The Blog Where Horror Dwells

Before You Find the Cache...You See The Ring

2012-01-23T13:17:00.006-05:00

That's your predicament when you go hunting for "The Curse of Samara Morgan" (GC1QF2B), over near Chapel Hill, NC. The cache's theme, of course, comes from The Ring—the U.S. version of the Japanese horror classic Ringu—in which scary psychic girl Samara Morgan gets dumped into a well, where she survives for seven days, leaving behind a curse that kills anyone unfortunate enough to be exposed to it. No question, going after this particular cache entails taking certain risks, but then that's typical of the hides placed by some of those dastardly cachers over in the NC Triangle, heh heh heh...

Yesterday turned out very cold and occasionally drizzly, but that didn't stop the team of Bridget "Suntigres" Langley, Diana Hartman, Rob "RTMLee" Lee, Scott "Diefenbaker" Hager, and the old dude from making a big day of going after a couple of particularly challenging hides around Chapel Hill. We started out with "Preparation I: There Is No 'I' in 'Team'" (GC370N8) which required two teams, working in conjunction via cell phone, to find numerous stages along two fairly lengthy trails before rejoining and heading after the final stage.

That done, we broke for lunch at one of my favorite local establishments—The Spotted Dog, in Carrboro. They have a large selection of vegetarian items on the menu, but no shortage of absolutely delicious dead animal as well. I'm quite partial to their turkey burger, fish and chips, and spicy black-eyed pea cakes, though yesterday I opted for a good old bacon cheeseburger, since I figured it might be my last meal. It did hit the spot after the big hike. Their Sunday drink specials were bloody marys, and I do love a good, spicy one from time to time, but I fear theirs were underwhelming, to say the least. Better to choose from their extensive selection of microbrews, I think.

Hunger satiated, we were braced to move on and confront our possible downfall. By the time we arrived at ground zero for "The Curse of Samara Morgan," the temperature had dropped since morning, and the skies were turning ominous. We discovered a picturesque little graveyard nearby, which we reckoned would be handy if the worst should happen. Suntigres had accompanied the previous group to claim the cache, the previous week, and they'd had the advantage of much dryer weather; since then the rain had turned the well site into a muddy morass. That did not stop her from ridiculing us for including a rope in our retrieval recipe, since her team had forsworn such safety measures. No matter. I got myself promptly hooked up and, without undue difficulty, made the descent into the 20 ft. deep shaft. Sure enough, there's the cache. And what else? Mosquitoes. Tons of them. Joy.

Anyhoo, in short order, I signed the logbook and made my way back to the surface, by all the signs unaffected by Samara's curse. I told Suntigres that I had scratched her name off the log so she'd have to go back do it all over again, but she didn't buy it for a minute. (Maybe her mistake, what do you think?)

The cache still lurks out there, waiting for the next intrepid souls to make their way into the dark depths. I've been fortunate not to receive a phone call informing me I have seven days remaining. That doesn't mean you won't, though.

Ground zero

Down we go.

Looking up

Mr. Lee takes his turn.

A nearby option, if the worst should happen.

Space Battleship Yamato

2012-01-20T22:51:00.030-05:00

Back in the mid 1970s, my friend Bill Gudmundson (visit Bill's Kitchen) sent me a cassette tape with some music from Space Cruiser Yamato, the Japanese animated TV series and feature film. I immediately went all gaga over the stuff. Composed by the late Hiroshi Miyagawa, the scores are loaded with atmosphere, wistful melodies, and rousing energy. The little bit of information about the series I could dig up fascinated me even more. Soon enough, much to my delight, the two seasons of the series extant made its way to our shores under the title Star Blazers. At the time, I was living on campus at the University of Georgia in Athens, and it was one of those situations where, if I wanted to watch TV, I had to settle for one of the dormitory's community sets. The show came on at 3:30 on weekday afternoons, and this was kind of bad, because those students who weren't in class were all watching General Hospital (which actually snared me for a time, a year or so later, when John Colicos of Battlestar Galactica fame was on board as a mad genius out to destroy the world with his homemade freeze ray machine). Many was the day I had to fight with a bunch of irate young women in order to gain control of the floor's TV set. I usually won out by convincing them to visit one of the other floors, where communal GH gatherings achieved legendary proportions. For quite some time I was known as the geek who shut down General Hospital to watch cartoons.

Yeah, I was a Yamato fan. Back in the 80s, I owned, either on VHS or laser disc, all three seasons of original Japanese TV series, all five feature films, every poster, every book, every model kit from the series. This is good stuff we're talking.

These days, I'm not quite so gaga over the whole business, but I will tell you that, a couple of years back, the announcement of a new, live-action Space Battleship Yamato feature did send me into a minor tizzy. The film was released in Japan in 2010 and has been available on DVD for some time now; I finally got around to purchasing a copy and watched it tonight. I'm guessing the only reason I delayed picking it up was to prove to somebody, maybe me, that I control my geeky leanings; they do not control me. (Did you know that Criterion is releasing a deluxe edition of the original Japanese version of Godzilla?)

Space Battleship Yamato, directed by Takashi Yamazaki, is, at the very least, a handsome enough production, with a decent cast; a mostly engaging story; fair special effects; and a satisfying score by Naoki Sato that interpolates many of Miyagawa's signature themes. The script of the original 1974 Japanese feature film, Space Cruiser Yamato, condensed the storyline from 26 half-hour TV episodes into a two-hour theatrical movie, and this film does much the same thing—at least for about the first two-thirds of its running time—oftentimes faithfully reproducing the original scene setup and dialogue. No doubt due to time constraints, the origin of the title vessel itself is skimmed over; understandable, to be sure, yet nonetheless unsatisfying, for it's the Yamato's unique identity that has historically lain at the heart of the franchise. Rather than building up to the revelation of Yamato, the script, for all intents and purposes, presents the ship as "just another battleship." Until near the end of the picture, one never quite gets the sense that the Yamato is as significant a character as any of the human cast.

To one so familiar with the characters and worlds of the animated series, it is both disconcerting and refreshing to find that the origins of the villainous Gamilas, including their illustrious leader Dessler, and the benevolent Stasha of Iscandar have been totally refashioned. For the benefit of other geeks, I'll not reveal much about these fundamental revisions to the mythos other than to say that, in some ways, they benefit the picture, while in others they fall woefully short. Alas, while much of the CGI in the film works nicely, particularly with the mecha, the alien characters don't fare very well.

As the film progresses, certain elements from the second, stand-alone feature film, Arrivederci, Yamato, come into play, particularly at the climax. These are profound enough to insure that Space Battleship Yamato does not represent the first chapter of an ongoing saga, at least not that could follow any previously established continuity. This was a good decision on the producers' part, I believe; this film need not spawn a whole new franchise.

In the overall, the cast members fulfilled and in some cases surpassed my expectations in their various roles. At first, I was a little dubious of lead actor Takuya Kimura as Susumu Kodai, but as his character develops, I found myself quite satisfied with his performance. Meisa Kuroki as Yuki Mori immediately struck me as better than spot-on; her character is tougher and smarter than her anime counterpart, and she's certainly easy on the eyes. When I first saw the film's trailer, I wasn't so sure about Tsutomo Yamazaki as Captain Okita. I feared he might come off as a mere caricature, assuming statuesque poses and offering stone-faced glares. I was pleased to find his character dimensioned and generally likeable. Also particularly noteworthy are Toshirô Yanagiba as Science Officer Sanada, Hiroyuki Ikeuchi as Company Commander Saito, and Reiko Takashima as Dr. Sado. It's particularly intriguing that the latter character—in the anime, one of creator Leiji Matsumoto's typical pugdy, barely human-looking figures—is portrayed by a fairly attractive young woman, but who expertly conveys many of the character's well-known mannerisms (she even has a cat and drinks sake).

I could have quite done without the closing song by Steven Tyler, thank you very much. The less said, the better.

While Space Battleship Yamato is not without its failings—some of which are admittedly glaring—it's a fun, familiar story, competently acted and directed. To say I was entertained is an understatement. In a lot of ways, this film rekindled the old excitement the original series offered me...back in my long, long, long-gone geeky days.

Space Battleship Yamato poster featuring Takuya Kimura

Meisa Kuroki as Yuki Mori

Poster from 1979 Space Cruiser Yamato film festival

From High Point to Haw River

2012-01-15T17:05:00.007-05:00

Despite the winter chill, I think I've spent more time outdoors than indoors this weekend—mostly hunting and hiding geocaches, of course. Yesterday, my friend Bridget "Suntigres" Langley and I spent the better part of the day on a cache run around High Point, which included everything from simple park-and-grab micros to creatively camouflaged trail hides to terrain-intensive challenges. That's my favorite kind of day—at the end of it all, a fair number added to my total cache count, but a focus more on quality than quantity of finds. Afterward, Kimberly and I did dinner, drinks, and games with the typically uproarious Jenny Chapman and Doug Cox, all of which lasted till one-something in the morning. But lo, four new caches down the road had been published earlier in the evening, so at two in the a.m., I was back out there at it—missing being first-to-find by a matter of minutes. Evidently, I wasn't the only night owl on the hunt.

Today, it was out to Northeast Park, one of my favorite spots along the Haw River, to hide a new cache (a replacement for one of the entries in my Destroy All Monsters series that had been demolished by restless daikaiju). While out there, I decided to bushwhack out along the river for one of the more remote hides, which was actually intended to be reached by canoe or kayak. It wasn't all that long a hike—just under a mile—but a fairly arduous one, requiring a few improvised water crossings and battling legions of briers and thorns. The cache itself, "Row, Row, Row Your Boat..." (GC126G9), is pretty old and in need of owner maintenance, but by gummy, I finally get to cross it off the list. As I've mentioned many times, the Haw River is one of the most scenic rivers in the NC Piedmont, and there are plenty of caches to be found at various points along its path.

Now, I'm a little bushed, but at least I managed to work off a few bites of that oh-so-delicious burger from last night's visit to Lindley Park Filling Station....

Click the pics to enlarge.

A couple of the more entertaining hides in High Point. A little cedar log that
opens up to reveal the hidden bison tube, and a frightfully clever geocacher trap.

Cachefishing, anyone?

You never know what you'll find in the woods. The Northeast Park
Conference Center, perhaps?

One of the entertaining non-traditional bridges I used to cross the water.

The only crossing spot on the Haw River at Northeast Park, which is
not without its hazards.

Aww. These folks took the easy way.

Damned Brugger's Thai Spring Rolls

2012-01-11T17:57:00.013-05:00

Ms. B. and I often get together to conjure up a variety of Asian recipes—I'm particularly glad she shares my fondness for Thai cuisine—and we've managed a number of very tasty dishes. One of my favorites—which she has undeniably perfected—is Thai fresh spring rolls. We usually stuff the rolls with ground turkey, but last night we tried them with shrimp. While I generally prefer shrimp to turkey, I find I actually like the turkey rolls better...by a slim margin. Life is full of surprises, don't you know. I made up some seriously hot pepper sauce (with fish sauce, lime juice, and serrano peppers), and we also had on hand some Sriracha (hot chili garlic sauce) and sweet Maesri brand spring roll sauce. Here's our recipe, or a reasonable facsimile thereof; bear in mind we always vary things a bit in the prepping. The amounts below serve two happily; adjust as needed, but bear in mind that you are responsible for the math, not me. Preparation time is about 30 minutes. It's easier if you have a partner who can prepare the wrappers while the other stuffs the innards.

What You Need:
1 lb shrimp (after cooking, peeling, and de-veining) or ground turkey
1 dozen rice paper wrappers
2 cups chopped cabbage (bak choy or napa)
1 cup cilantro
1 cup diced mushrooms
1/2 cup chopped spring onions
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
juice from 1 lime
2 tbsp hot chili oil
fish sauce
diced serrano peppers (1 to 10, depending on your tolerance for heat)

What You Do:
1) In a large bowl, thoroughly mix cabbage, mushrooms, spring onions, serrano peppers, lemon juice, and about 2 tbsp fish sauce.
2) Pour your Thai chili oil into a very hot wok or skillet. Add chopped garlic and cook for about two minutes, stirring frequently; then turn heat to low.
3) If you're using ground turkey, dump it in now and brown. If you're using shrimp, wait and throw it into the mix right at the end, so it won't get tough.
4) If you're using turkey: once it's browned, dump into the skillet the mixture of cabbage, cilantro, mushrooms, spring onions, serrano peppers, lemon juice, and fish sauce. Let simmer for three to five minutes, stirring frequently. If you're using shrimp, add it to the pan with only about a minute to go.
5) Remove from heat.
6) In a bowl of very hot water, soak each rice paper wrapper for about one minute (you'll probably need to change out your hot water every three minutes or so during preparation). Spread the wrapper onto a non-stick surface (an oiled wooden cutting board works nicely) and blot with a dry paper towel. Then spoon about three to four tablespoons of your cooked ingredients onto the wrapper. Fold the ends over; then grab one of the unfolded ends and roll the bugger into a happy little cylindrical shape.
7) Voilà.

Dip these guys into your preferred sauce, and they'll rock your world—though after about an hour, you'll be hungry as hell again. I recommend a few sticks of crushed almond Pocky to fill that gaping void.

We accompanied our dinner with a bottle of Chateau Morrisette Cabernet Franc, which is easily among this winery's best products. Their Black Dog red table wine is also a winning accompaniment. Of course, hot saké is never a bad accompaniment, either, but we were in a Cab Franc mood....

Pastorale

2012-01-09T19:48:00.020-05:00

Too busy and/or preoccupied to blog this past week, apparently. Back to work after the most satisfying long holiday, lots of writing, activities on the caching trail, being social (or something like that). Spent most of the day yesterday across the border in Virginia. Headed out to Fieldale, met up with Tom "Night-Hawk" Kidd, grabbed a new cache (alas, missed out on the first-to-find, though I did get several this week, including one today), and did a little maintenance on "Cachefishing" (GC1PA13). Then it was over to Danville to grab a few new ones, mostly on the Richmond & Danville Rail Trail, out east of town.

I'm never uncomfortable out hiking alone, and certainly not on this trail. Still, there's something about it, more so than many of the trails in this region, that speaks of a certain eeriness...no doubt because it goes way out into picturesque, sparsely inhabited country, where my writer's mind can concoct all kinds of...uncomfortable...scenarios. From end to end, the trail is about five and a half miles; I've biked the whole thing once and hiked portions of it several times (most notably for Triskaphobia, one of the truly memorable cache hunts of late). Yesterday was a temperate but gray day on the trail, and I ended up actually meeting a couple of young women, also geocaching, from South Boston. We found a few together, and then parted ways.

The rest of the hike, I didn't see another living soul. Yet I could constantly hear sounds of distant life: occasional gunshots (lots of hunting grounds out that way), lonely birds, furtive voices, and dogs howling—quite mournfully, which only intensified the impression of remote isolation. All most conducive to mentally composing creepy tales, though my mind was admittedly more occupied with hunting the caches at hand. The trail runs past the very serene Mt. Zion Cemetery, where, I am quite certain, zombies gather in their free time, although I didn't actually see any yesterday. Of course, I stand a much greater chance of being accosted by the unsavory living than the not-so-dead, but then that's what makes the prospect all the more entertaining....

When I arrived back at the Rodan Mobile at the Shawnee Rd. trailhead, I performed my good deed for the day, or...well...for however long. There's a ton of trash out there—the disgusting, inevitable refuse of so much disreputable humanity. I spent about half an hour on cleanup detail and filled up a garbage bag, though I don't think I made a very significant dent in the mess. Come spring, when adverse weather may be less a factor, I think I'll sponsor a CITO (cache-in, trash-out) event at that trail head. Get a few cachers together, and the place will be damn near pristine again.

There's one more cache out at the other end of the trail, which I look forward to claiming in the very near future.

Sure, it looks like a peaceful, serene setting, but Night of the Living Dead started out
in just such a place, now didn't it?

Stonewalled

2012-01-02T23:30:00.011-05:00

I've never been particularly fond of New Year's Day and its attendant traditions—as if January 1 is some magic milestone where the world changes, and you suddenly have the wherewithal you didn't have 24 hours earlier to fulfill your every dream. Far as I'm concerned, New Year's Day represents just another step along that ever-fun path to one's inevitable death. Still, I've never had reason not to celebrate when celebration is due, and this year...well, of course I did. Saturday afternoon, Ms. B. and I hauled ourselves and a couple of days' worth of provisions to the mountains of Virginia for a little sojourn at the Stonewall Bed & Breakfast, on the Blue Ridge Parkway near Floyd. Along the way, we stopped at Villa Appalaccia, a small but impressive winery that, to our happy surprise, we found open on New Year's Eve afternoon. Excellent, excellent wine, which, we learned, is made from grapes that are grown in slate earth, rather than the typical clay of the region. Apparently, it makes a significant difference, and I may have never enjoyed a wine more than their Sangiovese and Aglianico varieties.

The Stonewall has several guestrooms in the main house, but we opted to stay in the very rustic, very tiny View Cabin, located some distance away in the woods on the property. Spartan, to be sure; there's an outhouse for taking care of your personal needs—fortunately well-tended—and if you want to stay warm, you'd better fire up the old wood stove. The cabin is wired for electricity, at least, so you can plug in your electronic devices—though you won't pick up the inn's WiFi way out there. (Despite the distance from any population center, cell/3G/4G reception is quite good.) There's not room for much more than a bed, a chair, and a table, but we found it clean, stocked with wood and other necessities, and ultimately quite comfortable.

Once ensconced in our luxurious lodgings, we headed out to dinner at Chateau Morrisette restaurant and winery where Kimberly and I dined last New Year's Eve (and I found the inspiration for a new novella ["Adventures in the New Year"]). If anything, this year's fare at the restaurant was even better than last year's (filet mignon for the old man and peanut-crusted chicken breast for the young lady), and I was here introduced to an intriguing house "winetail" called the Bloody Indy—a concoction of their Independence white wine, tomato juice, and potent spices. A startlingly good drink, though more akin to a Red Eye (an old favorite of mine) than an actual Bloody Mary. This year, there were no uncomfortable after-dinner adventures, and we rather enjoyed our own little private welcoming of the New Year, sans Dick Clark or any other vestige of civilization's noise.

I might mention here that there have been some recent bear sightings on the property, so we were advised to make a lot of noise when coming and going on the path between the cabin and the inn, particularly at night. Thus, we took it upon ourselves, whenever we were out and about, to holler "Bear!" at strategic moments. I don't know that it frightened away (or attracted) any bears, but the squirrels sure looked at us funny.

Breakfast at the Stonewall is something to behold. A massive spread of eggs, bacon, country ham, pancakes, french toast, biscuits, danish pastries, fresh fruit, juice, coffee, several varieties of tea...you name it. I find proprietor Scott Truslow's bacon to be the highlight of this feast. He has his own special method of preparing it, and it's worth raving about. A lot. So don't be surprised if every now and then on this blog or in person, I up and start singing about Stonewall's bacon. Fair warning.

Then, off to Rock Creek Gorge, not too far from the inn. There's a ten-mile loop trail through the gorge, and we did about five miles along the creek at the base, rather than tackling the sheer incline from Rocky Knob, up on top. A couple of caches were involved, of course. The highlight for me was coming upon an old, private farmhouse way back in the gorge, accessible only by the trail, which absolutely could have been the setting—transplanted from the mountains of Vermont to the mountains of Virginia—for H. P. Lovecraft's "The Whisperer in Darkness." The atmosphere here couldn't have been more suited to a Lovecraftian tale, and since Kimberly hasn't read the story itself, I gave it to her pretty near verbatim.

I do understand she slept less well last night than the previous night....

Last night, temperatures dipped well below freezing, but we built a great big campfire and roasted Nathan's hot dogs and marshmallows, accompanied by some of that fabulous Villa Appalaccia Sangiovese. The bitter wind drove us in before too late, though, so we settled into the cabin and watched Larry Blamire's The Lost Skeleton Returns Again on my laptop, which more than hit the spot for us. This morning, another fine breakfast, and the rather sad departure. A few caches along the way—including one at a beautiful little park in Danbury, NC, which involved an enjoyable vertical ascent to a scenic point overlooking the Dan River.

This evening, our friends, the Albaneses, invited us over for dinner and a movie—Case 39, starring Renee Zellweger (to whom Joe refers as "Sphincter Face," an epithet that I gotta tell you, however rude, resonates madly). A most entertaining horror flick, and this little gathering made for a pleasant welcome back to Greensboro.

I hope those of you who drop in here have a wonderful New Year, such as it is. And if you don't stop in here, well, just never you mind, since you're not seeing it anyway.

Click on the images to enlarge.

The View Cabin, a short distance through bear-infested woods
from the Stonewall Bed & Breakfast

This random picture adorns the wall in the rest room of the main house at the Stonewall Inn
(along with a newspaper article about the sinking of the Titanic). I don't know what
this is from, but I love it.

Fun folks with suitably blood-hued vintages at Chateau Morrisette

Brugger took this shot of us in the mirror at the bar at Chateau Morrisette.
I rather like it.

Along the trail in Rock Creek Gorge

Old farmhouse back in Rock Creek Gorge. Surely, the very site of HPL's "The Whisperer
in Darkness," transplanted from Vermont to Virginia

The first sunset of 2012 as seen from the View Cabin

Ending the Year With a Boom and a Clamor

2011-12-31T11:04:00.003-05:00

I woke up this morning with Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture in my head, lord knows why. When I was a youngster, my folks had a Mercury album version, conducted by Antal Dorati, recorded in 1955, I believe. It featured a fabulous orchestration of the piece, followed by a narrated account of how the sound effects (cannon and bells) were compiled for the recording. I used to listen to the album endlessly when I was around four or five, and I probably haven't heard that particular version since I was around ten. I figured I'd look for it on YouTube, on the off chance I might find a decent recording of the music.

The entire Mercury album was the first thing that came up on my search. And what a treat to listen to the narrative for the first time since I was just a wee lad. Sometimes, I really do love the InterWebz...

It's in three parts, so I'm putting the links here. Don't know if you'll enjoy it as much as I do, but it is a brilliant piece, after all.

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

May you have a Happy New Year. Or at least one that stops shy of hideous.

