving turkey. I mention my arteries because they’ve been on my mind lately. My doctor told me they’re as clogged as a man’s who eats movie theatre popcorn the way I do. Which got me thinking … I’d love a bag of that Lance Movie Theater Extra butter popcorn I talked about in episode 71, titled Diary of a Rage Monster. Which got me to thinking … I’d probably not be able to find it anyway because that’s how things go for me. Which brought to mind … Hey, I wanted to write about that!

Well, now that you’re supremely confused, let me bring it back around to the title of this piece and tell you about my bad luck. From Atomic Red studios, I’m Michael Blackston and I’m calling this The Uncanny Consequeces Of Being Me because sometimes that’s what it feels like to live my Funny Messy Life.

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Have you ever heard of The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis? It’s composed as a series of correspondence between two demonic forces - Screwtape, and his nephew Wormwood. The nephew is a rookie demon assigned to a poor, unsuspecting human and his job is to bother the man enough that he never comes to know God, or worse, curses Him altogether. Screwtape is a crusty old veteran and is trying to help his nephew in learning the ways of evil and messing with humans. It’s a classic book that has helped many understand the powers at play in the realm we can’t see, and I have come to believe I have a Wormwood of my own.

I understand that not every inconvenient thing that happens to me is the work of evil minions. Just because I crank the side of my finger in the ratchet thingy that tightens the straps when I secure granite to my trailer doesn’t mean the devil did it. Just because I drop a piano on my two big toes like I told you about in episode 16 - I think - the part titled, I Can Do It All By Myself, doesn’t mean Satan waved his hand and caused the piano to fall. Just because I look like an idiot when I try to bust a move doesn’t mean the forces of evil are actively trying to stop the beat. No. Those things simply mean I’m clumsy, stupid, and a terrible dancer.

But alas, there is uncanniness afoot, and it happens when I find something I adore. I’ll become enamored with the item and start to desire it with the desire an obsessed man will desire a thing and suddenly, even though I’ve seen it everywhere, it’s gone. Nowhere to be found. Vanished into thin air and as unseen as the whisps of a flatulent butterfly. 

Okay, most of the time it has to do with food I shouldn’t ought to be eating in the first place, so I suppose one could argue that it’s actually the forces of good that are directing my path. However, since I get so turned upside down about it, I feel better laying the blame on my own moron of a demon, or maybe he’s a genius. 

In light of that, I believe I’ll borrow from C.S. Lewis and present my own version of correspondence between the teacher and the newbie imp. I’ll call him, Sugar Poot. (I’m sorry, Mama - it’s the first random nickname that popped into my head and it made me laugh out loud in the restaurant. I spit out my tea and got it all over my shirt. Sigh. Thanks a lot, Sugar Poot.) The master bad guy will be Vernon McDirtbag.

Here go the conversations I think might take place between them:

Dear Uncle Vern,

I reckon mama’nem told ya I got my first assignment this week, and I been tryin’ real good to git him to fly off’n the handle. It ain’t workin’, though. I was plannin’ to hurt him right off by makin’ him git a splinter when he was loadin’ up some granite, but the idgit beat me to it when he pinched his finger in the ratchet thangy what tightens up the straps. Can ya give me some pointers? I don’t know what I’m doin’.

Yourn truly,

Sugar Poot

Dear …. 

I won’t call you Sugar Poot. What was your mother thinking? I shall refer to you as S.P. Also, my name is Vernon, not Vern.

Anyway, I will attempt to give you a few suggestions as to how to keep your man off of the straight and narrow, but you must realize that from what I understand, you have quite the task ahead of you. He is already a child of God, even if he does sometimes erroneously write things that make his family shake their heads. Being previously saved, your only recourse will be to lay spots upon his testimony. Our Adversary has him in His hand, but that doesn’t mean your man is perfect, or unshakeable. He is only human, after all. Think of things that will cause him to stumble. Things that will invite him to sin and to do so publicly. I wish you devil speed in your endeavors, nephew.

