The Healthy Insane

That's us, all right — the Healthy Insane. Well, it makes for an apt geocaching team name, don't you think? What do you mean where are the wine glasses? Well, the wine flowed yesterday, mates.

This has been a memorable couple of days for Ms. Brugger and me, complete with unwelcome interlopers, not-quite-exotic food and drink, high-risk geocaching, horrific movies, and blasphemous storytelling. Friday evening, those diabolical fiends Cortney Skinner and Elizabeth Massie (with whom I co-wrote Dark Shadows: Dreams of the Dark) darkened my doorstep and proceeded to menace my cats for the duration of the weekend. Upon their arrival, I took these awful folk out and forced them to seek geocaches in singularly hazardous places, followed by a tortuous, habanero-spiked Mexican dinner. To keep the theme of inhuman pain and suffering going through the rest of the evening, we settled in to watch The Sound of Horror, a review of which I posted here just the other day ("The Sound of Horror," Sunday, May 29, 2016), followed by a great wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Sometimes, you have to think inside the box.

But of course there was wine, at least for those of us who have been known to partake. (Happily, our trespassers were considerate enough to bring a bottle of Virginia wine for Ms. Brugger, who drinks.) Saturday morning, after beginning the day with the prerequisite caffeine and some acceptable treats from Starbucks, we ventured out into Greensboro's urban wilderness, procured the necessary items for a poisonous picnic, and hied our asses out to Stonefield Cellars in Stokesdale, which is one of our favorite venues for locally produced vino. On our arrival, we discovered there was to be a wedding on the premises — poor sods — but much to our delight, a short distance from the main facility, there hid a pleasant, secluded table, complete with an umbrella to block the hated, blazing day star, where we set up our picnic and savored some particularly nice wine — sangria for Mr. Skinner and Dread Pirate Robert's Red Blend for Ms. B. and me. There were a couple of caches near the winery that I had hunted unsuccessfully not too long ago, one at a haunted house, so after our picnic, we decided to seek revenge on the offending containers. This time, success!

Artist and writer in their natural environment

Once back home, Ms. Massie devoted some more time to menacing my cats, and then Kimberly and I prepared a Pho dinner, which the two of us quite enjoyed and our company appeared to survive (we'll see how things go over the next few days). For dessert, we enjoyed some Klondike bars and It Follows, which our guests had not previously seen (reviewed here by the Old Dude some time ago). After lights out, I heard some intriguing sounds from upstairs, but I did not go to investigate because I'm pretty sure the cats were setting traps for our trespassers. However, as often happens with devices devised by cats, the traps didn't really work. It's kind of like when Frazier, after plotting long and hard to give Dad what-for, conceals himself, lies in wait for God knows how long, and then, when opportunity arises, comes barreling out to accost me. However, since he really doesn't know what to do when he catches me, he just sits down.

This morning, it was back to Starbucks for a final social gathering, featuring plentiful tall tales and imparting of Wisdom, largely provided by one Wisdommamus Evughwemuya, who desperately desired friendship with Ms. Massie on Facebook. By searching his face on the interwebs, we discovered that the good Wisdommamus possesses dozens of different names, nationalities, and professions, so if he comes looking for you — beware!

Finally, it was time for an emotional parting of the ways (the cats danced for joy). All in all, another memorable run-in with our hated enemies, and I truly hope it is not so long before our next opportunity to clash. I shall celebrate their departure and eventual demise with some leftover Pho.

Adieu, my fiendish foes.

Geocacher, gecocache, and haunted house in Stokesdale

Beware this man, who desires to impart only the wisdom of the scam!

Wicked Weddings, Pants-Down Races, and More

Detail from the awful mob scene pictured below

Over a decade ago, at a singularly infamous, unnameable Necon event in Bristol, Rhode Island, our good friend, the well-known hack writer Elizabeth Massie, stumbled over this particularly fascinating, very sad, and very mean artist named Cortney Skinner. The two of them caught each other's interest and apparently wound up rolling through a darkened duct tape factory because it wasn't long before they had become quite inseparable. Before anyone understood what was actually happening, this nefarious pair was cohabitating, living in sin, doing devilish deeds by day and by night. Based on their frequent, frightening appearances together in public, whispers began to circulate that the two of them had murdered each other in their sleep. Then, back in June, all these years of abominable abnormality culminated, when the perverted pair, in full silly hat regalia, tied the marital knot — in the common vernacular, up and got hitched.