A Bald Knob for Christmas

2011-12-25T22:20:00.010-05:00

Damned Rodan at the crest of Bald Knob, just before sunset

A mighty fine Christmas Day, I have to say. Kimberly and I came to Mum's last night, and this morning, my brother arrived. We exchanged some very nice gifts, including some decent clothes for me (some would say it's about time) and a digital camera for Ms. B. Following the traditional afternoon feast, Kimberly and I headed up toward Rocky Mount, VA, to hike up to Bald Knob Ridge to hunt a relatively old geocache. Not a long hike, but somewhat arduous going up the steep incline. I knew from the cache description that there was supposed to be a decent view of the surrounding countryside from up there, but it far exceeded expectations. We reached the summit just before sunset and discovered steep, craggy rock faces covered in lichen and cacti. We had fantastic views in all directions and took a slew of pictures. The cache itself was fairly challenging because it had been moved from its original coordinates, and making my way up and down the rocky incline was at times rather treacherous. At last, I managed to locate the thing and sign the logbook. Once back at the bottom, we headed off to another nearby cache and then back to Martinsville, where we paid a brief visit to our old friends, the Wickliffes, who made sure we were properly fed (they clearly have not paid attention to the universal admonitions never to feed the Damned thing). I have to say, though, after our exertions on Bald Knob, the chow—and the wine from The Grove Winery—really hit the spot.

Happy horrordays to the lot of you. Niters.

Click on the images to enlarge.

Don't look back, Brugger, it's a long way down!

From the summit: view to the north

From the summit: view to the south

Done?

2011-12-24T12:12:00.011-05:00

It probably shouldn't, but this sign at The Grove Winery makes me laugh.

Shopping done...presents wrapped...presents suffer cat damage...presents re-wrapped. Yesterday, caching all day with Mark Case in Burlington; I think I logged eleven. This morning, up with the sun, out to Friendly Center for a couple of last-minute deals. Then...oh Yesu...I'm out of cat litter, so it's off to WalMart. Blech. Next...a quick cache, and then the Grove Winery with Kimberly for a picnic and some wine. All is well.

Triskaphobia!

2011-12-17T23:06:00.008-05:00

So here I am down in this underground pipe. What's that sound? A dreaded subterranean bigfoot, perhaps...?

A little while back, I was getting somewhere near finding my 4,000th cache when talk of going after "Triskaphobia" (GC2935M) came up among a number of local cachers, most of them significantly madder than I. So of course I said, "Absolutely." Come last night, I was four shy of 4K, so I went out in the rain and snagged them. Then, early this morning, it was out with a group of cachers from both near and far (well, as far as the NC Triangle), and—armed with what we hoped was the proper equipment—we set out to conquer this dreaded three-headed beast. I didn't quite know what to expect, other than at least a portion of it involved negotiating some extreme terrain. Stage 1, we determined, was a walk in the park. Wait...did I say "park"? Not park. Dark. Stage 2: that's where Audra "Homestyle" Webb comes in. She's bad, she's mad, she's...hitting the heights. Quite literally (see photos below). As she made her way to perform the necessary task, there was much jubilation from the peanut gallery: cheering, singing, and a jovial young voice yelling, "My mom is committing suicide!" Happily—at least for the rest of us, as it would have made proceeding a bit tricky—there was no gory death involved. Onward to Stage 3, where Mr. Ken "Alethiometrist" MacDonald donned the necessary gear and made the descent into the hairiest of heights. (Again, see photos.) But...oh, shock! There's nothing where there ought to be something. One of the previous finders confirmed that we were right where we were supposed to be...but nature or something more insidious has made off with a key puzzle piece, and we must rely on the wisdom of others to acquire the necessary information. Fortunately, we are able to continue, and only a short time later, I'm striking find #4,000 with my hiking stick.

To be sure, "Triskaphobia" ("The Fear of Three") is not a cache for the faint of heart, small animals (including wallabies, wombats, and woosels), or badly drawn cartoon characters. Those of us who made the journey today must sincerely thank the members of the first-to-find group who shared essential wisdom with us, or we would never have managed to reach stage 1, much less any stages that followed. Compared to what they went through to get the smiley, ours was a picnic at the beach (minus the ocean, sand, food, etc.). But the adventure made this one of my most memorable caches, and surely a fitting object for my 4,000th find. Granted, had it been my 333rd, I would have surely captured the kharmic energy of the entire universe, but since it wasn't, I didn't, and just never you mind.

Click on the pics to enlarge.

In the men's room at the Corner Cafe. Here is wisdom.

Audra makes her way toward one of the stages of "Triskaphobia" (GC2935M).
Don't look down, Audra!

Onto the dangling ladder. Definitely don't look down, Audra!

Audra doing what she does best: singing karaoke in very strange settings.

Ken "Mr. Alethiometrist" MacDonald getting fitted to hunt for another stage.
"Don't you have this in pink and blue?"

Damned Rodan hits 4,000 finds. We R Team "R We Stoopid?"

After all this, Audra, Lonnie "Moncure Bee Dude" Drain, Larry "HDJP" Roach, and I went out and about into the wilds of Pittsylvania County to hunt some more unsuspecting caches. We found a few, all very nice...encountering several other friendly neighborhood cachers on more than one occasion. Alas and alack! At one particularly scenic spot—right amid a sea of squishy soft mud—Larry ends up with a flat tire. It's quite the job to make reparations here, as jacks sink and collapse, spare tires fail to cooperate, and a dead deer lying nearby keeps giving us very hard stares. Eventually, however, we prevail and are back on the road again. A couple more highly entertaining caches—more for the surrounding scenery than the caches themselves. An old delivery truck rusting away peacefully in the woods (at least until Audra tries to drive it away). A haunted house that suddenly comes alive with the sounds of demonic laughter...oh, wait, that's just Audra's young'uns, Zachary and Amanda. But no...oh, lord, they're way over yonder, and the mad wailing is coming from within the old, abandoned ruin. Oh, dear, it's just Lonnie, as giddy as a ghoul in a house of a thousand corpses. Getting him out of the place is harder than changing Larry's tire.

Then it's off to the Happy Holidays event (GC366M4) at the Corner Cafe in Ringgold, where we have sixteen tons of fabulous food and a bunch of cache containers for the Dirty Santa exchange. Yay! It's unbelievably good stuff, since I haven't eaten in a month. Or at least since this morning, which is just like being a month ago, given all that we fit in today.

Martini time. And where's my damned masseuse?

Near "A Permanent High" (GC2ZY2K): Cache on delivery!

At first, just ghostly.

Good Christ! Zombies! Would you go caching with these creeple people?
If you said "yes"...ten points from Hufflepuff.

Special BLUE DEVIL ISLAND Christmas Bargain...Kaput

2011-12-13T17:18:00.003-05:00

Thanks to a flurry of orders, my stock of autographed copies of Blue Devil Island is now sold out, so that's all she wrote, at least for now. I appreciate all who picked up copies, and I hope you enjoy the book—or, if it's a gift, that the recipient won't curse your name (and mine) for all eternity.

Whirlwind

2011-12-11T18:57:00.020-05:00

With Ms. B. at Wine Styles. The young'un is the photographer. We're not laughing with her,
which can only mean....

December 9 to December 11: Daughter here, working on short story, office Christmas fest (and feast), Wine Styles, working on short story, Zen sushi, Chapel Hill, working on short story, RDU, daughter gone, Benjamin Winery, working on short story, Hyco Lake, Piedmont College Trails... Holy ghods, was there a weekend?

Old dude is a little sore after a lot of hiking and caching today with Audra "Homestyle" Webb and her daughter in Person County, NC—at Hyco Lake and then at the Piedmont Community College nature trail. Nothing terribly menacing to life and limb, just a fair bit of up and down over a few miles of terrain. Another 14 caches under my belt, and I'm seven shy of 4,000.

Mark has a teachable moment. Way back, a while back, I was hiking along the Haw River and photographed an odd device that I thought might be a Martian fighting machine. Found one at Hyco Lake and got to examine it at close range. It's just a critter feeder with a camera mounted on it. Go figure! Of course, this does not mean the Martians are not invading.

And now back to writing. Must...finish...short story.

L: Audra taking a picture of the photographer, with the Martian fighting machine looking on.
R: A marker for the Frisbee golf course, or a talisman to hold spells for all kinds of unspeakable rites in the dark forest? You decide.

L: Audra discovered Wilson!
R: The tree grew around the cache container, popped the lid off, and made it
a permanent fixture. We signed the container itself.

Dirty Santa!

2011-12-06T21:35:00.007-05:00

Now and again, you just have to offer a special tip of the hat to somebody, and I'm going to tip mine to cachers Jeff and Annette "Rhett and Scarlett" Campbell for placing "Dirty Santa" (GC38QY7) over in High Point. It's a big honking Tupperware bin full of wrapped presents for the first fifty finders, there or about, and I went out after the thing last night, shortly after it was published. Turns out, I was the second to arrive on the scene, and based on the logs, several other cachers came out shortly after I left. I ended up snagging a ready-to-go lock-n-lock cache container, which comes in particularly handy, as I'm looking to put out a few new hides in the not-so-distant future. Just to give a little something back, I left an autographed copy of Other Gods...hmm...which might end up scaring away some cachers, who knows....

I did kind of get run off from the greenway parking lot by a ranger, since I had parked there after dark, and this is apparently a big no-no. Okay, so I won't do that again. At least he was cordial enough, so it didn't spoil the evening—particularly since I managed a couple of first-to-finds on other caches, hid a new urban micro, and grabbed some sushi for dinner. I tell you, this is the stuff that makes caching extra rewarding; "Dirty Santa" couldn't have been cheap to put together, as there's evidently some mighty nice goodies in that bin! I reckon Rhett and Scarlett are pretty much okay for a couple of mean old grinches.

Caterwining

2011-12-04T17:15:00.010-05:00

That there is Noah Stonefield—resident Bengal cat at Stonefield Cellars Winery in Stokesdale, NC. Went out that way last evening with Kimberly and the young 'un, who is in town helping to look after her mother following some fairly serious surgery. Stonefield's not a very large place, but they've got a decent catalog of wines, with some particularly good red varieties (my color of choice). Last night was their holiday open house, which meant free tastings and 15% off purchases; needless to say, this made for some mighty attractive bait, and we laid into it.

Without question, Stonefield's Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon and their Reserve Malbec are the best they have to offer. I'm also very partial to their Sangiovese and "Barrel X" varieties. Not quite as much to my liking but still most interesting are "Mountain Mama Madness" (available in both white and red) and "Dread Pirate Robert's Bloody Red" (which I usually cannot resist purchasing, even if it's not my favorite of the flavors, just because the packaging is awesome).

Stonefield is a scenic enough little spot, particularly now with their abundant Christmas decorations about the property. They have a rather charming little outdoor area with a fire pit and several tables, so since the weather has been unseasonably warm (in shirt sleeves in December), we sat outside after the tasting and each drank a glass—their warm mulled spice wine, which was indeed delicious.

After this little venture, we made our way over to Winston-Salem for another little wine event at our friends Terry and Beth Nelson's place—snagging a few caches en route, of course. Lots of food, drink, and good company. A Chilean Cabernet, a brand called Calina, also caught our attention here.

Today, it was out on the geocaching trail for most of the day; added a few more to the total, so now I'm 32 shy of 4,000. Lots of flesh wounds from hacking through brier hell today. I might need a spot of wine to recuperate....

Young'un with the old man. Apparently, her face is stuck like that.

Hmm. Looks like she might have gotten it unstuck, but I'm not sure it's going to last.

Special BLUE DEVIL ISLAND Christmas Bargain

2011-11-30T21:18:00.012-05:00

It really is high time I did this, so here it is: specially for Christmas 2011: Get an autographed copy of Blue Devil Island, by ye olde dude, at the special cut-rate price of $10.00 with free shipping. Yes. Ordinarily this book is $15.99, you pay postage, and I haven't devalued the copy with my signature. All that is remedied...for a limited time. Offer valid through the end of December or until the supply is exhausted. There are limited copies available, so it's first-come, first-served. This is a beautifully produced trade paperback from Marietta Books, with stunning cover art by M. Wayne Miller.

Here's the poop:

AUTUMN, 1943: The beginning of the American offensive against the Japanese in the South Pacific. Just west of the Solomon Islands lies a remote, desert island called Conquest, where the U.S. Navy stations a new fighting squadron, led by Lieutenant Commander Drew McLachlan, an ace pilot and veteran of the Battle of Coral Sea.

With his group of air warriors, who call themselves the Blue Devils, McLachlan soars into frequent combat with the Japanese, inflicting serious casualties upon the enemy. However, on the squadron's island home, signs appear that it may not be entirely alone, for in nearby volcanic caves, McLachlan finds evidence of habitation by unknown natives—natives that resemble no known living race, and that may yet exist in the mysterious subterranean catacombs. As the tension on the island mounts, McLachlan is forced to fight on two fronts: against their known enemy, the Japanese, and an unknown, predatory force that leaves mutilated victims as the only evidence of its presence.

As the Solomons campaign enters into its final skirmishes, the Japanese at last turn their attention to Conquest Island. In the final conflict, the Blue Devils find themselves the target of an overwhelming assault by the desperate Imperial Japanese forces—and McLachlan must face the reality that the key to his men’s survival lies deep in the dark and deadly caves of Conquest Island itself.

A few remarks about Blue Devil Island:

"...An enjoyable World War II adventure with a science-fiction plot twist. Readers nostalgic for the era's war movies and pulp fiction will enjoy the ride."
—Publisher's Weekly

"Rainey skillfully mixes military fiction with alien encounters to present a fast-paced tale of wartime heroics and unearthly terrors. Blue Devil Island is a good selection for large science-fiction or horror collections."
—Library Journal

"I haven't had this much fun reading a book in a long time. I was right there on the edge of my chair during the flight missions, ducking and juking along with the pilots, and I was biting my nails as the more sinister elements of the island itself came into play. Adventure. Great humor. Undercurrents of unsettling suspense and wallops of terror. Blue Devil Island...had everything I wanted from it. And more."
—Scott Falkner, The Daily Cave Reviews...

To order and get more info about the book, visit Blue Devil Island Special Christmas Offer at The Realm of Stephen Mark Rainey.

Black Sunday

2011-11-27T23:29:00.007-05:00

Yeah, Black Sunday. It's back to work tomorrow, and after such a fine—and way too short—long weekend. Today, it was out on the caching trail again with Bridget "Suntigres" Langley and Lonnie "Moncure Bee Dude" Drain. Picked up 19 today, doing everything from park & grabs to terrain & grabs, my favorite being "Tadabailey's Revenge" (GC14AWB), which resides out in the middle of the Deep River, requiring negotiating a narrow rock dam out from the riverbank. In the pic at left, you see a couple of old men digging in the rocks for geotreasure. In the end, we prevailed, and neither of us went splash. Evidently, Alfred Hitchcock's ghost took an interest in our activities, as you may note in the photo below. We determined at "A Deep, Peaceful View" (GC30WGB) that some of us are completely unskilled at mathematics, while others have difficulty with the language arts: a comedy of errors turning what should have been a simple multi-stage cache into a brief trek to nowhere....

The other favorite I found on my way home—"Buckarilla, the Bridge Troll" (GC380PV), a fairly new one in the Forest Oaks area, which is exactly what the title implies. A cool hide, lurking in the darkness beneath a bridge on Woody Lane.

Today's total leaves me 46 caches shy of 4,000. An apt number as I soon go into my fourth year of geocaching. It is to smile.

Photos by Bridget Langley.

Found the little rascal!

Alfred Hitchcock's ghost is alive and well....

Black Friday Smith Mountain Lake Adventures

2011-11-25T23:13:00.020-05:00

It's a pity Ms. B. and I never get out and about finding cool places to hike, picnic, hunt geocaches, drink margaritas, etc., etc. Oh, wait. I guess we sometimes do....

A ridiculously warm November day. Mid 70s in the higher elevations. It confuses a body. But it made for an excellent day for Kimberly and I to visit Smith Mountain Lake State Park, Virginia. There were a few caches a long the way, of course, which I snagged; then we hit the park and found a beautiful little cove where we had a our picnic lunch (leftover turkey from T-day). Then it was some serious hiking after a number of caches on the various trails. One of the hunts led us to the "Moody" wall, an ancient bulwark from the early 19th century that extends along one of the peninsulas. We also came upon some stone ruins (see the old man in the photo at left), the history of which we didn't discover but which certainly set the mind of a certain horror writer all a-buzzing. At the end of the day, we came out several caches richer, a hair smarter, and a little pooped.

Margarita time!

Back to Martinsville—or technically Collinsville—and El Ranchito Mexican Restaurant, where the night's special just happened to be monster margaritas. The drinks turned out to be bigger than our dinners, which were no tiny turkeys themselves. I gotta tell you, their chori pollo—with plenty of extra habanero sauce—is superb.

Afterward, we visited the bar at El Norteno Mexican restaurant just because the margarita spirit had come upon us. We each knocked back another just for good measure, and that was all she wrote for us. A fine Black Friday for us, thank you very much, and—praise ye ghods—the only Walmart we visited was to snag a cache.

One of the scenic coves at Smith Mountain Lake State Park

Brugger hanging out on the "Moody House" wall, a bulwark from the early 1800s

Little thirst-quencher at El Ranchito

Graveyards, Gravy, and Gravity Hill

2011-11-24T14:43:00.020-05:00

Brugger diggin' some graves at "Ruffin Lick a Fork" (GC384QK)

And a happy Thanksgiving to you too. I love the holiday season from Halloween through New Year's...and now it's only 341 more days till Halloween 2012!

Thanksgiving has traditionally been a big family holiday for us, and for me over the past few years, a nice caching holiday. No exception today for the latter; Kimberly and I hit the road this morning bound for Martinsville and turkey dinner with Mum, and—happily—there was a relatively new cache not too far up the road. Even better, it's hidden by a little graveyard near Ruffin, NC, and Kimberly and I were delighted to find the locale very scenic and serene. The graves themselves are quite old, at least one going back to the late 18th century. (Wouldn't you know it, still no sign of the walking dead around the place. What do you have to do to crash a zombie shindig anymore? Jeesh.) I snagged the cache readily, took some pictures of the graveyard, and then realized that we were fairly close to a place called Gravity Hill, which has an interesting little story attached to it. There's a cache there, which I had found a couple of years ago, but I had not availed myself to the experience that lies in store there. We figured today would be a good day to go check it out.

It's like this: In rural Pittsylvania County, VA, at the intersection of Oak Hill and Berry Hill Roads, if you park your car on Oak Hill Road, which very clearly rises northward, and put your car in neutral, it will begin to roll, gradually picking up speed...uphill. Kimberly and I did this thing, and—sure enough—before we knew it, the car was booking up the hill with no engine power whatsoever. Disconcerting to say the least!

Then it was turkey, dressing, gravy, green bean casserole, corn, and Mum's famous cranberry salad, rounded out with Damned Rodan's own pumpkin pie. Sadly, my brother was unable to be here for the holiday, and the house seems a bit vacant without him, and thus a little melancholy. Still and all, it's been a very pleasant day. At the moment, certain other folks have gone off to nap, while I am giving some thought to certain upcoming caching activities.

Hope you have plenty to be thankful for and loved ones to celebrate with.

Click the pics to enlarge.

Where the Hell Are the Undead?

2011-11-20T09:54:00.010-05:00

Up and going before sunrise yesterday morning, heading up to the Danville, VA, vicinity for a day of biking, hiking, caching, and dining with the right honorable Rob "Maingray" Maile, Audra "Homestyle" Webb, and their respective young'uns. Our first destination was the Richmond and Danville Rail Trail, which runs about 5.5 miles between Ringgold and Sutherlin, VA. We picked up 24 caches along that route in about three hours, all without encountering the first zombie or bigfoot; a little disappointing, granted, but an enjoyable ride nonetheless. That's the Mt. Zion Cemetery behind me in the photo at left and below, and it was almost surprising that no flesh-eating dead came crawling out, since Maingray generally seems to attract such people. Alas. The only cache along the trail that we didn't pick up was one called Triskaphobia (GC2935M) because it requires special equipment we did not have at our disposal (note a certain high place in the photos below; you can guess the rest).

Once done with the trail, we met up with fellow cacher Larry "HD JP" to hunt some other caches scattered around the nearby Pittsylvania County countryside. Again, no menacing supernatural entities (what's up with that, anyway?), though we enjoyed a few darkly atmospheric settings, particularly around the old Reeve's Mill-Anderson Bridge area, where Audra got to climb a tree. Nearby barbed wire and gun shots suggested that we were either near deer-hunting grounds or a zombie killing field (I'd lay even odds), but we cleared the area before either hunters or the walking dead came our way—and we did snag the caches.

Mt. Zion Cemetery: There are dead people here, though none of them seemed
to be wandering about at the time. Dammit.

The caching party: Zachary "Homekid" Webb, Rob "Maingray" Maile,
and Audra "Homestyle" Webb

House of the Rising Sun

"Hallllooooooooo, down there!" (photo by Audra Buchanan Webb)

"Don't look down, Audra!"

End of the line?

A couple of favorite caches were provided by the mysterious stranger known as Klaussinator: Insight (GC37X4C) and At the End of Your Rope (GC37CYP), neither of which were difficult but were unique and thus memorable. One particular cache, "Shortcut Micro" (GC37128), also a Klaussinator hide, located just north of Danville, proved to be painfully difficult, due to a previous finder who shall remain nameless (Christopher "Ranger Fox" Hall) re-hiding it a bit more deviously than was originally intended. Audra again showed her dexterity by crawling under a wire fence, which ended up getting fresh with her and extricating a fair quantity of her hair. Rotten bastard fence. Having accomplished all these things, we headed back out to the Ringgold-Kentuck area for the caching event, "Turkey's Last Days" (GC366KC), at the Corner Cafe, hosted by cachers Keith and Laura McCoy. Neither Maingray nor myself had bothered to eat anything all day—not even a nibble on the heart of a small child—so we were famished. Fortunately, there was a monstrous pile of food at the event, so we satiated ourselves in very short order.

At the Corner Cafe: Maingray and young 'un, HD JP, Damned Rodan, Indian Giver
(photo by Rob Maile)

Right after the feeding frenzy, I received a message that my old college friend, Doug Craft, was passing through Greensboro and could use a place to crash. I haven't seen him in way too many years, so I immediately hit the road and met him at my place, where we tossed back a few drinks and shot the shit until one of us (won't say whom, except that it was Doug Craft) pretty much passed out.

Thus ended an exhausting but ultimately satisfying day of exercise and camaraderie—and 33 caches under my belt. Today...maybe I'll run into a few walking dead. Hell, I'll probably be one of them.

