The Obligatory Bit of Narcissism

James M. O’Meara

Birthdate: A long time ago. He’s rumored to be older than dirt, but most likely he’s in his mid-50’s

Shoe size: 10½. He sometimes wears shoes a half-size larger or smaller to keep folks guessing.

James was born in Washington, D.C. in 1957, the oldest of five children. A transplanted southerner, he moved to northeastern Pennsylvania as a teenager and has lived there for about forty years. He currently resides in Plains Township, Pennsylvania. With the possible exception of Maryland’s eastern there is no place else on Earth he’d rather be.

In his early twenties he dropped out of college to become a musician. Progressive deafness (in no way, oddly enough, related to blasting his electric guitar at full volume) scuttled that career. His utter failure to revolutionize modern music paved the way instead for the rise of Disco, Punk and later Rap. He will likely never be forgiven these transgressions.

After a particularly vicious knee in the groin from life in the early 1980’s, he matured somewhat. He married and has two children and two grandchildren. (IMPORTANT: They are NOT the same people. Folks in some part of the country may need that clarified.)

In 2009, his hearing was partially restored with a successful cochlear implant. A second implant in 2010 gave him near-normal hearing. (He can, in fact, hear chicken wings frying from half a mile away.)

As of August, 2014 James is still reinventing himself. He writes, works his day job, and is politically active. He doesn’t goof off much, or at least not nearly so much as Congress, but if the Pope is in town he takes a night off to bowl with Benedict. Afterwards they knock back a few cold ones over a plate of chicken wings. (His Holiness likes the wings hot and the beer cold. He’s also been heard to cuss in Latin after gutter balls or splits.)

James began to write in fits and starts after turning thirty. His work became more disciplined as he entered his forties. He is currently working on serial fiction, short stories, and a pair of novels. He has also developed the extremely annoying habit of writing about himself in the third person.

James wrote this on August 22, 2014 while in his size 10½ bedroom slippers. They are pretty damned comfortable, but nearly worn out (the laces are broken, and they are often covered in cat fur because the cats think they are pillows).

 

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