Author reading an excerpt of his personal narrative at the 2014 WALL Literary Journal public reading.
Mark your calendars, boys and girls! Orange County’s Weirdest Son is once again teaming up with the best blues band around to bring you an exciting evening of entertainment and enlightenment! This is going to be an especially notable night, as it is Tall Can Tim’s last show on guitar with The Salt Shakers before he moves away to pursue big kid stuff. If you aren’t familiar with the six-stringed stylings of Tall Can Tim, let’s just say he’s an electric acrobat of the highest order. So bring your dancing shoes and your party hats, because this one could get out of hand…
Original handmade show flyer is also for sale. I will write a custom one-of-a-kind poem for you on the back and sign it. Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org if you’re interested. To hear music, click here.
Sterling Wormwood live at Surfin’ Cowboy in Capo Beach, California June 7, 2014.
Please remain calm! You are about to witness a tragedy in three acts (in the key of A minor). You will be terrified! You will be tantalized! You will be traumatized! It is not for the faint of heart (or squares). So stay if you dare! But remember… WORMWOOD WASN’T HERE.
Song from a musical in progress about a dandy peeping Tom set in a dystopian Cold War alternate past.
It’s a thin borderline
that separates me
from a full-blown personality disorder.
(or is it Nasa Cova now?)
back in a coma—
he’s awoken from his limp-dicked slumber
and he’s eyeing escorts
and flirting with friendlies
like a romantic in retrograde.
But at least he brought flowers,
Take Cadillac de Bergerac’s
he’s peeping on the ribs again
and what’s worse
has the audacity to refer
during his Evening treetop misadventures.
Just steal his fucking valve stems
and be done with it,
But Johnny Warpath won’t make
like a tree at all.
Turns out he doesn’t only come out
when I drink my gin.
he ain’t Dr. Jimmy, man.
He ain’t Mr. Hyde neither
and he ain’t hiding no more.
When I was in elementary school, one of my best friends was a kid named Jon. Jon’s father was the vice principal of Dana Hills High School, which I would later attend (albeit very reluctantly and infrequently). Mr. Schlesinger, as his father was called, thought it would be beneficial for us young children to attend the air guitar there one year, so that we could glimpse how fun and exciting our futures would be. I was maybe ten years old, and even though the event would just be a bunch of pimple faced kids pretending to sing vapid pop songs, this would be the closest thing to a concert I would experience at that time.
I remember the hallways seeming really large and the ceilings really high. The students were so big that they were more adults than kids in my eyes; I was intimidated to be sure, but excited nonetheless.
As I would come to discover in time, the event wasn’t much different from nearly every other air guitar, pep rally, and school dance function in existence. Students did performances of popular radio hits of the day and classics from the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s. Some were more entertaining than others, but nothing really stood out too much in hindsight—with one notable exception.