The Fugazy Fireball

2011-11-18T18:29:00.009-05:00

Oh, lord, yeah...I've made me a Fugazy Fireball. Technically, times two....

This was the specialty of the house at The Holiday Cocktail Lounge, where young Shogunmouse, Mr. Andy Callander, and I myself planted our corporeal envelopes last Sunday night while I was visiting NYC. Enamored and intrigued, I decided to give this little concoction a shot on my own. While I haven't quite reproduced the original...yet...I've managed a reasonable facsimile thereof, and it's one loud, rocking drink, easily as fiery as my original Damned Rodan's Dirty Firetini, and as thirst-quenching as one of Don Juan's (my favorite Mexican restaurant) margaritas. I altered the recipe in that, on top of the spicy Tabasco tequila, I added a habanero pepper. For God's sake, if you attempt this, do not light up a cigarette, your gas oven, or anything else with combustible properties; you may take out your entire town.

The Fugazy Fireball, like Damned Rodan's Dirty Firetini, is simple as all get-out. I don't know if The Holiday Cocktail Lounge does it like this, but here's what I did. And it worked.

The Fugazy Fireball
(The original, to the best of my knowledge, is unique to The Holiday Cocktail Lounge.)

What You Need:
3 measures gold tequila (the spicy Tabasco variety is optional)
1 measure Pama (pomegranate liqueur)
1/2 habanero pepper
Lemon juice
Salt

What You Do:
Pour your tequila and Pama into shaker; add your habanero half and a generous splash of lemon juice. Throw in a pinch of salt. Shake like a motherfucker. Pour all contents into glass. Savor and explode.

Hat's off to The Holiday Cocktail Lounge for a dynamite original.

Manhattan Mayhem

2011-11-14T20:16:00.017-05:00

An early morning moon over Lake Anna, VA, viewed from 25,000 ft.

It's been a long while since I've spent some quality time with the young 'un, so early Friday morning, long before dawn reared its sleepy head, it was off to the Greensboro airport to catch a plane for New York City (via Washington-Dulles). A couple of relatively brief hops later, I was on the ground at La Guardia, where I soon met Allison, though not without a wee bit of confusion. Note to kid: passengers on United Airlines usually disembark at the United Terminal. We cabbed it back to her Manhattan apartment, where she introduced me to my grandcat, Sutton, and promptly put on some episodes of Dexter, a show I've never seen, and made me watch them. Sometime later, I discovered I was completely hooked. For the rest of the long weekend, Dexter was playing constantly anytime we were not out and about. Then the nefarious child got me playing Angry Birds on her iPad, and it was at that point we began to fear there would be no leaving the apartment for several days.

The bully and the troublemaker: Allison "Shogunmouse" and Sutton Rainey

Leave we did, however—for some geocaching. There are a few not far from her place, so we went out around the neighborhood and did a little hunting (and finding) as well as grocery shopping. Since we're both operating on a fairly tight budget, we opted do most of our dining in. The kid is not a half-bad cook and, that evening, provided us with some fabulous beer-butt chicken. Last night, we had some of her homemade buffalo wings, which completely rocked (I kicked them up a notch with some habanero sauce, of course). We also discovered at her nearby grocery store these little individually packaged Table Talk pies, which we determined are delicious beyond the bounds of reason. The chocolate eclair and blueberry varieties are especially noteworthy.

Several times over the weekend, I discovered I could not shift from this position.

Saturday evening, we lit out for midtown Manhattan, met Allison's friend Andy, and paid a visit to New Hane Sushi in Midtown East, an unassuming, very small, and absolutely wonderful little joint that made us all holler a bit. I ordered the fusion sushi plate, which was a dozen different types of sushi, all served with different sauces—every one fabulous. From there, we grabbed a few caches and then headed to the Empire State Building, for a late-night visit to the observation decks. I've been to NYC a number of times, and I'd visited the top of the World Trade Center back in 1999, but this was my first Empire State Building experience. I really, really enjoyed it, particularly the 86th floor, where you can go outdoors...and claim a virtual geocache—"The Empire Strikes Back" (GC4D7F). Your ticket to the observation deck entitles you to a free drink at the ground-floor Empire Room bar, but it was closed for a private function. Thus, Shogunmouse, Andy, and I decided to discover some nearby watering holes. We tried one called The Mason Jar, which specializes in bourbon. I opted for a dirty martini; I probably should have sampled the bourbon. From there, we found a little restaurant called The Barking Dog (where a very friendly dog named Wilson actually did attempt to get service but was permitted to sit only in the outside seating area); I have no idea how good their food is, but the bartender— whose name was Sonia, I believe—treated us more than right, and we enjoyed a number of happy concoctions.

Afterward, Andy went his way, and the child and I caught a cab back to her place. Hard to recall for sure, but I think we watched some more Dexter.

New Hane Sushi restaurant on 3rd Ave.

View north from the 86th floor of the Empire State Building

L: Andy Callander and Damned Rodan at The Barking Dog;
R: There's no cache here, but there ought to be.

Last night, it was out to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge on St. Mark's Place, where Andy regularly plays guitar and sings at open-mic night. It's a decent little dive bar in the East Village, and it was here I discovered the Fugazy Fireball, a powerful little formula of jalapeno-infused tequila, lemon juice, and pama (pomegranate liqueur). A dynamite drink, to be sure. Spicy and tangy, with a lingering pepper burn. It was also here that I succumbed to irresistible pressure from my daughter, borrowed a guitar, and belted out a song ("Love My Way," by The Psychedelic Furs, or something akin to it). Most enjoyable. During a break, I went out for a walk through the Village and soothed my caching fever.

Today, the flights back home. All smooth, except for there being no air conditioning inside La Guardia, and the heat was bad enough to give me a case of the near swoons. Unhappy Rodan!

A couple of random New York moments. Seen from the bus while heading down to Midtown: some guy walking down 2nd Avenue carrying a car door. Today in a restroom at La Guardia: a dude farted so hard it shook the whole row of stalls. Potent wind!

Finally, a strange case of synchronicity—or cats texting each other. Sutton, Allison's special needs (and thoroughly sweet) cat, has a habit of sticking his feet in his water bowl and then jumping on people. I experienced this a couple of times, and yes, you get some kind of wet. Although Frazier has been known to dip his paw in the water bowl to test the temperature, Sutton's brand of gratuitous paw-soaking has never been among my cats' bad habits. It wasn't, I should say...until I came home. This evening, Chester and Frazier have both soaked their feet and gotten me—not to mention the floors and furniture—quite damp. Yes, I've already called Allison to air my grievances, but I'm not sure any felines were listening.

I leave now to dry off. G'night.

Plenty to Wine About

2011-11-06T19:31:00.014-05:00

A lady of my acquaintance adding a little class to Chinqua Penn.

The Chinqua Penn Plantation in Rockingham County, NC, built in the 1920s by tobacco and cattle baron Thomas Jefferson ("Jeff") Penn, isn't far up the road from here; I've gone geocaching on the estate's nature trail numerous times over the last couple of years, but I haven't actually toured the place since I was in high school. Back in those days, visiting local wineries wasn't very high on my list of personal leisure activities, but if you frequent this blog, you've probably noted that Kimberly B. and I have taken some interest in local winemakers. Since 2005, Chinqua Penn has been making a brand of its own. A while back, we picked up a Groupon for a tour of the house and winery, so yesterday we headed up that way to give the place a look-see. Evidently, there was a fall festival of sorts going on, with numerous vendors on the grounds selling random goodies, passels of people meandering about, and a house on fire across the road. We decided to forgo watching the fire in favor of taking the tour and drinking some wine, which, for the most part, we enjoyed. Our tour guide was Calvin Phelps, the owner of Chinqua Penn his own self; an interesting enough character, though he made some news last year that wasn't exactly flattering ("NC Estate, Tourist Site Yanked in Bankruptcy Fight"; I don't know how things have actually panned out for him at this point). As yet, Chinqua Penn doesn't have many wines in their catalog, and a couple of them were underwhelming, to put it politely. They did make a decent dry red—Lenox Castle, it's called—though I'd call it overpriced ($16.99/bottle). Before heading out, we tore into some barbecued ribs from one of the vendors, which I, at least, found pretty damned satisfying. All in all, a fine enough day on the ol' plantation.

From Chinqua Penn, it was up to Martinsville to visit Mum. A very pleasant time, until we discovered early this morning that my vehicle had a flat tire. I promptly yanked it off the car and determined that an offensive screw had violated it; thus, I installed the spare tire and ventured forth to pick up a tire patching kit. I had only gone a short distance up the road, however, when I determined that the damned spare tire was also flat. Since the original tire still had a bit of air in it, I put it back on the car, drove to Wal-Fucking-Mart (at which, on principle, I refuse to shop, barring an emergency such as this one), picked up a tire patching kit, headed to the nearest gas station, pulled the tire back off the car, plugged it, pumped the irritating bastard full of air, and put it back on car. Finally...a balm in Gilead. Thus balmed, Kimberly and I made our way to El Norteno, one of Martinsville's several decent Mexican restaurants, so that we might cauterize our cares with chori pollo, taco locos, and habanero sauce.

Done.

All that was left now was to grab a couple of geocaches and then head out to Chatham Heights Park to hide a new one. A fun little fellow, it turned out to be—"Little Monster," I call it (GC37ADW; you must be a premium member to view the page)—because, well, it's little, monstrous, and mean. Kind of like the screw that violated my tire.

All righty then. On to another week in the coal mine. Dig it.

View to the east from "Little Monster"

View to the west from "Little Monster"

Day of the Dead

2011-11-01T22:26:00.019-04:00

So, after work, I went out to Northeast Park to hide a new cache, which I figured I'd title "Day of the Dead," given it's about that time of the season, and all. Imagine my surprise when I got out to the trail and ran into the fellow you see pictured above.

I also ran into this:
And this:
And this:
I've listed the new cache, a nice little two-stage multi, indeed titled "Day of the Dead" (GC371JE), which I expect will be published at geocaching.com in the next day or two. You really just don't know what you're going to find in the woods sometimes. Me, I could hardly have been more pleased.

Since all this good stuff kicked my Halloween spirit into high gear—a day late—I went on and watched Curse (Night) of the Demon, my favorite horror film, just to make it official. I can't tell you how glad I am that I decided to go hide that cache rather than just head home and cook bison burgers. Of course, after the job was done, I did go and cook those burgers. The bison were almost dead....

And here's a little spoiler I left at ground zero for stage 1 that might help those who go hunting the cache: THE DEAD WALK

Click on the pics to enlarge.

Happy All-Hallow's Eve

2011-10-31T14:51:00.008-04:00

I was out hunting caches yesterday at Cedarock Park, not far from Burlington, and this little dude came round trick-or-treating. I had no treats for him because he was a day early—alas—and he wasn't much help finding the cache, but at least he was clearly full of Halloween spirit, which made me chuckle. I did manage to find the nearby cache all on my own, thank you very much.

Halloween, ever my favorite holiday, calls for taking a day off work, so I did. But since I greatly appreciate our traditional office festivities, which include trick-or-treating, costume and pumpkin-carving contests, and me reading a scary tale, I went in at 10:00 AM to partake of the celebration and regale the crowd with three of my short-short tales from The Gaki & Other Hungry Spirits: "Black Tom," "Megan," and "Field Dressing." These seemed to go over quite well, and I got a passel of chocolate in the bargain.

Then it was off to the Laurel Bluff trail to hunt...get this..."Out on the Laurel Bluff" (GC36A4G), a new cache that was published yesterday. An absolutely beautiful morning for hiking, and, happily, the cache was a fairly quick find.

This evening, some more Halloween festivities with Kimberly B., Jenny Chapman, and Doug Cox. Who knows who...er, what...we'll cook up for a treat.

Happy Halloween to the lot of ye.

It's Chester's favorite holiday, too.

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

2011-10-30T11:14:00.026-04:00

Despite an end result that fell shy of our hopes, Kimberly B., Dave "dlf2001" Foxworth, and Old Man Rodan had a blast traipsing into the deep, dark woods late last night on the hunt for "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" (GCT3V0), a two-stage night cache out near Jordan Lake, NC. To claim this one, you must find an ammo box in the woods right at midnight because then, and only then, a spirit voice emanates from the container to give you coordinates to the final stage of the cache.

Kimberly and I had headed over to Carrboro/Chapel Hill earlier in the day for one of our regular pilgrimages to Trader Joe's, A Southern Season, The Spotted Dog, et. al., with a planned stop at the Benjamin Winery in Alamance County along the way. However, the best-laid plans, and all that.... As it turned out, the winery was closing early to host a wedding. Damn these young folks and their marriages! Anyhoo, we decided to figure out an alternative destination—for which the Android phone is a mighty handy device. We discovered that GlenMarie Winery wasn't too far away, and they were open for tastings. So, off we went, and we soon came to a scenic little spot north of Burlington...with very friendly dogs, a couple of cats, and a pair of alpacas in their front yard. Well, we figured any winery with alpacas couldn't be bad, so we did our tasting—which, I must say, proved most excellent—picked up a couple of bottles of wine, and continued on our trip to Carrboro, stopping to grab a few caches in the vicinity, of course.

Dinner and shopping done, we planted ourselves at A Southern Season's Weathervane restaurant for a while and sank a couple of glasses of vino before heading out into the wilds of Jordan Lake for the evening's big cache hunt. We found Mr. Foxworth already on the scene, having arrived at the game lands early to snag a cache or two for himself. Shortly before the witching hour, we commenced our hike into darkness, following our GPSrs and a trail of glowing fire tacks until we reached ground zero. There, we readily found the ghost box, from which the spirit voices were reputed to speak. Sure enough, right at midnight, a hollow, disembodied voice emanated from the box, saying...something. We each recorded the speech on our phones, yet when we played it back, it was an unintelligible, garbled mess. We could make out what sounded like a couple of numbers, but that was about it. We knew that, seven minutes later, a second voice was supposed to speak and repeat the coordinates, so we waited with anticipation, hoping this one would say something we could actually understand.

At the appointed time, we heard the recording start up...and then...nothing. Just a whirring, groaning sound that went on for several seconds and then fell silent.

Rather dismayed, we each listened to the first recording over and over, trying to discern some intelligible set of numbers. Using our imaginations, we managed to come up with coordinates that almost made sense, though they did not jive with certain intelligence I had received prior to making our trip out there. Regardless, we slogged out in the deep darkness through a flooded area until we reached the new ground zero. As we more than half anticipated, we found nothing there. Quite wet and cold now, we decided to admit defeat and return to our vehicles. What a disappointment! Well, it was in terms of caching, at least. On the other hand, I found it a highly entertaining little Halloween weekend adventure, complete with hooting barred and great horned owls to provide a spooky soundtrack. I didn't much mind the physical discomfort...that's a regular companion on a lot of cache hunts, particularly night caches...though I'm not too sure about Ms. Kimberly. To her credit, she didn't swat me in the head or worse.

Hopefully, the cache owner can whip those dastardly spirits into submission, and I'll no doubt conquer this intriguing little hide at the next available opportunity. I didn't crawl into bed until about 4:00 AM this morning, then slept in till 10:00. I gotta tell you, that cinnamon-hazelnut coffee from A Southern Season was just the ticket....

A couple of happy alpacas at GlenMarie Winery, Alamance County, NC

Brave, I am. Would you go into the deep, dark woods with these people?

A Williamsburg Kind of Weekend

2011-10-23T21:30:00.027-04:00

Driving Route 5, a relatively little-traveled, secondary highway through the backwoods of Charles City County, VA, on the way to Williamsburg, I couldn't help but think how neat it was to be driving on the same highway that all those settlers drove all those many years ago. Okay, so maybe their cars didn't have as much horsepower, but they did have style. Lots more convertibles in those days.

Friday morning, Kimberly and ol' Rodan joined up with our young friends, the Workmans (a.k.a. TravelinFarmFam), and hit the road for Virginia's Colonial peninsula and Williamsburg Plantation, where the youngsters own a very nice timeshare, to which they invited us for a slightly long weekend. Yes, of course there was geocaching involved...what a silly question. We snagged a fair number along the way, and, come lunchtime, stopped at Cul's Courthouse Grille in Charles City, which I had discovered on a trip that way last year—just about this time, come to think of it—for a booksigning event at The College of William & Mary ("Damn That Betty White!" [Oct. 15, 2010]). An excellent lunch at this quaint little joint was kind of the official kick-off for an absolutely beautiful, virtually stress-free weekend with good friends. Now, there might have been a couple of life-and-death struggles with a bottle or two of wine, but by my recollection, we prevailed against them without any bloodshed. So much the better, wouldn't you say?

Yesterday, about midday, we lit out for Yorktown, about 10 miles east of Williamsburg, and spent the afternoon on the Yorktown Riverwalk, browsing a few shops, checking out many of the historical sites, lunching and sinking a few draughts at the Yorktown Pub, and—yes, of course—hunting a few caches. Back at Williamsburg Plantation, a swimming pool and hot tub awaited us, and...oh...wasn't that just torture. Then some fabulous sushi at the Kyoto hibachi and sushi bar. Their sign said "Open Cocktails." Well...yeah. Just for variety's sake, rather than my usual saké or martini, I had a mai tai. Kimberly, Paul, and Jamie ended up with some strange tropical concoctions of their own; Paul's was some kind of volcanic flaming rum drink that looked rather frightening. He's a brave boy, that Paul.

Today, before leaving, we bummed around the William & Mary campus; had an excellent brunch, complete with mimosas, at Berret's Seafood Restaurant; and then hit the road for home. Yes. Caching. Naturally. The most entertaining was one out in the middle of the big bridge on Route 5 over the Chickahominy River. The Virginia Capital Trail—an extensive hiking and biking trail—goes across the bridge in a separate lane, and you access the cache from there. Quite scenic.

Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I did find myself a bit surprised by the courtesy and outright friendliness showed by just about everyone we encountered out that way. From the guests and staff we met at the Williamsburg Plantation, to our servers at the various restaurants, to strangers in the pubs, there was a rare cordiality that we all remarked upon. I gotta tell you, it gets to be the very dickens when people are nice like that, as it screws up my well-honed disdain for the human race in general. It's really not all that considerate when you think about it, and I'm afraid that happy crap might start rubbing off on me. I've been told by some that it already has, but that's just their density talking. Anyway, it's back to the womp rat race this week, so I'm sure any emotional confusion will be cleared up in no time.

Now, off with you.

Miscreants at the Green Leaf Tavern, Williamsburg, VA

Mr. TravelinFarmFam and Damned Rodan at "The Cave" (GC2BAF), Yorktown, VA

Yorktown Victory Monument, Yorktown, VA

I'll say! Kyoto Hibachi & Sushi Bar, Williamsburg, VA

Paul and Jamie sink a Flaming Volcano.

Tropical horrors awaited us as well.

The Wren Building at The College of William & Mary, Williamsburg, VA

My girlfriend likes Thomas Jefferson more than me. She really does go for the older men.

Coupla hot women Paul and I discovered at "The Virginia Capital Trail: View From the Top" (GC2723B)

"The Jack-o'-Lantern Memoirs"...Free for Halloween

2011-10-16T23:23:00.008-04:00

It's been a while since I've updated my free fiction page, so for Halloween I'm going to offer my short tale, "The Jack-o'-Lantern Memoirs" for your reading pleasure. The story originally appeared in Flesh & Blood magazine (2002) and then in my collection, Other Gods (2009). If you haven't read it, give 'er a try. If you have, no doubt you could use a refresher. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll lose your face...

About "The Jack-o'-Lantern Memoirs:....
A serial killer from hell? For real? Oh, yes! Here on Earth, the Jack-o'-Lantern killer was a regular monster. Down in the underworld, he's so rotten that even the devil doesn't want him. Every Halloween, Old Nick sends the Jack-o'-Lantern Killer back to Earth, with the promise that, if he doesn't kill anyone during his little "vacation," he will be freed from hell forever. But it's not so easy being a vicious, bloodthirsty demon, and when you're hard up for blood, bodies, and mayhem, things are never as easy as they seem on the surface....

Enjoy "The Jack-o'-Lantern Memoirs." A little Halloween treat for you! Click here to read.

The Poop, the Whole Poop, and Nothing But the Poop

2011-10-15T23:59:00.005-04:00

Old man Rodan at Lover's Leap Overlook, VA

Slowly but surely, the Halloween spirit is starting to creep over me, and it's about bleepin' time. Each year, shortly before Halloween, I make the pilgrimage to Mabry Mill on the Blue Ridge Parkway in Floyd County, VA, to partake of their signature buckwheat pancakes, and I almost always pick up a Halloween pumpkin or two while there (a tradition that began when I was a little kid). That's when I know it's officially the season. This year—today—was no exception, except that it was.

Ordinarily, I get moving well before the crack of dawn to arrive at the mill before they open at 8:00 AM because the restaurant is quite small and there's usually a crowd. Well, today, Kimberly and I decided to head up a wee bit later, and this proved to be a mistake. By the time we got there, a great milling mob had already assembled, and the predicted wait time was two hours. We had much on the day's agenda, so we said the heck with it; perhaps later in the day, we'd come back and try again.

Needless to say, there was a fair amount of geocaching to do out that way. It was at Lover's Leap overlook, on US 58, near Stuart, VA, that dear Kimberly suffered a slight mishap. As I made my way down a steep incline to hunt a cache, she took a different path to find a good spot to snap some photos. I had just reached ground zero when I heard her holler, "Oh, shit." She meant it quite literally, for she had just stepped in bear poop. At least, I'm pretty sure it was bear. Well, no reason to think it wasn't bear. Anyway. Awwww...ooooh....gaaaah! It's bad. I mean, it's some bad poop. She did a thorough job of cleaning her shoes, no shit, but regardless, we had to travel with the car windows open for a bit, and that early in the morning, it was dang cold.

Me, I found the cache and managed not to step in any poop—bear, bigfoot, or otherwise.

The other main activity I had in mind was to visit Camp Cheerio, near Roaring Gap, NC, where I spent a few weeks at summer camp in my early years—back when I tended to be more scared than scary. It was at Cheerio where I learned about the Wampus Cat and had numerous twisted but memorable experiences, and for quite some time now I've had a hankering to go back and visit the scene of those ancient crimes. Today, done and done. Fortuitously, there was a weekend event going on, so we were able to go in and wander about freely (though it looked like a dads-and-daughters kind of thing, so Kimberly stood out not unlike a sore bum). The place has changed a lot since I was there—back in the mid-to-late 1960s—but I found much of it quite recognizable, and I had several poignant flashes that took me right back to those long-gone days.

