MICHAEL W. MOORE JR
The Untold Story
Of One Man’s
Struggles in a World
Gone
As seen through the impartial
Eyes of Michael W. Moore JR
Based in part on the travels of
Michael W. Moore JR
Typeset by
Michael W. Moore JR
With a limited edition collector’s
Item introduction written by
Michael W. Moore JR
Watch for the made for television
Companion, starring Al Pacino as
Corey, the confused yet emotion-
Filled companion from childhood,
Robert Deniro as Marcus, the
Successful computer programmer
With suspected ties to the Mafia,
Patrick Swayze as Lori, the bubbly
And erotic love interest, and
Michael W. Moore JR as himself
Introduction.
In today’s world there are an unfathomably large number of devices with which one can cloud the true meaning of one’s existence. I myself can count about six, but I’ve been told there are many more. The important thing to remember is that when a man’s life is viewed through any sort of impartial process, these factors cannot be ignored. Michael W. Moore JR was, and is, a man just like any other, with the same needs and desires that come with the title. What made, and makes, Michael different (and I think I know him well enough to refer to him on a first-name basis) was the unique way in which he handled situations involving his particular demons. One story that springs readily to mind involves M.W. (and I know for certain he wouldn’t mind me abbreviating his name this way, regardless of the fact that we discussed it yesterday over tea and he informed me that if I ever did he would make certain that no woman ever confused me for a man again, at least from the waist down, that M.W., what a kidder) at one of the many pubs that he so likes to frequent. Casually he saunters up to one of what he likes to refer to as “those golden-haired devils, spinning their evil webs of lies and deceit, with their sole intention seemingly being the guarantial of my damnation.” and asks her if she would mind sharing a drink with him. When the inevitable smirk and giggling had passed and she was through assuring him that she would rather go through some very painful dental work than attempt any sort of conversation with someone so obviously unappealing in every way as he is, instead of becoming mad as most men would, M.W. merely crawled off to a corner of the bar where he cried himself to sleep that night. I think that says a lot about what a standup guy he is.
Now I could sit here and relate to you all sorts of anecdotes which in
their own way demonstrate the depth of character which surrounds a guy like
M.W., but a man like this will never be truly appreciated until you start to
understand where he came from. Now, before we dive into the mysteries of his
origin, his long-time suffering as a modern-day country and western star and
his phoenix-like rebirth as a social icon, I'd just like to say that I owe
everything I am today to this one great man. If after reading this, what I hope
to be the first volume in a massive tome of information regarding M.W., you
find yourself questioning his motives or unable to accept any part of his story
as anything less than the divinely inspired tale of enlightenment amidst the
chaotic backdrop of twentieth century life that it is, then I hope you spend
eternity burning in hell, thank you.
Chapter 1 – Where our hero
is born into a world wrought with greed and avarice and decides to devote his
life to searching for a way to make things better for everybody.
I was born… in a crossfire hurricane.
Well, actually that is an out and out lie and I’d just like to say that
although we might have gotten off on the wrong foot here, I assure you that
from this point out everything you read will be nothing but the God’s-honest
truth, or as nearly as I can remember it anyway. So let me try again. Contrary
to popular belief, I was not born in a small rural town in central
My father was the center of a local legend that to this day inspires the people of this simple community. He had been the mayor of the town from as far back as I can remember. One day, while joining in the trek to find the hidden waters, he had become separated from the rest of the fisherman. No one knows for certain what actually happened, but it is said that he wandered for weeks before coming to the banks of a great sea. There it is said his heart was filled with such amazing glee, for he was certain that it was his destiny to lead his people to these very waters where they could finally become the fisherman they always knew they should be. Unfortunately, never before having encountered a body of water such as this he wasn’t aware of the fact that man was not able to walk on the surface and he was soon drowned. It is said that he is still out there somewhere, floating face up with a smile, grasping firmly onto possibly the only fish that our people will ever find.
My mother was the town drunk who, while I was still very young, ran off with a techno band that was touring through the area. She has never been seen or heard from since. It may seem to the casual observer that my early years were an unhappy time for me, luckily, for me anyway, things are not always what they seem to the casual observer. For I had what the people in my community called “Tanzbein”, which literally translated means “dancing legs” and whenever I was down I could always find comfort in the sweet release of dance. Oh how I danced when I learned from the neighborhood gossip that I would never again see my parents and would forever more be labeled as what my people call a “Bastard”. I danced with a fever burning inside of me, I danced the dance of the blue turtles, I danced like the wind and I would even say that I was dancing like I never danced before…. Oh yes, I was a maniac. And the curative effects of this dance made it so I felt no pain in the loss of my family and I realized that it was high time that I took charge of my own life, and from then on I was a man.
