About Me
SEE ALSO...this myspace's blog for Guy's professional resume/bio.....................ALSO SEE ALSO..............youtube.com/Guyjjackson.......myspace.com/
lightbuoyfilms....myspace.com/sirworkhovenfilms........myspa
ce.com/continuityerrorsprdctns.....myspace.com/thepeteandguy
show.......myspace.com/britishbits.....myspace.com/continuit
yerrorspartvii......myspace.com/chipwashingtonfilms.........
...pioneerdrama.com..........lazygramophone.com.............
..................'storytellinguy jj' is not actually Guy J. Jackson's real name, but Guy J. Jackson is. 'storytellinguy jj' is sort of a flimsy fake of a band name, because Guy J. Jackson is actually only a storyteller BUT NOT one of those quote unquote 'storytellers' that tells you stuff by 18th Century Russian folklorists, the Brothers Grimm, Aesop, those dudes, and Guy would like to make that distinction really quite clear because once he got shown out the door of a storytellers' open mic night because it had actually turned out to be a folklorists' open mic night even though it was advertised as a storytellers' open mic night. Not to say that Guy doesn't agree with folklorists, it's just that maybe possibly slightly a little bit Guy would like to advance the idea folklorists should be called 'folklorists' unless they do original material in which case they could then be called 'storytellers'. But of course when you get to the last door in the corridor and open it the wise man behind it always points out that semantics are crap. Anyway Guy tells his own stories that he writes his own self. But point being hopefully none of the actual musicians on myspace will get their panties in a bunch because a storyteller is sidling into their ranks so he can use the audio clip thingy. Semantically speaking and all. Though Guy J. Jackson's stories even often have musical underscoring. And the stories are meant to be as pleasurable as music. So point being hopefully no musicians' panties in bunches about 'storytellinguy jj' not actually being a band name or a musician person. You never know what's gonna be said about what with drummers in existence, though. Drummers are always the biggest pencil pushers. Anyhow Guy J. Jackson writes stories and then performs them, like a foolish inbred cross between Garrison Keillor, Mick Jagger, and A. Whitney Brown. Biographically speaking, Guy is a male, he lives in Europe these days, he also makes little movies, and he's written a lot of other stuff besides short stories, like screenplays, plays, and even a slim novel. No poetry though, he's not that smart. But screenplays though. Hey, anyone got two million bucks for Guy and his buddy Gino Caputi to make their debut feature film with? Seriously. Give them two million bucks. They'll come back with a 60 million dollar gross. Okay, well think about it. In any case, Guy likes walks in parks when it's past dark and unsafe to be in parks and Guy likes procrastination because it's the same as meditating, and Guy has those dire aspirations to want to make big movies like everyone else in the United States. Got two million bucks by the way? Guy and his director buddy Gino want to make a feature film. They'd make it real good. It would see a 60 million dollar gross at least. They know their target audience. Okay, well think about it. Guy also doesn't feel war is necessary and feels that if he can 'talk things out' with his Mom about the logistics of going to Costco and buying him some new socks, then anyone can talk over anything without having to resort to bombs. But that's just Guy's opinion and not necessarily the opinion of Myspace or the reader. Guy J. Jackson repeats his name a lot so Google can maybe find him and then maybe he'll get two million bucks to make a debut feature film with his buddy Gino, and then maybe Guy'll be famous and so on and have money for when his organs fail in forty years. Better make that fifty years, as Guy J. Jackson doesn't want to jinx himself. Better make that sixty years. No, actually it's unlikely his organs will fail. He will decide to die when he feels he's lived a full life and until this day of death he'll be fit for anything. Except he'll never be fit much for tennis because tennis is just a lot of back-and-forth nonsense. Guy reckons pro tennis players must have even worse obsessive-compulsive disorders than Guy himself does. Except that Guy in his childhood used to really be into playing with that tennis ball cannon they got for tennis practice. Maybe he's even got a tennis ball cannon story up his storytelling cannon. But otherwise, Guy ain't much for tennis. So anyway really what Guy J. Jackson needs fame and fortune for, besides decent health care, is so he can achieve his dreams of having hot cars, hot women, and hot food. When he's not writing Guy J. Jackson muses over these things he'll someday have when he gets discovered on Myspace the same as Arctic Monkeys did, or Lily Allen did, or that one girl with the really historically inaccurate song about punk rockers wearing flowers did. Guy J. Jackson murmurs of his dreams...'When I'm rich and famous I'm gonna have a Camaro and I'm gonna make sweet love to Lindsay Lohan and I'm gonna have a chili cheeseburger and I'm gonna have a Cadillac and I'm gonna make sweet love to Mary-Kate Olsen and I'm gonna have a dish of lasagna and I'm gonna have a red convertible and I'm gonna make sweet love to Scarlett Johoweveryouspellherlastname and I'm gonna have a Denver Omelette and I'm gonna have a Porsche and I'm gonna make sweet love to Anne Hathaway and I'm gonna have a burrito and Guy J. Jackson will go on like that for days, in a continual loop, and then he'll stop and write a short story or a novel. And then he's off again thinking about how fame and fortune will bring hot this and that. It's really craven how it works, the mind of Guy. Though right now he's wondering something entirely different from fame and fortune and from his next story's topic, he's wondering this: 'How many words will it take before the Myspace parameters put a stop to this bio?' But that's cool: Guy's got other things about him that go into bios. For example, he has an obsessive-compulsive disorder for checking his