After exploring Cheerio, we hit the road again and found a secluded spot near an overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway where we had a nice little picnic lunch. Eventually, we aimed ourselves back toward Mabry Mill, wondering whether we might actually be able to get in. Upon arriving, about 3:30 PM, we discovered not even a slight thinning of the crowd, so—once again—we said the heck with it, reluctantly opting to forgo the buckwheat and bacon for this year. Instead, we headed to Martinsville and had an excellent dinner (veal piccata for me, baked ziti for the young lady) at Rania's Restaurant. This weekend is Mum's birthday, so we stopped by her place for a little birthday visit and didn't get run off. That's something!

I'm not thrilled about missing out on the buckwheat—probably won't get another shot at it till next year about this time—and the poop was no picnic, but the rest of the excursion was pretty danged awesome. I'll take it. Just for good measure, once we got back home, we put on It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. So, yeah, Halloween...come and get me.

Nice lady on the grounds at Camp Cheerio, overlooking Stone Mountain

Drinking wine. Eating cheese. Catching some rays. You know.

Pilot Mountain way out in the distance

High-altitude high

Kippur-ween!

2011-10-09T12:17:00.013-04:00

As you can see, the spiders around here just keep growing bigger and bigger....

Yon spider was on hand to greet guests as they arrived for the scariest, goriest, grossest, creepiest, most horrifying, and ultimately hysterical celebration I've had the honor of hosting: Kippur-ween! It's what you get when you cross Halloween and Yom Kippur*, which just opened on calendars all over the world. A dozen or so adventurers came round last night to brave the celebration, which ended with no human casualties (that I'm aware of) but saw the tragic mutilation of some of Kimberly's delicious maple-frosted pumpkin bars.

It was a tense moment. A short time earlier, there had been a stunning, rolling, booming sound, which set everyone's nerves on edge, for we realized it was the sound of a Siamese trying to get out of the bedroom upstairs by reaching his paws under the door and shaking it. This went on long enough to cause even some of our braver companions to fear for their hors d'ouevres. Finally, reluctantly giving in to the tremendous psychological pressure, Kimberly went upstairs and released the three imprisoned critters.

A short time later, it happened:

A gray blur. A pounce onto the kitchen table. A sudden recoil, as Frazier landed on the delicious, maple-frosted pumpkin bars; realized he wasn't on a solid surface; and—boing—bounced-slid-plopped back onto the floor.

Then, amid a chorus of horrified groans, he settled back...and began to lick his paws.

At least some of the bars were salvageable. The rest...taking the suggestion of artist extraordinaire Cortney Skinner...we just smoothed over the frosting so we could share them with our most deserving acquaintances.

*I'm pretty sure none of us are Jewish, but who says we gentiles don't know a good party when we see one?

The Hand of Destiny: a harbinger of doom for certain delicious baked goods?

Lovely head. Reminds me of a song by Goldfrapp.

The horrible aftermath

Not Just Another Horror Story

2011-10-07T23:56:00.001-04:00

I missed the Wednesday night premier of American Horror Story on FX, which prompted me to pop myself a good one in the head, as I had kind of been looking forward to seeing it after all the promotion of the past few weeks. A few sources I generally trust had good things to say about it, so I was very happy to find the pilot is available for streaming at the FX network website: Watch American Horror Story on FX.

I won't give anything away here other than to say it's pretty intense (you have to submit your age on the website in order to view it), with some convincing depictions of mental illness as well as tantalizing glimpses of a so-far-unidentified supernatural menace. It's dark, to be sure, with little in the way of comic relief; so much so that I felt a bit wrung out by the time it was over. To that end, it's certainly effective, and I'll be interested to see how the story plays out. Give it a look.

Poopzilla

2011-10-05T08:10:00.027-04:00

I'd heard round the grapevine that the IDW Godzilla comic, created by Eric "The Goon" Powell, Tracy Marsh, and Phil "The Green Hornet" Hester, was worth a look, so—having never picked up any of the individual issues from this past year—I decided to check out the 100-plus-page compilation digest, Godzilla, Kingdom of Monsters, to see how this incarnation of the King of Kaiju might fare.

The cover art, by Alex Ross, certainly isn't shabby; it's a painting of a big-ass Godzilla unleashing his signature supercharged heat ray, viewed from a low angle to emphasize the fact that, yep, he be big. Also of interest is a gallery of G art by Powell, Matt Frank, and Jeff Zornow at the end of the book (Frank's work is particularly impressive). Also on a promising note, Hugo Award–winning artist Bob Eggleton has been commissioned to provide covers for the continuing comic series, which can't help but bring a touch of class to the publication...something that IDW desperately needs for this beast.

The art itself, for the most part, isn't bad; the story, however—what little one may discern of it in these hundred pages—is a jumble of occasionally entertaining monster mashes, lame political commentary, and inane social satire...all of about the same caliber as the 1998 Emmerich-Devlin Godzilla-in-Name-Only disaster. We begin with Godzilla appearing out of the ocean and doing some wholesale smashing of scenery and characters. Several "You've got to be #$@%$ kidding me's" later, we cut to a President Obama caricature (President "Ogden") bemoaning the hostile political climate and—now and again—the inconvenience of a giant critter on the rampage in Tokyo. Next thing you know, Anguirus (or "Angilas" to those of us who prefer it) shows up in Mexico, chowing on cattle. Then a baby Rodan pops out of a remnant of the 1908 Tunguska meteor...and he grows very quickly. Next...heavens...a giant egg shows up out of nowhere, and a couple of sinister, mute twin girls named Minette and Mallorie come round and mentally signal each other that they own the egg and they won't let anything happen to it. Just to impress us that they are special, they psychically inflict painful hallucinations on kids they don't particularly like. A larval Battra, a.k.a. the "Black Mothra," hatches from the egg and goes off to mess up some property.

All the while, a few human characters, mostly pointless, flit in and out of the drama, most ending up underfoot of a big monster within a few panels. One of them, in desperation, rigs himself up in an explosive vest, and in a particularly ignominious end, goes "pop" on Godzilla's nose. Just so there will be someone to stand up for these helpless monsters, we have a Lady Gaga clone ("Lady Yaya"), who stages benefit concerts to support your local daikaiju. And let's not forget the cast of "Jerseyfied," who use the giant monster phenomenon to attract as much attention to themselves as possible. Big sigh.

To be sure, there are a few amusing moments, such as when Angilas destroys the newly constructed wall along the Texas-Mexico border, but by and large, I found myself longing for the superior quality of Marvel's "Godzilla vs. S.H.I.E.L.D." storyline of the late 1970s—which I thoroughly detested in its day, though in retrospect, at least it was relatively clever. IDW's Godzilla tries to be clever with merciless tedium, and one longs for an intriguing character or two upon whom to focus, if not identify with. The political figures certainly don't cut it, and while we're introduced to a rather enigmatic military man named Woods, we get little in the way of clues to his ultimate significance; overall, by the end of the book (to be continued), he hasn't really been much fun. So far, the most noteworthy characters are the two psychic twins, and that's only because they're clearly dark at heart and more than a little weird.

The art, as I mentioned, is adequate, and some of the monster renderings are quite good—though occasionally the page layouts appear dashed together and don't do the discerning eye any favors. Godzilla appears to be based primarily on the Heisei-era (1984–1995) suit design, while Angilas is something of a hybrid, with traits from both the late Showa-era (1954–1975) and Godzilla: Final Wars design. Rodan is clearly patterned after the Final Wars costume.

I may yet give the series a bit of a chance, mainly because it's Godzilla, and once I start a story, good or bad, I often feel some small compulsion to see it through, at least for a time. To be fair, the comic series itself has by now progressed far beyond this initial story offering. Still...I can't say I'm holding out much hope. To paraphrase Astronaut Fuji in Monster Zero...they'd need to do something pretty spectacular for me to change my mind.

Angilas bursts out of the Mexican landscape to chow down on some cattle.

Monster montage by Eric Powell

Images © IDW; no infringement is intended and are included here by way of fair use, solely for the purpose of supplementing this review.

Ghosts of the Navigators

2011-09-29T19:42:00.013-04:00

Trying to solve the puzzle for "Ghosts of the Navigators" (GC1BVAD) caused my face to freeze like this. ("Ghosts" is a members-only cache, so if you're not premium member of geocaching.com, the page won't display for you, alas.) This one has been around for a while—it goes back to early 2008—and involves finding seven caches named after famous explorers, such as Magellan, Drake, Columbus, de Leon, Lewis & Clark, de Soto, et. al., so you can collect clues and eventually find the final cache. All are hidden in Gibson Park, in High Point, NC. The seven explorer caches are relatively straightforward hides in the woods, though a few involve physical challenges—which for me was the easy part. The brain challenge...well, look at the old dude's face. I started working on the series back in September 2009; today, I found the final stage. (Mind you, if one had the notion, the entire series could be done in a day or two; for me, it was an enjoyable project to knock out a little bit at a time.) The experience was most rewarding, but I gotta tell you...give me a big old tree to climb, or a subterranean pipe to crawl into, or a swamp to cross...I'll probably be right on it. Ask me to engage the brain, though, and...oh, Lord...it hurts, it hurts!

Great big mushrooms at ground zero.

The Perfect Poop

2011-09-25T17:51:00.018-04:00

After a long week of working—including making considerable progress on my latest scary tale—with little geocaching in the bargain, I finally got out and about today for a wee bit of hunting. There was a nice caching event hosted by Donna "G.O. Turtle" Grunkemeier at Triad Park, over near Kernersville, which brought quite a few cachers from NC and VA out of the woods (and then put them back in). After it was over, my friend Bridget "Suntigres" Langley and I hit the road to find a few in the K'ville vicinity. Naturally, about the time we started caching, the rain started falling, so the only thing to do was go to a cache that took us underground. So we went into the pipe and fumbled around in the dark for a while, only to come up empty-handed. Turns out the cache wasn't underground after all. Then, back in the rain once more, we go to a cache that requires climbing a big old brier-covered hillside. Pity I didn't wear my caving clothes because after I came off that hill, you'd swear I'd just gone caving. Or fallen off a mountain, which is kind of like, well, almost true.

Happily, I came home to an invitation to dinner from the right-honorable Albanese gang, so Kimberly and I headed on over and et some burgers of the delicious-plus variety. For dessert, we watched Dr. Oz educate us about our pee and our poop, and I learned that the perfect poop is S-shaped. Evidently, some of us are, at times, imperfect.

No, it's not fun to contemplate.

Last night, Kimberly and I, after going to see Straw Dogs and having Thai food for dinner, had stopped at the International Market and did some shopping for Asian foodstuffs. I really love that place; it makes me feel like a kid in a toy store. Among my purchases was a box of Toppo for Men (dark chocolate–filled cookie sticks), and so when I got home this evening, I had to tear into them. Be advised, this stuff is not for you sissy pants. It's for men. Got that?

A Random Tale?

2011-09-20T22:31:00.022-04:00

Sure, why not. A couple of months back, I got to see Jaws at the Carolina theater—easily one of my all-time favorite films—and this has set me to occasionally ruminating on a particularly traumatic experience from back in the spring of 1975—the year Jaws was originally released. The main thing about the whole business is that I'm glad I saw Jaws after said trauma, not before, or I'd be shy an amusing little anecdote.

May, 1975. I was 16, and I'd gone with my church youth group on a beach trip to Garden City, SC, on a rickety old bus that didn't go any faster than 40 miles per hour. It was a long, hot trip from Martinsville, VA, and I recall driving a few of my compadres slightly batshit by repeatedly playing Godzilla soundtracks on the portable cassette player I'd brought with me (not that I was obnoxious, or anything). We stayed at the Garden City Motor Inn, which at the time was about the only commercial establishment on that stretch of beach. The inn still exists, but nowadways, it's all but smothered by the high-rise condos on either side of the property. Anyway, that first night, I recall watching Gargoyles, starring Cornell Wilde, Jennifer Salt, Bernie Casey, Scott Glenn, and Grayson Hall, on the network TV movie, and I was all kinds of excited about that (I recently picked up the DVD of this flick, as a matter of fact).

The next day, my buddy Raymond and I set out on our own down the nearly deserted beach. There were no lifeguards there in those days, and being the off-season, other tourists were few and far between. For reasons I've never quite fathomed, Raymond and I decided that we needed a long swim. A long swim. So, with little thought of personal safety or other such responsible things, we trucked on into the water and started paddling out beyond the breakers. I recall feeling quite exhilarated to be farther out in the ocean than I'd ever gone before. Yeah, I know. Dope. Well, we kept swimming, going farther and deeper, and after a while, I looked back toward the shore; lo and behold, the Motor Inn was this wee little boxy thing on the horizon, and I began to get the idea that returning to shallower water might be prudent. Raymond reluctantly agreed, and so we turned around to make our way back. Whoa. Wait. That's some current! We're swimming and swimming, and we're just not making any headway, and suddenly I'm not quite so exhilarated about my specific coordinates in time and space.

Now, about this time, I get a glimpse of Raymond's face, and it's whiter than a sheet, and his eyes are about to bug clean out of his head. I look in the direction he's looking, and...oh shit oh shit oh shit...there are fins popping up in the water, just about close enough to touch. I'm pretty sure my face is every bit as white as Raymond's, and that's when we start tearing through that water like a couple of scalded sea monkeys. Much to my relief, I see the Motor Inn gradually starting to loom a little larger on the shore. It's only now, halfway back, that I realize we had been surrounded by dolphins.

That's when it happens.

Something warm and prickly grabs my leg. Yes, that's me screaming my fool head off, and the next thing I know, I'm hauling ass up the beach, a pale white blur to anyone who might be around to witness all this. I don't know where Raymond is, I don't care, I'm just on solid ground, and I finally discover it was a mean old clump of seaweed that had grabbed me. After a while, Raymond's walking next to me, and when we get back to the Motor Inn, there's a game of touch football happening. Uncle Harry, one of our chaperones, asks us where we've been.

"Just taking a walk."

It was only a few days afterward that I saw Jaws for the first time, and I have to tell you, every heart-pounding moment of that movie took on a very deep, personal significance for me. To this day, the film's music, its dialogue, its atmosphere...all of it...takes me back to that way-too-deep water and the sheer panic of believing I was about to get et by a shark. It's not a sensation I particularly savor.

These days, I do still go in the ocean when I get the opportunity. I also respect it a hell of a lot more than I once did. One really ought to, you know.

Cache In, Trash Out at Wilson Park

2011-09-17T13:52:00.021-04:00

This little fellow, an Imperial Moth larva, was carefully escorted out of harm's way.

After highs of well over 90 degrees and persistent drought conditions for so many weeks on end, it was a somewhat rude yet strangely welcome shock to wake up to frigid temperatures and steadily drizzling rain. The adverse weather did not stop a number of volunteers from gathering this morning at Frank Wilson Park, in Martinsville, to clean up its streams and plant trees and shrubs—all part of the 26th Annual International Coastal Cleanup effort, a series of concurrent events today sponsored by The Ocean Conservancy. Several geocachers from Martinsville, Danville, and Greensboro braved the weather and joined numerous other local volunteers, including folks from the Bassett school system and the Virginia Museum of Natural History, all prepared to get wet, dirty, and tired while turning a relatively well-manicured park into a pristine natural recreation area. Kimberly and I got back into our caving clothes from a couple of week back, armed ourselves with work gloves and trash bags, and did a fair bit of wading and bushwhacking, removing and actually taking inventory of the litter, much of which was glass that's probably older than I am. To add some allure for the geocachers in the bunch, I made it a CITO (Cache-In, Trash-Out) event so that we could get caching credit for attending. I'm sure the weather kept a good many folks at home, so it was an admirable morning's work for those who dared defy those dirty, double-crossing, dastardly rain gods. I provided doughnuts and sodas, and the Bassett folks hosted a cook-out for lunch. Kimberly and I had packed our own lunch, so we had ourselves a romantic little picnic in an isolated shelter while the rain came down with ever-increasing vehemence.

Needless to say, right about the time we all went home, the rain stopped. C'est la cache.

In the meantime, on the writing front, work progresses steadily on my latest endeavor—a story for a new, HPL-inspired anthology, edited by the redoubtable Robert M. Price. Stay tuned.

Hanging Around

2011-09-12T09:58:00.007-04:00

See my feet?

Yep; there's a cache up there.

I spent a good portion of this past weekend adding to my total number of geocache finds, including a few that required negotiating some fairly extreme terrain. Friday evening, it was a bunch of more traditional hides along the rural routes of Ringgold, VA, a few miles northeast of Danville. From there, I headed to Martinsville to visit Mum. On Saturday, I went biking on the Dick & Willie rail trail (I know, so STFU), where I snagged a couple of Munzees (www.munzee.com; these, I have decided, are no great shakes). Then it was back through Danville to pick up a few more of the fairly traditional variety, and a first-to-find on a new trail hide in Greensboro.

Yesterday, it was back out to the trail—this time with my friend Bridget "Suntigres" Langley—for five+ miles on the American Tobacco Trail over in Wake County. Before the hike, we stopped off for a couple of somewhat hairy ones: "UP" (GC20985; the silo in the pics above) and "Dr. Evil Visits Pittsboro" (GC1HQTK; the pond drain in the pics below). The rigors of getting to the caches weren't all that bad; it was more dealing with all the black widows, which seem to have undergone quite the population explosion this year. I've probably seen more this season than in all my years combined. The most disconcerting was the one in the drain because it was hanging right from the cache itself. Fortunately, God made big sticks and left them lying around in drains for dealing with such complications.

The most physically challenging of all of them was "Jogglin' Time" (GC2RNQB)—the tree seen in the pics below, which don't quite convey the sense of just how far up there that sucker really was...

Yep; there's a cache in there, too—and a big old black widow.

Yep; you guessed it.

The Darkness Out of Time

2011-09-05T20:21:00.036-04:00

Mental images of Lovecraftian horrors abounded this weekend, as Ms. B. and I headed westward into Tennessee, primarily to delve deep into the earth at Worley's Cave (a.k.a. Morrell's Cave), near Bluff City. Oh yes, there was geocaching involved (see GC237VH for information about the cave itself), but there wasn't much thought of getting a caching credit as our group of ten made its way deeper and deeper into treacherous, subterranean darkness. More often, I often found myself searching for Arne Saknussemm's telltale initials imprinted on the stone walls, or Sagoth artifacts from the lost world of Pellucidar. It's a fascinating environment down there, and while I've visited tourist-friendly caverns before, this was my first experience going deep into a living cave, requiring hiking, climbing, crawling, and wading in a world absolutely devoid of light. It's definitely not an endeavor for the claustrophobic or one with an especial dread of the darkness....

Without a doubt, this long Labor Day weekend has been among the most satisfying in recent memory. Late Friday afternoon, Kimberly and I departed Greensboro for Johnson City, TN—mostly in a driving rain, though it thinned out enough in places to stop for the occasional cache. A couple of them, which we found on remote country roads in almost pitch darkness, nicely foreshadowed our upcoming subterranean excursion. While driving in such a hard rain was no treat, the atmosphere proved to be outright creepy, and I doubt I could have enjoyed it more (though the real highlight might have been the barbecue at a nice little joint in Wilkesboro). Once ensconced in our rather spartan accommodations in Johnson City, I headed out on foot for a few nearby caches before settling in for the evening with Ms. B. and a bottle of good bourbon.

Saturday morning, we drove over to Buffalo Mountain, a few miles southwest of Johnson City. The park features an extensive trail system, and I'm pretty sure we managed to find a couple of the steepest routes as we climbed toward the summit. Needless to say, there were caches. Part of the hike's allure was that, except for one brief encounter with another fellow on the trail, we seemed to have the entire mountain to ourselves. We encountered no bears or other wildlife more threatening than mosquitoes, but then those mosquitoes—and a freaking little sweat bee that wouldn't leave us be—were more tenacious than Bruce the Very Hungry Shark. You've got to hate it when 80% DEET sends the buggers into little mosquito laughing fits. At least I managed to successfully swat a few, and once back down at the bottom, we availed ourselves to a fine picnic lunch we had packed.

From there, it was off to Big Rock, a scenic spot on the Nolichucky River (very near The Devil's Looking Glass), once again finding ourselves on remote, all-but-deserted country roads through forested mountains that absolutely had to be home to all manners of Lovecraftian horrors, Wampus cats, and perhaps even bigfeet. No, we didn't see them, but that doesn't mean they weren't watching us. I mean really. If you were a bigfeet, wouldn't you be spying on such foolish humans with disdain? Be honest now. A couple of more caches, and then back to Johnson City for a satisfying seafood dinner.

Cloud formation over Winston-Salem on the outbound journey, which soon dumped
all kinds of real water (not that bogus bottled stuff) on our heads.

Ms. B. and Damned Rodan on the trail at Buffalo Mountain, looking perhaps

a little less exhausted, hot, and sweaty than they really were.

Damned Rodan at Big Rock, overlooking the Nolichuky River.

Yesterday morning, it was out to the River and Earth Adventures outpost in Elizabethton, where we connected with our group of intrepid cave explorers. Worley's Cave is something in the neighborhood of 200,000 years old, and extends eight to ten miles into the Tennessee terrain. The cave was discovered and explored in the early 1800s by John Morrell and later became the property of Elias P. Worley (hence the alternate names). We arrived at the site about 11:00 AM and after a few words of wisdom from our guide—mostly about not straying off into unknown catacombs—we began our descent.

I've never been claustrophobic, and I can't say at any time I felt any overwhelming fear in the cave. But there were times that the idea of crawling 50 to 100 ft. into spaces so tight that you couldn't lift your head an inch was pretty oppressive. It helped that everyone in the group had a fair sense of humor about the whole business, and our guide was obviously quite experienced. Actually, I think the most disconcerting moment for me was entering a chamber whose ceiling was a jigsaw puzzle of rocks that appeared to be held in place only by a single columnar stone that, on its own, did not appear all that stable. In another room, one of the gigantic stalactites—easily fifteen feet in length and weighing many hundreds of pounds—had fallen from the ceiling, who knows how long ago. Last week's magnitude 6.8 earthquake was still fresh in my mind, and I found myself having to occasionally thrust that memory right back where it came from because I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to be in that cave during an earthquake.

