Upon returning home to my mother’s little house in Springfield, Virginia after Nirvana’s 1992 world tour, I followed my usual homecoming routine of dumping my entire suitcase full of soiled clothes into her old washing machine in the garage, rooting through her fridge full of delicious, comfort-food leftovers like a…

“Check…one, two….” I turned out the lights, pressed record on the Realistic CTR-71 portable cassette recorder sitting on the windowsill beside my bed, and as my head hit the pillow I began to speak. What was once a device only used for listening to homemade mix-tapes of my favorite punk…

My sweet mother stood there scowling and covering her ears behind the patio door as the final squeaks and pops of my Virginia-legal-sparkler-fountain-thing scattered its dying embers across the backyard of my childhood home. This was not the first time I had heard her say these words, of course. She…

Hi. My name is Dave. Sometimes I play drums. Sometimes I play guitar. Sometimes I tell stories. I’m currently looking for work, so I thought I’d pass the time by writing true short stories that will make people smile.(I’m also a total fucking spaz who can’t sit around doing nothing) My mother was a brilliant English teacher, my father a wicked speechwriter, so I decided to rebel by not paying attention to grammar and/or punctuation in school. (That, and cranking death metal 24/7 from my bedroom stereo) So…have mercy. Not going for a Nobel Prize in Literature here.