All this happened on the eve of my seventh birthday. I was the talk of the town then, for everyone who saw me dance could not help but become mesmerized by the purity of grace in my movements. All of the young girls in my town wanted to take me as their own, for it was the custom there that the women choose a man, and did so at a rather young age, at least by modern standards that I have seen employed elsewhere. So it was that a very nasty spat ensued amongst all of the seven year old girls in our town, which lasted for several hours, deep into the night and on, until dawn declared the winner by the fact that she was the last one standing. She was a delicate little flower with an outer beauty that was only outshone by the loveliness of that which was on the inside. We all called her little Nikki, Her full name was Nicole Kidman, and I sometimes wonder what happened to her for events which would later transpire kept us from ever fulfilling our vows to be married.
At the age of 12 I had already been involved in what I like to refer to as “the fisherman’s folly” for five rather uneventful years. Unlike the rest of my comrades however, I had begun to doubt whether or not any of this walking was ever going to amount to anything if, at the end of everyday, we continued to just turn around and walk home empty handed. As crazy as it may have sounded to those in the tight-lipped fishing circle that I talked to, it seemed to me that maybe we should all do as my father had in the legend and keep walking past sundown, stopping of course when we reached the water, no disrespect intended of course, but life can’t be lived directly from legend can it? My arguments were ignored and I was instructed that if I wanted to remain a member of the fisherman’s union, I had better not be spreading my disrespect for established ways out into the community.
Such threats could not my natural born curiosity quell however and so it was that one day, as the sun was beginning to make its long decent into night, and a few of the local fisherman had just started arguing over whether or not they might find a spot to fish if they just kept going for a few more hours, I crept silently away and was never again seen by the fisherman or their families. (Although I did write to them for years to come, vigorously trying to convince them to become farmers or carpenters, or just anything in general with a more lucrative future.)
That first night alone my heart was aflutter, for I had no idea what awaited me in the great big world beyond the boundaries of the fishermen’s hikes. I found myself looking at the world in a brand new light, every nuance of nature’s beauty springing forth to my eyes, overwhelming my spirit with a feeling that certainly I had made the right decision and from this point forward whatever I chose to do would certainly turn out for the best. I walked along in this manner until darkness had surrounded me for quite some time before deciding to retire for the night. To this day I find myself forced to choke back tears as I recall the events that, unbeknownst to me, were about to transpire and keep me from continuing in my father’s footsteps.
As I was unrolling my bedding, my mind was drawn to a singular sound, such as I had never before heard. It was at once hollow yet full, piercing yet soothing, and I could not resist its powerful call. It was the distinctive lonely sound of a bell off in the distance, accompanied by what sounded like water lapping gently against land. Throwing my bedding hurriedly back into my knapsack, I raced off into the night in the direction of those beautiful yet unknown sounds. Unfortunately I had not gone twenty yards when I tripped over something in the dark and fell, banging my head on a large rock on the way down, and that would prove to be the end of my dreams of freedom and personal enlightenment, at least for the time being. For while I slept, a traveling band of gypsies happened upon me, and seeing a helpless soul alone in the night, carried me off in one of their many dilapidated, though gaily ornamented carts, after relieving me of the assumed unwanted burden of all my worldly possessions.
To the surprise of the seemingly
naïve gypsies, I was not at all pleased when I awoke to find myself penniless
and without the supplies necessary to continue my journey. The more I gazed
blankly around at my new surroundings the more I realized that I could pretty
much pen down the reason for my situation without having to resort to any kind
of harsh generalizations. The gypsies were, to a man, either wearing, or
carrying, or in one or more varying forms displaying to me who the new owners
of my stuff were. Once this realization dug through the layers of confusion
pervading my brain I immediately flew into a rage and began wildly attacking
those gypsies who had been bold enough to carry my more expensive possessions
in open view. While my somewhat impolite actions might have momentarily
confused my new found benefactors, they recovered their composure with
practiced ease and quickly decided that the most salutary answer to the problem
at hand would be to smack this madman on the head each time I awoke so that
perhaps the ensuing sleep time might help to clear my mind. After several days
of this, I began to see things their way.
Chapter Two – Where Mike is possessed by the soul of a dead rock star
and decides to move to
The time that I spent with the gypsies was a very serendipitous time. I would teach the gypsies things like the concept of ownership and the gypsies would teach me things like how to tolerate people staring blankly at you for extended periods of time. The gypsies really did love me though, for I was seen as somewhat of an oddity in there camp, and if anyone can appreciate a good oddity, its gypsies. They tried their best to raise me honestly, and it was a groundbreaking decision in gypsy society when they decided to keep me away from thievery and drunkenness until I was at least 16.