Several times, we had to climb up slippery rock faces, such as "The Devil's Staircase"—which was, in the words of one of our fellows, "like trying to climb peanut butter"—and then, conversely, slide down long slopes on our heels, avoiding grabbing any nearby outcroppings for fear of dislocating your arm. I think for some the most unsettling experience was crawling 40 feet or so through a passage called "The Birth Canal" into a tiny chamber, where we all turned off our helmet lights. The darkness was the most profound I've ever known, though I can't say it was any more disturbing than the crawl itself. Once again, it was levity to the rescue when our guide told us that, after a time, even though you can't see a trace of movement in that blackness, your eyes make you believe that you can—to which one fellow responded with, "Yes, I've been giving you the finger for the last five minutes."

The only known fatality in Worley's Cave was Mr. Worley's own son, who became lost in a portion of the cave now known as Worley's Triangle because it's the hub of a maze-like series of passages, among which even a most experienced spelunker could lose his way. Now, sometime back, a couple of ill-prepared explorers were lost in the cave for 80-some hours, and when they were found, they were huddled in one of the chambers in the darkness, convinced they were sitting in their living room watching television. I do hope they had imaginary DVD players since even imaginary television tends to air total shit, at least on the channels that I get.

Our trek took us about five miles into the earth. The return journey, for the most part, was a bit easier than the one going in, as our route bypassed a few of the crawls and climbs of our ingress. The last quarter mile to the exit required wading through an underground river, which, needless to say, was rather frigid, though by that time, we were already so wet and coated with mud that I don't think anyone particularly noticed. Reaching daylight again felt like hitting a wall of bright, hot, humid air that almost sent some of us back into the darkness until our eyes and bodies re-acclimated themselves to our surroundings.

The River and Earth Adventures company very kindly provided us with a picnic lunch. Then Kimberly and I, not content with such humdrum entertainment, headed back out into the wilds of Unicoi County for another mile-plus hike to Ramsey Creek Falls and a cache hunt. Once back in Johnson City, getting ourselves clean took something near an act of God, but we somehow managed it so we could avail ourselves to sushi and sake. A satisfying end to a most rigorous day. Alas, on the trip back today, yet more driving rain and a poorly marked detour made things a little dicey. But we're still in one piece and very happy for it.

A few of my muscles are still hollering, yes, but at least very quietly.

Who could that be crawling out of the Birth Canal?

About to go up The Devil's Staircase

We've got to go where?

Rolling, rolling, rolling.... It's the only way to get to the other end.

Ms. B. hanging out in one of the more innocuous-looking alcoves.

Ms. B. and Rodan in the underground, looking every bit as muddy,
wet, and exhausted as they really are.

Caches, Climbing, and Karaoke

2011-08-28T17:56:00.010-04:00

A beautiful and most enjoyable day. Given the ongoing turmoil in the wake of Hurricane Irene, which passed us by with barely a big wind, it does make one thankful for being spared nature's temper, at least this time around. Got going fairly early and headed to Eden, a few miles up the road, to hunt a cache that was published last week but had not as yet been found. It's at the site of an old cotton mill, of which nothing remains but the foundations. To get to the cache site, you enter the old foundation, climb through a window, and voilà...you're at a hidden dam and waterfall back in the woods, which, from street level, you'd never expect to be there. I actually discovered the place a few years ago while hunting an older cache, which has since been archived. To my surprise, I did manage to get first-to-find on "Portal to the Past" (GC32XW0); my thanks to the cache owner for bringing me back to a favorite location.

From there, it was up to Fieldale, VA, just outside of Martinsville, for the August geoclubsouthva event (GC2Y6MB), which, this time, offered not only lots of food treats but karaoke and a new, somewhat terrain-intensive cache courtesy of Christopher "Ranger Fox" Hall. A bunch of us undertook the terrain challenge to get first-to-find...a challenge made a bit more intense when we realized there was a giant wasp nest inches from the cache's hiding place. You don't want to rile wasps while at the height of this particular terrain. It could kill you....

I decided to be a mean, rotten son of a beech and participate in the karaoke activity. I will say it didn't appear to drive anyone away, at least immediately, but those who witnessed it seem to have become babbling, drooling lunatics, some of them homicidal. Perhaps I went too far. At least several of the other participants offered far more soothing sounds. Certainly not due to any advantage other than luck of the draw, I won a nice prize—a well-stocked, ready-to-go geocache container—just for being mean enough to sing.

Many mini tanks for that.

And tonight, Ms. B. is coming round for some Chinese food and a movie. How in hell is it Sunday already, though? Monday is closing in all too quickly, as it always does....

Wonder what's happening over yonder?

Oh. It's Ranger Fox. On the trestle. Placing a cache.

Fox places cache on the trestle. Rodan thus climbs the trestle.

Rodan signs log on the trestle. Rodan getting down is the fun part.

ET Power!

2011-08-27T01:00:00.018-04:00

If you're a geocacher, you know about the ET highway caches out yonder in the high desert. Over a thousand caches, roughly every tenth of a mile for a hundred miles, along Nevada 375—the "Extraterrestrial Highway," near Area 51. There was a geocaching event in Rachel, NV, tonight, which included caching and costuming, but most of us on this side of the country couldn't manage to get out there. So a few local cachers put together a little power trail of caches along Highway 311 (all with some variation of "ET" in their titles), and hosted their own event in High Point. I got together with my friend Bridget "Suntigres" Langley this evening, as we figured it would be fun to undertake that power trail, and went to work along the highway between Liberty and High Point. We didn't make it to the event, alas, which I know would have been enjoyable, but we did pick up 50 caches, including some that aren't actually a part of the ET series, in about three hours' time. I must say, though I certainly don't mind getting a slew of caches in relatively short order, I don't do much in the way of numbers runs like a lot of cachers I know. I generally prefer a more relaxed pace and going after a variety of different types of hides. Getting out on the trail or on the water is certainly my preference, but there's definitely something to be said for the adrenaline rush of finding one quick cache after another—especially when the hider changes it up from time to time and gives you a little something different to hunt. I suppose I could take exception to the big old black widow I found lurking under one of the containers, but that's just one of the inherent hazards of the sport. I extricated the container without mishap, signed the log, and bid the venomous little fucker a bloody happy evening.

One of that bunch tonight made for my 3,600th geocache find. Child's play for a lot of the local high-powered players, but for me, it represents a fair amount of personal history—a goodly number of satisfying, memorable trips into the field. Becoming acquainted with a large number of local cachers, who are by and large some of the finest folks I've ever met, has been one of the many perks of getting involved in this game. It really is the best activity I've involved myself in since I became an adult-type person.

Stopping for Taco Bell at the end of it all wasn't exactly a shabby thing, either.

That Ol' Dan River

2011-08-24T23:24:00.009-04:00

Left work a few minutes early and booked up to Danville to meet up with cachers Homestyle, Homekid, and HD JP for a canoe trip up the Dan River. Spent several hours out on the water, paddling hard, and hunting a couple of caches that can only be accessed by boat. Made a short hop over to a nearby island for the first one, "3-Dan Island" (GC1YMD0), which was a quick find, then set out on a mile-and-a-half paddle upriver to hunt "Catch a Cache" (GC2Y8N1), which was guaranteed to pose a challenge, though we came out with just the tools for the job. Once we got to ground zero, though...disappointment! No sign of the container anywhere. Next thing you know, we're on the phone with the cache's one previous finder, who told us just what to look for, but this only confirmed our idea that the container is just plain gone. What a bummer! Ah, well...at least it was an excellent day to spend out on the river. We got back to the cars just as darkness fell; then it was off to the nearby Ham's restaurant, where I went to town on one of their famous bison burgers. Mercy, them critters are good! And now I'm feeling a little bit of the soreness coming on. Not much, just enough to let me know that my bones are somewhat ancient. So it's off to bed. Good night, Lucy.

Caches, Quakes, and Dead Cows

2011-08-23T23:04:00.018-04:00

I suppose that, years from now, folks from all over the east coast may be able to look back and remember exactly where they were and what they were doing during the quake of 8-23-11. Me, I was sitting in my office, pounding keys, when the floor began to shake. Now, at The Education Center, whenever a soul of especial girth or devoted purpose strides down the hall, the floor shakes a bit. (A typical building designed by the Koury Corporation; with tenants of overall slight build and a spot of good weather, you're generally okay.) After the shaking went on for a while, I decided that I didn't care how devoted one's purpose, this was getting ridiculous and it was time to say something. I stepped out into the hall and...nothing. Nary a stomper to be seen. But folks from all over the third floor began to materialize, and it soon dawned on us that either a fault had shifted or Godzilla was on the rise.

At least we may all be thankful it didn't prove to be a major destructive event, unlike some in recent memory.

A bunch of new caches were published today, so after work, I headed out to the Glencoe area to go hiking along the Haw River, which is always very scenic, and today, the weather was cooperative—clear and warm but not oppressively hot. I put in about five miles and managed first-to-finds on five new caches, though a sixth proved elusive due to endlessly shifting coordinates...which I'll just go ahead and blame on the earthquake. A return trip will be in order.

Robin Jensen, from the Virginia Museum of Natural History in Martinsville, is organizing a clean-up event at Frank Wilson Park next month, so I decided to set up a complementary Cache-In Trash-Out (CITO) event to hopefully draw some geocachers, who can get caching credit for attending. It's a worthwhile effort—part of the 26th Annual International Coast Cleanup, sponsored by Ocean Conservancy International. Here's a link to the event: Wilson Park Stream Cleanup, Saturday, September 23, 10:00 AM–12:00 PM.

This evening's caching expedition kept me out till just past sundown, so I ended up doing a late-dinner kind of thing...after a celebratory Damned Rodan's Dirty Firetini, of course. And holy cows, the dead cow was good. I put some beef spare ribs on the charcoal grill and burnt 'em just right. Seriously, some of the best ribs I've ever tasted, these were. I was intending to just eat two of the three, but they were so frikkin' good, I ended up killing the lot of them. Seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Let's have no more shaking, you hear?

Saved by Funnel Fries?

2011-08-21T12:29:00.012-04:00

A good crowd at the Eden Drive-In for Final Destination 5 and Fright Night.

Sometimes, a combination of unforeseen circumstances and marginally good decision-making provides fodder for a little cautionary tale. Last night, Ms. B. and I spent a most enjoyable evening at the Eden drive-in theater watching Final Destination 5 and Fright Night. It's one of our favorite places to catch movies, since I've been a drive-in junkie since I was a wee young-un (according to my folks, my very first movie outing was Disney's Babes In Toyland at a drive-in theater; and do hush about my age). Per our custom, we indulged in some delicious but ever-so-naughty cheezburgers, fries, chocolate chip cookies, and tasty adult beverages. Even though the spirits flowed freely for a while, we had enough sense, or something akin to it, to put a lid on the drink at the end of the first feature.

Then...despite our calorie and cholesterol intake already being through the roof...I took it to heart to sample the drive-in's funnel fries, which I could smell cooking and had me salivating a freaking river. Oh, my lord...funnel fries are GOOD—and, I'm pretty sure, an excellent means of neutralizing alcohol. When it came time to leave, I was quite confident that I was good to drive because it had been a couple of hours since capping the bottle, and we had consumed monstrous quantities of unhealthy food in the bargain.

Thus it was that, on the way down the road, we saw a pair of blue flashing lights in the distance and figured that someone had been pulled over. As we neared the patrol cars, the vehicle in front of us slowed down, and I slowed down, as required by law, and we went on by, as we ordinarily would. Apparently, though, the officers were setting up a checkpoint and intended for us to stop, but as I could not see through the car up front, I never saw the troopers until we were past them. So, no doubt a little peeved, both of them come after us and pulled over both me and the driver of the car up front—who clearly should have understood the officers' intent.

Needless to say, the trooper asked about our evening's activities, which I answered truthfully, and he had me take a breathalyzer test. Happily, I blew well under the legal limit, and he wished me a good and safe evening—then rushed over to assist his buddy checking out the driver of the car in front of me, who, I suspect, probably did not register safely in the sober range.

So...while I clearly could have made many healthier choices last evening, at least I avoided what could have been a very ugly situation, not just for the night but potentially long-term. You can bet the mental file of the experience is brightly highlighted in my brain's little directory of folders. Also highlighted is a happy little footnote about the virtues of funnel fries....

Do drink responsibly.

As for the pictures themselves:

Final Destination 5 is less a movie with a plot than an ongoing exercise in cleverness, but it's beaucoup fun and features an ingenious tie-in to the original film in the series; I know I've seen at least one of the others, but I'm not sure which. Fright Night departed considerably from the original, which I thought worked in its favor. Colin Farrell was much better than I expected. The first half had some effective moments of intrigue, but then it just got noisy. The characters were nothing to brag on, though David Tennant was pretty good. With just a little tweaking, this could have been a decent stand-alone vampire movie minus the Fright Night title; and that's probably what it should have been.

I Has a Krud

2011-08-19T10:39:00.008-04:00

I also has a temper.

Home from work today due to krud. Ugly summer krud. Not pleased.

On that subject, Geocaching.com, the premier website of my favorite avocation—which, if you frequent this blog, you surely know all about—has succumbed to krud as well. Krud of the brain, I'm pretty sure. The series of site updates over the past few months have steadily decreased its user-friendliness, and yesterday's update appears to have been solely intended to piss off the geocaching community. Now, if you're not a cacher, this will mean nothing to you, so forgive my choice of topic. But today, I'd rather be pissed off about geocaching than politics, the economy, publishing, and other subjects of broader scope. Just because.

Back when I started caching, in early 2008, Geocaching.com was as user-friendly as a site could be, and it—along with the geocachers I met because of it—drew me into the game with all kinds of enthusiasm. This year, in particular, Groundspeak, the company that runs the website, seems to have forgotten that it created and nurtured a wonderful community of people who share a love of caching, and that a large number of them—myself included—pay for premium memberships. Without any regard for their very substantial core base, Groundspeak has taken to implementing changes that significantly and objectively undermine the site's usefulness and even diminish the essence of the game. Yesterday's unveiling of "challenges," which are a completely different animal than geocaching itself but that count toward a player's total cache finds, has drawn significant negative but constructive feedback—the most reasonable of which was summarily gunned down by Groundspeak founder and CEO Jeremy Irish. I find Groundspeak's demeaning attitude reprehensible, and it really is symptomatic of many businesses who have grown too big for their britches and lost touch with the people who made them successful in favor of superficial glitter, probably in hopes of drawing in unsuspecting newbies.

The geocaching community is a community...a vital one...and Geocaching.com is not Facebook. It should not be styled after Facebook, and god in heaven, it should not be run like Facebook. In Groundspeak's own words, their people "got together in a room to brainstorm what should be done for the site going forward." That's what we call "in a vacuum," Mr. Irish. The ire on the feedback forums is, in my experience, unprecedented. Get a freaking clue, sir. Listen to those who've put you where you are and respect them. And fashion your product accordingly.

There. That's Damned Rodan's kruddy rant for the day. Hope you are feeling better than I am.

Seal Adventure

2011-08-09T20:43:00.012-04:00

Given the horrible tragedy this week of losing a number of Navy SEALs in Afghanistan, it's oddly appropriate that the primary geocache I undertook to log this week was called "SEAL Qualification Training" (GC1DHDF), so named because it's a mentally as well as physically challenging multi-cache with six stages. It was originally hidden in 2008 by Ted "Sketcher" Beach, but it's only been found a handful of times, and the last logged find before me was in April 2010. If you endeavor to complete this one all at once—assuming you correctly solve the puzzle to acquire the final coordinates—it's seven to eight miles of hiking on the Greensboro watershed trails. I opted to do it a stage at a time—one stage per hike (though I did end up finding stages 3 and 4 on one trip)—just so I'd have an excuse to get out there on the trails a number of times. Thus, on my several hikes, I managed to make it a cumulative total of something like 18–20 miles. But hey, I need the exercise! This one isn't necessarily a night cache, but it is set up with reflectors so that it can be done at night; alas, except for one hike which kept me out after dark, I ended up doing most of it in daylight. I do tend to enjoy the long arduous ones (and they're particularly arduous when it's a hundred degrees out, like today), especially when they're as well-conceived as this cache. Each stage leading up to the final is a micro or small container containing the coordinates to the next stage and a numerical clue. One must put those clues together correctly in order to get the coordinates for the final, which is a big old ammo can full of fun swag.

There is a sequel to this cache, called "Hooyah" (GCV1JC), which I actually did many moons ago, and I'm kind of glad I did it first, as it was the easier of the two...a good one to ease you into the rigors of this one, heh heh.

If you're a local geocacher and you haven't found this one yet, I definitely recommend it (and its brother), whether all at once or on individual trips, the way I did. But get yourself in shape first. It's pretty rigorous.

Damned Rodan's Thai Basil Chicken

2011-08-07T10:54:00.028-04:00

Thai food is about my favorite thing in the world, so I often try my hand at various Thai recipes. My most successful is probably Thai Basil Chicken, made Thai-hot, and I think I made the best-ever batch for dinner last night. Here's the recipe. Count on about 20 minutes prep time and 10–15 minutes cooking time.

What you need (serves two):

1 garlic clove, finely chopped
6 hot chili peppers (Serrano are perfect); 2 thinly sliced; 4 finely chopped
2 tbsp. hot chili oil
2 tbsp. Thai chili sauce
2 tsp. soy sauce
1/2 bell pepper, thinly sliced
lettuce
juice from 2 limes
1/2 cup sugar
1 cup chopped basil leaves
1 cup fish sauce (half for cooking, half for two side servings of sauce)
1 cup Jasmine rice
1 lb. ground chicken
1 tbsp. crushed dried chili pepper

What you do:

To make two side bowls of hot chili fish sauce: into each small bowl, pour 1/4 cup fish sauce and add the two thinly sliced chili peppers. Stir into each bowl 1 tsp. Thai chili sauce, 1 tsp. soy sauce, and the juice from 1/2 lime. Now let the sauce sit and blend while the rest of the dinner is in the works.
Get the Jasmine rice cooking so it'll be ready when everything else is.
Place ground chicken in a bowl. Squeeze in the juice from 1 lime, and add sugar and the remaining fish sauce and Thai chili sauce. Knead thoroughly.
Heat skillet or wok on high until it's super-hot. Then pour in hot chili oil. When oil is smoking hot, add garlic and chopped peppers. Stir for about a minute and then lower heat to medium.
Add ground chicken mix and stir frequently.
When chicken is almost done, add the basil leaves. Continue to stir.
Before serving, drain excess liquid. (Careful!)
Serve over rice on a bed of lettuce. Sprinkle crushed pepper over the chicken and finally place the slivers of bell pepper on top.
Add desired amount of fish/pepper sauce. If you're like me, pour the whole damn bowl on there. And prepare to have your ass kicked.

If I'm really in the mood to have my taste buds hammered, I start this meal with a Damned Rodan's Dirty Firetini. Sake or a decent red wine also makes fine accompaniment; last night, we had a 2008 Mouton Cadet Bordeaux, about which I have no complaints.

Yeah, man.

Danger!

2011-08-01T22:24:00.013-04:00

I remember watching Patrick McGoohan in Secret Agent (a.k.a. Danger Man)when I was a wee young 'un, though, of course, its finer points were lost on me at the time. Having fairly recently re-visited The Prisoner from start to finish, I decided to give the original Danger Man series (1960–62, 1964–68) a look via Netflix. What a brilliant show it was, if these days relatively obscure. While certain commonalities with the James Bond films are evident in the series, much of it was conceived before the 007 phenomenon reached the heights for which it's known today. I'm convinced that Patrick McGoohan was one of the most accomplished actors of his day, in this series alone displaying a wide range of character portrayals by way of impersonation and disguise, all the while remaining true to the character of the series' protagonist, John Drake. And what a collection of stars and character actors from the day—Sam Wannamaker, Susan Hampshire, Niall McGinnis, Jean Marsh, Patrick Troughton, Michael Gwynn, Donald Pleasence, Lois Maxwell, Anthony Dawson, Bernard Lee, Burt Kwouk, (the last five of whom all appeared in various Bond films) and many more. The famous theme song by Johnny Rivers was attached only to the U.S. release; the title themes for both the original and follow-up Danger Man series were written by Edwin Astley. Despite being something of purist when it comes to original release versions, I must say, I do prefer the Johnny Rivers song. Call it nostalgia.

I have distinct memories of seeing McGoohan in Disney's The Scarecrow of Romney Marsh from the early 60s, which I would love to check out again in its entirety. It's a beautiful period piece, set in the 18th century, about the swashbuckling adventures of Dr. Christopher Syn, based on the early 20th-century novels by Russell Thondike. Originally made as a three-part television serial for The Wonderful World of Disney, an edited version was released in the UK—and later on these shores as Dr. Syn, Alias the Scarecrow. Alas, the Disney film is not currently available (I do so hate Disney and their ultra-limited video releasing, but that's whole nuther topic). And in the 1980s, McGoohan played the darkly charismatic Dr. Paul Ruth in David Cronenberg's classic Scanners, another one I haven't seen in years and need to remedy.

Here's the U.S. opening to Danger Man, a.k.a. Secret Agent, featuring the Johnny Rivers title song. Enjoy.

Beavers' Playgrounds, Whale Rocks, and Others

2011-07-31T14:13:00.007-04:00

Night-Ranger, MarkCase, Keegrepus, Damned Old Flying Reptile Dude, and
Ranger Fox at Beavers' Playground.

Caching excursions frequently take me to fascinating places, and yesterday's outing to the Raleigh/Wake County area was no exception. Got up before the ass crack of dawn, met up with fellow cachers Mark Case, Rich "Night-Ranger" Colter, and Christopher "Ranger Fox" Hall, and hit the road, our primary goal being the oldest cache in Wake County, "Beavers' Playground" (GC17B). Once we got to the trail, we hooked up with local cachers Greg "Keegrepus" and Linda "Pink Dolphin." We trekked over hill and dale and ended up in an ocean of various species of tall grasses, much of which rose above our heads. Getting through it proved rather harrowing, for we could hear strange stirrings around us, and every now and then we sensed a distinctly evil presence—which I came to realize was almost certainly a herd of those legendary carnivorous bigfoot beavers that populate the backwoods of Wake County. We were lucky to get out of there with our lives. At least we did pause our panicked flight long enough to sign the cache log.

