Adventures in Live Music, with Munsi

In January, David Bowie passed away, and I was heartbroken.

In the aftermath of his passing, while talking to a friend about how I'd managed to see him play on his last tour before he had to stop touring, I promised myself I’d see more live music, rather than take for granted the idea that, if I missed a show, there’d always be another opportunity. Due to this policy, over the course of this past year I saw…

Joe Jackson, in support of a shockingly good Late-Career album, Fast Forward. I'm pretty sure were the youngest people in the crowd, which surprised me a little, Joe Jackson is a spectacular songwriter and a blast to see live. People my age and younger are missing out.

Mother Mother, at the Coke Stage at Stampede. Exact opposite experience, we were absolutely the oldest people in the crowd. At some point between then and now, Mother Mother went from playing the Coke Stage to selling out the Jubilee, I'm not sure what all happened in the interim, but good for them on what was apparently a very good year.

Peter Gabriel and Sting, with a huge thanks to Sarah. I assumed I wasn't going to be able to, and I'd have regretted it had that been the case, it was an incredible show. Peter Gabriel had always been a hero of mine, the man's a genius, and Sting was a blast as well...

The Tragically Hip. Most of us caught the Hip this year, I guess. At least, it feels that way. I cried, Gord cried, we all cried. It was a beautiful, connective experience that left me feeling very Canadian.

Duran Duran/Nils Rogers. Fun show, and I have NEVER seen so many women in their mid-late 40s absolutely killing it dancing as I did while watching Duran Duran play. A generation of women was sexually awakened in 1982 by Simon LeBon on Much Music, and they have still got it in them to fangirl out. Godspeed, women in your mid-late 40s, you are an inspiration to us all.

Echo & the Bunnymen. I will never in my life be able to thank Sue sufficiently for this show, or for the ten days that followed it. My trip to the UK was one of the most moving, connective experiences of my life, and I woke up my first day home feeling more serene than I have in a long while. This show wasn't the whole reason why, but connecting with my inner '80s anglophile high-school goth kid was certainly a major part of it. Plus, Ian McCulloch remains an awesome rock star to this day, which I always do appreciate...

The Dandy Warhols. I was going to see these guys in Calgary, instead I went to Edmonton to see them with Jen. She had to pull out last minute due to hilarious ID related hijinx, but I still got to hang out with her, I still saw the show (just didn't do both simultaneously) and it was still an absolute blast.

Our Lady Peace/I Mother Earth, and Chelsea gets credit for this one, I wouldn't have thought to go to this show had she not taken me, and I'm very glad I did. OLP, it turns out, kill it live, and having seen them deepened my appreciation of a classic Canadian '90s band that I otherwise hadn't given enough credit.

Elvis Costello and wow, this was a bucket list show for me. Elvis is one of a handful of artists that I legitimately could listen to nonstop for 24 hours off my current music collection and never hear the same song twice, and seeing him play has been a thing I've wanted but not been able to do since I was eight. Eight? That can't be right, when did Blood and Chocolate come out? Yeah, eight, i guess! The show was minimalist and incredibly intimate, just the man, five guitars and a borrowed grand piano he switched between, a lifetime of stories, and one of the best catalogues in rock, and I could not have been happier with the experience. Getting what you've always wanted and finding it exactly as good as you hoped is a rare thing, and one that should be appreciated when it comes.

…I have my opinions about 2016 and the number of artists of  personal importance that passed over its course, but I have to admit I did see some amazing shows. I stand by the decision I made at the beginning of the year, and hope to continue this trend going forward.

Catch your heroes while you can, is what i'm saying. Your opportunities to do so aren’t endless…

On the subject of Murder Clowns...

I did spot a Murder Clown, once…

It was a few weeks ago, maybe a month, and I hadn't heard much about people dressed as scary clowns in the news yet, so I didn't know it was a thing that was happening around the world, it was just a clown to me, simply this and nothing more.

Simply a demonic-looking clown, in early September, walking down 17th avenue in the middle of the night, holding a machete and drenched in what appeared to be human blood. Nothing to see there, nothing to worry yourself overmuch about…

And what’s odd is: I didn’t worry myself overmuch about it. It was early for Halloween, to be sure, but I’m all for starting Halloween early, the Christmas people are starting November 1st nowadays, why shouldn’t those of us who like a scare claim a second month? We’re worth it, and the holiday of my people is every bit as valid as theirs!

By “My People” I mean “Aging Goth Kids,” that was clear, yeah?

Yeah?

Good.

