Carmen

 For those who don't know where I came from the wild west of of Canada, well, not really wild west. Mostly wheat fields rising up to the small town that I grew up to 12 years and settled across the river. The The Detroit River. Yeah, a small city across to Detroit with around in the millions. And I had relatives also. You'll see Dey/twa while my city was Windsor, a small city of factory workers. I went to a American college about twenty miles from Canada, crossing the river two ways, massive bridge and the closest under the river also called The Detroit River. Two counties.

I would drive back to Canada by tunnel. My U.S. school was Henry Ford College. It was Orville Hubburd's white home and mayor since 1946 and he doesn't like blacks and they say that if the Russians ever drop a bomb on Dearborn, it will have to be painted white because otherwise it'll never get in. I met Carmen in a psyc class. Carmen is cool to me, she's one of those girls cool to me. She's one of those girls who flirt a little, I take up, she's one of those girls who flirt a little who have and I ask her out. We later meet to a "supper club" like they do here in the "states" and we have two drinks, we with Whisky Sours that Crys showed me later how to drink will liked Sunrises. "More on Crys". After two hours of talking about stopping the war and school we dance and we hold each other with the desperation  of cold war and generally make a spectical in front of the shorthairs. It was a little bit of our war world across the ocean. 

Lucy

Lovely little Lucy, dark skin Italian girl with gentle features and delicate body. We talked. she liked me and I still love her. Her parents couldn't speak English and nuns at school told her see was hemmed  her skirt to her knees. One night we were walking home and we cut across a cemetary and we sat on an old one and talked and talked until it was midnight until she's crying, and saying she's how she'd beginning to believe the nuns are right. I tell her they're wrong. That she was as real as any other girl who likes a boy and she holds me and I. She says she likes me and I tell her the nuns don't know what they think about anyone and she kisses me and I feel her pain. Then she looks at me with those great doe eyes and lipsticked lips and she kisses me.and I feel through it lips and I just hold her. I learned later that she married an Italian. I never saw her again but someone said she left him.

I miss her even now, think about her. I miss them all.

Bobby

Okay, I'm back, well actual having some problems from that horrible thing that calls itself story teller. Well, let's go back in '66" - '69" with me and Sidi, the "ramblin'n' gamb'lin man" go to the "east side" where he lives, all black. And I'm there with him in a house along with a Black Panther who hates my guts for being white, and two girls, one of which has the greatest skin I ever seen, smooth and dark, like a black pearl. And she likes me, and I go on like some idiot from Canada, which I guess I am. At least I'm not like the draft     doggers up in Toronto who get laid by girls feeling sorry for them. But things get tense, and I know I should get out of there so I say goodbye to Sidi, see ya in school tomorrow, and drive off in the '65 Pontiac convertible with the new roof. The one I drove down Michigan Avenue in '68 when the Tigers won the World Series and me and Ron took six hours to get home. Dozens of people jump in and out of the car until we took the tunnel back to quiet Windsor. It was a twenty mile parade blaring, everyone's happy, no matter what color.

So there I was, hanging out, remembering me in Indianapolis , in the ghetto , registering black votes for Bobby Kennedy. People are surprised to see a white guy like me there. Older people invite me for coffee and talk about how great it would be good with Bobby. Young guys are suspicious and kids just watch me do what I do, I don't feel scared, I feel good, but maybe I'm wrong. But I had their hospitality and I liked it. Now they're killing each other and I wondered that I dreamt it all. They got nothing but they got hospitality. I shook his hand in Indianapolis. It's all gone when Bobby got killed. I wouldn't do that and cried when he was gone and his brother first. Nothing came nothing.

Spag and French Wine

Hey, it's me with some thing that might you have interest with some "new matter" as they say. More stuff from me (Jimmy - real name) but more known as Jim. I'm still in the game as they say, still got scripts pushing around. And one piece that's probably pretty good. Well, maybe okay. But beginning, I've got a short piece of writing about some of the women I've known before 17 up to 23 and basically the and same ages of me -- so there. And one 23, actually. All of them from high school and college.

This was around the 80's with Santino, both of us living in Sherman Oaks, California where I was spent writing screenplays and a few features and watching the 'oaks people with actors and writers and talking about girls and finally who reminded the girls we grew up with in the 70's. It all began with our girl friends, old times from 17 to 23. Santino's reading my anti-war material. He was in Vietnam already and never wanted to see it again. He wanted my life way back in there, the music and color and war and I was a Canadian across the river which was a small city filled with American cars being made.,

Before I was hanging out in Detroit across the river and with Sidi and in and holding from McComb College in a hotel room in Howard Johnson's on Grand Boulevard. Outside, ghettos just a block beyond GM's  world headquarters. The year before, National Guardsmen with M-16 rifles stops us on John Lodge Freeway looking across the river to Canada. Where I lived. Safe. Now we're driving across to school on the American side to John Ford College. I heard a guy here at Howard Johnson's was shot out at a window and died.