From there, we made our way to several other caches, eventually ending up at one called "Whale Rocks" (GC1HM37), so named because ground zero is one whale of a rock. Ranger Fox stomped on it. Poor whale rock. We also found a most interesting cliff along a remote roadside that is covered with garnet crystals. There were a couple of young rockhounds on the scene collecting samples, and being that Mr. Case is a teacher of environmental sciences, he got downright excited and pitched in to help the young 'uns in their quest. I brought home a nice little sample of my own. It's quite pretty, and it's also big and heavy enough to chuck at a bigfoot beaver should one decide to chase after me.

Last night, Ms. B. and I gathered with several friends at ye House of Albanese for dinner (homemade tacos) and a spot of wine....well, perhaps more than a spot. It was a fine ending to an exhausting but most satisfying day of physical activity.

Keegrepus and Night-Ranger emerging from the beavers' lair. Note the expressions;
yes, they are fleeing in desperate panic from a herd of carnivorous bigfoot beavers.

Survival story: "We lived to tell the tale." MarkCase, Keegrepus, and Night-Ranger

Ranger Fox stomping on the whale's head

The Feral Kittens Are Much Cuter

2011-07-28T21:54:00.003-04:00

Spider is clearly expecting young 'uns. Either that or it ate the feral kittens that have been periodically coming around the backyard.

She certainly wasn't so big the other day (Monday, July 18, 2011: Bad Kharma)

Another Not-Quite-a-G-Fest Day

2011-07-24T01:22:00.009-04:00

Every few months, it is necessary to get together with my old friend Bill Mann and watch Godzilla movies, particularly when one or both of us couldn't make it to the annual G-Fest in Chicago. Today's selection...

Our comrade-in-kaiju, Wayne Miller, was hoping to join us, but sadly couldn't make it today. Alas, poor Wayne. No monster mayhem for you, old man. Clearly, the world would be a better, healthier place if more people were into cities being laid waste by giant, radioactively mutated prehistoric monsters.

Bad Kharma

2011-07-18T18:08:00.008-04:00

Four close calls with paper wasp and yellowjacket nests this past week (see "Friends, Fortune, and Flying Critters" for a couple of them) without a single sting—including one today, when my friend Paul and I, while out caching, pretty much walked right into a yellowjacket nest without mishap. Not to let such kharma persist unchecked, when we stopped at a McDonald's for lunch shortly thereafter, as soon as I opened the door, a yellowjacket zoomed in and stung me on the thumb. Fortunately, I'm not allergic to the little bastards. Now it just itches.

Among the other critters seen out and about today...

From Buckhorn to the Dick & Willie

2011-07-16T16:29:00.017-04:00

Open the door, get on the floor, everybody ride the dinosaur.

A very active and very pleasant weekend so far—and a long one for me, as I took yesterday off work. The pace at the office has been quite grueling these past few weeks, and I've been suffering from a severe flare-up of tendonitis, so the break is most welcome. No doubt, it'll prove too short to be particularly recuperative, alas....

Thursday night, it was off with Ms. B., Ms. Chapman, and Mr. Cox to the midnight showing of Harry Potter & The Deathly Hallows at the Palladium Theater in High Point (after grabbing a nearby cache that had proven elusive on two previous occasions). Enjoyed the movie, but not as much as I had hoped, having become a big ol' Potter geek over the past year or so. Still, it was kind of moving in its way, being it's the last of a major landmark series and all.

Yesterday morning, got together with Mr. Rob "Robgso" Isenhour, Terry "Tadabailey" Bailey, Rob "Maingray" Maile, and Diana Hartmann (half of team David & Diana) for some serious hiking and caching at the Buckhorn Gamelands in Orange County. Picked up five nice trail caches, including one that, quite literally, had me up a tree. A very decent day for it, with a wee bit of respite from the intense heat of the past week, though after three to four miles of hiking in some rugged terrain, at least some of us worked up a fair sweat. I did manage to leave a distressing amount of flesh from my arm stuck to some bark on said tree, but it was all in the line of duty. The log was signed.

Last night, since Ms. B. and I had a discount voucher for Fleming's Steakhouse, we bit the bullet and treated ourselves to some of the best dining we've ever experienced. Spicy fried oysters; carpaccio with mustard sauce, capers, and red onions; roasted mushroom ravioli; New York cheesecake; crème brulée; and a bottle of light cabernet sauvignon...it was just torture. Unfortunately, it could be all too easy to get accustomed to such torture. Discipline, old man, and all that.

Afterward, we popped up to Martinsville and, this morning, headed over to the Dick & Willie Trail, grabbed a couple of bicycles for free (which is a service here you just can't beat), and put in nine miles, riding end to end on the trail (it's not a rugged ride to say the least; even we old men can manage it). After that, we packed a very economical picnic lunch and headed over to Jaycee Park in Collinsville, where we encountered the most boisterous church group having a cookout of their own. But there was a cache there, so we persevered and, again, I signed the log. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that bunch was hollering so loud because they had these huge freaking plates of barbecue, and my lord, that stuff looked good. I'm sure God likes cooked-up dead pig too.

At that point, for some people, it was naptime. For others...well...we blogged.

Click on any of ye images to enlarge.

Friends, Fortune, and Flying Critters

2011-07-10T11:51:00.027-04:00

A couple of mighty fortunate, if freaky experiences with flying critters this week. Thursday morning, I went out to take the big can of recyclables up to the street for the city truck to pick up, and no sooner had I started hauling the thing than I found myself standing amid a dense cloud of swarming, circling, buzzing things. For several seconds, I didn't even comprehend what I was seeing. When I realized it was a couple dozen wasps, and they were pretty much all over me, I turned around and walked away without so much as a single sting. Thus emboldened, I went in to get the can of Raid, came back out, gave some of the flying little bastards direct hits to force them back, then opened the bin, where I found a big old nest hiding under the lid. Hosed it down with poison, then hauled the can up to the street.

One of those close calls that could have ended much worse.

So today, I'm hiking on the Blue Heron Trail, a few miles up the way, looking for a site to place a new geocache. I find a good one, hide the container, and then start taking coordinates on the GPS. After going back and forth around the area number of times to get a good reading, I realize I'm standing amid a dense cloud of swarming, circling, buzzing things. This time it's yellowjackets, and I've apparently trodden right upon their nest. Now, the local paper wasps are not by nature aggressive, but the yellowjackets certainly are. Still, somehow, I manage to back away from the swarm without a single sting, though a fair number of them keep after me to make sure I get the message. After a while, they calm down, so I go back, retrieve my gear, and call the remaining critters rude names. I don't know whether this actually pisses them off (it's certainly less insulting than spraying them with Raid), but at least none of them chase me as I beat an honorable retreat down the trail.

Yesterday, I involved myself with no stinging critters, but I did spend a most enjoyable afternoon geocaching with my next-door neighbors, the Workmans—a.k.a. TravelinFarmFam (and TravelinWoofDog). We picked up twenty-some caches and sweated off a few pounds on a trip to the Cane Creek Reservoir in Orange County. Then, at home, Ms. B. made us an excellent Thai dinner, and we watched the 1969 True Grit with John Wayne, Glen Campbell, and Kim Darby. I've always loved that movie, though I actually prefer the newer Coen Brothers version.

Tonight...sushi at Bonsai. Yummy, little barely dead things!

Geocaches, Gimghouls, and Other Goings-On

2011-07-03T12:01:00.009-04:00

Ms. B. and I spent a very fine, scalding hot day yesterday in Chapel Hill, dining, hiking, shopping, and otherwise doing our part to stimulate the economy. Snagged a baker's dozen caches, including several in Battle Park, near the UNC campus. Beautiful woods, these, and the hunt for one of the caches led us to Gimghoul Castle, which was built in 1924, the meeting place of the "Order of Gimghoul," a secret society for certain privileged UNC alumni. As one might expect, the castle is reportedly haunted—by the ghost of one Peter Dromgoole, who was, by some accounts, killed by his best friend in a duel (over a young woman, of course), his body hidden under a rock near the site where the castle was built. (Other tellings of the legend say that Dromgoole survived the duel and then fled to Europe, never to be heard from again.) In any event, we didn't encounter any ghosts—probably because it was broad daylight, and you know how ghosts dislike these hot summer days—but we did find the cache, and thus was Damned Rodan made very happy.

Afterward, Ms. B. and I partook of some excellent vittles we had picked up at Trader Joe's, had a couple of drinks, and watched the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, which I'd not seen in a quite a while. I seem to recollect from last night bits and pieces of dreams about ghostly goings-on in some dark place, but I can't remember them clearly because I was asleep at the time.

Personal Heroes

2011-06-26T17:25:00.050-04:00

I thought I might go on a bit about some particularly exceptional people in my life. I had thought about doing so a couple of months back, when the furor about the evils of unions for public employees was at fever pitch, but I figured it was more prudent to let things cool down a bit, so that I might write with a clearer head. I have very strong feelings about teachers, and I haven't been as angry in years as I was to hear some of the nasty rhetoric about them—particularly by a lot of pinheads on Facebook—during the early May "debates" about collective bargaining in Wisconsin. If you frequent this blog, you probably know that, when I'm not writing infernal tales of woe and dread, I work in the educational publishing business, and thus I have close ties to the education field. I feel very strongly about academics, and participating in this business is my way of contributing to education without actually working in the classroom—which, I might as well admit, would eventually lead either to my murder or my incarceration for murder. Hence much of my respect for those who are there on the front lines, giving everything they've got and then some to keep the youth of this nation from slipping ever deeper into the vast cesspool of stupidity, which has spread like a giant oil slick since the nobly intentioned but ultimately misguided No Child Left Behind Act became the law of the land just after the turn of the century.

Now, tell me. Could you read the above paragraph? Did you find any spelling, grammar, or usage errors? Did you discern any particular personal bias? Could you identify some of the liberties I've taken with formal English to write colloquially? Do you know what "colloquial" means? Does "hyperbole" mean anything to you? If you answered "yes" to any of these, thank a teacher.

I was fortunate to have been educated in a time when the economy in my community was booming, and educational standards were high due less to mandate than our community realizing they needed to be, and because education—and educators—were valued as the long-term assets they rightfully are. Now, you and I have both had good teachers and bad teachers, and sometimes, despite the best efforts of the good ones, neither of us do much learning. I usually attribute that to laziness on my part—probably yours too—but against all odds, the better part of the important lessons they taught me managed to stick. For example: At my job, I occasionally have to use algebra and/or geometry to accurately create a page for one of our publications. To be honest, a honey badger can solve simple math problems better than I can (I am very much in my right brain); however, while I can't recall particular formulas without serious research (and then with serious lapses of comprehension), I have somehow managed to recollect exercises in logical thinking that, in the end, have allowed me to re-invent algebra from the ground up and ultimately get the page done right.

Credit goes to Ms. Frances Harris, eighth grade, Martinsville Junior High School, and Mr. Glenn Sellers, 11th grade, Martinsville High School. No doubt, they'd cringe at my methods, but by god, they were the ones who presented me with challenges that, at the time, I knew were beyond my means, and essentially dared me to overcome them.

Smart, them ones.

Now, I'm not writing this as much to make a political argument as to highlight the dire need our society has for excellent educators. I'm going to tell you right now, you could not pay me enough to work in a public school—especially in an impoverished or otherwise challenging community—because, above all things, I value my sanity. Yet I personally know many, many individuals who lay aside their personal fears and biases; they draw on every ounce of creativity they have; they sacrifice the wealth they might otherwise gain in their field to pass on their knowledge to our young because they feel it's the right thing to do. Because they care.

Now, I will tell you, I've been there, at least in some limited capacity. I've taught adults, I've taught youngsters; I've extended myself far beyond my comfort zone to give a little bit back to a community that by and large did me right. Back in the 80s, one of my students in the Patrick Henry Community College program for continuing education (I taught art) was my 12th-grade English teacher, the late Mrs. Lula Johnson. Never was there a more gratifying moment: I got to challenge her the way she had challenged me. She knew I was going to do this and was absolutely sporting about it (the fact of which increased my admiration for her all the more). Of course, she was teaching me the basics of communication; I was teaching her the basics of a hopefully enriching elective. Some difference; yet it put me in the position of seeing things from the other end of the spectrum. I don't know that I've ever been more enlightened.

In eighth grade, I had most wonderful art teacher. Although I was artistically inclined, I had always considered myself a far better artist than I really was; still, I did have at least some grasp of the basics, and Mr. Colie Johnson recognized my inherent strengths. Yet and still (his favorite expression), he always took it upon himself to challenge me to strive harder than I thought was necessary. No matter how much effort I put into a piece of art, no matter how deeply I drew on my creativity, he'd look at what I did, smile encouragingly, tell me I was doing beautifully, and then wonder if there was anything else I could think of that might make it work better. I was sometimes offended and occasionally quite indignant. What do you mean it's not perfect as it is? But his manner was irresistible; there was no choice in the matter. I had to make it better. Somewhere along the line, that became my philosophy in life: it had to be better.

In tenth grade, my biology teacher was Mr. Bill Vickers (who went on to become the principal of Martinsville High School). Now, I don't remember shit about Gregor Mendel or the phylogenetic tree of life or the finer points of natural selection. But I clearly remember the labs where we evaluated the merits of evolution vs. scientific creationism (because in those days you could do this without offending a bunch of overly sensitive religious pricks [note the personal bias]); debated whether marijuana should be legalized (and to what degree, be it medicinal or in general); and analyzed current social issues (such as whether we favored busing students to distant schools to fulfill integration quotas). Of course, we did actually study the more traditional aspects of biology, and to reinforce our learning, we often played games, such as Chalk Talks, which made the subject fun and, above all, memorable. Part of the class's appeal was that Mr. V. had nicknames for everyone in class. I was Polo (you know, as in Marco). We had Sir Slab, Ms. Red Nose, Jaypee, Bonneville, and all kinds of other colorful names. Mr. V. taught me more about critical thinking than any other teacher, either before or since. In fact, I credit Mr. V. with being perhaps the most influential individual in my life, apart from my immediate family.

Did you have a teacher like that?

We need teachers like that. We need individuals who can inspire our young people to strive beyond the short-term strictures of achievement tests. We need to give them every means at our disposal to make sure that this country regains its respected stature in the field of education. To me, it's an almost personal affront that our public education system has slipped from being the pinnacle of the civilized world to a transparent shadow of itself, and that here, even in this country, short-sighted politicians, media blowhards, and, yes, the ignorant masses have somehow taken it upon themselves to demonize some of the most intelligent, influential, and crucial members of our society.

Never was this more evident than when a Facebook "friend" with right-leaning tendencies went on, day after day, about those overpaid, elitist, lazy-ass teachers whose only function is to indoctrinate youngsters into the ranks of stupid liberals, and who spend every summer lounging on the beach on our tax dollars, and then have the gall to do all they can to retain their professional, personal, and political influence as a group. Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, of course; but if your every post is riddled with spelling, grammar, and usage errors, and you can't piece together two coherent sentences—I'm sorry—your semi-literate rantings on this subject are not exactly credible.

Then there's the fine lady I know whose emotionally challenged son is more than a handful for his poor teachers, to the detriment of the rest of the class. Needless to say, in her eyes, all her son's problems are his teachers' fault because, for one thing, he's smarter than they are (in fact, he's smarter than most adults!) and they just don't recognize it, and for another, he doesn't really have any discipline problems, he's just bored. Well, you know, it may be that he's a smart kid at heart, but it's so much easier just to blame teachers for his problems than to actively get involved, work with the teachers instead of fighting them at every juncture, and, well, you know, maybe being a decent, forward-thinking parent.

So yeah, these things drove me to write up a little something in the defense of one of the most under-appreciated groups of individuals in the land. At my job, I work with a passel of former teachers. Over the years, I've kept in touch with a number of my former teachers. Sadly, almost all of them lament where the education system has gone over the past decade or so. The biggest complaint I hear is that all the creativity has gone out of the classroom in favor of teaching to the tests, which in itself has resulted in a marked decrease in kids' critical thinking skills and increased school administrators' motivations to manipulate the system just to keep their federal dollars coming in. What we, as citizens, need to recognize is that we are jeopardizing our own future by implementing short-sighted policies that discourage the best teachers—who appear to be leaving even decent school systems in droves.

Yes, by all means, let's look at areas where there's waste and do something about it. But we can't keep financially gutting our education system and not expect the direst consequences down the road. Our teachers need to be given every possible tool to succeed. Lord knows their jobs are already more than hard enough. No, not all teachers are saints or paragons, but in my experience, most of them really have a stake in your kids' futures. If you're a parent, get involved. Get to know your kids' teachers. Give them a hand. For God's sake, don't fight them. Or you, not they, are the problem.

We All Scream

2011-06-25T18:37:00.005-04:00

Spillway on the Dan River, viewed from the Riverwalk Trail.

It was up and out early, bound for Danville, for a bunch of new caches and a gathering of cachers at the Corner Cafe in Ringgold, VA. Ice cream and good company aplenty, plus first-to-find on a couple of new hides. As is pretty much the norm, while out on the trail, I encountered Lynn and Norm, a.k.a. Spring1, who took me in like a stray dog, and we conquered a few caches together.

Afterward, I snagged Ms. B. and headed out to Mahi's Seafood Restaurant in Greensboro for a superb dinner. It's been there in an all-but-hidden little corner of Lawndale Ave. for many years, even since I lived in that neighborhood back in the late 80s/early 90s. It's a little pricey (we poor 'uns had a coupon), very cozy, with excellent service and ambiance. I had oyster & shrimp creole, which was perfectly spicy (probably too spicy for those who don't enjoy fire as much as I do); Ms. B. ordered baked Tilapia Parmesan, which clearly treated her right as well. We ended the evening getting together with our good friends, the Albaneses, at their place to sample a few decent wines. Since we've caught a break from the oppressive heat these past few evenings, we decided to hang out at the nearby, ever-so-lovely gazebo on Lake Jeannette, only to spend most of our time cowering from the world's second biggest spider (the biggest lives in Burlington), which made it its business to perch above our heads, adopting a menacing fighting stance.

At least it never pounced on us. That would have been bad. Bad, I tell you.

No Dead Baby Jokes, Please

2011-06-24T20:52:00.011-04:00

I found it just off the Palmetto Trail, near Lake Brandt, in north Greensboro. An old geocache had been archived, thus opening that area up for a new cache, so I decided to head out there and hide a new one. While I was scouting the area, I saw something peeking out from a dark hollow, and upon closer inspection, I determined that, yes, it was in fact a dead baby. Well, a dead, disembodied, plastic, eyeless, mindless baby head, at any rate. On first glance, it gave me a wonderful little case of the creeps. Little dude makes a cool cache guardian, as he's stationed only a short distance from the hide. Geocachers, you need not look inside the head for the logbook, as you'll find only an empty brain pan. The cache isn't published yet at www.geocaching.com, but when it's up, you'll find it under the moniker, "No Dead Baby Jokes, Please" (GC2YVWF).

"Cursed is the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and evil is the mind that is held by no head."

—Abdul Al-Hazred, The Necronomicon

Yep!

THE GAKI Gets the Treatment

2011-06-23T22:54:00.003-04:00

At FlamesRising.com. Nice.

Father's Day 2011

2011-06-19T15:15:00.005-04:00

Dad died just over ten years ago—April 11, 2001. A great man he was. Seen here with a strange little dude, sometime in 1959.

Caches, Cemeteries, and Catses

2011-06-18T19:53:00.002-04:00

Ms. B. at Old Union Cemetery, near Stokesdale, NC

Off with Ms. B. to Stonefield Cellars Winery in Stokesdale this afternoon, where both the wine and their resident cat make for quite the attraction. On the way over, we stopped for a couple of caches, then paid a visit to the Old Union Cemetery, off Harrell Road, where veterans of both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars are buried—which I had discovered quite some time ago on a caching outing. The graveyard is set back in the woods a ways, and the stones are so ancient that most are completely illegible. A scenic and very tranquil little historical spot.

Noah, the Stonefield Cellars Winery mascot, is a beautiful Bengal cat, with a very sweet temperament. I want one. And their wine is superb. Afterward, there was a new cache in Eden, so we detoured over to give it quick hunt. Ran into fellow cachers, Team Collab, and shared first-to-find honors with them. Yay.

Noah! My man!

The Wacky Tobacco Trail

2011-06-17T23:59:00.000-04:00

The American Tobacco Trail is a 22-mile rails-to-trails project over in the Triangle area, a portion of which passes through the extensive Chatham County gamelands. My old comrade-in-geocaching Beth "Bog Turtle" Walton had come down from Illinois for a visit, so this morning, she and Debbie "Cupdaisy" Shoffner and I got together and trucked over to the ATT for a bit of hiking and caching. We put in about five miles on the trail and snagged a dozen caches, including a very evil multi called "I Had a Nice Visit—Again" (GC2RGXZ), one stage of which cost me an ungodly amount of hair from all the hair-pulling. (Yes, this is how we have fun.) Afterward, we discovered a most wonderful little restaurant called Ted's Montana Grill, which specializes in bison—a particularly fortuitous event for us, as Ms. Bog Turtle and I both can't get enough dead buffalo, and they really do it right here. I will mention that Ted's a reasonably classy restaurant, with fairly upscale ambiance; now here come Damned Rodan, Cupdaisy, and Bog Turtle, fresh off the trail (meaning definitely not so fresh), looking like something Bigfoot dragged in. An appealing incongruity, I think. Anyhoo, we enjoyed a very late lunch or early dinner (dunch?), and then it was back on the road for home.

I hope Ms. Bog Turtle enjoys the rest of her visit, and snags many caches.

June Madness

2011-06-12T12:10:00.003-04:00

It's a big month for adaptations of H. P. Lovecraft's short novel, At the Mountains of Madness. Italian filmmaker Michele Boticelli has made an intriguing, 30-minute animated version, capturing the essence of the story with unique style. It's a fairly admirable job, given how much of the novel is given to relating the ancient history of the denizens of the mysterious mountains. I'm quite taken with the film's ending, which neatly references numerous several other Lovecraft tales, such as "The Whisperer in the Darkness" and "The Shadow Over Innsmouth." You may view the entire film here.

Also, for the month of June, the BBC is presenting an audio version of the original story, capably read by Richard Coyle. It won't be available very long, so check it out while you still can. Link is here: BBC's At the Mountains of Madness

Thanks to Lovecraft E-Zine for pointing the way to these and many other blasphemous treasures.