During my stay with the gypsies I was oftentimes beset by mysterious visions as I slept. One morning, after a particularly disturbing dream I decide to go to the camp psychiatrist to see if he had any words of advice for me. The gypsy psychiatrist was a mysterious man with unnatural powers that they others could not grasp and so naturally they were afraid of him. His tent was set off in the back of the camp, apparently where he could practice his arcane art without attracting too much attention from the general populace of the camp. As I walked to his tent early that morning it seemed that all of my gypsy brethren were watching and praying that my visit would not turn into personal disaster for me, since the gypsy shrink would from time to time prescribe strange cures for his patients which more often than not caused them to call into doubt their honorable profession as thieves.
As I entered the tent of the gypsy psychiatrist I was immediately struck by the sparseness of furnishings. The withered old man sat alone at a desk, this and the chair in which he sat were the lone pieces of furniture save an ancient leather couch, which was situated in somewhat awkward proximity to them. The remaining three-quarters of the tent were empty. On his desk rested a solitary book, which had a single unknown word of obviously foreign origin on its cover. The word was ‘FREUD”.
“Good morning my friend,” The doctor said to me in what I can only describe as an incredibly subtle, threatening manner as I cautiously poked my head in through the flap of his tent. “Why don’t you step inside and tell me how I can be of service to you.”
Awkwardly I crossed the threshold of his domicile and said with cracking voice, “Well sir-eeEE! …. Ahem. That is, well it’s nothing really, I’ve just found myself having this dream recently, and you know I really shouldn’t be bothering you. I mean, I’m sure you’re a very busy man…”
“Nonsense, nonsense, go ahead, why don’t you lie down on my couch and make yourself comfortable?”
“Lie down on your couch?” I asked, not sure if I liked where this was going at all.
“Of course, just relax and tell me about this dream of yours.” The old man said grinning a grin that seemed to me to be the smile that a predator might give his prey just before devouring him in a single massive bite
I was overcome by a sudden urge to just flee from this place and never return, my desire to find serenity in sleep however overcame my apprehensions about being there so I laid down on his couch and began to relate to him the story of my dream.
“The dream I have is pretty much the same thing every night.” I began “I’m walking through a grove of trees and, looking down, a particular stick catches my attention so I pick it up.” After several long months of keeping the dream to myself, the relating of it to this old man made me feel so relieved that within moments I was warming to the gypsy shrink and beginning to think of him more as an eccentric with a kind heart rather than the lunatic I had been assured by my friends at the gypsy camp he was, and soon found my tale flowing out of me like a river which has found an opening in its dam.
“I place the stick in a belt loop and I continue along in the woods. I am dressed casually, as if anticipating such a walk, except I am wearing a rather fancy necktie. I am also carrying a Cuisinart. I come across a young woman, alone in the woods, who asks me if she may touch my stick. I seem very embarrassed and begin looking around for something to alleviate this suddenly awkward situation. I notice two children who without warning appeared next to me and I suggest to the woman that she play with them and leave me and my stick alone.
“The three begin to play together, and for some reason this makes me feel very happy and relaxed. Suddenly the entire scene disappears and I find myself standing in some kind of shop. For sale here are all sorts of weapons and tools, umbrellas, nail files and luggage. I look to the counter and notice that the proprietor of the shop is a very large; I’d say about six-foot tall, snail. I am startled when the snail smiles at me and immediately run out of the shop. Looking up at the sign outside I see that the shop is called the number three, a fact that strikes me as rather odd.
“The rest of the dream focuses on a rather disconcerting barrage of images to include hats, buildings, hands and feet, all sorts of complicated machinery and a ploughshare.”
And that was my story. I must admit that I had prepared myself for various responses to this amazing dream but none of these could have primed me in the least for the bizarre manner in which the gypsy shrink was to reply…he stared at me. He stared at me with an intensity that I had never before experienced in a stare. At times the intensity seemed to fade and looked as if it might be replaced by a kinder look, merely quizzical, but these flashes would quickly pass and be replaced by that harsh, soul-devouring penetration of the eyes that I to this day cannot help but shudder to recall.
Finally, when I thought that I must surely break into tears from the pressure of his gaze, he spoke to me.
“Genitals.” He said.
“Excuse me.” I replied, imagining that I must have missed some key part of his response or if nothing else misheard that single word.
“Your dream…” he continued, “is about…” and at this point he flared one eyebrow in a knowing manner, as if we shared some great secret, “Genitals.” Having said this he leaned back in his chair as if all were made clear by his cryptic utterings of complete nonsense.
