Thad DeVassie Archives - Farewell Transmission

By Thad DeVassie

I didn’t know what it meant to stick it to the man back in 1987. I didn’t know who the man was. Statements like that can be ambiguous. But I remember Lyle Lovett, his tall hair, the height of a new capitalism. My hair was as long as his was tall as he sang about things he wished he had and what he’d do with them. It sounded as strange as his tall hair looked by 1988. But now, many years later, and understanding who the man is, now that my hair is long gone, I yearned or the simplicity of a riding pony, perhaps on a boat, my boat, which would have to be a really small boat because I am not that kind of man, making my pony even smaller. I bought that pony, because that was what I could afford. I looked up Lyle and messaged him. I figured he might have a boat by now. He texted back, plainly, kiss my ass. I knew what he meant. I knew it was a kinship, of not sticking it to this man.

Thad DeVassie is a writer and artist/painter from Ohio. You can see where he’s been and what he’s up to next at www.thaddevassie.com

The wife has the prettiest of names but refuses to respond to it, hates when I speak it. This started early on when she would call me on the phone, back when phones were used for placing calls rather than texts, connecting to apps, serving as a portable clock. She would leave a message, first on an answering machine, later on voicemail, saying it’s me or hey gimme a call. Formalities of getting to know her voice behind me, her name all but disappeared. She became the girlfriend, then the wife. It explains why when acquiring our donkey we didn’t name it. It was just our donkey with no other donkeys to confuse it with. Along the way my name also evaporated. The wife doesn’t use it. The donkey can’t speak. Among those who know and don’t know me, I am addressed by a series of man-isms, the PG versions of which include dude, buddy, guy, G, homie, bro, my brotha, my man, and mister (children), or Mr. (strangers). I hardly know who I am anymore. My name was and still is George-Rupert. Not just George, not just Rupert. They are punchlines on their own, in the wild, conjuring up cartoonish caricatures that rightfully might fit. That’s what the wrong name can do. But the brilliance of a hyphen, creating something faux-sophisticated. On the rare occasion someone calls me George-Rupert I assume they are from the government, that I have landed in some kind of trouble. It is reason enough not to reveal or respond to my own name. I’ve embraced being nameless. There’s no compulsion to be known. Truth be told, it is helpful in dodging a helluva lot of incoming missiles, most of which arrive with a vengeance, leaving behind collateral damage. Nameless or not, it is never sufficient cover.

Thad DeVassie is a writer and artist/painter who creates from the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. He is the author of SPLENDID IRRATIONALITIES, which was awarded the James Tate Poetry Prize in 2020 (SurVision Books), and YEAR OF STATIC (Ghost City Press, 2021), a micro-chap containing 11 original paintings and micro prose. Any other accomplishments that could be listed here remain inconsequential in the big scheme of things. His written and painted works loiter at www.thaddevassie.com.