About Me …


How does one explain who he is, and what he’s about?

Not a clue. But I’ve been told to do it anyway, so here goes.

My name is Scott Davis. Except that it’s not, really … my Dad never signed the official birth certificate, as he was en route from Japan when I was born, and Mom never signed it because she’d just given birth, and had way more important things to do, like sleep. No one seemed to notice the omission, so I was sent home with an official document that would govern my life, which had no first or middle name – just the stark annotation which I’ve decided should also go on my tomb-stone:  ______ ______ DAVIS.

Lack of an officially documented first or middle name had no practical effect on me, at first. I really had very little interest except in warm milk, and lots of sleeping, punctuated by occasional bouts of screaming, pooping, and convulsing, which I’m told is common to all babies. (Never having had one, except that I did, but didn’t know it for 21 years, I wouldn’t know anything about that.)

Dad and Mom had decided I should be called Russel Scott Davis.  The Ob Ward Charge Nurse didn’t like that name, and waited till Dad had left to go back to Japan, then finagled Mother into changing it to Randall Scott. When he was, eventually, told about this, Dad apparently shrugged and made no argument. He was, by this time, an experienced husband, who knew that the best way to argue with Mother was to let her have her way.

All went well for about 6 years. Just as they were preparing to send me off to kindergarten, an IRS Agent showed up. He informed my Mom and Dad, that they had been claiming three live children, and all the associated tax benefits, when, according to their records, there should only be TWO live children and a still-birth, and just who the hell did they think they were fooling with this bull-shit???

Dad hastened to explain that I was alive, I did eat food, I did wear clothes, and he was going to have to send me to college some day, and would the IRS Agent care to examine me for himself???

The Agent, bristling with indignation, slapped my birth certificate down on the table, and demanded an explanation. My Dad slammed me down on the table and demanded an explanation. Both men were gearing up: Dad, to punch the Agent, and the Agent, to order a complete Audit going back 6 years.

Mom had a look at the Birth Certificate and stated “Oh, this is a mistake!”

“A MISTAKE???” the IRS Agent roared, “That is an official document, signed by everyone who matters, and it can’t be a mistake, because these things just don’t happen!”

My Mom calmly pointed out that it had not been signed by either parent, and it was, moreover, a certificate of Live Birth, not Still Birth, and, further, what with having a live child to go with the paper, it seemed that either the Hospital screwed up, or the child had to go back, at which point I began crying, because, as lousy as my home was, I didn’t want to go back to a hospital, because that’s where they keep sick people and I wasn’t sick.

All 3 adults told me to shut up, go back to my room, and let them thrash this shit out.

I eventually learned that Dad had been forced to go before a judge and legally change my name from _____ _____, to Randall Scott, except that Dad couldn’t spell to save his life, so my name got changed to Randle Scott.  But they continued to call me Scott, so I never realized the document was wrong till I had to use it to get a Driver’s License, at age 16.  This triggered another visit to the judge, and yet another name change, with ME doing the spelling this time, from Randle Scott, to Randall Scott.

Except something was wrong.

I began to realize that, right around the time of this most recent name-change, I began to experience severe bouts of depression, and occasional bouts of almost giddy energy.  Was it possible that Randall was more screwed up than Randle, Russel, or _____?

I continued to wonder about all this through High School, and well into College, at which point I was put on Lithium by a Doctor at the School.  Seven days later, the Lithium caused me to decide enough was enough, and I committed suicide.

As you’ve probably guessed I fucked that up, pretty severely.

The outcome was sort of two-sided. I had a sort of religious experience at the bottom of the stair-well, and, thereafter, I didn’t have the same sort of depressions, though I still had occasional manic phases … I was able to stay off meds for nearly 20 years, and the original diagnosis of Bi-Polar Disorder (or, as they called it back then, Manic-Depressive Disorder) was quietly forgotten, because that sort of thing was hideously shameful, and would keep any and every potential employer from employing me.

I joined the Air Force, got married, bought a Condo, got sent to Iceland without my wife, had a chance to see her halfway through that tour, but was told she preferred to visit her mother, instead.

The Depressions began again.

They worsened steadily as my marriage fell apart, my finances, fell apart, and my career came to an abrupt end, because the Government had spent the Military Budget for the next five years on Operation Desert Storm, and the Government thanked me for my service, and shit-canned me, along 90% of the other captains.

Newly unemployed, and unemployable, due to the fact that I wes trained in a career field that didn’t exist in the civilian world, I received a visit from a man who called himself Smith wink-wink.

He told me he worked for a certain, well, let’s just say Company, which could make use of my skills, at quite a nice rate of pay (double my salary as an Air Force Captain), but I’d have to spend the next two years unaccompanied by my wife, in a certain Kingdom where nearly everyone speaks Arabic, the food sucks, and women aren’t treated very well. Given that this was a fair description of much of the Middle-East, I asked if he could be more specific.

He smiled broadly, “Oh, don’t worry! You already know your way around!”

That would be Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. My marriage was rapidly failing.  I had two choices: admit defeat and give it up, and take the job – or give it one last try, and turn the job down.

I told the representative of Air America, AKA the CIA, that I appreciated the offer, but really needed to stay home and work on my marriage.

About 6 months later, my wife gave me final cause to file for divorce.  The Company had left me no way to get in touch, so there was no chance of getting that job, and my civilian opportunities turned out to be limited. Eventually, I was able to find a job as a programmer (I’d spent two years teaching myself programming,) in Mississippi.  I’d met a woman on AOL, and we got married. Subsequently I quit the programming job, because the boss was something less than adult, and took a job with the University of Mississippi, where my wife worked already.

Been here 20 years.

In that time, I got divorced again, began to suffer much more severely the symptoms of Bi-Polar II Disorder, stumbled across the ONE drug that seemed to help, and made several attempts to find the future ex-Mrs. Davis – each ending in successful failures, since I didn’t get a wife, but was able to keep them as friends.

Who am I? What am I about?

I’m intelligent, but prone to romantic foolishness. I work hard, but can’t seem to complete things, because my energy will suddenly be gone, and I’ll plunge into paralyzing depressions. My best friend is a 22 y/o Co-ed, who lives in the smaller of the two bedrooms in my house, and suffers from Bi-Polar I Disorder, which is the much more severe version of the Disorder than I have.

NO it isn’t THAT way!  I treat her like the daughter I wish she was; she treats me as the best friend that I am.  We look out for each other. Meanwhile, I work, she works, we pay our bills, scrounge for money enough to get by, have troubles with our love lives, share those problems with each other, and just generally keep on living – more out of spite, I think, than anything else.

And I write. Like this. On this blog, for now, in novels and screenplays, soon.

Please read it. Please comment on it. If you like it, share it with your friends.


~ Scott Davis


One Response to “About Me …”

  1. I read your stuff on evolution…didn’t like it. You don’t know the difference between (1) changes in characteristics and traits, and (2) the formation of biological systems. Your whale poster has already been proven fake and admitted to by the paleontologist (Gingerich) that “discovered” most of the fossils. Humanity isn’t within light years of figuring out this puzzle.
    I did love your autobiography. Your honesty and writing are a great read, good laugh, and amazing. Struggling with the ups and downs must be tough. Why the hell these things exist is sure a big question no matter how we humans came to be. One would think evolution would have eliminated it from the herd. For sure some loving god didn’t bestow it on you.
    Anyway, you write well.
    Good luck.

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