Big Daddy Voodoo

Roller Derby Announcer, Professional Emcee, Variety Show Producer, Bon Vivant

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Read writing from Shannon D. Brown on Medium. Dreamer. Public Speaker. Variety Show Producer. Wizard. http://bigdaddyvoodoo.com. Every day, Shannon D. Brown and thousands of other voices read, write, and share important stories on Medium.

Read my blog at Medium.com!  (Sorry, I don’t update tumblr anymore.)

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Tumblr just isn’t working out as a personal website. I keep getting distracted and sharing photos dropping my relevant info to the bottom.  I’ll be moving on soon I hope.

[howling-science]

Bernie Wrightson

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I'm emceeing Ice Bound- The Masquerade at @official_chattacon this weekend! #cosplay #cheap #shamelessselfpromo #emcee (at Downtown Johnson City)

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"Late Lament" The Moody Blues Breathe deep the gathering gloom, Watch lights fade from every room. Bedsitter people look back and lament, Another day's useless energy spent. Impassioned lovers wrestle as one, Lonely man cries for love and has none. New mother picks up and suckles her son, Senior citizens wish they were young. Cold hearted orb that rules the night, Removes the colours from our sight. Red is grey and yellow white. But we decide which is right. And which is an illusion? (at Downtown Johnson City)

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And now, the story of The Devil, The Boy, and The Music Business! (at Downtown Johnson City)

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Who needs a clunky old TARDIS when one possesses an Omni! Thanks for the early birthday present @rev_chumley!!

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My Imaginary Ghost

Alone in a restaurant, I cried in public tonight.

 After driving around restless, I ended up at one of my favorite spots.   Only after I ordered did I realize it was the last place my late friend and I had shared a meal (we only had drinks the week before he died.)  I have a vivid imagination, and suddenly he was there with me. I saw him superimposed on the now just hanging out, oddly quiet. He didn't have anything to say in my imagination, he just perched in his seat watching me placidly, as he typically did when he was content.It was more than I can take, this betrayal from my most used tool, my imagination.

 It was too much! It was...good to see him. Even if it was a ghost from my imagination (I didn't really see anything, it was a scenario from my mind's eye) it FELT REAL.

That caused my stupid imagination to fire off glimpses of another friend that used to be part owner of the place. I had seen him in my imagination for months after his passing.

 For a brief panicky minute, I thought I was losing it, but then I realized, no, I was just doing what I do: using my imagination to deal with the horrors of reality.As I finished my sobs, my lifelong best friend was looking at me displeased. 

"I know," I said, " you think I should be laughing my ass off because we had almost exclusively good times for our whole lives."

Disappointment on his bearded face gave way to bemusement and he began to smile.

"I KNOW THAT, but...but.... I want MORE."

His smile became pained, then something else.

"OH MY GOD, you are going to give me that damned SMUG LOOK you get when you know I know you are right FROM THE AFTERLIFE??"

Yup. He was.

"I love you!”

There was a pause, then, now composed, I looked up from my phone directly at where I imagined him to be sitting (remember, this was all being dreamed up in my head.)

“I texted this incident to a friend She probably thinks I'm crazy, now,  but she says you are being an asshole and should let me grieve.”

He silently laughed hard, throwing his head back, bending at the waist, and slapping his knee. It was a laugh that I simultaneously always loved, and always found cringe-worthy in it’s decibel level.   I could faintly almost hear it!  

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he put on his hat, cleaned his glasses on his shirt, carefully adjusted them over his eyes to his exact satisfaction, and got up. 

He paused a moment, looking at me.

"I'll be fine. We let nothing unfinished. Don’t worry, we are all taking care of your mom.”

He nodded apparently satisfied. Then, the imaginary ghost of my friend I had known since we were 10 years old wordlessly walked off into eternity.

I couldn’t tell him, but I did have one regret.  I wish I'd hugged him when we said goodbye for the last time at the bus station. It was two weeks after we had eaten at the restaurant, we had drank some beers, and he was heading back home after working locally and  helping his mom with some medical issues. 