Yours,

Vernon

Dear Uncle Vee,

A-Ight, I tried whatcha said. I give him a real bad time last week when I heard him sayin’ he wanted some of that Lance Movie Theater Butter popcorn. He was goin’ out of town, and it was late, and he was feelin’ snacky. He just figured out he likes that stuff and he’s got a real addiction to it, so y’know what I did? I made sure every bag of it between his house and Carbon Hill, Alabama was plum out. That’s five hours of drivin’ without his precious popcorn bag, Uncle Vee! You orta seen him. He was madder’n a Crimson Tide fan the day Nick Saban announces his retirement. I got him good! Only thang is, he didn’t do nothin’ bad about it. He jest stewed the whole way, fussin’ to hisself about how that’s always how it goes. The second he finds somethin’ he likes, it’s gone. I’m gon’ try it again, though. Soon as I find somethin’ else he’s a-cravin’.

Yer dedicated ‘prennice,

Sugar Poot

Dear Nephew Sugar …. S.P.,

While I’m impressed with your fervor, I must say that your error is obvious. The answer is in the description you give of your man’s reaction to not being able to get his teeth around the scrumptious, buttery kernels of popping perfection. He said it always happens. Nephew, if you are to move him with temptation, you must seize upon the things that catch him off guard. It sounds to me that he is used to this sort of disappointment, and therefore harder to push in a negative direction. Yes he, as you called it, stewed, but in the end he survived, and I dare suspect called upon his Lord to help him with his state of mind. Do not worry, nephew. These are rookie mistakes and to be expected. Think outside the box to get him so frustrated that he makes a scene in front of others. And to add insult to injury, perhaps you may entice him to do so on a day when he is wearing his Jesus shirt like he talked about in episode 67 of his podcast, Funny Messy Life. Here’s hoping for a better report next go ‘round.

P.S., My name is VERNON, not Uncle VEE!

Yours in evil,

VERNON!

Dear Daddy McDee,

Oh boy, did I git him this time! He was on the road again. I been noticin’ that he kept eyeballin’ them white chocolate Reecie Cups, but he never bought one. I mean, he likes Reecie Cups, but the rag’lar ones. He’ll eat them thangs, and anythang else chocolate fer that matter, like he never knew he was a diabetic. Hard as I tempted him, I couldn’t git him to partake in the white chocolate ones. But then he did it. He tried one. You oughtta seen the look what come over him when he took his first taste. I mean, them thangs was everywhere, so I let him git one more pack of ‘em on the way home, then I waited. Next trip he headed out, I put it in his head. MMMMM, BOY! Wouldn’ a white chocolate Reecie Cup sit good on yer tongue? Put it on ya head, ya tongue‘ll slap ya face to death tryin’ ta git to it! Well, he took the bait and I made every one of them packs of candy between his house and Brookhaven, Mississippi disappear. That’s ten stinkin’ hours of travel without gettin’ the kind of Reecie Cup he wanted and I thought I had him ready to cuss, but he didn’t. He took a deep breath, pulled over at an exit that had a theater, and went to a movie. Daddy McDee, my man bought a gigantic tub of popcorn and had ‘em give it five layers of butter oil. It sloshed when he walked to his seat, uncle. It sloshed! I can’t compete with that! I don’t know how I’m gon’ earn my medals of evil if’n I can’t even git a man to cuss about a piece of candy. I’m forlornded.

I give up,

Sugar Poot

Dear S.P.,

This is our final correspondence. I can’t deal with you, so I’ll let my sister - your mother - be your mentor. After all, she is the one that named you Sugar Poot. However, I will urge you not to give up entirely. My promise is that your man is currently in the flesh. That means he has weaknesses in the armor he wears, that is if it’s armor of his own making. Whenever you notice he has taken up the Armor of God, you have no chance. But stay firm and resolute. He doesn’t always put on the Armor of God. He knows our Adversary leads him to, but he doesn’t always follow. In those times lay your best shot. You’ll be able to spot them. He will whisper something hateful about his fellow man, or look twice in a direction he should not. Perhaps he will drop a piano on his big toes and curse like a sailor. He wears his own armor then, and it is full of vulnerable, open spaces. In the meantime, don’t call me Vern, Uncle Vee, or Daddy McDee. As a matter of fact, just don’t call me.

Lose my address,

Vernon

So there you have it. I fully expect that when I find something I really enjoy, in due time, it will become utterly, and uncannily, unavailable.

P.S. Eventually I was able to find the popcorn and the Reece’s Cups. Swamp Guinea stew is a whole other story, like I mentioned in the last episode. It’s just uncanny.

Yours in comedy and messy life,

Michael

A Christmas interview with my 8 year old daughter, Merida.