So yes, I did see a Murder Clown, and rather than recoiling I smiled, nodded, and exchanged a quick high-five before continuing on my way home, filing it alongside all the other ways 17th avenue can be a messed-up place to go after dark on weekends.

Only a month later, reading a think-piece asking “What does it all mean?” Did I realize it might be anything noteworthy, sociologically speaking. At the time it was simply two dudes who are a little too into Halloween connecting with one another, the way that humans do, over their shared love of a thing, distressing though that thing might be to some, then coming away feeling a little closer and more connected to the world in which they live, having learned that that world is a wider, weirder place than they give it credit for being in their day-to-day lives…

Because, at the end of the day, that’s exactly what it was.

Prince

In the soundtrack of our lives, some artists loom naturally larger than others, tying themselves inextricably to a time and a place and a memory, such that they become a part of your life, a part of you, a part of that moment that cannot be separated from the whole.

This thought occurs to me, now, as I sit in my room, thinking back to my very first run with the dinner theatre, living in a hotel room, with no roots in the town in which I lived, inviting the cast over, night after night after night, for endless games of Doctor Mario, games that would go on until the sun came up, because we had nowhere to be until four o’clock the next afternoon and we didn’t want the night to end…

And Prince.

We would play every Prince album I owned, and I did own most of them, play them again and again, but we always came back to the Gold Experience. It’s not his best work, not one of his classics, but it was the one we wound up listening to, for reasons that years later I can’t begin to remember, and when I hear it now it still takes me back to that sense of belonging, that community, that camaraderie.

That funky-motherfucking sense of camaraderie.

I’m listening to the album now, as I type this, and I’m thinking about that period of my life, a time I’d count among my very best, and I’m thinking about the people with whom I’d spent it, people my life is infinitely richer for having known. And I’m thinking about Prince. And I’m thinking about the Gold Experience, and playing Doctor Mario, and the younger me I used to be, and I can’t help smiling as I do.

Everybody’s trying to sell what’s already been sold.

Everybody’s trying to tell what’s already been told.

What’s the use of money, if you ain’t gonna break the mold?

Even at the center of the fire, there is cold.

All that glitters, ain’t gold.

But in that case it was. It was a very golden time indeed…

...on democracy.

When the revolution comes, you’ll be first against the wall.

Except that the revolution has already come.

And fewer people were thrown against walls than I’d expected might be…

The economy has yet to collapse, nothing I can see from where I’m sitting is on fire, locusts have not, in spite of the warnings, descended to blight our crops. Currency has not fled, and I suspect that threats from CEOs to defund the Children’s Hospital out of spite were empty ones. Nobody wants that kind of publicity, after all.

We had an election, not a coup, and transformed ourselves from theoretical to practicing democracy, electing a moderate left-of-center party we hope will enact modest economic reform. In time, I have no doubt disappointment will come with portions of what they do, but in the meantime I’m profoundly proud of us for sending a strong message to all who would govern us.

We have our pride.

We have our Orange Crush.

Treat us with open contempt, and the good people of Alberta will only stand for it for forty-four years, and not one moment longer.

And now, in a way that living in Alberta I’m not exactly used to, I’m cautiously optimistic about the future…

Weekly Prompt Story: Storm

http://oneadayuntilthedayidie.com/?p=26071

Flood

By Christopher Munroe

We’re a flood town.

We always have been.

You may remember last year being the first major, city-debilitating flood Calgary’s had, but you’re remembering incorrectly. We’ve always been a flood town and as such we’ve always had floods.

Whenever there’s a major storm, we flood, nothing could be more natural and we’re all used to it.

It has always been thus, and there is no need to examine it further.

We are a flood town, we always have been and we will always be.

There is no such thing as global climate change.

Now: How goes the war with Eastasia?

Weekly Prompt Story: Deception

http://oneadayuntilthedayidie.com/?p=24639

Talent

By Christopher Munroe

I’m a man of many talents.

A fair writer, decent actor and good-ish comedian.

But my greatest talent, if I had to choose, is my talent for self-deception. Which is convenient since, of them all, it’s the talent I find time to use every single day.

I tell myself I’ll be okay.

I tell myself I deserve happiness.

And, like a chump, I believe it.

So, to everyone who ever said my talents would never get me anywhere, I say: Look at me now! I’m king of the world!

Or, at least, I will be. So far as I know…

The World is as Strange as You Make it (Medals)

Bizarre though it is to admit, my life did change with the realization that I could just buy medals at Value Village.