Bigfoot's Library

2011-06-07T20:52:00.013-04:00

Despite the heat and unruly hordes of bloodsucking critters, it was necessary to hide a new trail cache. Thus, there is a new one, which has just gone live, out on what I call The Bigfoot Trail—a well-maintained but "unofficial" trail on Greensboro watershed land, a little ways north of town (see The Great Blue Heron Nursery for a bit more description). Each time I've been out there—four times in four days—I've heard something very big and very heavy splashing through the marsh, and I've come to the conclusion that it can only be Bigfoot. Thus, I hereby proclaim this trail the Bigfoot Trail, and that is my proclamation. Since cryptozoological horrors tend to enjoy scary literature (so I'm told), I've placed in a mysterious, dark hiding place a Bigfoot-sized ammo can full of scary books, including a couple that feature horror stories by ye old dude. Mind you, Bigfoot's Library is for premium geocaching members only, but if you're a devoted cacher, this sucker has your name on it: (GC2XMG1)

Be aware, the ticks are out in full force. I waded through one small patch of tall grass and ended up with three deer ticks embedded in my leg. The most insulting thing is that they laugh at all varieties of insect repellent; near as I can tell, you have to set yourself on fire to get them to shy away from you, and even then, it's hardly a sure thing.

Scarecrows

2011-06-04T00:40:00.012-04:00

I recall seeing the box art for the 1988 horror flick, Scarecrows, back in the dark ages when I used to go down to the video store and rent VHS tapes, but I never actually bothered to check it out. This evening, I needed a horror fix in the worst way, and since the movie is available for streaming on Netflix, I decided to give it a look. Dang if I'm not glad I did. It's a solid, atmospheric little film, with fair acting, a decent story, and a particularly eerie musical score by Terry Plumeri. It's about a team of mercenaries gone bad, who have robbed Camp Pendleton of three million dollars or so and hijacked a private plane to make their escape. One of the team members double-crosses his compadres—creating a diversion on the plane and then bailing with the cash. The remaining bunch force the pilot and his daughter to put the plane down in a field so they can hunt down the rogue brigand and recover the loot. They find themselves at a remote, deserted farmhouse, guarded by several scary-looking scarecrows. Needless to say, the scarecrows aren't exactly what they seem. Creepiness and mayhem soon follow.

The storyline in no small way reminds me of Dead Birds (2004)—or rather vice-versa, since Scarecrows was made 16 years earlier—focusing on a band of murderous antiheroes, but whose characters are developed sufficiently to generate at least some interest in their fate. All of the action occurs over the course of a single night, and there's nary a trace of daylight to be seen before the end credits roll. The cinematography works well, especially the lingering shots of the scarecrows' faces following significant moments of violence and gore. There are no pat explanations for the events in the picture, and while some might feel this is a serious shortcoming, I believe quite the opposite. The "essence" of the supernatural menace is left to one's imagination; again, like Dead Birds, the narrative offers you enough information to draw your own conclusions based on its internal logic. In horror fiction, this particular quality is often exemplified in the works of Fritz Leiber and T.E.D. Klein—and both of them have strongly influenced my own creepy fiction.

No, Scarecrows is hardly a horror classic, but I would consider it slam-bang perfect drive-in movie fare—though in its day, it went direct-to-video, and even in 1988, drive-in theaters had become a rare and dying breed. It's nice to have this one available at the click of a mouse via Netflix, and it's definitely worth checking out. I'll even give this one four Damned Rodan's Fiery Martinis out of five.

Great Blue Heron Nursery

2011-05-29T17:10:00.005-04:00

It was up and out fairly early today to hunt up some new trail caches not far from here. They're in an area of woods I've only entered at night, so it was interesting, to say the least, to view the area in daylight. It's very primitive, more so than most of the woods in the Greensboro watersheds—very marshy and dense, and it was rather surprising to find an actual trail, and well-maintained at that. I managed first-to-finds on the caches, but most impressive was discovering what the cache owner called "The Great Blue Heron Nursery." Never seen so many herons in one place. Really beautiful, and thanks to Mr. Isenhour and Ms. Stevens to placing the new caches. This is the reason I started geocaching in the first place.

Click on the pics below to enlarge.

Carpet of ferns on the way to "The Trail Dawgs Mark Their Territory" (GC2VR9A)

A surprisingly well-maintained trail through the wilderness

Lots of blue herons nesting in the trees

More herons on high

Old Man Riv...er...Rodan on the Hunt

2011-05-28T21:51:00.012-04:00

Kicked off the long Memorial Day weekend with a bunch of caching. Yeah, shock of shocks, right? Last night, I headed up to Danville; went after a few relatively new hides, including an excellent, four-stage multi called River Overlook (GC2NM75); and then stopped off for sushi at the Tokyo Grill, which I had tried once before and was suitably impressed (their spicy tuna roll is awesome). Then it was on to Mum's in Martinsville for the night, and this morning, I ventured out to Fairystone Park to hit the trails and find the last few caches out there that I hadn't already claimed. It was only about three miles total distance on the trails, but it's some serious terrain with major altitude changes—especially when one veers off the trail and goes bushwhacking. In the end, I was successful on the hunt, and claimed those last four caches I needed. Well, there are three more in that area, actually, but they're on islands, and one needs a boat—or to be a good swimmer—to get to them.

Last week, we had Employee Appreciation Day at the office, and I won a gift card to Fleming's Restaurant, so tonight, Ms. B. and I availed ourselves to some mighty fine dining. I gotta tell you, that carpaccio (raw dead cow) of theirs just can't be beat, and the white chocolate bread pudding for dessert was one of the best things I've ever tasted. Fleming's is one of those places I'd need to take out a second mortgage to go on my own dime; but the food is about the best in town, and the servers treat you like royalty. I tell you, I really could stand to frequent this place, but I'd have to write a best-seller every night.

A few new trail caches here in Greensboro were published over the weekend, so I've got some new ones to go after tomorrow. I'm already getting antsy to hit the woods. After tonight's dinner, I've got most of a cow to work off.

Twin bridges over the Dan River in Danville

View of the Dan River from the River Walk trail

View of Fairystone Lake beach from Stuart's Knob trail

Entrance to one of the old iron mines off the Stuart's Knob trail

Caching Post-Apocalypse

2011-05-22T22:49:00.010-04:00

Salem Lake is looking more like Salem Plain these days.

To celebrate surviving yesterday's obviously devastating apocalypse, I set my mind on some trail caching today—which, to hunt any I haven't already found, required going a little distance. Thus I headed over to Salem Lake, near Winston-Salem, put in about four miles, and then another mile or so around the town of Kernersville. Quite hot out there, and the old man is now pooped.

One of the few downsides of geocaching is when individuals don't get permission to hide their caches on someone else's private property. The rules of Geocaching.com clearly state that caches may be placed on private property only with permission of the property owner. Alas, too few cachers pay sufficient mind to that little stipulation. I ran into that situation today for the umpteenth time; fortunately, the property owner who confronted me was civil and reasonable. Others have been far less so when they discover something has been hidden on their property without their knowing it, and that people are coming around with some frequency to find it. I confess there were times in the past when I was guilty of being lax in securing permission for some of my hides, but I have long since learned better. Nowadays, as more people are geocaching, it's imperative to follow the rules—this one in particular—or individuals, businesses, and communities that are currently open to geocaching won't stay that way. So hey, you cachers out there: get permission.

I did spend a most enjoyable day of rapture yesterday. Got in a bit of hiking, and then Ms. Brugger and I headed up to Eden to the drive-in theater to see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie, which I enjoyed a lot, and I Am Number Four, which was no great shakes but still highly enjoyable...because, hey, it's the drive-in theater. The cheeseburger, fries, big honking cookie, and Woodford Reserve really hit the spot.

G'night.

FAMOUS MONSTERS Reviews THE GAKI

2011-05-20T00:01:00.004-04:00

And it's an okay review. I smile.

"This outstanding collection brings together some of Mr. Rainey’s previously published works and six new tales. These stories are varied, dark, frightening and very well written. The myriad styles and scope of these tales covers everything you could want in a horror fiction collection, I don’t think there is a weak story in the book." (Peter Schwotzer)

Check out the entire thing here: Famous Monsters of Filmland Reviews The Gaki by Stephen Mark Rainey

The Gaki is now available in trade paperback from Dark Regions; I believe a few numbered copies remain; the lettered edition is sold out.

"Strange shapes hiding in the shadows cast by the moonlight. Eerie noises drifting out of the forest and rising into the night. The sound of inhuman footsteps approaching from somewhere in the darkness. A pair of gleaming eyes peering in through your window at midnight....

This is the nightmarish, haunted world you will enter in this new collection of 17 tales—including six never before published—by Stephen Mark Rainey, longtime editor of Deathrealm magazine and author of such acclaimed works as Balak, The Lebo Coven, Blue Devil Island, The Last Trumpet, and Other Gods. Enter willingly…and prepare yourself for a chilling journey through some of the most frightening literary landscapes you have ever experienced."

More info on The Gaki here.

BLUE DEVIL ISLAND Paperback Now Available!

2011-05-19T17:54:00.014-04:00

Hooray for Marietta Publishing, who has released my novel, Blue Devil Island (originally published in hardback by Thomson Gale/Five Star, 2007), as a trade paperback. With gorgeous cover art by M. Wayne Miller, neat interior graphics (including insignia for the Navy and Marine units in the novel—a nice touch I did not know about), and a reasonable price ($15.99, but many vendors offer discounts), this has got to be one of my favorite book releases ever. It's in stock (online) at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Books-a-Million, and other vendors; may be available at select brick-and-mortar stores.

Here's a synopsis:

Autumn 1943: the beginning of the American offensive against the Japanese in the South Pacific. Just west of the Solomons lies a remote desert island called Conquest, where the U.S. Navy stations a new fighting squadron, led by Lieutenant Commander Drew McLachlan, an ace pilot and veteran of the Battle of the Coral Sea. The Blue Devils soar into combat against their enemies—both known and unknown. The squadron's island home may not be secure, for in nearby volcanic caves, McLachlan finds evidence of habitation by unknown natives—natives that resemble no known living race. As the Solomon campaign enters into its final skirmishes, the Japanese at last turn their attention to Conquest Island. Now the Blue Devils find themselves the target of an overwhelming assault by the desperate Imperial Japanese forces—and a mysterious, predatory force that leaves mutilated victims as the only evidence of its presence.

More info is available at my website: Blue Devil Island at The Realm of Stephen Mark Rainey

If you enjoy any or all of the following, this one is for you: historical fiction, scary stuff, action-adventure, engaging characters, a bit of blood and guts, monsters, perhaps a hint of social commentary, not even a whiff of fluffy friggin' romance. Do check it out.

Decree Received

2011-05-14T12:54:00.025-04:00

Le temps de bonheur, 1986

I keep this blog as much as for me as for any interested readers, and today, I'm writing one primarily for me. I received the official court decree in today's mail, which means the divorce between Mrs. Death—my wife for 23 years—is indeed final. I figured I'd post a few pics and reminiscences from years gone by to reflect upon.

Peg acquired the name "Mrs. Death" back in the 1990s, when I was editing Deathrealm. I received mail addressed to Deathrealm all the time, but one day, a Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes envelope arrived addressed to "Mrs. Deathrealm." Needless to say, this drew a few chuckles—it would have been interesting to claim that prize! Anyway, the name stuck, and over time, it got shortened to Mrs. Death, and even now, Peg still uses the moniker for semi-official purposes.

Apart from our wedding, which really was the happiest day of my life, one of our best times together was going on a cruise to the Caribbean in 2002 with our friends Wayne and Sharon Euliss. We celebrated Halloween on the high seas, went snorkeling in Key West, smoked Cuban cigars in Mexico, ate quantities of excellent food like we'd never eaten before, and drank damned Bloody Marys like a bunch of famished vampires.

Things were rough in 2008, both between us and in various other ways, but early in the year, we discovered geocaching, and for a couple of years, it was a wonderful, fun way for us to bond and forget about some of the troubles that had overtaken us. If you've popped onto this blog even once, you've no doubt surmised that I'm still an avid cacher, and I will go so far as to say it's been the most vital, energizing activity I've known in my entire adult life. Mrs. Death isn't able to get out and do it the way she used to, but I cherish the memories of the good times we had out on the hunt. There were quite a few of them.

Perhaps the greatest legacy of our time together is our daughter, Allison, who has grown up and is living out her own dream in New York City. Allison is Peg's natural daughter, but I adopted her when she was a just a wee young 'un, and for all intents and purposes I'm her dad as surely as if the relationship were biological. Way back when, particularly right after the wedding, it was very difficult for both Allison and me—I'm not exactly known for my overwhelming paternal instincts, and I had become an instant husband and father; to say I was ill-equipped for this role is a gross understatement. But over time, Allison and I became close, and somewhere along the line, I believe she managed to forgive me for my mistakes and my sometimes outright wrong-headedness. I'm glad that Peg and I were together as she developed from a strange little child to a far stranger adult; I'm quite certain that, today, despite the emotional storms we had to weather, she's better off for us all having been together as a family during her formative years.

Peg and I have both made our share of grave mistakes, and whatever pain we caused each other, particularly during those past couple of years together, I hope we both can move past it all and be happy as life takes us where it will. For my part, in my heart, I've forgiven her for what I perceive as the wrongs she committed, and I hope she can find it in hers to forgive me for mine.

"When love is young and love is fine, it's like a gem when first it's new,
But love grows old and waxes cold, and fades away like the morning dew."
—The Water Is Wide

Click on the images to enlarge.

Gods of Moab

2011-05-13T18:00:00.005-04:00

If you've been following ye olde author's escapades here and on Facebook, you're probably achingly aware that I've been working on a new novella for the past couple of months. Well, the damned thing is finally finished and has been tweaked, busted up, duct-taped, polished, and sent to the editor. Early on, I had slapped the working title "The Demon of Ice Valley" onto it, but now that it's done, its honest-to-god given name is "The Gods of Moab." The story quite overtly ties into both my novel, Balak, and several of the tales in my short-fiction collection, Other Gods. When I know its status, I will post a corresponding status report. Rest assured, my poor dear readers, it will be inflicted upon you.

There has geocaching in the bargain as well...as if you couldn't have guessed. The pic above was taken yesterday from the Lake Brandt Greenway, shortly before dark, as mist moved in over the lake. I must say, it was pleasantly eerie out there. Managed a few first-to-finds over the past several days, including one this afternoon. Not too shabby for Friday the 13th, but then I usually have very lucky Friday the 13ths. Unclean living, don't you know.

Just for giggles, I've been on a Hammer Dracula bender the past couple of weeks, thanks to Netflix. Tonight, it was Taste the Blood Dracula, which I saw as a teenager, but my recollection of it was very hazy. Turns out, it's one of the better ones in the series, despite a weak ending. Apart from his portrayal in Jess Franco's Count Dracula, I always thought Christopher Lee was wasted as Dracula, since he mostly just hisses and looks wild-eyed, but in this film, he actually has a few lines, and the story holds up remarkably well. Next week, I look forward to Dracula AD 1972, another one I haven't seen since my slightly addled teenage years.

Oh, and yes...there is a cache in that tree.

The Orange Jacket!

2011-05-07T00:25:00.007-04:00

A fun evening in Burlington, finding a few caches and attending Geoputt (GC2QDVH)—yes indeed, a geocaching Putt-Putt event! In my younger days, I used to play real golf regularly, but I haven't even picked up a club in a couple of years, and it's been at least 25 years since I tried my hand at Putt-Putt. Apparently, it's kind of like riding a bicycle, only a lot different.

The afternoon had been fairly beautiful until I arrived at the event, and then the bottom fell out. Quite a storm! A bunch of us hung out under cover at the pro shop until the rain let up. Then it was out to the links with teammates Bridget "Suntigres" Langley, Christopher "Ranger Fox" Hall, and event organizer Mr. Robbin "RTMLee" Lee his own self. Fortunately for the rest of us, Mr. Rob entered the tee box first and made it his business to show us how it's done. Following his lead, I managed to sink a few holes-in-one (which actually became known as "Pulling a Rob," since he dropped a few spectacular putts) and even save a few utterly disastrous first shots. At the end of it all, our most benevolent hosts awarded me the orange jacket, and I have to tell you, I am humbled, honored, excited, and...kind of hungry, now that I think about it.

Unfortunately, www.geocaching.com, which has always been about most user-friendly site one could imagine, has undergone a major overhaul, and it is an unmitigated disaster. They're still addressing issues with the site since the update, and thus I'd like to reserve judgment, but this is an absolutely frustrating case of a bunch of evidently bored programmers deciding to fix something that was never broken—to the point of nearly destroying it. There had gotten to be some real performance issues with the site, but those could have been addressed without Groundspeak taking the place apart and putting it back together with duct tape. What a freaking waste of time, energy, and money. Last I heard, updates were supposed to ultimately improve a site, and given what it's going to take just to fix what was mucked up, actual improvements look to be a long way off. Big sigh.

A few pics from Geoputt....

RTMLee about to "pull a Rob."

Ranger Fox about to knock one out of the ballpark.

Suntigres lining up for a stunning double-bogey putt.

Unrest in the Planet of the Apes

2011-05-02T00:43:00.010-04:00

It's kind of cool to have Osama Bin Laden dead for my birthday, but my satisfaction is tempered by a certainty that there will now be much unrest in the Planet of the Apes, and the pissed-off among them will deal us some unpleasantness as a result. Still, all things considered, it's a better world without that particular creature breathing on it.

On another note: I have discovered that other people have the same birthday as me. WTF?

Spent a very nice day off doing some geocaching, which netted me three miles of hiking, four caches, and a rattlesnake. Since the rattlesnake—which was quite small, probably only a few days old—was far more interested in getting away from the big dude than messing with me, I call that a good day. Made great progress on the novella-in-the-works as well. The end is near....

My Not-Yet-My-Birthday Party

2011-05-01T18:37:00.013-04:00

Okay, not so much a party as a hike. Well, a pair of hikes, actually. Just as much fun as a party—unless you count those parties where people throw money at you, but since that never happens to me, just never you mind. My birthday isn't till tomorrow, but since birthdays and Mondays are essentially incompatible, the weekend has been properly utilized for the celebratory functions. I must admit, for the most part, I'd just as soon forget about these silly landmarks, since, in the end, the only thing they mean is that the old man is another day closer to the crematorium. Then again, since I'm not there yet...what the hey...on with the celebration.

Headed out pretty early today to hunt a handful of geocaches on two different trails—Lake Kammack and Haw River, in Alamance County—as well as hide a new cache of my own in the bargain. Trails with caches I haven't yet found are few and far between in this area, so it's necessary to venture farther afield to get to them. The downside of this is that I have to save up for weeks to afford the gas anymore. The upside of it is that I always find some really beautiful places and add to my total cache finds. The Haw River, I swear, is one of the most appealing settings in the southeast. Every time I find a new place to hike along the Haw, I'm utterly taken with its primal beauty. Even when there are plenty of signs of human habitation along its banks, there's something about it that seems ancient and serene. To be sure, much of the south's history is exemplified in this locale—a few miles north of Burlington, NC—and in my old age, I find such areas fascinating. Not to mention that, corresponding to this sense of antiquity, there's a subtle, inherent eeriness that stimulates and appeals to my imagination as a writer of scary things. A couple of times out there today, alone, the rush of the river and the stillness that otherwise prevailed in the woods made me feel as if I were walking into the setting of a Lovecraft story. What a deep and frightful pleasure!

Last night, Ms. B. took me out for an evening of old-age revelry, which included going to the theater to watch Insidious—which I thought was a hoot; kind of the Fright Night of poltergeist films—then drinks at Vintage 301 and dinner at Zen Sushi on Elm Street in downtown Greensboro. The transformation of Elm Street in recent years from a dying commercial district to a small nighttime entertainment mecca is both surprising and appealing; in some respects, it reminds me of Rush Street in Chicago, back in the 80s. I dont' spend much time down there—being that I'm all old and everything—but it definitely has its allure. Particularly because...yes, you guessed it...there are caches.

Enjoy my birthday, if you please. (Click the pics to enlarge.)

A bridge too far. Yep, caches nearby....

There were lots of these little doods hopping around.

No idea what this is. Some kind of alien construct, I expect.

Jess Franco's COUNT DRACULA

2011-04-25T20:07:00.028-04:00

At some dimly remembered point in my past—probably the late 70s—I happened upon the 1970 Spanish-Italian production of Count Dracula, directed by Jess (Jesus) Franco and starring Christopher Lee, and since I seem to have gone on a vampire bender lately, the craving to give this film another look has been flung upon me. Fortunately, it's available from Netflix, and the Dark Sky DVD is currently in stock at Amazon.com. I sat down with a martini and the movie tonight, and I must say, while it's flawed in a bazillion ways, it's actually better than I remembered. As a reasonably faithful adaptation of Stoker's novel—and the vehicle for Christopher Lee's best performance as ye vampire—Count Dracula is a noteworthy horror flick.

The film begins as virtually all adaptations do, faithful or otherwise, with solicitor Jonathan Harker (Frederick Williams) traveling to Transylvania to deliver to Count Dracula the deed to a certain property in England (inexplicably, Carfax Abbey is not mentioned in this script), which the Count has purchased. Harker finds himself confined in an intensely creepy setting, with a grim, moody host, who is shown right from the get-go to cast no reflection in a mirror. Apparently, this is an insufficient red flag, as Harker continues to go about his business, but very soon, the infamous trio of female vampires introduce themselves to him, followed by the Count himself insisting upon a blood donation from Harker. This done, Dracula moves on to England, leaving a frail and somewhat deranged Harker to make his own way back westward. At this point in the novel, and in most adaptations, fiancée Mina Murray (Maria Rohm) pours out all kinds of misery, though in this version, not so much. It actually works to the film's benefit to spend minimal time on the characters' romance so that more of the film's running time can devote itself to some much-needed action. The usual shenanigans involving Lucy Westenra (Soledad Miranda) ensue—Dracula feasting on her before turning her into a vampire—and soon enough, Professor Van Helsing (Herbert Lom), Harker, Dr. Seward (Paul Muller), and Lucy's fiancé, Quincy Morris (Jack Taylor; there's no Arthur Holmwood in this version), are forced to drive a stake into poor Lucy's heart. The hunt for Dracula is on, culminating back at Castle Dracula, where ye vampire finally meets his demise...not by stake this time, but by flame.

