I got tagged by Heather Brewer. I wasn’t sure what the hell this meant but, as she had been tagged by Erica Orloff, who had been tagged by Sara Hantz who in turn had been tagged by, well, you get the idea, this thing goes back a ways and so it seemed interesting enough to follow if only to figure out what it was. Bottom line, as I discovered, is to write five interesting or unique things about yourself.

Five?

Could I actually come up with five interesting or unique things about me?

Hmmmm. A challenge. I’m always up for a challenge.

1) I was, at the tender young age of 15, declared persona non grata in town-unspecified, state-unspecified, and forced to return to my father in Detroit, for spray painting “The South Shall Rise Again Cause Shit Floats” on a blank billboard in the middle of town-unspecified. I suppose some would think this act appalling, but the really appalling thing to my way of thinking is that my thinking at the time led me to believe that the local authorities would have no idea who committed the act, despite the fact that, as a displaced teen-aged, Detroit hoodlum, I stood out in this back-woods, southern town like a coffee stain on a white silk shirt.

2) Sex in one of those glass-walled elevators overlooking the atrium in Reunion Tower in Dallas, Texas. Nuff said.

3) My greatest fear is of being immobile, unable to ‘escape’, whatever escape happens to mean at the moment. If you follow this blog at all, you know I recently had my car repossessed by Exchange Bank (always like to say something nasty about them) (and, thanks to the friends I have at Backspace, I now have back). Despite all the other crap that was happening at that time, and there was a lot of other crap happening, this one act struck a blow far exceeding anything else. I’m a Detroit Boy. Without a car I am not mobile. Without mobility, I cannot escape. Escape is the Prime Directive.

4) I have a hard time letting go of things, even when those things begin to drag me down, staying with things long after I should have dropped them and moved on. For instance, I’m still hopelessly in love with a woman who left me over twenty years ago, probably for good reasons. Frankly, I’m in love with a time twenty-fiveish years ago and prefer it altogether more than the current time period. All that has come since pales by comparison to 79-84. Given one wish, I would go back to June of 1979 in less than a heartbeat. This is pathetic and makes my current social life suck big time.

5) I have grown less and less able to deal with other humans in face-to-face situations. Which is to say I’ve become even more of a loner than I’ve ever been. I can do the ‘Hi-how-are-ya’ thing at the grocery store or local cafe no problem. I can even carry the conversation for a few fumbling moments beyond that if need be. But if the time stretches beyond that, I’m lost. I feel like I’m suffocating. Crowds of people make me so nervous I can’t think. All I want to do is run. This is NOT a good thing.

Okay, so there are the five. I’m probably being more honest here than I should be, which I think is the point of this exercise. But than again, why should I care? I am what I am. Love it or leave it, as it were.

And, because I do not wish to carry this burden alone, I now tag Stella, AKA A. S. King, Mike Coombs, one of the fine editors at GUD, Rebecca del Rio, Lisa Burton and Carolyn Burns Bass.

Except for an occasional swipe at the gov and using the lower case in deity names, I tend to avoid politics and religion in this blog. I have no problem stating where I stand with either of those topics, but the arena can be so inflammatory that asbestos suits are often required to enter it. Add to that the fact that if I were tempted to pull out my soapbox and discuss such topics here, I wouldn’t have time to write anything else. And let’s face it; no ones political or religious opinions are going to be changed by anything I have to say here. It would just be a rant, a spark for a flame war, and what would be the point of that?

Having said that, I will depart, slightly, from that stance to note something I read today.

I started reading a blog called Anatomy of Melancholy about 7 or 8 months ago. I can’t remember now how I got turned on to it. I think I started reading it out of envy. The guy who writes it lives in Athens, Greece and I want to live there. All these months later I still envy the guy but I also thoroughly enjoy his writing. He doesn’t write often, which is sad because he writes quite well. He had a post up today, untitled, which moved me deeply. It is well worth the read regardless of your politics or what god you choose to believe in or curse.

War is hell.

Mickey Spillane is dead.

I’m not sure why this makes me sad. He was 88. That’s a goodly number of years to inhabit the planet. He published a lot of books in his time here, most of which I ate up on my erratic way through childhood. I doubt I’ve turned a page of one in over 30 years.

Mickey Spillane and Mike Hammer, along with introducing a dark and exciting world to an introverted, scared little kid, also introduced me to the concept of banned books. Well, perhaps banned is a bit exaggerated. Call it confiscated books. I was used to the concept of confiscated magazines. Many were the Marvel comics and Mad Magazines lifted from the pages of my school books and deposited in the teachers desk. Mr. Spillane’s first novel, I, The Jury, was also the first book I ever had confiscated. And, if memory serves, there were at least three other titles of his that found their way to that secret drawer.

I’ve often wondered if those teachers took the books home and read them. I hope they did. I hope they enjoyed them as much as I did.

Adios, Mickey. Adios, Mike.