I mean, it wasn’t a “things will never be the same” moment, but still, I lived very differently once I realized that resource was available to me.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to learn; I’d already known that kids win medals after all. Soccer medals, hockey medals, participation medals for school events and the like. And then they grow up, and find they have no interest in such nick-knacks as they age into adulthood and adjust their priorities and corresponding definitions of success.

Silver and bronze medals, mostly, first prizes people do tend to keep, but still, medals. Actual, you-won-a-prize medals, on ribbons to wear around your neck, Olympic style. For less than a buck apiece.

Don’t bother looking for them there now, though, they’re long gone. I bought them all, looted every Value Village in Edmonton, Calgary and Winnipeg over the course of one long tour. By the end I had more than a hundred total, in a box back at home.

And yes, it changed my life.

In the two years that followed the initial revelation, I used medals for everything. Where you might sarcastically say “what do you want, a friggin’ medal?” I’d actually have one on hand, and when somebody legitimately impressed me I’d respond… the same way, actually, but with a better attitude. I admit, this caused no small amount of confusion as to the spirit behind a particular medal, but I couldn’t resist giving them out, I loved the process too much to stop myself. It was too sturdy a bit not to use, and one that consistently took people by surprised. A little pomp, a little circumstance, they were the perfect props for any occasion. For two solid years it was my favorite running gag.

Good times…

But all good times must end, and eventually my supply did run out. And, with sadness that it was ending but gladness that it had happened, I had to retire the joke once and for all. I’d looted every Value Village, run the bit into the ground, and there was no need to try to drag it out. I presented the last medal to myself; for successful execution of the concept, put it in a drawer, and went on with my life, medal free.

And, while sometimes I miss having two or three medals in my pocket should the need for them arise, I know that even without them there are plenty of ways to make the world weirder, wilder and more wonderful, if only you know where to look for them.

For example, have you ever stopped to really consider in depth the implications of the simple fact that bakeries are willing to write literally anything you ask them to on top of your cake?

Because I have. And I admit, my cake budget has gone through the roof…

Who You Think You Are

You wrote us an essay.

The spelling was atrocious, the grammar a mess, but you assured us it wouldn’t matter, if we’d only look deeper.

Looking deeper was, in fact, your central thesis. That you weren’t myopically seeking attention at everyone else’s expense, but rather possessed immeasurable inner beauty that we’d unjustly judged. You felt it was a lesson we desperately needed to learn.

We needed to stop judging you based on your actions, and see the beautiful person you truly were.

On the inside.

The person you’d never, ever share with anyone, for fear that they might taint it.

Weekly Prompt Story: Tea

http://oneadayuntilthedayidie.com/?p=23201

Tea

By Christopher Munroe

As you know, I work at a restaurant.

As you may not know, prepping pots of Tea is annoying.

It’s more steps than other drinks, so I have to wait in more lines, and half the time we don’t have clean teapots and I either have to wait or hand-wash one.

Which isn’t to say you shouldn’t order tea. It’s your meal. If you want tea have tea.

However, so you know: Next time somebody orders a pot of tea, I make it, get back and their friend orders a pot of tea, I’m burning the place to the ground.

Weekly Prompt Story: Morning Munsi

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/2012/12/02/weekly-challenge-345-the-worst-thing-in-the-world/

Morning Munsi

By Christopher Munroe

In the morning, when I awaken, I’m not terribly bright. But I’m incredibly affectionate.

Which is, in a way, a shame.

Because I don’t dry all the way off after I shower, and my Movember ‘stache hasn’t, to date, been crowd pleasing. So I stagger from the bathroom, throw moist arms around my girlfriend, and nuzzle my bristly face into her neck.

I’m basically the worst thing in the world. Seriously, there’s nothing good about me in the morning.

Still, we make it work.

She loves me, after all.

Or, at least, she can’t afford the rent on her own…

You

I see you across the room and my heart takes flight.

Your eyes sparkle with unmasked amusement at whatever your companion’s saying, and when you throw back your head to laugh, it’s music.

I can’t hear it from the other side of the room, but I see you laugh, and I know in my heart that it’s music.

You’re a vision, radiant, standing out from the other people at this party like some ethereal thing, tolerating them yet standing apart.

Above.

I have to know you, and so I push through the crowd.

“Um… hi.”

Christ, I suck at this…

Status

This status is to raise awareness. Specifically, awareness of my awareness. It tells you I care about social justice, and am politically aware, and does so in the most efficient possible way.

The most efficient way being the way in which I don’t have to actually do anything.

