Hear Jim tell his story: https://youtu.be/zwlRuE1A2Es

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Life, actually…

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AN IDEA FROM THE MUG SHOT MAKEOVER STUDIO

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My thoughts, dreams, reflections, ideas, rants, ponderings, inspirations…they are squirreled away here in the Writing Room. They await my random attention. They may even hope to be retrieved, reviewed, dusted off, updated, corrected, edited to make sense to readers other than myself.

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Here’s one, fetched from the neverending Red Clay Diary:

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Let’s somebody out there start up an Arrest Photo Prep Service.

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Don’t you want to look your best should you ever be arrested and booked?

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Chances are, if you don’t prepare in advance, your widely-published police snapshot will show you at your very worst. You don’t want to look like you just got mugged in a Cracker Barrel parking lot.

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The Arrest Photo Prep Service will depict you in your most flattering pose—taken solely from your Good Side—then airbrushed and color-corrected.

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That way, your image will utterly charm the media as well as attorneys on both sides. How could anyone who looks like a super star be guilty of anything at all?

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The DMV could use this service, too. For an extra fee your driver’s license photo could be done professionally with just the right lighting, thus avoiding that I-just-got-out-of-bed-deeply-frowning-and-ungroomed-when-this-paparazzi-snapped-me look. You’d never again be embarrassed to display it when required.

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A Mug Shot Makeovers While You Wait pop-up studio would be most welcome.

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Even at your worst you could look your best.

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I take full responsibility for this goofy idea.

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Now, go forth and come up with something better

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Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

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Hear Jim tell his story:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afyjwFI8FFQ

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Life, actually…

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RUSHING HEADLONG INTO THE UMPTEENTH CHRISTMAS

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About to drown in a sea of stress and confusion and disorientation and political insanity and way too much directionless chatter?

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Back up a couple of steps with me and consider focusing on better times to come. 

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This isn’t easy, but it is not as hard as it looks.

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There are those among us who are filled with dread at the prospect of a Holiday Season coming up.

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There are those among us who wait with entranced expectation, hoping the season will arrive just a week earlier for once, so that we won’t have to suffer so.

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On the other hand, the Holiday-Dreaders remember only the bad: the requirement to give a gift to someone you not only don’t like but someone who never gives you anything back…the memories of frayed nerves and too much imbibing and too much candy and too much screaming and shouting and straining to please.

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Then there are the Holiday-Delighters. They just know that, despite the fact that they might be surrounded by Holiday-Dreaders, this year will be different: this year everybody will be happy and mellow and smiling and hugging and just plain relaxed and pleasant for a change.

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The Holiday-Dreaders know that Christmas will be a dreadful pain and they hope it will not happen this year at all.

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The Holiday-Delighters know somewhere in back of their very souls that not all Christmases have been wonderful, but they persist in carrying forth the dream of what Christmas might be could be should be oh please just this one time will be!

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And so Christmas slowly inexorably marches our way, oblivious to the Delighters and the Dreaders, not at all aware that there will be misery and joy juxtaposed throughout the land, not at all aware of the turmoil going on in Delighters’ heads— all those sugar plums and magical wistful Santas and Frostys and Rudolphs and Deck Us All with Boston Charliers…not at all aware of the turmoil going on in Dreaders’ heads—all that tension and feeling of incompleteness and feelings of no-gift-will-be-good-enough in the eyes of the receivers.

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Christmas will come again and go again and the Delighters will hold whatever good memories they salvage in a safe place to bring forth in the hot and humid days of July, to be treasured anew…and the Dreaders will try to forget it all and hope that another Christmas doesn’t come too soon.

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You can wait for Christmas with open arms open heart open mind open soul and find the gentle goodies therein.

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You can pace the floor hating the very idea of Christmas and dreading each thought of it again and again.

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Whether you decide to become a Dreader or a Delighter, you most certainly as long as you are on this earth will not be able to avoid Christmas.

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Select the attitude you want and embrace it and don’t let the bed bugs bite on this next wonderful opportunity that’s being offered to you as a precious gift.

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If you’re worried about the fact that Christmas just might slip up on you and make you feel good, just use Thanksgiving as a dry run: See what good will and good wishes and an incredibly stubborn decision to have a nice peaceful disposition for once can bring you.

