WORD DEPOSITORY

Cory D. Byrom twitter.com/cdbyrom

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Episode 1

Listen to Episode 1 by Unknown Caller #np on #SoundCloud

Episode 1 of Unknown Caller, bringing you true anonymous stories. 

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This is my new podcast. Share it!

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Today I’m launching a new podcast called Unknown Caller. Unknown Caller is a podcast of anonymous storytelling. What story would you tell if no one knew it was you? Call 303-800-5432 and record a story in the Unknown Caller voicemail box (don't worry, no one will answer). Stories can be a short as a sentence or two, or as long as it takes to get it out. This is a place for you to get a story out there that you might not necessarily want associated with your name. Something crazy you did in your youth? Something you've been wanting to get off your chest? Something embarrassing that you can't bear to tell people face to face? This is the show for you! Available on iTunes and Stitcher. Like the Unknown Caller facebook page to stay in the loop. Episode 1 is up now.

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Blind in Love

By Cory D. Byrom I fell in love with Ben the second time I saw him. He was a tour guide for Classic New York, one of those double-decker bus tours that takes you all over Manhattan, pointing out lo...

This is a short story I wrote to read at Write Club Atlanta, a literary competition where writers go head to head on opposing sides of an idea (ie, this one was “Work” vs “Play”, and I had “Play”). I don’t write fiction much, but I’m pretty proud of this story.  The site here is called gutwrench., and they’re posting all sorts of great stories. Check the other sout as well.

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Hot In The Shade: Four Crazy Crazy Nights (And Days) Aboard The 2014 KISS Kruise - Stereogum

Back in October I went on the KISS Kruise and wrote about it for Stereogum. Relive the fun now!

[pijessicajones-deactivated20170]

I was reminded of this in class one day when I commented on a Halloween party I had attended. A couple had dressed their nine-month-old son in a dress and a bonnet. I brought up the example in a discussion of the subtle differences in treatment of boys and girls that could affect later sex differences. The infant was very uncomfortable in the dress; its full skirt kept getting caught between his legs, and the snug fit of the bodice prevented him from moving his arms freely. His plight made me notice for the first time how constricting baby girls’ clothing is. As one of the major differences observed between girls and boys is level of activity, I speculated in class that sex differences in infants’ clothing could exaggerate that difference by restricting girls’ freedom of movement. The class however, paid no attention to my speculation. They could not get beyond the idea of dressing a baby boy as a baby girl. One female student said, “When you described it, my first reaction was that it was cruel.” Cruel not because the dress limited the child’s movements, not because he would suffer any lasting harm from spending a few hours in girls’ clothing, but cruel because a boy was being made into a girl-and thus devalued.

Virginia Valian in her book Why So Slow? The Advancement of Women (via imaythrowuponya)

"but cruel because a boy was being made into a girl-and thus devalued." Sometimes I honestly hate the world so much

(via thewhatup)

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Hot In The Shade: Four Crazy Crazy Nights (And Days) Aboard The 2014 KISS Kruise

I went on the KISS Kruise IV and told the tale to Stereogum. Read all about it and share the fun!

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Check me out on the RISK! podcast this week telling my story "Wild Stuff" about getting busted w/ a porn video when I was in 8th grade. It's a hoot! All three of the other stories are really good too. Basically, RISK! is always awesome, only this time I'm on it too.

Song: RISK! Theme by Wormburner and John Sondericker

Song: Swan’s Splashdown by Perrey and Kingsley

Live Story: In Our Birthday Suits by Rachel Pendergrass

Live Story: Wild Stuff by Cory Byrom

Live Story: A Piece of Cake by Rob Lathan

Live Story: Worth It by Emily Parker

Song: Tough Love by Jessie Ware 

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RISK

RISK! is a live show and podcast “where people tell true stories they never thought they’d dare to share in public” hosted by Kevin Allison, of the legendary TV sketch comedy troupe The State. The award-winning live show happens monthly in New York and Los Angeles. It’s featured people like Janeane Garofalo, Lisa Lampanelli, Kevin Nealon, Margaret Cho, Marc Maron, Sarah Silverman, Lili Taylor, Rachel Dratch, Andy Borowitz and more, dropping the act and showing a side of themselves we’ve never seen before. The weekly podcast gets hundreds of thousands of downloads each month. Slate.com called it “jaw-dropping, hysterically funny, and just plain touching.