I won’t give time, I won’t give money. I’ll change my Facebook to reflect a contemporary social issue, and it’s unreasonable to expect me to do more.

Copy this to your Facebook if you believe things, but not strongly enough to come up with unique phrasing.

And thus: Increase your Facebook status.

Weekly Prompt Story: I don't watch much Football, but...

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/2012/10/07/weekly-challenge-337-football/

I don’t watch much Football, but…

By Christopher Munroe

I was doing dinner theater, living in a hotel near Calgary’s football stadium.

My day off, on my way out, I happened upon six gentlemen in Chewbacca costumes, each with a Saskatchewan Roughriders jersey over his wookie suit.

I was surprised, as you would be. When I asked if that was a thing amongst Roughriders fans, one of the Chewies told me that no, it wasn’t, but that it totally should be. And then they were off to support their team, the weirdest way they knew, and I was alone with my thoughts...

So yeah, I cheer for the Roughriders. 

On My Lunch Break...

It started with a misunderstanding, though I maintain an understandable one.

I was at the smoking area in front of Chinook Mall, on a bench, enjoying a cigarette after all. I had headphones in, so I couldn’t hear what he was saying when he approached me. And to make matters worse, I’d not slept properly in four days due to over-scheduling at work, so my thought processes weren’t one hundred percent up to speed. He said something, his posture implied to me that it might have been a question, I offered him a cigarette without even taking off my headphones.

In reality, he’d wanted to know where the Bank of Montreal had moved to. The one in the mall had apparently been shut down and moved and he had no idea where it had gone. I found this out when he repeated his question and I took my headphones off to actually hear what it was.

Sadly I was of no help there. Bank of Montreal isn’t my bank, so I pay no attention to where they’re located. Still, he took the smoke, so you can’t say I was useless to him.

He took a seat next to me and we smoked, together, whiling away a few minutes in one another’s company. I was in no hurry to get back to work, had two hours between shifts in fact, and he was in no hurry to get much of anywhere, not knowing the location of his bank he couldn’t get anywhere in a hurry even if he’d wanted to. So we sat, and smoked, and shot the breeze.

He told me he was eighty-three years old, and had smoked all his life with no ill effect on his health. Spoke of his distaste for the current fashion for giving it up, told me he’d actively tried to convince his daughter not to bother quitting, because he still, after decades of studies, didn’t believe it was bad for you. Indeed, he thought the opportunity it provided to take three quick minutes to reflect upon your day was absolutely essencial to maintaining mental health.

I told him I agreed with the second part, at least, though I’d still like to quit myself.

He asked where I was born, and when I explained that I’d been born and spent most of my life here in Alberta he told me so had he, though for most of a much longer life than I’d yet had. He leaned back, dragging deeply on his borrowed cigarette, and told me that he’d watched Calgary grow over the course of his eight decades, but that he was still continually surprised by each new development.

This is a thing that happens to us all as we age, I suppose.

He’d known the man who’d owned the land upon which Chinook Mall was built, before Chinook Mall was built, when the area was a golf course. After selling his golf course to Mall developers, the man apparently took the money back to India and spent it building a hospital, because he’d wanted to give back something to the community in which he’d grown up, and that that’d left a tremendous impression on the friends he’d left behind.

“You can’t judge a man by the color of his skin,” the eighty-three year old stranger with whom I was inadvertently spending my lunch-break told me, “or the culture that he comes from. That’s what I’ve learned in my life, there’s goodness in everyone, if you look for it.”

Which is true, though I found the fervency with which he delivered it charmingly anachronistic. The idea that you’d ever have to say “racism, in general, is bad” as though there were people in mainstream society who might disagree wasn’t something that would ever occur to me, though at his age I suppose he’d lived through an era where the idea was more controversial than it is today. The arc of history, and all that…

“That’s certainly true.” I replied to him, smiling.

I don’t usually like talking to strangers. Maybe it’s the amount of my life I’ve spent performing, maybe the service-industry job I work in now, but when I’m alone I’m generally quite closed. Nonetheless, something about the man, maybe the energy he still had even at his age, maybe the willful obliviousness to the modern era that only octogenarians can get away with, maybe just that he reminded me of my own departed grandfather, was incredibly disarming. Given the opportunity, I could quite happily have sat there all afternoon, smoking cigarettes and listening to him tell me about his experiences, separated from mine by half a century, and while doing so reflect upon my own life, my own choices, and what they’ll sound like in fifty years, should I choose to regale another, younger stranger with them.

