JimFormation

I write about everything in my life. If I think I can find an interesting enough slant or a funny enough line to work into the story and it won’t compromise someone’s privacy or hurt their feelings, I’ll tell the story. Here are some stories I might not have told:

1. Prince B’rynn Ka’a B’rynn Del
   My 11-year-old son is named after a character that I wrote about in several fantasy stories. The character was a warrior prince molded vaguely after (read: stolen from) Michael Moorecock’s Elric of Melnibone.
    

   My prince came from an ancient race of people who ruled the earth before the humans started with their whole history-thing. Why there is no archeological record of their existence was beyond the story’s scope, but I bet that this ancient race of hominids inhabited Atlantis.The prince was stoic and strong. His values on sex and life and death were different from ours. The social values and mores of his people were often 180-degrees opposite of ours. Hell, if you really want to know who the prince was read the Elric series. If there was any art in what I had written it was in how well I hid my petty theft.

   Why didn’t I name him after me? My name is James Caldwell McCormick IV. My entire family wanted a James Caldwell McCormick V – but I had something different going on in my head.

   I was raised, and was closest to, my maternal grandparents. I was not so narcissistic to name a child after me. I felt that you honored your descendants by continuing a family name; I felt naming my son “James” would dishonor the man who raised me.

   With that logic, I should have named my son “Herbert Raymond.” Here’s the problem: A little “Herbie” toddling around the house is pretty cute; a 7-year-old “Herbie” getting off the school bus is pretty goofie.

   I have since changed my ways and have offered my son to have his name legally changed to “James Caldwell McCormick V.” He has thought about it, and he may change it in the future, but for now he likes what he has.

2. I Have a Super Power
   I have only ever hated one person. Chris Ferrone. He and I went to high school together. We played on the same golf team. We played at the same golf club.
    

   Chris was the biggest golf cheater I’d ever met. I’ve seen him pick up a golf ball and throw it forward over a bunker and onto a green. I’ve seen him drop a new ball when he’d obviously lost the ball he hit. I’ve known him to take a 3 when he’s really made a 5.

   Chris told everyone who would listen and everyone that mattered that he was a better golfer than me. Always. At every turn. My response was, “I’m glad that I am the yardstick that Chris has to measure himself by.”

   But inside I seethed.

   I was twice the golfer he was. I could beat him on any course in any type of weather. I told the golf coach, “Play with us, but just watch him. Make sure he doesn’t move his ball. Make sure he counts every stroke.” He can’t beat me. “I know, Jim.”

   I grew to hate, really hate, Chris. It was burning and red, deep inside my gut. I feel it even now.

   Chris died on the Garden State Parkway. He fell asleep while driving and sent his car into the guard rail. The rail dislodged from the supports, went through the windshield, and decapitated him.

   He was 24-years-old.

   I’ve been very careful with my “hate” ever since. As a matter of fact, I can honestly say I haven’t hated anyone since Chris Ferrone. I fear that I have special powers. I must use them wisely.

3. Game Time
   I bought an NES (Nintendo Entertainment System) with money given to me as wedding gifts.
    

   I’m not really proud of this one and probably missed out on a lot of newlywed sex because of it.

   Wedding gifts are given to help the newly wedded set up shop in their new home. It’s the family’s and friend’s way of helping them get over the hump of starting out new. The money should be spent on such things as kitchen essentials and sex toys, right?

   I bought a video game. Geeky loser. I’m surprised my wife stayed with me.

4. I Love a Man Bag
   … and I have a lot of them. I’m obsessed with them. I can’t get enough of them. I have backpacks and fanny bags and messenger sacks. I must have a dozen of them in the basement, maybe more.
    

   Problem is that I don’t use them. I just don’t know what the hell to carry in them. Nothing is that important to me that I have to keep it with me just in case I need it NOW! I carry a thin wallet and my key chain has a memory key and a multi-tool on it. I have my cell phone. I also carry a pen and a small pad or folded piece of paper with me. I don’t need a bag to carry that stuff.

   I am jealous of the dudes I see walking down the street, particularly in Manhattan, with a knapsack or messenger bag. “What are you carrying? I want to know! I want to carry it too! Damn you. Damn you all to hell.”

   Similarly, I have a manly glove collection. I have at least 10 pair of leather work gloves, 2 pair of mechanics gloves, a pair of wide receiver football gloves, 5 pair of winter gloves, 2 pair of mittens, and one manly hunting muff (and I don’t hunt). I can’t get enough of them. It’s insane.

   Oh, and I don’t call a “man bags” “man bags.” I call them “nut sacks.”

5. Boobs
   I touched my Nan’s boob, but you already knew that. I write a lot about boobs and make a lot of boobie jokes. Boobies are fun.
    

   What you don’t know is that I’m not really a “boob man.” Don’t get me wrong, I like boobs. Boobs are fun. But they don’t make or break my libido.

   Same thing with asses. I’m not an “ass man.” Asses are fun, but they’re just asses.

   Maybe I’m a “face man.” I’m attracted to a …

   … no! Do you know what I am? I’m a “vagina man!”  When it comes to sexual attraction, I would have to start there. If you don’t have a vagina, all bets are off.

6. Pet Semetary
   The house I live in has been in the family for 50 years. For forty-five of those years it was the hub of a very large extended family. For five decades every pet of that extended family was buried behind my garage.
    

   I bet there are 25 dogs buried back there. A hundred cats. Countless canaries. And at least three hamsters, two ferrets, and a white rat. Behind my garage. My garage.

   For the better part of my life, I was the family grave digger. I dug the hole. Pop said it had to be at least three feet deep. The problem is I can’t go three feet anymore. At two feet I invariably hit something. That something is always another animal grave.

   I know this because we always wrapped the deceased in tarpaper. And the thing that stopped my spade from digging deeper has always been tarpaper.

   Now animal graves only go down about two feet in my Pet Semetary behind the garage.

7. I Am an Extreme Introvert
   In every psychological evaluation I’ve ever had, most of them in college psych classes, I’ve tested out as an extreme introvert. Like 9-and-a-half on a scale of ten.
    

   That doesn’t mean that I’m shy, far from it. I’m a talker. If you get me into a conversation, you will soon be looking for any way to get out of it: “Excuse me, Jim. I have to go. I, umm, am having a rather heavy period.”

   But I’m not good at approaching people or starting a conversation. I’m awkward: “Umm, so how long were you dating your wife before you started doing it. Oh, I’m sorry, Reverend.”

   So, in social situations, I keep to myself unless someone pulls me into a conversation.

   I guess that makes me a back-of-the-room wallflower. Whatever. The best party is always between my ears anyway.