“What the hell are you talking about?!” I screamed in a rather contained fashion given the circumstances. I mean here I had just laid my cards out on the table if you will, opened myself up completely, and all he had to say was “Genitals”?
“I’m talking about your dream and how it is so clearly centered on genitals.” The maniac raved.
“Anyone’s genitals in particular or just genitals in general?” I said, attempting to introduce some humor into this twisted conversation.
“Now see here boy. You’ll do well to mind your manners. You after all are the one that came to me with this dream that so clearly reeks of sexual perversion and I am merely doing my best to help you understand it.” It was becoming increasingly apparent to me that the old man was long overdue for some kind of regulatory medication, but I allowed him to continue so as not to appear rude.
“To begin with you say that you are walking through a grove of trees and see a stick.” While he talked I couldn’t help but think to myself that the rest of the gypsy camp might do them a favor by extending the definition of the “edge of the camp” out a few thousand yards.
“According to Freud and his interpretation of dreams, all elongated objects such as tree-trunks and sticks clearly represent the male ‘member’.”
“Is that so?” I say, hoping that the man I am now sitting with is merely psychotic and not violent as well.
“Clearly.” He says as my gaze begins to dart around the room, looking for an exit that might be more easily reached than the one I came in by.
“Furthermore, you say that you are wearing a necktie and that you come across a young lady who asks if she may touch your stick. Freud says that neckties are also symbols of the penis due to the fact that neckties hang down in front and are characteristic of men. I hope that I don’t have to explain too thoroughly why the young lady wishing to touch your ‘stick’ is a perfect example of the manifestation of sexual frustration in your dream.”
“Oh no, of course not.” II respond for the simple fact that I had at that point decided that my safest recourse would be to gently smile and nod and agree with whatever the freak has to say until I could ease my way out of there and never, under any circumstances, return.
“Before I forget I would also like to point out that you said you were carrying a cuisinart, a rather odd thing to be traveling through the woods with were it not for the fact that Freud says in dreams all complicated machines and appliances are quite probably the genitals.”
“Aaahh…” I say, wondering to myself why exactly it seemed like a good idea to go to the biggest freak in a campful of freaks for advice in the first place.
“And when you say that the sudden emergence of two children is an act which happens in order to relieve your discomfort I am brought once again to Freud who says that small children in dreams signify the genitals.”
“Well of course they would.” I say, as if all of this is becoming absolutely clear to me.
“This point is made certain when you say that as the woman begins to play with the children you yourself begin to feel happy and relaxed!” The psychosis of the man is never as apparent as at this point in the conversation due to his vast air of assurance and self-confidence, a state which could only be achieved by a man raving in such a manner if he were lost completely in his own little world. I decide that it would take a far better man than me to convince him otherwise and stick to my strategy of smiling and nodding.
“Mmm-hmm, well that’s nice but I really must be…”
“So afterwards you say that you are magically whisked away to a shop which sells among other things genitals, genitals, genitals, genitals and finally genitals.”
“Well I’m not entirely sure that that is exactly what I said, actually I believe it was more like…”
“…Weapons, tools, nail files, umbrellas and luggage all of which are images of the genitals when seen in dreams.” The good doctor finished for me.
“Silly me, of course. Now as I was saying about leaving.”
“Not until I explain to you how the snail, the number three and your menagerie of images at the end of your dream all relate to the genitals…”
But unfortunately I would not be in attendance for the rest of his lecture, for at that point I said to myself, “screw it!” and got the hell out of there. From that day on I have steered myself away from any sort of mental health institutes as I see them for the nonsense they are.
I rejoined the rest of the gypsies in the camp, who were happy to see that I had not fallen under the evil magic of the gypsy shrink, and the years passed until finally the day of my sixteenth birthday had arrived. None of the gypsies actually knew when I was born, and I myself was a bit unclear on that among other things ever since banging my head on that rock all those years ago, so the gypsies decided it would be March 11th, the day they discovered me.
That night a party the likes of which the gypsy camp had never before, or most likely since, seen was thrown. The fatted lamb was slaughtered and thrown on the fire for feasting on. The finest wines in the camp were brought from storage and uncorked for drinking from, and a primitive stage was set up and covered with plastic tarps for topless oil wrestling upon. The beauty of it all was almost too much for me to bear. My soul was filled to bursting with fantastic images beyond comprehension. I quickly realized however, that a strange entity was entering my being. My own spirit seemed to be suddenly thrust out of my body by sheer force of will from the intruding entity. It may have just been the alcohol, but I honestly don’t believe so. I found myself floating higher and higher with no control over my final destination.