Though Christopher Lee had already become well-known as Dracula, his interpretation in this film is quite different from his others, even in Horror of Dracula, which derived from the same source material. Unlike the hissing, leering, animalistic vampire of the Hammer films, Lee's Dracula here far more resembles Stoker's original, with much of the dialogue from the first half of the novel remaining intact. Most effective is Lee's makeup; just as in the novel, he originally appears as an aged, white-haired, mustachioed man, bereft of much energy. As he feeds on others, he gradually becomes more youthful, until, near the end of the film, his hair and mustache are black, and he gets about with considerably more vigor. During the scene in which he murders Lucy, his appearance—with bloody fangs and red-tinged eyes—is genuinely disturbing. I do find Lee's distinctive British accent almost disconcerting; one fully expects him to speak with a strong eastern European accent, a la Lugosi.

Herbert Lom makes for an adequate, if unremarkable, Professor Van Helsing. While Lom is a fine actor, he plays Van Helsing as needlessly enigmatic, frequently withholding information from his compadres, or speaking only in ominous riddles, until he is "certain" what he is dealing with, although he clearly understands Dracula's menace from the start. Before the climax, he suffers a cinematic stroke, which prevents him from taking part in the vampire hunt, in which he is a principle player in the novel. One would expect more from the renowned Van Helsing!

Soledad Miranda, as Lucy Westenra, is quite the standout—to my mind, the most seductive Lucy in any Dracula adaptation. Her finest moment comes when, as a vampire, she lures a young girl to her; she then smiles and exposes her fangs. She appears beautiful and frightening. It may be the movie's most haunting moment. Klaus Kinski plays our Renfield, this time mute, which works to varying degrees. At one point, he appears to chomp on an actual fly; here, he puts on a very thoughtful expression, as if genuinely contemplating all there is to contemplate about devouring an insect. It's quite an effective scene. At other times, his expression is simply inscrutable, and when Mina visits him in the asylum, he attacks her, at Dracula's psychic command. At this point, one really wishes for the pathos of Tom Waits's Renfield in Coppola's version, or even Jack Shepherd's maniacal poetry from the 1978 BBC production starring Louis Jourdan.

Count Dracula showcases all the excesses of most western European horror films of the 60s and 70s: lurid cinematography, with lots of primary colors; camera shots that linger too long at the end of a scene; loud, overbearing music (courtesy of Nicolai Bruno, who frequently conducted the orchestras for various Ennio Morricone film scores). Deeply shadowed, very gothic sets seem to hide all kinds of menace even during the story's more innocuous moments, creating a grim and sometimes surreal atmosphere more characteristic of D'Argento or Fulci than Terrence Fisher—which helps put more distance between this film and Hammer's Dracula pics of the same era.

Unfortunately, Franco's budget exhausted itself before the film was finished, and in places, it shows—particularly during Dracula's death scene. It's a lackluster ending to an oftentimes impressive little piece of filmmaking. All in all...three out of five Damned Rodan's Dirty Hot Pepper Firetinis. I'd call that worth a look.

Dead People in the Woods

2011-04-23T17:35:00.011-04:00

It's always fun to find dead people in the woods. Today's geocache outing included hiking at Philpott Lake, VA, not far from the dam. Ms. B. and I undertook a moderately strenuous trek into the woods for a challenging little hide called Dogwood Trail Cipher Cache (GC2JW41). We ended up at a tiny family graveyard out in the middle of the woods—obviously well-maintained—with graves going back to the late 19th century. Didn't encounter anything spookier than Ms. B., but it was quite an atmospheric spot...and there was a cache. Happy day. From there, it was over to the new trail at the Martinsville City Reservoir, where we met up with Scott & Chandres (yes, the inspiration for the character of Chandres Tessier in Dark Shadows: Blood Dance) Pickett & family, a.k.a. Krazy Tribe, and hunted up another one.

On the writing front: "The Demon of Ice Valley" is nearing its finale. Don't know that it will be finished this coming week, but it won't be too far down the line. Is scary.

Tonight...it was dyeing Easter eggs. Or maybe "dying" is more like it. After we got done with them, I'm sure they're on their last legs.

S'wonderful.

Cache In...Weeds Out

2011-04-21T21:32:00.008-04:00

Geocaching Weed-Eaters

Geocaching isn't all just going after containers hidden in the woods and under light pole skirts. A fair part of the caching experience is to leave the environment better than we found it. Periodically, groups of cachers get together for Cache-In, Trash-Out (CITO) events, to clean up trash in locations that might be otherwise overlooked. Sometimes it's the woods around the local watershed lakes, or a community park, or a neglected trailhead. This afternoon, a number of us got together at the fairly new downtown Greensboro Greenway to do some cleanup, in coordination with the city parks and recreation department. Turns out, the landscaping at the site has about been overrun with weeds, so at the suggestion of the parks & recreation department folk, we ended up going a little greener than we had anticipated—we dug, pulled, and tossed a reasonably awesome amount of stubborn botanical pestilence. Afterward, the event's coordinator, Mr. Steven "Bear Oak Druid" Hinkle led us to a new, as-yet-unpublished cache for a first-to-find opportunity. Frankly, picking up trash is the easier job, but I gotta tell you—the greenway is now, unquestionably, a much finer shade of green.

Damned Rodan making a fancy tossed salad.

Coordinate Crossing

2011-04-17T22:24:00.011-04:00

The old dude in the photo is thinking, "I have to climb up that?"

Mercy...it's been such a week that blogging hasn't been much in the cards. Work, work, work, and write, write, write; a productive week, to say the least. I did manage to get in a bit of caching and a spot of socializing this weekend—Ms. B.'s parents were in town, so we got together a couple of times to visit and share embarrassing Kimberly stories. We also fit in a brief trip to Martinsville yesterday to have lunch with Mum. Tonight, it was homemade Thai spring rolls, courtesy of Ms. B. I tell you, sometimes, she's all right.

Last night, I got together with Ms. Debbie "Cupdaisy" Shoffner to hunt a few caches, and then it was over to her place to jam on guitar with husband Pete Scisco and some highly talented friends. I haven't made a racket on guitar in so long, before I knew it, my fingers were on fire—and not from any impressive instrument-playing on my part, I can tell you. Today, it was out to Gibson Park in High Point for some caching, where I had to perform a few complicated treetop acrobatics to both find and hide a cache or two. Created a new puzzle cache called "Coordinate Crossing," which proved to be challenging both mentally and physically to set up. All very gratifying, to be sure, but now, the old dude is pooped. And tomorrow...it's back to the salt and pepper mines.

On the mixed emotions front, I've learned that my divorce—assuming there are no unforeseen complications—should be final as of May 9. It'll be a relief, yet at the same time, I am all kinds of sad. Most of the pent-up anger that consumed me for so long has, over time, subsided, and I'm able to remember many better times and emotions. I hope Mrs. Death can do the same.

On a very sad note, yesterday was the fourth anniversary of kitty Charcoal's death. I miss her as much as any critter I've ever known.

Without going into detail, also...please send good wishes to my daughter, who is having a bit of a hard time at present. I'm sure she'll be fine, but things are kind of dicey at the moment.

Oh, yeah. The old dude did, indeed, have climb a ways up that.

Ten Years After

2011-04-11T21:13:00.006-04:00

Today, it's ten years since my dad passed away. A while back, I found this photo of the Midget League Basketball team I was on—1968 or 1969—which my dad coached. I still remember standing for this photo very clearly, those few years back. I don't remember the names of only two of the guys in this pic; the others I still do.

I sure was a shrimp back then. (Don't say a damn word.)

Here We Go Flying Again

2011-04-10T20:04:00.012-04:00

If you are particularly fond of flying through the air on cables suspended from treetops, like I am, then ziplining is just the activity for you. Today was another caching event—"Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah" (GC2NTBJ)—sponsored by Rich "Night-Ranger" Colter, at Richland Creek Ziplining Tours, just outside of Asheboro, NC. This afternoon, I made sure my life insurance premiums were paid up and then got together with Ms. B. and my friend, Bridget "Suntigres" Langley, to truck on down to the event. Very well-attended function, I must say; I'm hearing 60-plus attendees is the official estimate. The course featured 15 stations, each run ranging from a dozen to about 50 feet above the ground, with some runs nearly a quarter mile long. As always, the company was great, the event very well-run. Afterward, Ms. B., Suntigres, and I snagged a couple of quick caches in Asheboro (only to find ourselves being heckled by cachers Ranger Fox and David & Diana), then availed ourselves to pizza and drinks at Bill's Pizza Pub.

It's the only way to fly.

Ms. B. and Suntigres contemplating their mortality prior to takeoff.

Flying through the air is the easy part. Walking the plank...not so much.

Ms. B.: "I'm not going! I'm not going! I'm gooooiiiinnnngggg!"

Keith McCoy about to flare for landing.

Taking five at the scenic creek underneath the zipline course.

Look out below....

Blood at Southern Rail

2011-04-09T23:55:00.001-04:00

Today was the day for girlfriend Ms. B. and I to make another pilgrimage to Carrboro/Chapel Hill for caching, shopping, and dining. Based on the weather report from yesterday, we were expecting the temperature to be balmy. "In the 70s," they said. Woops. Wrong. Downright cold it was, since I didn't take a jacket with me. Regardless, the old dude logged a few caches (while grumbling, of course). We had lunch at a place that is something of a landmark for me—the Southern Rail restaurant, which incorporates a couple of passenger cars from the old Southern rail line. Back in the mid 1990s, these same cars served as the offices of Green Monk film studios, run by my friend Storm Williams, and I had paid them a visit or two back in the day while working on an indie vampire film called The Immortal. At the time, I was enamored enough of the idea of using the cars as the setting for a business to incorporate a reasonable facsimile of them into my story, "The Devil's Eye" (sequel to "The Fugue Devil"; both stories appear in my short story collections, The Last Trumpet and Other Gods). If you've read "The Devil's Eye," you might recall the train cars being the setting for some significant carnage.

Alas, there was no major carnage there today, but I must tell you, they do serve a mean Bloody Mary at Southern Rail. It'll light a happy little fire in you.

Just to be fair, I'll leave you here with this handy fact about the Fugue Devil: If you know about it, it knows about you. And if you see it, it will come for you.

That would be bad, yes.

The Shado Knows

2011-04-04T21:55:00.014-04:00

Back in the early 70s, I was hopelessly enamored with the 1969 Century 21 series, UFO (a.k.a. SHADO), produced by Gerry and Sylvia Anderson (Thunderbirds, Fireball XL5, Stingray, Captain Scarlett, Journey to the Far Side of the Sun, Space: 1999). After having seen nothing of it for over three decades, a few years back, I received the entire 26-episode series on DVD from a late and very good friend, and recently, the hankering to jump back into the show has hit me fast and hard. Just a week or so ago, I finished watching the entire run of the original The Prisoner, starring Patrick McGoohan, so I think it's safe to say it whetted my appetite for quirky British TV serials. UFO certainly qualifies on that count. Alternately groovy and grim, the show is about an alien race from deep space that periodically sends its spacecraft to Earth, for reasons unknown—at least at first. Shado (an acronym for Supreme Headquarters Alien Defense Organization) is the entity charged with defending Earth from the alien attacks. Shado boasts an impressive arsenal of weaponry and resources, including a submarine outfitted with a supersonic submersible aircraft (Skydiver), a moon base with a complement of heavily armed interceptors, a satellite equipped for tracking objects from deep space (SID, or Space Intruder Dectector), a variety of armored all-terrain vehicles, and a host of beautiful women wearing miniskirts, purple wigs, and glittering tights. Shado's terrestrial headquarters is located beneath a movie studio ostensibly run by American film producer Ed Straker (Ed Bishop, arguably best known for his minuscule but memorable role as Klaus Hergerscheimer in Diamonds Are Forever); in reality, however, Straker is Shado's CO, and he's a platinum blonde, rather willowy, no-guff kind of tough guy, with a chip on his shoulder. His sidekick, Col. Alec Freeman (George Sewell), is a middle-aged playboy, who enjoys his whiskey and frequently asks beautiful young female scientists out to dinner before asking their names.

For their day, all of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson's movies and serials feature sophisticated special effects, courtesy of Derek Meddings, and the effects work in UFO—along with the scantily clad, very attractive cast—elevate the series from an exercise in pure cheese to an often impressive spectacle. Make no mistake, while the acting is usually wooden and the plots minimal, most episodes feature some startlingly realistic model effects and, plotwise, a handful of surreal, adult-themed twists and turns that keep the drama engaging. Longtime Anderson-series music composer Barry Gray turns in one of his most memorable scores, providing a unique and atmospheric musical identity for the show. The music and visuals for the show's end credits remain to this day absolutely haunting, and for your edification, I'm including a video of the ending sequence below.

If you are a nut for quirky, surreal, visually spectacular science-fiction and you've never checked out UFO, by gummy, you really oughta. Go on and do it.

To the Ancient, Forbidden City of Selma and Back

2011-03-27T15:30:00.016-04:00

Gathered my courage and my GPS to make the journey to the forbidden city of Selma, NC, yesterday, to visit the old high priest of Cthulhu himself, Doktor Robert M. Price, and the slightly less venomous Ms. Carol Selby Price. Joining us, Stephen and Elizabeth Stiles and their pair of young 'uns—who about floored me with their extensive knowledge of Toho's daikaiju movies. We watched that rarest of animal, a Toho fantasy flick I'd never seen before, Yamato Takeru (1994), which featured a monstrously cool monster—Orochi, the mythological eight-headed dragon, on which King Ghidorah's design was largely based. Some very decent monster SPFX, for sure, though the movie as a whole didn't always hold up so well, particularly the climactic Hydra-vs.-MechaSamurai battle. Pizza and other goodies were included in the bargain, so it still made Mark a mighty happy old dude.

Stopped off for an even dozen caches along the way, and the same number coming back today. Happily, I managed to snag a few that had eluded me on previous trips, though there was still one in particular that proved frustrating. Eventually, I will conquer that little rat bastard of a hide....

Many thanks to the Prices for their hospitality. Will hope to do it again soon. Next time, I shall endeavor to be more offensive, as I must infer that I failed rather dismally this time. Alas.

Coming Soon: BLUE DEVIL ISLAND From Marietta

2011-03-24T23:40:00.006-04:00

Just received a cover proof of Blue Devil Island, which is due from Marietta Publishing as a trade paperback in the next few weeks. Pretty awesome art by M. Wayne Miller, and the whole package looks like it's going to be killer. Will post more details about the release itself ASAP. (Click on the pic to enlarge.)

Here's a teaser for you....

"Autumn 1943: The beginning of the American offensive against the Japanese in the South Pacific. Just west of the Solomon Islands lies a remote, desert island called Conquest, where the U.S. Navy stations a new fighting squadron, led by Lieutenant Commander Drew McLachlan, an ace pilot and veteran of the Battle of Coral Sea.

With his group of air warriors, who call themselves the Blue Devils, McLachlan soars into frequent combat with the Japanese, inflicting serious casualties upon the enemy. However, on the squadron's island home, signs appear that it may not be entirely alone, for in nearby volcanic caves, McLachlan finds evidence of habitation by unknown natives—natives that resemble no known living race, and that may yet exist in the mysterious subterranean catacombs. As the tension on the island mounts, McLachlan is forced to fight on two fronts: against their known enemy, the Japanese, and an unknown, predatory force that leaves mutilated victims as the only evidence of its presence.

As the Solomons campaign enters into its final skirmishes, the Japanese at last turn their attention to Conquest Island. In the final conflict, the Blue Devils find themselves the target of an overwhelming assault by the desperate Imperial Japanese forces—and McLachlan must face the reality that the key to his men’s survival lies deep in the dark and deadly caves of Conquest Island itself."

You can read an excerpt from my website here: Blue Devil Island—Chapter 3 Excerpt

"...An enjoyable World War II adventure with a science-fiction plot twist. Readers nostalgic for the era's war movies and pulp fiction will enjoy the ride."

—Publisher's Weekly

Twisted...But Memorable

2011-03-20T17:37:00.017-04:00

When I learned today that a fellow geocacher just spent some time as a counselor at Camp Cheerio, over by Roaring Gap in the NC mountains, I had a rush of exciting memories from the times I spent there as a kid. In the past, I've posted about a few of those experiences (such as Wampus Cat), and after yesterday's experience with a shotgun-wielding dude, I figured it would be enjoyable to relate one of my most treasured memories from that picturesque and occasionally traumatic venue....

Today's pussyfoot parents would surely have a conniption, and there'd be lawsuits and media outcry and all that bullshit, but if that were the case back in the 60s, I'd have been robbed of an admittedly hellish but ingenious prank played on us kids by a bunch of camp counselors.

It started out on a nature hike, where one of the counselors (whose name I recall was Jeff something) was going to teach us how to build a campfire with a single match and only a bare minimum of flammable materials. Jeff was a little unstable, it seemed, for he had blazing black eyes, yelled a lot, and carried a pistol out on the trail with us. For me, that was a first, and I will admit I was a little scared. When he was instructing us how to gather materials for the fire, he was absolutely adamant that we find twigs of pine. "I want PINE!" he'd roar at us, and he had one poor little wretch in tears (not me—not yet). Eventually, we each had a fire going, and we thought that would please him. Nope; we hadn't thought ahead and gathered bigger wood to keep it going—PINE, of course—and this infuriated him enough to start popping shots off in the air. More tears, and this time, I think I might have leaked a few, since by now I was reasonably certain we were all going home dead.

Well, by the grace of God, we survived the nature hike and returned to the camp. Jeff went on his merry way, much to the relief of our little band of campers. That evening, right about sunset, the group from my cabin (the Navajo cabin, if I recall) went out to the lake for a picnic supper. We had just put our fire-building lessons to good use when, up on the ridge that overlooked the lake, silhouetted against the setting sun, we saw a figure holding what appeared to be a rifle. He yelled down at one of the counselors who was with us, accusing him of stealing his collection of handmade leather belts.

Yep. It was Jeff up there on the hill. "I could tell that guy was crazy," said one of the nearby kids, obviously about ready to wet his drawers. "Crazy!"

Our counselor, a red-headed chap named Mike, I think it was, hollered back that Jeff was mistaken. Nobody had stolen any of his belts; if Jeff had been robbed, he needed to take it up with Murphy Osborne, the camp director. This infuriated Jeff all the more, and he said that Mike had made his last smart remark. He raised his rifle...and BOOM. Damn thing sounded like a cannon going off. All us kids hit the deck. Mike hit the water, for he'd been standing on the dock.

Mike didn't come up, and a pool of red began spreading over the surface of the lake.

Yes, much screaming ensued, and next thing we knew, our other counselor was yelling for us to get in the van, GET IN THE VAN, and we did this with no little haste. He jumped behind the wheel and in seconds had us barreling back toward our cabin—but to get there, we had to pass the ridge from which Jeff had fired, and as we drove by, we saw that crazy mother in the distance aiming his rifle at us....

We were sure we were dead. But no shot came. Soon, we were back safely indoors, but we knew that if Jeff intended to come after us, he could be upon us in no time. Some of us wanted to head for the hills, but our remaining counselor said no, we needed to sit tight because even a crazy fucker like Jeff wouldn't come after us with lots of other people around. We fussed and fidgeted amongst ourselves for a seemingly interminable time. And then...the door burst open.

It was Jeff and Mike, arm in arm, hooting and hollering, embarrassingly pleased with themselves, obviously having set the whole thing up from the get-go, including Jeff's insane behavior on our nature hike.

Yeah, it was scary, and no doubt, that was one pair of twisted and somewhat sadistic rat bastards, but at eight years old, I'd never felt so alive or so close to death. To be sure, today, I'd never pull such a prank on a bunch of unsuspecting kids...well, probably not....but hey. In the end, it left me with a priceless memory from youth, and if nothing else, I learned early on just how I'd react in a traumatic situation.

I can say, with confidence...at least I didn't wet myself.

Chili Con Cache

2011-03-19T23:59:00.000-04:00

Geoaching is about my favorite way to spend a Saturday, especially when it's a beautiful day and there's a caching event down the road apiece. Today, it was Tadabailey's Chili Event in Randleman. Lots of cachers, good food, socializing, and fun. Beforehand, I met up with my friend, Bridget (a.k.a. Suntigres), and we made short work of quite a few caches around Randolph County. The photo is from "Where the Water Falls," which was perhaps my favorite of the day. Unless it was the one where a dude with a shotgun came after about a dozen of us. No, really. Just a misunderstanding, as the property where we were caching belongs to Duke Power, but sometimes it's best not to press a point, especially when you don't have a bigger gun. (At least the fellow was not trigger-happy, and to be fair, he was actually quite reasonable; just taking no chances.) But after our experience, that particular cache is now archived, gone, kaput, which is the best thing for it. Or perhaps it was the one where I climbed out onto a bunch of rocks into the middle of the Deep River, only to come up empty-handed. That one will require a return trip....

I'm not even going to mention that my caching partner for the day took a nice little tumble into a creek. If I'd known she'd shed some blood in the process, I wouldn't have laughed. Or at least, not as hard. But she was laughing too, so what can I say...?

Came home with a dozen finds today, and that was most satisfying. Almost as satisfying as the excitement, the good food, and the good company.

"Demon Jar," from THE GAKI, at Dark Regions

2011-03-15T10:00:00.025-04:00

Dark Regions has posted my short story, "Demon Jar," from my fiction collection, The Gaki & Other Hungry Spirits, as a free sample at the Dark Regions website. The signed, special hardback editions are currently available; look for the trade paperback in April. You can check out The Gaki and "Demon Jar" here: The Gaki & Other Hungry Spirits by Stephen Mark Rainey

As a late addendum, I've found Hellnotes has posted a very insightful review of The Gaki, with a focus on "The Demon Jar." It's here: Hellnotes' Review of The Gaki & Other Hungry Spirits.

Donate to Help Victims of the Disaster in Japan

2011-03-13T12:47:00.006-04:00

The more I see of the disasters in the Japan, the more the enormity of it all begins to sink in. It's almost impossible to conceive of my entire world being pulled out from under me, almost literally, in just a few moments' time. There's still much uncertainty about the scope of the damage and the long-term effects of the quake, the tsunami, the resulting possible nuclear reactor meltdowns. One thing I can certainly recommend is going to the Red Cross website (www.redcross.org) and making a donation earmarked for the disaster in Japan. It's the simplest way to avoid the scams, concocted by the true scum of the earth, that inevitably follow in the wake of such tragedies. I never recommend following links to any site where you might be giving out personal or financial data; just type the address into your browser yourself.

My heart goes out to all the people of Japan.