door lock. Word to the wise: don't ever leave Guy J. Jackson's apartment in the company of Guy J. Jackson. You might be leaving and leaving and leaving for hours. Speaking of which, how the heck long does this bio thing go on for? Like can you type into infinity? Guy has also worked as a doughnut deliveryman, a newspaper delivery man, a package delivery man, and did all those jobs before he was even a man. He's worked as an office temp, a gardener, a landscaper (similar to being a gardener) a security guard for a gated community (though he was certainly not about to risk his sweet self truly securing any homes of any gated community types and so always turned deaf ears or just kept driving that patrol truck, eyes focused on the road ahead, those few dozen times he heard the sounds of breaking glass in the deepest darkest hours of those gated community nights.) Guy also has spent a good two years of his precious time on earth washing dishes in a professional capacity. But that was really nothing compared to the 12 lost years he spent in public school. Learning Algebra! Algrebra die!!! Guy J. Jackson even worked in a box office in a theatre for awhile selling tickets to plays such as "Morton & Mary", "The Gilded Halls Of Leland", "Time Seen Ticking", "Toddy McManus", "Nora's Second Life", "Gawdy Filthy Grabby", "Cull The Wind Of Rainsongs", and "The Crank Turned". Guy J. Jackson worked as an English teacher in Prague, and was terrible at that, so the kids of the school all went two weeks without learning much beyond words like 'fried' and 'cheese' and then once Guy thought he could smoke a cigarette in the teacher's lounge since it was his first time in Europe and he was young and it'd seemed like everyone smoked everywhere in Europe and one of the Czech teachers came in and scolded him and that's about the time Guy also got fired from that job. But the job was embarrassing anyhow since Guy had to go teach in that school with slightly pink socks from when he stuck all his clothes in the wash with a pair of red pajama bottoms he'd bought on the island of Santorini. He was also once a telemarketer for a theatre company, telemarketing plays such as "Gutbusting Billy", "Tie Hands Rubberbands", "The Ghost Of A Phantasm", "Mud And The Mind", "False Feelings Under Lies", "Cobble The Stones", and "No Time For Kittens", a play which later inspired Guy to write a short story called "No Time For Kittens", a story which will no doubt appear in this site's blog someday. And now for Guy's childhood traumas. Once Guy was at the Tanana Valley Fairgrounds and he had slipped off on his own as he often did, an only child sort, and he was in the woods and found a bunch of bottles. Guy and his buddy Chad Roberts were in a phase were they'd gather up bottles under that Steese Highway bridge that hurdled the Chena River and they'd spend hours breaking the bottles with rocks. So Guy, on his own in the woods behind the Tanana Valley Fairgrounds, got a bunch of bottles and started breaking them with rocks. And then this blurry blonde grown-up, neither man nor woman, came along and yelled at Guy for awhile, and Guy ran off crying. Okay, then, maybe that doesn't sound so bad, but it did forever cause Guy to constantly feel a vague sense of guilt whenever he ate glass in the middle of a drunk. Then here's a worse trauma. Once Guy ran into this one short kid on the playground when Guy was finishing rolling a giant snowball after a fresh snowfall. And for some reason there was an altercation over the giant snowball. Perhaps the short kid wanted the giant snowball for the base of a snowman and Guy only wanted it to stay a giant snowball existing as itself. Whatever the case, Guy's buddy Jason was there, and Jason said to be careful of the short kid because he was tougher than he looked. Guy ignored Jason and got into a short fight with the short kid. It took like a minute before Guy was on the ground and getting his face stuffed full of the same snow he'd just been defending, which is probably one of the reasons Guy often questions the very existence of war. Okay, then, here's a worse trauma than that one, even. Once this big bully whose last name was Pitzer but his first name is now lost in the mists of memory, but anyway this giant bully was chasing Guy out of the school, and Guy ran around the corner of the building (this was at Nordale Elementary again) and this girl was walking in the opposite direction swinging her metal lunchbox and WHAM, Guy wound up in the hospital with a concussion. So there he was with both a head trauma and a life trauma. Okay, sounds like Guy's kind of a weakling at this point, so now we're going to go into a list of times Guy kicked ass because he's not weak, he's just a pacifist, and plus we can start another list because this bio thing is ENDLESS, they just let you keep TYPING and TYPING and TYPING!!! So once in sixth grade Guy kicked ass in a raffle contest and won a jar full of Halloween candy corns at the Nordale Elementary Halloween party Nordale had to have because that was the year everybody's bad uncles were putting razor blades in the Halloween candy you'd get going door-to-door. Then there was the time in seventh grade when Guy kicked ass on homework and got an A in his first quarter of Math even though he has always and will always despise math. In the second quarter of seventh grade he adjusted his math grade to a C, and then dropped to a steady diet of Ds for the remainder of that particular game of grab-ass. Math is utterly useless. Name one use for math. If you, Reader, can name one use for math then you must be some kind of math nerd, because there are no uses for math, except for unlikable uses like counting money and subtracting taxes and that's crap. Like math is crap in and of itself, numbers are crap, it is WORDS that make the world tick, gorgeous, elegant, shifting, blurring words...Then there was the time Guy kicked ass on the grasshopper population behind his Uncle's house in Oregon, gathering grasshoppers in a bottle and then sticking them into either the freezer or the fan. That Uncle wasn't a bad uncle though, as mentioned just a bit ago, that was a cool Uncle, cool with a capital U.