Buy your tickets now for Risk live in Atlanta on Thursday. I'm one of four storytellers, telling a lurid tale of pornography, severed friendships, and brotherhood. It'll be a hoot!

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Why My Family Marches in the Pride Parade

Here's a little thing I wrote about the Pride parade in Atlanta, and why my family marches.

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This is from the first Write Club show I did, going up against the talented, charming, and dashing Nick Tecosky in a bout of "Work vs Play". Take a listen and see how I did.

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Truth

Last week I took part in a Write Club bout (http://writeclubatlanta.com) at Eddie's Attic in Decatur, Georgia. My theme was "Truth". I struggled with the topic, false-starting a few short story pieces before I finally just wrote from my gut. This piece is a bit on the preachy side, but it's from my heart. This version includes links to all my random references. Enjoy.

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I turned 37 years old last Sunday. As I round the corner towards 40, there are a few truths I've had to accept. I'm entering the stage of life where my body isn't going to work like it used to. My weight is harder to keep under control. My joints ache more than they used to. I can't drink until the wee hours of the morning and still function like a normal human being the next day. That's not to say I don't still drink until the wee hours of the morning on occasion, just that now it leads to a full day of regretful recovery. I've had a pain in my side for 10 years, the source of which no doctor has found. So we've stopped trying to figure it out. At 37, it's become my own personal example of that Louis C.K. bit: I just have an incurable shitty side now. That is just part of my life.

My father died of a heart attack when he was 60 years old. Though he had battled a weight problem for most of his adult life, he exercised daily and had no known health issues. My mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease when she was 61. These two facts do not leave me with a very positive outlook about my own future past another 20 years or so. But I can't spend too much time dwelling on all of this, beyond doing what I can to take care of myself in the meantime.

Instead, I turn my focus to my three children. They are young. The world stretches out before them as an endless vista to be explored, with no darkness at the end of what they see in front of them as a very brightly lit tunnel. They have a long way to go. There are truths about the world they've yet to learn; truths I'd rather they didn't have to.

The cold hard truth. The naked truth. The truth hurts. Policy of truth? Moment of truth? Do you want new wave or do you want the truth? Some days I'm sure I'd prefer new wave. You can't handle the truth. Ain't it the truth?

My kids must learn the truth of living in a world where unarmed black teenagers are gunned down, often by the very police officers sworn to protect and serve them, and in the midst of widespread protest, there will be those who rally behind the shooter. The world will attempt to smear the dead teenager's reputation, as if any amount of angry faces in photographs, marijuana usage, or petty theft justifies being shot dead in the street. My kids have to learn that since they themselves are white, this is a threat that doesn't necessarily reach them, a fact that I am both horrified by and thankful for.

They must learn that if their bodies betray their gender identity, and they take steps to correct that, they will be called freaks. They will be mocked, insulted, and attacked. There are those who will condemn them to hell if they discover they prefer the love and companionship of their own sex; total strangers who will fight against them with their voices, their votes, and their dollars. There will be those who use religion to justify their hatred, quoting bible verses as they vomit bile all over the one pure thing we all claim to celebrate: love. God is love, but god hates fags? That can't be the truth.

My kids must learn that even if they fight to get the good guy (or gal) elected, The President is still going to drop bombs on houses on the other side of the world, killing countless innocent people in the name of freedom and, oddly enough, peace. They must learn that sometimes, that's the only way. And that there are many people around the world that we will simply never be able to help.

They must learn that a great many people believe that the planet is ours to use and abuse however we see fit, and that respecting the planet is such a joke that they'll outfit their pickups to blow even more exhaust smoke just for fun. They'd rather roll the dice on an ongoing environmental crisis, even in the face of overwhelming evidence from the scientific community (who they don't trust anyway) than be even slightly inconvenienced in the name of conservation.