My Perfect Christmas

I told you so. I suspect a few of my regular listeners didn’t believe me when I said I’d be back to Funny Messy Life after a brief hiatus, but here I am. I’ve been gone for a few weeks because it’s hard to find the time to write out full episodes of this podcast when there are other things that I have to do in place of it, like editing the final draft of a novel, which is what has been going on with this last break. But every break has to come to an end at some point, and while I’m not done with editing Mr. Long Said Nothing because my life is too full with obligations, I’ve been thinking it’s time to get back in the podcast saddle. The question was this: Should I jump on back in now, or give myself the rest of the year and jump back in at the beginning of 2022? I mean, it’s only about a week now, right? Then something happened. I received a Christmas card from my friends, the ________, in Minnesota and my heart soared. By the way, _________, I wanted to send you an email to thank you, but I got a fancy pants new iPhone and in the data transfer, I lost your info, so drop me your email address if you don’t mind. Anyway, I decided that if someone who knows me through this podcast feels strongly enough to send me a card, then maybe others of you do too … just maybe not as much as the __________’s because they put that they were my biggest fans right there on the envelope, so ……

    SO! - without further ado, I’m Michael Blackston and Merry Christmas! Here is the first episode back after my hiatus, and now I present to you, for your holiday pleasure, a few words that describe what I think would be the perfect Christmas in my Funny Messy Life.

_________________________

Let us start by jingling all the way back to my childhood in the 1970’s and 80’s to get the family Christmas tree. In. my extended family, we had a tradition. We always met at my grandma’s house on Sunday afternoons for lunch and a few hours of fellowship. The grownups gathered around the kitchen table after the meal, while the kids were expected to go outside and frolick merrily around the property, regardless of whether or not it was 20 degrees, or 150. If it was 150, we came back in at the end of the day with sweaty, gritty dirt lines circling the perimeters of our necks. I may have mentioned before that we called these rings of grime and funk, Granny Beads. If it was twenty degrees outside, we’d still have them, but they’d be frozen into magical frozen filth beads. Either way, the adults would inevitably tell us at the end of the day, after being the very ones to banish us to the hours long whimsy of nature, Y’all smell like the outside!

But every year a couple of weeks before Christmas, it was the entire family who got to smell like the outside. Why? Because it was our tradition for everybody to march into the woods together and pick out our Christmas trees from the wild cedars that grew behind Grandma’s house. The men took up their saws, we kids ran untethered through the forest like we didn’t have no good raisin’, and the women kept a keen eye out for the perfect tree when they weren’t yelling at us kids.

“Quit runnin’ around like y’all ain’t got no good raisin’!”

Every once in a while, one of the young ones would find a tree we wanted to take home.

“Let’s git thissun, Deddie!”

But it was never the right one. It usually had a huge bare spot in the middle, or the top looked like the Jolly Green Giant had used it to scrape the granny beads out of the creases on his jolly green neck.

Eventually, the angels would descent, shining a holy light on the perfect tree, and the man who claimed it would begin the arduous task of cussing it down. Did I say cussing it down? Ha ha, no. Of course not. I meant cutting it down with interesting, and quite colorful words as a way to encourage the saw to stop getting stuck in the sap midway through.

Once we got the tree home and decorated, the house smelled delightfully of cedar and burning cedar needles as back in those days we thought nothing of stringing a dead tree with huge glass bulbs that got hotter than Satan’s armpit. In effect, our house smelt like th’outside!

And that’s number one on my list of things that would make a perfect Christmas - going outback of Grandma’s house with the family just one more time to pick out the Christmas tree.

Next, I think I would want the family to gather again a couple of weeks before Christmas at an old southern restaurant that no longer exists, except in our fond memories. I’m not sure who first came up with the idea of everybody going to Swamp Guinea (prounounced SWOMP’ - ginny), but they are responsible for some wonderful memories. It became another extended family tradition, and I suspect maybe my Grandpa started it all. Swamp Guinea was an wood cabin sort of place that smelled of fried everything and sweet tea. It was an all-you-can-eat family style gorge-fest where our family met to tear into chicken, shrimp, catfish, hush puppies, cole slaw, and stew like we didn’t have no good raisin’. The place is closed now, and this year we tried to re-imagine the tradition with a trip to another similar place called Booty’s. I didn’t care for it, but we were all together and that’s what was important. Well, Grandma wasn’t with us for the first time, so I guess that might have had something to do with it not being the same.