But, of course, I wasn’t given the opportunity. Cigarettes were finished, he had a bank to find and I a lunch to eat, and so there we parted ways, only knowing one another five minutes but in that time getting to know one another a little better.

Because that’s what life is. It’s connecting with people, even the people you’ll never see again, who you have nothing in common with other than a habit and a city. It’s about being there for them, and with them, and then remembering them after you’ve said goodbye. And most importantly, it’s about taking a little bit of time to stop, and sit, and relax and reflect on what’s going on around you. We all deserve that time, I think, though we don’t always remember that.

There are no Zombies in this story, nor any Orbital Weapons Platforms, Ghosts, Vampires or murderous Cyborgs. It’s just the story of two men who once sat on a bench, enjoying a cigarette, the older saying whatever was on his mind and the younger walking away when he was done in a calmer, more reflective mood than he’d been in five minutes before.

Which isn’t very exciting, I suppose. But really, sometimes life isn’t exciting.

Sometimes it’s just good.

...after the Iron Maiden concert.

“Maiden!” He screams to the crowd around him.

“Maiden!” They respond, voices still hoarse from screaming all night.

“Maiden?” He calls again, lost in their shared moment.

“Maiden!” They answer, unified in joy at their still recent, still unbelievably potent communal experience.

“Maiden!”

“Maiden!”

“Maiden!”

“Maiden!”

“Mai?”

“Den!”

“Mai!”

“Den!”

“Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden! Maiden…”

I’d completely forgotten that Iron Maiden were playing in town until I was done work that night and ready to head home.

It was basically the worst train ride I’d ever had.

Weekly Prompt Story: Who Let The Dogs Out

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/2012/06/10/weekly-challenge-320-avoid-bursting-into-flames-pet-rock-circus-who-let-the-dogs-out-and-butter/

The Dogs

By Chris Munroe

I let the dogs out.

Didn’t mean to, I’d thought they were safely inside the house, but I guess you let them into the yard to… you know…

If I’d known, I’d have closed the gate behind me. I mean, it’s not like I wanted them to get out.

But by the time I realized, they’d run out into the street, barking and howling and enjoying their newfound freedom.

And now we’re going to have to track them down.

But yeah, I take full responsibility, and I apologize.

My bad.

Also: It was me who put baby in the corner.

Weekly Prompt Story: 100 Miles

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/2012/06/03/weekly-challenge-319-100-miles/

100 Miles

By Chris Munroe

Within 100 miles of here is a place I’d love.

Maybe a restaurant that serves cuisine from a country I’ve never visited, or a club playing music I’m unfamiliar with but would dig if I gave it a chance…

The specifics aren’t relevant, the point is it’s the perfect place for me, it’s within 100 miles of here, and I’d love it there if I ever went.

I might never find this place.

I get too trapped by routine to really look.

But it exists.

Can you say for certain there isn’t a similar place within 100 miles of you?

Weekly Prompt Story: Isolation

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/2012/04/29/weekly-challenge-314-hotel/

Isolation

By Chris Munroe

Well since my baby left me, I found a new place to dwell.

I had to. She kept the house.

And the kids.

I see them every other weekend, but in between it’s just me, alone in the hotel I’m staying in until I find an apartment.

I should be looking for an apartment, but I feel like doing that makes it somehow more permanent.

This is permanent.

It’s my own fault, I know. One lapse in judgment and my life came tumbling down. I have nobody to blame but myself, but sometimes…

…I get so lonely I could die.

Bees

I don’t even remember their names now, but that’s to be expected, it happened more than twenty years ago.

I was young, eight if I had to guess but I can’t say for certain. My parents owned a cabin in the woods by a lake up north, and we’d weekend up there whenever we got the chance.

It was beautiful area in the summer. It was miserable in the autumn. I have a number of memories of the place, some fond.

As I said, I don’t remember their names now. They were friends of convenience, we had nothing in common other than the fact that we were the only three kids within a hundred miles of the lake, and I never thought to maintain contact with them when my parents finally sold the cabin years later.

Not that I could have. It isn’t like Facebook was a thing that existed back then.

Still, friends of convenience or no, they were friends, and for the weekends our parents brought us there we were inseparable.

We’d swim, or explore the forests surrounding our various cabins, or “rock climb” the nearby hill. I’m sure the hill was nothing more than a gentle slope, but the time, to my eight year old mind, it was Everest.

It was climbing the rocky hill where it happened.