This may seem like a bleak outlook to present to my children, whom I love and want nothing but the best for. But believe me when I say I am not a pessimist. I do not think all hope is lost. I do not pine for the “good ol' days” or feel that the world is spiraling down the toilet. These truths are not the only truths. We are not fucked.

Gimme some truth. Tell the truth! Other truths. A different kind of truth. Don't believe the truth? We hold these truths to be self-evident: peace, love, and truth.

Striving for peace is not a cliché holdover from simpler times. The truth of violence is that it's a destructive force with a much greater reach than the here and now. It spirals out in ever widening circles, infecting all who come in contact with it. Yes I want my children to fight: for themselves, their loved ones, and their beliefs. But they must fight with their hearts, their minds, and their ideas.

Love can conquer hatred. It may not save the next teenager, whether they're black, gay, transgender, poor, depressed, or simply afraid. It may not save the one after that. But over time, love is the spotlight that shines into the darkness and causes the cockroaches to scatter. Even the darkest, most hateful hearts can be transformed by love. Love leads to understanding. Understanding leads to acceptance. Acceptance leads to celebration.

Truth. At the very core of our existence, there is truth. My kids must learn to find the truth, uncover it, expose it for all to see. Without the truth, we are hopeless. We must fight for truth, tearing the wool from the eyes of those who refuse to see it. Truth is the number one agent of change, the weapon peace wields, the platform love stands on.

Clearly there are two versions of the truth at play. One version weeps for our losses, while the other rejoices for our ability to change the future for the better. I cannot choose which one my children accept. I can only guide them with my words and through my actions. I can embrace those who are different from me and celebrate those differences. I can respect the people of this world, all of them, even those who have committed the most grievous offenses. I can do my best to respect and protect our planet. I can read a preachy, self-serious, liberal-dad manifesto to a room full of strangers, even though my kids are too young to attend, and getting a sitter is expensive, so their mom isn't even here either. I can try.

In the absence of truth, those who tell the truth shall die. Those who tell the truth shall live forever. Truth will out. You will know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.

[cimorene]

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They dang found Lewis.

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I did things in my 30s that were ignored by the world, that could have been quickly labeled a failure. Here’s a classic example; in 1974 I did a movie called Phantom of the Paradise. Phantom of the Paradise, which was a huge flop in this country. There were only two cities in the world where it had any real success: Winnipeg, in Canada, and Paris, France. So, okay, let’s write it off as a failure. Maybe you could do that. But all of the sudden, I’m in Mexico, and a 16-year-old boy comes up to me at a concert with an album - a Phantom of the Paradise soundtrack- and asks me to sign it. I sign it. Evidently I was nice to him and we had a nice little conversation. I don’t remember the moment, I remember signing the album (I don’t know if I think I remember or if I actually remember). But this little 14 or 16, whatever old this guy was… Well I know who the guy is now because I’m writing a musical based on Pan’s Labyrinth; it’s Guillermo del Toro. The work that I’ve done with Daft Punk it’s totally related to them seeing Phantom of the Paradise 20 times and deciding they’re going to reach out to this 70-year-old songwriter to get involved in an album called Random Access Memories. So, what is the lesson in that? The lesson for me is being very careful about what you label a failure in your life. Be careful about throwing something in the round file as garbage because you may find that it’s the headwaters of a relationship that you can’t even imagine it’s coming in your future.

Paul Williams  (via albinwonderland)

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The Truth of the Matter

A question that has been posed to me time and time again in the past months is, “aren’t you afraid of something bad happening to you because of this?”  My answer has been, every time, an unwavering, “no”.  Every time, that answer has been a lie.                The truth of the matter is, yes, I am afraid.  I am afraid because I have been bombarded with very specific, graphic death threats from a man I drew.  I am afraid because I know he lives within driving distance of me.  I am afraid because my information has become incredibly public.  I am afraid because I am a small woman and he is a big man.  But more than anything, I am afraid because the police just don’t seem to care.  