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You just might surprise yourself

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Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

Catch Jim’s podcasts of this and all his stories:

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(adapted from Jim’s memoir Christmas Comes But Once A Day www.christmascomesbutonceaday.com )

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Life, actually…

A RECORDED PHONE MESSAGE I WILL NEVER

HAVE ENOUGH COURAGE TO LEAVE

 RingRingRingRing…

CLICK

My voice…

Hello.

I may or may not be the person you are attempting to contact. If you do not wish to leave a message you may hang up now.

If you leave a message there’s a good chance I will return your call…provided it is not a sales pitch or a survey or a hustle.

If you do not leave a voice message I will not know that you called, since I live in another century and do not check Caller ID.

When you leave a message it would be helpful to know what you want to communicate to me. If you just leave a name and number and I have never heard of you, you can be assured that I may not return your call.

If your message is polite and mannerly I may wish to talk with you anyhow.

Just sayin’.

You may proceed to leave a message or not leave a message…wait for the beep. Have a good life!

BEEP.

(OK, OK…I admit that I would never be this blatant on the phone…but having a fantasy now and then couldn’t hurt anybody. Could it?)

You may click to something more interesting on the internet now.

I’m done for today

 Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

MOMENTS MISSED, MOMENTS RECLAIMED

Now that healing is reassembling life into some semblance of its former order, I can glance over my shoulder and re-cherish, re-appreciate what was lost, what was recovered.

It’s all good.

Standing in the kitchen of our 1906-era home I recall the swoosh of the upstairs shower, the way it sounded prior to the months-long affliction that silenced it. Now the swoosh is back. She is back.

Her distant morning sneeze is a comforting signal that she is moving about again, getting done the things that she loves getting done.

Her musical voice via zoom or phone reassures me that her soul is bouncing once more, reanimated by friends and family.

Her rhythmic breathing next to me at night makes up for the weeks we could not share a bed.

The halo fragrance of her morning routines, soap, shampoo, perfume, ointment, settles me down and renews my smile.

Creaking wooden floorboards provide evidence of her presence, mingled with the creaks and croaks emanating from my movements.

And now that she laughs once again at my worn-out quips and jokes, I feel hope and joy once more.

That look she gives me when I’ve gone too far. That look she gives me when I have not gone far enough. These are my anchors.

Let me summarize:

She pulls me toward the light.

What more could I possible wish for

 Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

Life, actually…

CATCH AS CATCH CAN’T

Long, long ago, in a galaxy located exactly where I am now, I am in memory sweet a kid with no sports skills…attempting to be a young Babe Ruth in order to please everybody but myself.

I am trying to turn dream into reality.

But here is my reality:

The leathery-skinned ball is speeding directly toward my face. My hands and fingers are splayed in an attempt to catch the ball or at least deflect it from my nose.

It’s coming at me. I close my eyes and try to grab it with both hands.

The ball coming at me seems to be an act of aggression. What did I ever do to this object to make it wish to attack me?

I know that I have to learn not to blink, but how do I do that?

If the ball arrives at waist level I can try to snare it. But my hands are not positioned correctly. I do not know how to coolly intercept it like the playground athletes surrounding me.

I’m also afraid to chase a grounder because the ball will not let me know where it will bounce next. For some reason I have an abiding fear of a broken nose, particularly if it is mine.

“Hey, boy! What team are you going out for?”

The outfield gruffy behind me is wondering how I was allowed to be on the field in the first place.

I have no idea what “going out for” means so I say, “The Red Sox!” The gruffy bites his tongue.

I am destined to be anything but an athlete.

I contract athlete’s foot from the school locker room. As close to living an athlete’s life as I will ever get.

I feebly try again.

At bat, I take the classic stance I see in the movies. The ball surprises me with its intrinsic speed and power. It has already slapped the catcher’s mitt before my swing even begins.

I now realize that the bat must aim at a spot I predict will contain the ball. If said ball does not meet expectation, a strike will be called.

My only strategy is to hope that the pitcher will miss the strike area four times and that I will get to first base by default.

I am overcome with the miserable idea that I cannot play ball, thus disappointing family and humiliating myself.

