Phil Mershon
Phil Mershon was born in Portsmouth, Ohio on 30 May, 1958 to Charles and Martha Mershon. The family tired of country life and religious confusion and in 1969 moved north to the more suburban-oriented hamlet of Circleville, a town named after a peculiar type of earthworm, eventually becoming famous (the town, that is; not the family) for its annual celebration of pumpkin displays. Phil's first job was as an Emergency Room attendant at the nearby Berger Hospital, a facility which survives to this day in spite of the author's two-year stint at admitting local farmers for duck-related injuries.
It was at the much-lamented Blue Drummer Steak House that Mershon (all of sixteen years of age) first realized his dream of being a writer when he showed some vignettes of his high school classmates to a coworker who from that day forward was forced to wear rubber underwear due to the unending urination emanating from said coworker lo these many years hence, all due to the agonizing laughter that has yet to cease. The Blue Drummer also contributed to the writer's seemingly bizarre antagonism to the principles of the capitalist system. A miniature fiefdom, the restaurant where Phil served as a cook oozed such corruption in its treatment of the employees that the owner, Chuck Orr, in a fit of hysteria, inadvertently fired himself for insubordination.
While remaining in opposition to the alleged values of the American free enterprise system of economics, Mershon proved himself an able worker and a tireless advocate for whatever madness might seize his fancy at a given moment. Having begun drum lessons at age nine, often was the time that he would come home from the steak house bleeding from fry burns on both forearms, retire to his den and wail at his gold Ludwig trap set until two in the morning, all to the chagrin of kindly neighbors. His parents, the story goes, kept the local Rexall in business with their consumption of sleeping pills.
During his final years at Logan Elm High School, Phil wrote his first screenplay, a satire of drive-in movies he entitled Mellow. Although no copy of the manuscript is known to exist, the reception of a secretary at Paramount Studios does bear our attention. To quote from the rejection slip: "While we thank you for submitting your screenplay, we at Paramount do not presently accept unsolicited, handwritten manuscripts and so are returning this unread." [Emphasis added.]
Undeterred, our young hero did not trouble himself with learning the meaning of "unsolicited" and merely typed the damn thing and mailed it back COD. While more than four decades have elapsed since this daring maneuver, Paramount has yet to respond. Hope, as Emily Dickinson observed, is that thing with feathers, even if that thing is cuckoo.
But it was at Marshall University that Phil Mershon began evolving as a real writer. Believing that Hemingway was onto something when he declared a writer must write what he knows, Mershon determined to learn a few things. Much of this period involved the consumption of drink and drug. As he would later admit, "I swilled an ocean of alcohol, popped a pharmacy of pills, and slept with anyone who showed even the slightest interest. But I still found time to write everyday." Most of his writing from this period was superficially academic, but the influence of his lifestyle always permeated the most serious of texts, as when he handed in an essay in his Late Eighteenth Century English Literature class (Dr. Bruce Ardinger officiating) entitled "Jesus in a Row Boat," an essay which purported to demonstrate that it was Samuel Johnson who secretly followed James Boswell around while transcribing the original sycophant's every word. The paper received an A+ and bore the editorial observation "You have a real talent as a writer. Just don't screw up by trying to be too cute." The student took this admonition to heart.
[It is at this point in our narrative that a few names must be added to the widening sphere of influence and heartfelt affection mutually exchanged between the student and his inner circle of friends from university: Joyce Porter Mott, Rick Wilson, Paul Hormick, Steve Winn, Margaret Vanzandt, Robert Gerke, William Sullivan, John Teel, Bill Westbrook, Ruth Ann Hendrickson, Sandy Hatten, Regenia Lucas, Sandi Gardner, James Smith and Tony Fitzgerald (some passed, all treasured)--without these glorious souls, there remains no doubt that the Phil Mershon of today would be a far more miserable son of a bitch. He wishes he had a better way to say it. But he loves them one and all and always will. Their own cross to bear, perhaps.]
After an inauspicious graduation that Mershon himself claims to not recall, he set out on a Suzuki 185 with the intention of spending a few minutes in each state in alphabetical order. He arrived in Arizona thirty-five years ago and has remained there. It is left to the reader to evaluate his process in achieving his nationwide journey.
While working within the Training and Development department of American Express (2423 East Lincoln Drive, Phoenix--now a cut-rate stock brokerage the writer would not walk across the street to spit upon) he met his future common law wife, Lisa Ann Goodrich. Says Phil of this relationship: "I was patient. She married a terrific guy and had two amazing children. Then she married a guy who wasn't so terrific, but they had a decent life together for a while. I just kept biding my time, drifting in and out of servile relationships with a few marvelous women and a slew of psychopaths, the best of both camps telling me what a fucking genius I was when (a) I didn't much need their opinions and (b) what I really needed was Lisa Ann to kick me in the ass several times a day whenever I fucked up, which was often."
He continued writing and much of what he wrote during the early years of the twenty-first century remains memorable for its erudition and bite. "I had to prove my corporate training bona fides, so I submitted an article to Training & Development Magazine. Some secretary--probably the bitch from Paramount after getting demoted--said she would excerpt parts of the article for margin filler." Mershon's reaction--which can only be imagined--culminated in a senior editor agreeing to publish the piece in its entirety (eight pages--a record for the magazine) and a stint as a semi-regular contributor. Simultaneously, he landed a job with the sleazy strip club promotion glossy Playtime where each month for two years he contributed (and was paid for) his humorous observations about the clientele at gentlemen's clubs. Other magazines publishing his work during this frame include Nuvein, Hackwriters, Perfect Sound Forever and Glimmer.
During this time of modest literary success, Charles and Martha passed away. Devastated by the loss, Phil squandered his inheritance on sports cars, an opulent home and, predictably, wine and women. "I never had what it took to become an alcoholic, but I was quite accomplished at getting into destructive relationships with women. I knew that what I was doing was trying to postpone my grief. It got so bad that I developed night attacks, walking in my sleep, thinking about suicide. I had a house full of beautiful women and all I could think about was how much I wanted to die. It was embarrassingly pathetic."
Facebook served as the vehicle that would reunite the writer with his primary muse. He friended Lisa Ann and within a year they began living together. "I have had some very fine editors who helped me better say what I was trying to get across. Even the best of them could have learned something from Lisa. Any writer who ever lived will occasionally cheat the reader by refusing to dig deeper into himself to unearth a crucial character aspect or turn of plot because all writers suffer from a thing called fear. Lisa Ann would read something I had written and within minutes grab my shoulders and shake me with the news that she knew precisely what I was holding back and if I knew what was good for me I would resolve it right this minute. No one I have met has ever had that ability to understand something that isn't even there. Brilliant, she was. Just brilliant."
Following Lisa Ann's tragic death in March 2017, Phil attempted to continue the business the two of them began from their home. But he found that he did not have the heart to resume a website development and promotion business. Instead, he would pursue his writing because "That is what Lisa Ann always insisted I get back to. So I'm doing it now. Nothing is going to stop that. I owe it to myself and I owe it to her."
He now lives a life of noisy desperation and co-exists with two parrots, two cats and one loving dog named Cody. He seldom drinks, rails (with some hypocrisy) against drug use, and remains one hell of a writer.