Archive for the ‘Memoir fodder’ Category
My Accident (a tale told at the Moth)
(A second story I’ve told at the Moth StorySlams over these past few years. Once again, not about books or publishing, just about unpleasant things and storytelling without a net.)
There was a time when my face was most horrifying thing I’d ever seen, when my visage struck terror in the hearts of people on the streets, when the wan girl who was ringing me up at the Hollywood Video store couldn’t look at me, but instead tearfully told me I could “have the movies for two weeks, that’s fine already, really it’s no problem, just take them and go please go now. Please go.”
This was in San Diego a few years back. Late afternoon on the day after Christmas, I’d had a bicycle accident. The sun was setting. Headlights were snapping on. Darkness was pooling on the streets. I was going fast after a marathon training ride, and my front tire got caught by a huge pothole. The bike flipped, and since I was wearing clipless pedals, I went with it. Face first into another pothole, into its jagged, crumbly edge.
My Mugger (a tale told at the Moth)
(Thought I’d open this blog with a few stories I’ve told at the Moth StorySlams these past few years. No, they’re not about books or movies or agenting or any of that folderol, but they are storytelling—and true stories, at that.)
The gunman came out of the bushes as I rounded the corner and pressed the muzzle of a silver-plated .38 automatic against my forehead. “Give me your money,” he said, “and we won’t have a problem.”
“Dude,” I said, “here’s my wallet.”
As he thumbed it open with his left hand I said, “But there’s no money in it” at the same time as he said, “There’s no money in here!”
“Right,” I said.
“You’ve got an ATM card,” he said. “So we’re going for a ride.” I offered to tell him the code, but he said, “That ain’t gonna work. Come on. You’re driving.”