The thing is, the stew I just mentioned would also always make an appearance at our Christmas Eve gathering. Someone would order a pot of Swamp Guinea stew and bring a loaf of bread to the table. Lately the stew was from a different place, and it’s good, but it’s not Swamp Guinea. At least we were all together at Grandma’s.

So for number two, I think just one more meal with the family at Swamp Guinea would help make the perfect Christmas.

Stepping back to the tree situation, one of my favorite memories of Christmas was always the family decorating the tree in the middle of Grandma and Grandpa’s living room. The box with all the ornaments would be brought in and everyone would be invited to find the ball with their name on it. I think my sister might have started this event years ago because she’d seen them doing on Days Of Our Lives, but it stuck and it became ours as well. The kids hung theirs as high up as they could go, while the teens fought for position at the topmost point of the tree. One of my cousins would never be outdone and to this day, the tree’s topmost ornament bears the name, Chuck. It’s there again this year, except the tree was brought to my aunt’s house because the house we’ve always known as Grandma’s has been sold. New places, new traditions. Never quite the same.

Grandma and Grandpa would sit back and watch the crowd laughing and being jolly as we decorated the tree, sometimes so loud it seemed we didn’t have no good raisin’, and they said few words. They just took it all in.

And that’s number three for me in my ideal description of the perfect Christmas.

Then there’s Christmas Eve. After the meal that included all the trimmings, including the stew, we would all retire to the living room to open presents. The kids would have been begging to get to this part for a while now, and having digested, the adults would relent. At that point, a couple of people would be appointed to pass them out from the enormous pile under the tree and the fun would start with everyone ripping up paper and throwing bows into the air with reckless abandon, as if they didn’t have no good raisin’. Someone always ended up with a bow on their head, showing it off to everyone like it was the first time anyone had ever thought of it. A lot of time that person has been me. There are a couple of gag gifts that have made their rounds over the years: an old coat that no one wants, and two plastic guitar-shaped popcorn … things with Elvis on the label. These gifts must be kept and regifted the next year. Every year, someone dares someone else to eat the popcorn and we laugh. Once again, the Grandparents, ,and for several years, only Grandma, sat and watched and got showered with gifts, but said little. This was their gift - to see the family they created share a wonderful time. I suspect this description matches a lot of others around the world in cultures that celebrate Christmas, but each one will have their special little things that make it unique to that family.

Ours will be different this year. Grandma passed this year and like I said, the house was sold. It’s funny, I always call it Grandma’s house, but there was Grandpa, too, until he passed. That was his way, though. To quietly sit in the background and enjoy watching the rest of us. When I think back on it, I can still see the look on his face, the slightest upward curl the edges of his mouth, and the twinkle in his eye as his family lived their lives in front of him. That’s what he always worked toward. It was his greatest mission - to provide those moments for the rest of us.

In the end, it became Grandma’s mantle to sit back and watch. The older she got, the less she would say as she sat at the side table in Sundays in the kitchen while the rest of us talked and laughed, and on a rare occasions, argued. I felt bad for her sometimes and didn’t want her to feel left out, so I’d ask her …

“You okay over there, Grandma?”

She would smile and say, “I’m just listening to y’all.”

Coming in at number four, one more Christmas with Grandma and Grandpa at their house on the Washington Highway. I want to pull in one more time and see the lone tree out front lit with bright, multicolored lights. I want my headlights to shine just one more time on a sign out front by the road that read, Joseph Mills Photograghy. I want to walk inside and immediately hear gales of laughter and smell the stew. And I want my hug. God, I miss my hug.

It’s all different now, and I’m settled that the only choice we have is to continue to love, laugh, and live. In those moments, we will usher in new traditions and the world will, as it always has, move on.

There are a bunch of other things that would help put the perfect season pin to the season, but this year, these feel like they rank at the top for me. Maybe I’ll revisit this list and add to it another time, but for now, it’s where it ought to be. As for my Christian brothers and sisters who might ask, Where was Christ in all of this? You never mentioned Christ.

I didn’t have to. He was always there. He was there when Grandpa and Grandma eloped to be married at 16. He was there at the birth of each of their three daughters, and subsequently every grandchild as the family grew. And Christ was at the very center of every celebration, every tradition, and every memory we made. And now, I guess he’s with them in Heaven, three of them holding hands together and smiling, watching with maybe few words, as we continue to live our lives in front of them.