Now I'm here, Mary Hanover, American, beautiful blonde wasp from upper middle suburbs and we're together while her girlfriend cries about a guy who didn't notice her. I listened for awhile and she left . We were all collage people and it was the world for us, we had the whole thing. The whole thing belonged to us. Detroit in 1969, a good place to be for a farm boy from the prairies. I meet a beautiful college girl in Detroit and she lived in the northern part where rich homes thrive. She's rich but doesn't care and across the river far away from across the river where I live with a quiet home but not her life. But she doesn't care and we continue to belong in two different countries and will stay on for the rests of our lives over and over.

Dee..troit in 69, a good place to  be for a farm boy again. Crystal, but calls herself Crys. She's three years older and going to U. of D., she taught me all about Scotch one night in her dad's great house in Bloomfield Hills. He was an architect  who built it himself, me and Crys in the "conversation pit" putting Cutty Sark and she's got her legs up and says and how pretty she looks, checks. She is. And I'm crazy about her She's never married, got dumped by some guy went to Africa in the Peace Corp and she never got over it. Grad in two years.  Syc class. Wanted to join. maybe.

Hang on.

 

If any you've read my story about the story about Steve Tene, "the King of the Gypsies" as in a book and movie and you've can find it and see in my blog in two times: One is a long piece I wrote and had some connection to Steve's passing and his brother Tene. 

I had read your wish for me to write a good story that I'll do for you. Trouble is I saw you name but your phone at 561-633-5404. So Tene email. I'm in Canada and live there now. But I tried the phone number you gave me. But some man said it was not his phone number. If it's different, please call or email.

Jim Makichuk

 

Well, yes I am here finally and back to finding stories that brought me into all the pieces of everything that brought me finally back for that almost one year damn that is getting in the way of stories and hopes. If course there will be new stories to play around with old stuff as new stuff that I found in boxes and dozens of ideas that I didn't consider. Maybe good and maybe better, or no good at all. Well, maybe.

I'm writing a new story that could be a new screenplay. It's about whom I've liked and loved. Remembering the women in my life, some lost, some found. It's a collection of these women whom I stayed with, found other and I still think of all. I hope to be honest and write what me and them will see in their own words in some places, or usually lost but not exactly near or far from me.

And I will be honest because some of them might have other methods. But none of them were angry nor I. These would consist from my first 11-year old from to know. I'm not trying to show off, rather I want to go back until I hope I  find them,  or at least and heard of them and remember I hope.

The Okay Ones

Well, it's still nothing for the world and for all of us although some people I know are flying. A'aint flying for me, well I don't need to go anywhere right now. I'm working over a batch of screenplays that I have been hanging along that I sort of always wanted to rewrite them. So I figure I'd  work them over. I have about not bad scripts that I still have some stories that were looked over. I also have some okay scripts that could be better that could be better and sell to someone. My full box of unsold screenplays are about "Okay"ones. And that could give the good ones a little more "stuff" to it, as someone said to me once.

As for made movies, I have about 20 features and TV movies where I wrote them myself and co-wrote and rewrite from other writers. I always loved to rewrite someone else's scripts but I also saw some of them were all right for other reasons. So I'm going to rework some of the ones I did myself and others with rewrites other writers work. Of course I'll play a little more here or there. I don't know how exactly these things from here and there and also play with postings along the way.

Stories From The Dead

 Sorry again in building a lot of more stuff from 10 years of stories to do both the past and the present and the future, or at least enough of it to keep and maybe even into another chunk of stories and ideas and some stories pull out of the batch. 

Hey. what do you think, lots of stories and for those who haven't seen many of the stories that take you one heck of a bunch of people that are funny, weird, straight, no

Here's a story of me working in Canada on a TV show for Canada and how we work from how it starts, One just one main writer and then a guy from nowhere who has someone's rich dad and me, the only good working writer between those two working in Canada and was living in Sherman Oaks in California and now am going to on a TV from winter to June. How it works, the big writer who drank all day, the mystery writer has written some short stories.

Anyway, I'll tell you the story, the fights and the great Canadian Mountains and where those of you could read about two months or so. And a lot of people we made friends, lost them, almost got beat-up in a bar in town by an actual mountain man until a real-life movie star saved me and an actor from Germany and she managed to get us out.

I'll tell you where to find it in a day or two. Or you can find it amongst the others or I'll find it soon. When I find the place I'll post the posts for you. 

I'll post as soon as I find it. Most of the blog are single things but I have a few others. One of them is about how I was not paid for a movie I wrote and a friend of mine told me that it was going to be on tv.

How's that happened?