I had always hugged him in the parking log before going our separate ways, but this time, in a busy bus station, I didn't.  

It was a small thing. Inconsequential to both of us at the time, but now I wish we had hugged just to feel that closure now, a week after his untimely death. Maybe I'll tell him next time I see him.

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Out of the Dark Pit

Life and death are a cycle. In this case, the death was of a good friend, but I want the life to be a return to my roots, a return to writing.  He was one of the few people that believed in my writing and thought that I was foolish to pursue broadcasting, filmmaking, and eventually public speaking.  Nearly every time we met he would ask if I had written anything, and nearly every time we met, I had to disappoint him with excuses of how busy I was or how I’ve had so many other great things going that I just couldn’t find the Clarity I needed to make it happen this weekend.

Oh, I wrote!  I wrote short films, comic books, even some short stories, but they all end up the same, hidden, forgotten, and, even if I am proud of them, they end up in the dead letter office of my computer.

I’m going to break the cycle. I need to do what I love more often and do it for a potential audience (notice I’m not arrogant enough to expect anyone to actually read it.)

I need to get off my ass and write at least and essay a week on some subject. It’s going to take some time to figure out what, but I’m sure that if I can make this a good habit like walking my dog or brushing my teeth, I might be able to re-spark the fiery passion that one drove me to write like a maniac for days at a time.

I found other interests, some somewhat successful, but I never found the feeling that I was doing the Right Thing more than when I was putting my thoughts into words.  My friend knew this and tried to hold me accountable.  I urge you to also keep me accountable.  I need to turn my attention inward and this is where I can share those thoughts.  Some will be dark, but some will be hopeful, because that’s what is floating around in the ocean of briny thoughts I call a mind.

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I'm watching your social feed.

[a-heart-of-kyber]

I’m so sorry

This…this is so dumb. It makes me so happy. 

This is the best thing I’ve ever done. 

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Announcer for Hire

Heya gang, Big Daddy Voodoo here! I've got a pretty open announcing schedule after June 1 2016. If you need a pro emcee/roller derby/sports announcer that's announced a few WFTDA playoffs, feel free to drop me a line or fill out the form up above and I’ll get back to you ASAP.

If you're more than a couple hours from Johnson City, I'll need a place to stay and some gas money would go a long way to locking in my availability. (Sorry, but I work so many derby bouts a year, and, as much as I would like to, I can't afford to pay out of pocket for every one.) 

Not only am I a professional emcee, I am a very creative person available for consultation to raise the organization and quality of a number of artistic pursuits. I have announced everything from Monster Truck Races at Bristol Motor Speedway in front of 12,000 fans to Awards Banquets in front of 12 attendees. 

I've got 7+ years roller derby team management and bout production experience from my time on a team's Executive Board, and I can advise on effective organizational management techniques that could benefit most leagues.

I'm also available to train new roller derby announcers (something I've proudly done since 2011) and host non-derby events (this has become my part-time job.)

email me; bigdaddyvmail at gmail dot com

Contact Me Now- The BDV Contact Form!

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Matisse! Come Down Into the Cellar! - 7

Darkness. I hadn’t thought to bring a light.

After a quick check for horrible burn damage, I found found none. Actually, I was fine. I think the shock of the sensation was worse than the sensation itself.  There only remained a slight numb sensation from my fingers to my elbow.  Still, it took me a moment to notice the sound of soft clicks as the key weakly tried to turn itself in the lock.

“Matisse? Don’t leave me in here, Matisse!”

The key continued to rattle in the big old iron lock.  It was as if it was being tapped from the other side, a clumsy wire or probe trying to impatiently turn it in the lock.  Suddenly, I had a mental image of an unseen spectral hand trying to turn the lock in order to open the door and pull me into the darkness.

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Matisse, come down into the cellar - 6

“Can you hear me,”  I shouted into the heavy door. He only now noticed that the door was wet.  It gave off a moist sheen as if it had just experienced a light rain.  There had been no rain for weeks!

“Matisse! Join me,” it demanded.  “Matisse! It is so cool in here. So dark and q…”  

I tried to jump in before it could finish and shouted, “I have a key! I think it goes to this door! It has the name! Matisse is written on it.”