Meanwhile, whatever presence had caused the expulsion of my spirit from my body had taken control of said body and was forcing it to recite Nietze and dance around the bonfire in what I took for the style of the American Indians. I watched helplessly as the rest of the gypsy camp seemed to slowly come under the influence of some mass hypnotic spell and begin to follow my body, imitating its strange, circular dance around the bonfire.
Suddenly, without warning, my body leapt atop one of the gypsies many carts, tilted back its head, flung out its arms and declared in a deeply resonating voice, “I am the Gypsy King!!!I can do anything!” With this declaration out of the way, my body apparently decided that what it wanted most to do was fall from the top of a gypsy cart and pass out cold.
With my body down and out of the mix, the members of the gypsy camp began to slowly awaken from their mesmerized states and stare blankly at each other for a few moments before dispersing the area and heading back to their respective tents. As for me, not long after my body’s collapse I noticed the world beginning to spin erratically and the ground come rushing up to meet me. After that I blacked out.
When I finally awoke the next
morning, I realized that last night I had experienced an epiphany from which
there was no turning back. I announced my intention to leave my friends at the
gypsy camp and head to
My friends at the camp ignored the crazy old fool, as they had grown accustomed over the years to doing, and though they were indeed sad to see me go, they knew in their hearts that last night I had become a man and had to make my own decisions, however misguided or silly they might be.
To demonstrate their goodwill towards my dreams of stardom, the gypsies immediately retreated to their tents and quickly and with no small fanfare, began to produce nearly half of the stuff that they had stolen from me that first night oh so many years ago (although to be completely honest I must admit that almost all of it had through the years become worn and nearly, if not completely, useless) and bid me Godspeed and good luck.
I will never forget that long walk out of the
gypsy camp. Even now I can see the scene clearly in my mind, like a picture
frozen in time. All those happy gypsy faces seemed to be covered by little
frowny face masks. Gypsies truly are a joyful people, and any emotion short of
absolute bliss just does not mesh with their whole persona. I almost began to
regret my decision to leave, but I reassured myself with the knowledge that all
of the great wisdom they had shared with me over the years would always be with
me.
Chapter Three – Where Mike impersonates a 19-year old Russian girl in
order to gain passage to
Before I left
them, one of the gypsies mentioned to me that a good way to get to
I will be the first to admit that this
point in my life was not what you would call my finest hour; a man does what he
must to get by though. While I was awaiting the reply to my advertisement, I
decided to get a job at one of the local bars to earn some spending cash for
the trip.
If there’s one complimentary thing that can be said about gypsies it’s that they’re a creative bunch. They have to be, what else they got going for them? It’s not like they’re apt to go get night jobs to support themselves. Just the opposite, they earn their dough the old-fashioned way - concocting elaborate schemes to take advantage of the gullible and foolish. Sometimes these schemes involve passing themselves off as entertainers in order to lure the unwitting sucker into a false sense of security whilst they rob him blind. It should therefore come as no surprise to the reader that during my time with the gypsies I had become a more than adequate guitarist. I decided to use these talents to land me a “gig” performing for the local townsfolk. Little did I realize that this would prove to be more difficult than it at first seemed.
From bar to bar I traversed, pleading my case with the management and attempting to demonstrate my formidable skills with the six-stringed melody maker. More often than not I found myself flatly refused without so much as an audition. The instances where I was fortunate enough to convince them to listen to me play, and just let me say that these performances were truly inspired events the likes of which by all reasoning should have landed me rich rewards indeed, resulted inexplicably in my being laughed out of the various establishments and feeling as though I might have overestimated my musical skills.
After being thrown off the stages of all of the more prestigious night spots in town, I decided that it might pay to lower my standards a bit and started hanging out at the seedier dives. To my dismay, even the seediest of these seemed to have no interest in my guitar-related talents. All seemed lost as the last few dollars of my savings dwindled to pennies before realizing that this was no way to live, at which time they quickly disappeared altogether.
I began to immerse
myself in a lifestyle of self-destructive behaviors. I would carelessly enter
restaurants with not only no shoes but no shirt as well, and demand service in
blatant violation of the posted signs. I would speak loudly in church while the
priest was delivering his sermon. I ate cheese before
It was during this
dark period that I finally got my first big break. Traipsing around the
outskirts of town, I happened upon an establishment by the name of “The Lonely
Sailor Bar and Lounge”. Expecting nothing more than perhaps a handout from some
kindly, drunken sailor, I entered the bar and took a seat up front near the
stage; leaning my guitar, the one possession that I had dared not pawn as it
was my last link to those elusive dreams of stardom that filled my every waking
moment, against the table next to me...