One of them, I want to say his name started with an R, Ryan? Roland? One of them, at any rate, stumbled partway up. This is no surprise since we rarely, if ever, made it all the way to the top. It did get pretty steep toward the end and we were children, after all. He stumbled, caught a nearby bit of bush with one hand, took two steps back, and righted himself, breathing heavily from adrenalin at so nearly having fallen down the hill. He looked gleeful that he hadn’t.

Then he looked down, noticing the ruined nest he’d stumbled into in his attempts to maintain his balance.

They were on him in a heartbeat, a tornado of black and yellow with Richard, or Reggie, or whatever his name was at it’s center, screaming in pain and fear as they defended what was left of their home.

A good friend would have done something to help him. So would a responsible adult. Sadly neither one was available so me and the other kid, I can’t even guess what his name might have started with, stared with a shock mingled with natural childlike curiosity, unable to look away, fascinated by the process as they tore him apart.

“Are they bees, or wasps? Or hornets?” One of us asked.

“I don’t think they’re bees, don’t bees die after they sting somebody?” The other replied.

We agreed that this was so, but still couldn’t decide if they were wasps or hornets. For eight year olds, we had a distressingly limited knowledge of entomology. We argued over the matter, choosing sides at random and switching them often, as the insects continued their work and our “friend” continued screaming in vain for our help.

We continued arguing over it until the hornets, or wasps, or maybe they were bees after all, realized that the person who’d destroyed their home wasn’t alone and turned their attention to us.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been stung on the eyelid by an angry bee, but I have and I’ll tell you: The experience is unique to say the least.

Suddenly we were running, the three of us, the two relatively untouched helping the third along as his face started to swell and his breathing became more and more labored. We ran, though we had no idea where we were running to, and the swarm of angry insects followed us, nipping at us as we went, not catching up enough to swarm us properly but never falling behind far enough to lose interest.

We ran, propelled by terror and pain, blind and screaming, no plan or destination in mind, like a comet with a tail made of bees.

Or wasps. Or hornets. I suppose in the end the distinction didn’t matter.

Eventually, one of us screamed “The lake!” and we hooked a sharp right and plunged through bushes and trees toward the lake we hoped we could use to ward off our attackers.

By this point parents had been alerted to our screams I’m sure, though we wouldn’t see them for a while.

We plunged into the cold water of the lake and, after I don’t know how long, the insects flew away. We thought at the time they’d lost interest in punishing us, but looking back I realize they were probably looking for an appropriate place to die. It wasn’t as though they had a nest to go back to, after all.

Our parents lost their minds when they saw us, and Rex, or Rufus, I wish I could remember what he was called, had to be taken to the hospital. I don’t know if that was the last I ever saw of him, but he certainly makes no further appearances in my memories of the place. I’d only been stung a half-dozen times and was more or less better by morning, and the other kid got off even easier. Two stings. A swirling maelstrom of angry bees and he got stung a total of twice. I figured he was the luckiest kid in the world, not once stopping as the ambulance pulled away from our cabins to think that so was I.

We kept going to the cabin on weekends for a while after that, but I never enjoyed it as well as I’d done before that day. Eventually, the bloom gone from the rose, my parents sold the place and I couldn’t bring myself to care that those weekends up north by the lake were gone forever.

I got on with my life, no lasting damage done either emotionally or physically by that terrifying childhood experience.

Except….

Except, sitting on my couch more than twenty years later, I’m thinking back to that day, and taking a long hard look at my life and my work.

And I’m realizing: Angry Bees really are a trope I go back to time and time again, both in my comedy and in my fiction writing. Is that because there’s a lot you can do with the notion, or is it eight year old Munsi inside me, trembling, still holding his breath underwater, afraid he might drown but more afraid of what would happen if he let his head break the surface of the lake, even for a second?

The things that touch our lives as children, do they haunt us to our graves?

You and my Lamp (based on a prompt from 100 Word Stories)

It's the beginning of the week, so once again time for my prompt driven drabble! Here's the link:

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/2011/09/11/weekly-challenge-281-pick-two/

...and here's the story!

You and my Lamp

By Christopher Munroe


After closing night, the theater didn’t need it.

Seven foot statues of actors are pretty useless once the show’s done, and heavy to boot.

I, on the other hand, always wanted an enormous statue of myself. The opportunity was too good to pass up.

I worried what you guys’d say when I brought it home, but you both loved it. I didn’t realize how much until I returned from work the next day.

You’d turned it’s eyes into lamps.

Now it stares light down upon me from behind the couch as I read.

The best part is: This story’s true.