The voice paused. Then, slowly, as if deliberating, the high old man voice said, “It is a good place to rot, Matisse.”

The door had a large, iron lock. For being installed in the last 30 years, it was a relic from a much earlier time.  I stuck the key into the damp lock with a deep click.  An electric charge flowed from the key into my hand! I instinctively screamed and pulled my hand back!

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Matisse, Come Down into the Cellar - 5

“Hello?” I addressed the massive wood and iron door.  

No one answered. Leaves rustled in a light breeze. I noticed the leaves were piled against the door nearly an inch thick!  This door had obviously not been opened in a very long time.

“Then where did the voice come from,” I asked myself.

The narrow landing before the door was maybe five feet of stone floor at the bottom of the stone stairs.  The wall to the left was sheer and rose all the way to the street level. Likewise, the one ahead of him. To the right, the same sheer stone wall was interrupted by a fairly modern steel door with a curved top. To the right of the door was a small metal door labelled “coal.”  The wall containing the door and the coal chute continued up unbroken until the first floor windows that lorded over the street.

Curious, I reached over and pulled at the coal door. It seemed to be latched from the inside. It wouldn’t even rattle.

Again, I looked at the key. The fob was made of a black glass with one side containing a white rectangle with the word “Matisse” written in a formal flourished, curled handwriting sealed under the glass.  The key on the ring was an old iron skeleton key that would fit no modern door.

“MATISSE!” a voice from the large door sounded loudly making mejump!  “Matisse, come down into the cellar!”

[continued on Monday]

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Matisse, Come Down into the Cellar - 4

My Dad said that the mansion had been built ages ago to take up the corner of a lot at the corner of Bowie and Laytreya Streets. Dad said that when he was little, it’s walls reminded him of the stone towers in movies that guarded away either men wearing iron masks or princesses with impossibly long locks of hair.  On this side, most of the windows were 10 feet above the sidewalk and the only entrance was at the bottom of a stone stairwell descending beneath the street.  Dad explained that workmen used to dump coal down there where it was transferred to a bin to be shoveled as needed.  By the 1990s, coal was no longer the primary heating fuel and the mansion was converted to a modern heat pump.  The heavy cellar door was then added to lock out vagrants, thieves, and curious kids.

Suddenly I found myself standing at that large, heavy door, the heavy glass keyring in my hand! The old fashioned wide key counter-balancing it.

I knew I should go home. I knew that there was probably just something wrong with my brain and I was better off just walking by, maybe taking a different route to school!  I knew all of this, but I also knew that I had never really been afraid of the old man’s voice, even when I first heard the voice faint as a whisper the first time I was allowed to walk to school.

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Matisse, come down into the cellar - 3

I grabbed Marie’s arm and we walked faster as she protested and demanded I let her go.  This was too important, we had to get away from the cellar door beneath the stone mansion.

Later, I told my only friend at school about the key appearing where it hadn’t been when I left the house that morning.  I knew he wouldn’t tell anyone because Ham Sam was a guinea pig in our home economics class.  I had been chosen to take care of him the first day of class and found that I liked the little guy.  It wasn’t long before I was talking to him like I had never been able to talk to people.  He tried to escape a couple times and bit me once, but that’s just the kind of things that friends forgive.

I looked at the key with a magnifying glass looking for any small indication of it’s origin. It was shiny in a semi circle around the hole designed to hold it to the keyring, but then, towards the key itself, got more dull and scuffed.Iit  had been used regularly enough to polish the grime off of the key.  Shining up the grimey part, a number could be made out. 1212, the address of the stone mansion with the cellar.

How did it get there? I had only been at home and at school yesterday. I hadn’t even gone by the house Friday because I’d had a ride with my folks as they took my sister to her softball game.

Walking home from school alone on a windy fall afternoon, the sun was bright and the smell of leaves added a crispness to the wind.  Whirlwinds picked up leaves from the sidewalk and seemed to carefully deposit them behind the low wall that marked the 22 stone steps descending at the street side of the stately mansion.