To make a short story shorter, I do go on to other activities in my long search for a place in the sun. Eventually, I sort of excel at lots of things having nothing to do with sports and macho heroism.

I am grateful for what I can do and I only look back once in a while, at moments like this, to imagine for an instant that it is possible to become an instant Babe Ruth kid.

If only in my dreams

 Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

Life, actually…

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REEL LIFE IN THE 1950s

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The shiny new Silvertone reel to reel tape recorder hums idling in my darkened childhood bedroom. I am preparing to audio-record a radio show, and it is two minutes till air time.

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The time is 1959, when my world is still young and ladened with hope.

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I just purchased this metallic time machine, agreeing to make monthly payments till all debt is settled. My fevered dreams are invested in the craft of making time repeat itself at my leisure.

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The needle volume gauge awaits the push of a button. The motor rumbles and vibrates. The pristine rheostat knobs beg at the starting gate.

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And now, the radio station ID spoken, the daily comedy show begins and the reels start spinning. The left-hand reel moves counter-clockwise, feeding a brown plastic ribbon past magnetized cubes, the right hand reel neatly spools the now-recorded sound.

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Within minutes I will have my own repeatable archived recording of the Bob and Ray Presents the CBS Radio Network show.

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Once I’ve pressed the STOP button, I push REWIND and watch the left-hand reel re-claim the fresh recording.

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Later tonight, just before sleepville, I will re-load the program, push PLAY and slowly fall asleep grinning to the improvised shenanigans of the two funniest comedians of my lifetime.

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How could life feel any more satisfying than it feels right now?

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This is as good as it gets, at least for this crystal-clear one-of-a-kind moment in time

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Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

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*.*.*.

WEBSITE

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Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Life, actually…

WHEN BIPPY AND BEEPER RULED

“Beep me.”

“Page me.”

“Call my pager.”

“Here’s my beeper number.”

“Uh, where’s the charger?”

If you remember all these phrases and thoughts, you are getting on up in age. Looking back, it is difficult to understand how beepers were a real Thing for a time.

Much ado about mostly nothing.

The concept of non-emergency crises seems to have been invented just in time for paging, right before we learned to spend our waking hours on inconsequential matters via thumb-poked phone.

Yes, Children of the 21st. Back before and during my time, there were no cellphones.

We did have other ways to communicate, each of which came and went as fashion swayed to and fro.

There were walkie-talkies and two-way radios and telephones and telegrams and semaphores and smoke signals and megaphones and tin cans joined by string…

And voice to voice hosepipes and postcards and letters.

There was sky writing, there was the Pony Express, there were letter carriers, there were pigeons and couriers and, and…well, there were plenty of ways to communicate, plenty of ways to annoy someone.

Great inventions all.

But progress often accompanies regress.

With any communications advance comes the opportunity to relay useless and irritating messages.

Then came beepers, a 1970s fashion accessory, invented right before hand-toted electronics conquered the world.

Invented at the same time but in parallel societies was the bippy.

The bippy was a verbal device designed to make you giggle. Used only by comedians and wisecrackers, bippy had no meaning at all. Later, made-up  words like yahoo and google were inspired by bippy.

Silly and meaningless and unforgettable.

Back then, during bippy and beeper times, every executive or entrepreneur or professional just had to possess a beeper. Clipped to belt or purse or pocket, peeping out from a holster, hiding deep within an inside pocket, there lurked a beeper, a pager, or whatever else they were called.

When your beeper “went off” or paged you, you were required to grab a nearby phone and “call the office” or “call home” to see what the urgency was.

This made you feel connected, important, superior.

Whatever happened to all those beepers that are now cast aside?

For that matter, whatever happened to bippies and bippy jokes?

Bippy jokes made us chuckle even when we were not feeling so chuckly.

I’d like to spend just five minutes one day, once more contemplating my bippy and responding to my beeper. Five minutes would be about all I could tolerate.

You can bet your sweet bippy, er, beeper, it would be harmless fun.

And harmless, non-judgmental, non-shaming fun is exactly what I could use a bit more of.

Pardon my grammar. My beeper just went off and my bippy made me do it

(c) 2021 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s podcast:

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jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com