I am afraid to speak up, but I am more afraid of staying silent.  This is the truth of the matter.

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RIP People’s Poet

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The Real Thing

In 1989, a band called Faith No More released their breakthrough album The Real Thing. I'll always remember that it came out that year, because the tape was in my pocket when I went flying off the hood of my brother's 1972 Chevy Malibu, cracking my head across the asphalt when I landed. It took a coupl'a dozen stitches to keep my brains from slowly seeping out, but all things considered it wasn't that serious. I was back at school in a week or so, where I was welcomed back by classmates who'd heard all sorts of twisted versions of what had happened to me, ranging from simple misconceptions, like I'd been hit by someone rather than falling off a car I'd willingly got up onto, to outlandish tales, one of which involved falling into a pool and being mauled by a dog. What actually happened was pretty mundane: I'd gotten off the school bus and was walking toward my house when my brother drove up. He told me to get in the car and he'd drive me the rest of the way, but instead I said “I'll just hop up on the hood.” He hit the gas a little too hard, and I bounced off the windshield. It was an honest mistake, though he was understandably broken up by it while I was in the hospital. I used his guilt to my advantage for quite some time, just as any shithead little brother would do.

As is often the case with head injuries, I don't remember too much about the events after I bounced off the windshield and took to the air, but the one clear memory I have of it all is sitting in the middle of the road with my arms folded on my knees, head down, staring at a record I'd been carrying with me called Freddy's Greatest Hits. This record featured A Nightmare on Elm Street villain Freddy Krueger singing originals like “Do the Freddy”, and “Down in the Boiler Room” as well as classic covers like “Wooly Bully” (Freddy wore a wool sweater, see), and “In the Midnight Hour”(pretty self explanatory). I don't know why this record isn't more well known.

While I was sitting there staring at Freddy's disfigured, smiling face, I thought I was going to die. Would this really be it? My final moments staring at a novelty horror record? That didn't seem right. My final moments should've been doing something badass, like headbanging to Guns 'n' Roses or giving the finger to a teacher. They got me in an ambulance (where I promptly vomited), got me to the hospital, and had me stitched up in no time, though. There would still be plenty of time to give the finger to a teacher. It would probably be a little while before I was up for headbanging, though.

Remembering this scene got me thinking about how it's sort of unfair that we can't choose what our final moments will be. If I'd died that day, I'd be remembered as a huge fan of A Nightmare on Elm Street (and, for the record, I have always strongly preferred Friday the 13th) and the band Faith No More, who, admittedly, I do love to this day, but still. The tape was in my pocket that day because I'd somehow managed to convince the bus driver to let us listen to it on the ride home. If I'd died, maybe she would've gone out and bought it herself to play on the bus in tribute to me. “He just loved novelty music and rock songs with rapping in them,” they'd say at my funeral. Then they'd play Freddy's version of The Everly Brothers' “All I Have to do is Dream” while everyone sobbed.

It makes me think about any number of embarrassing things I did or was into at various points in my life. Most of these things were mere blips on the radar that quickly faded as my life went on, but thank god I didn't die. I mean, in high school I was really into plaid. I had several plaid suits (at least one of which was actually meant for a woman; my mom removed the shoulder pads before she gave it to me). And if I'd died? “I always said he should've been born Scottish!” they'd wail as they lowered my tartan casket into the grave. Or how about the novel I worked on throughout my first couple of years of college? To call it a Douglas Adams ripoff would be insulting to Douglas Adams. “I'm going to send this around to publishers, see if I can get some interest. It really was his life's work!” my mother might say. Dear god.

So, if I had actually died that day after falling off the hood of my brothers car, I can't help but think that the real tragedy would be that 7th grade me would be preserved in the memories of my friends and family, this little chubby kid with a mullet, wearing a jean jacket with the KISS face-paint painted on the back. Regardless of whatever else I had accomplished at that admittedly young age, for all of history, this would be the definitive me, the true Cory Byrom. The real thing.