Finally, unable to limit the practicing of their devilish whims to only themselves, the despicable duo decided to throw a big-ass bash to showcase their disgusting deviance, even inviting people they actually knew and disrespected — including the lovely Ms. B. and me. Unable to overcome our fascination with public perversion, we accepted. So, just this weekend, yesterday through today, we found ourselves subjected to a degree of depravity that, until now, we never could have guessed existed on this planet.

It started out innocently enough. Kimberly and I visited the beautiful Barren Ridge winery just outside of Waynesboro, enjoyed some wine, grabbed a few geocaches, and then — admittedly with some trepidation — headed over to the hellish homestead. There were reunions with old friends, such as Jeff Osier; his wife, Cathy Van Patten; and her brother, John, with whom I had attended college a few years back. But these fair moments were not to last, for then the games began. Hideous, horrendous games, based on torture and humiliation. Things like "Pants-Down Races," in which even Ms. Massie's own daughter participated. To my shock, Kimberly was drawn into the evil circle, and I could only watch in despair as she, and numerous other inductees into this Satanic coven, raced around a blazing fire, pants down, tripping and falling and screaming and wailing. Never was there a more apt time for Jesus to appear and set things right. But he didn't, and so the heathens frollicked on.

Brugger was forced to walk the plank.

Next up, there were songs. And they drew me into it — me! Before I knew it, we were in a songwriting/singing competition, in which we had to compose canticles actually commemorating this demon pair's unholy union. I found myself singing along on a tune called "Bugle Whoo!" right smack in front of the couple, who looked down upon us from their camping chairs on high, nodding their heads in approval. And Lord, if that didn't sting. Except that... in a weird way... I almost enjoyed it!

Somehow, sometime later, Kimberly and I managed to escape. I'll never forget the sounds of agonized screaming, which — fortunately — receded quickly as we made our way into the night, seeking the nearest geocache with my trusty GPS.

The story would have ended there, except that, to our chagrin, we also accepted an invitation to breakfast with a select few of the coven, including the married couple. I should describe the beastly behavior during this smaller but no less traumatic event, but I doubt that repeating it would do my sanity — or yours — any favors. Suffice it to say that I am home now, writing this little missive, and constantly looking over my shoulder.

Should something happen to me, at least you know the truth.

A perfectly pastoral scene at Barren Ridge Vineyards, offering no hint of the trauma soon to follow.

Ms. B. and ye old writer, drinking away our cares before we even realized we had any.

Let the games begin. Grand marshall Cortney instructs participants in the rules of "Pants-Down Races."

Many celebrants, including this corrupt conquistador, crowded into the house to escape a brief rainstorm.

Hapless subjects serenade the vicious vizier and his bride, who look on with approval

After the party: Destined to walk the land of the dead.

Nearly a Non-Starter

It's always a treat to get together with writer Beth Massie and artist Cortney Skinner, who are two of the world's finest folks — well, mostly — and we've been hoping to work out a visit for quite a while. Ms. B. and I had calculated doing this thing a few weeks ago, but we ended up having to postpone our visit due to her cat suffering some unfortunate feline infirmities. Things on that front improved, so we rescheduled a trip to the Massie-Skinner homestead in Waynesboro, VA, this weekend. Everything looked good, so we took off work a bit early on Friday afternoon and hit the road.

About halfway there, the old Rodan Mobile decided it had had enough of the road for one night. After stopping for a cache just south of Lynchburg, VA, I put the key in the ignition to crank her up and go, only to be greeted by a wall of resounding silence.

Starter is dead. Graveyard dead. Beyond resuscitation dead.

Now, I must say, break downs suck — they SUCK — but if one must break down, one can only hope for things to work out as smoothly as they did this go-round. I got AAA on the horn — best investment I ever made, especially with all the history the Rodan Mobile has seen — and managed to reach a fellow at a garage, even though it was past their closing time. He said he could get to my car first thing Saturday morning, which was a blessing, since most of the shops we looked up were closed all day on Saturday. Ms. B. called around and found a decent enough hotel not too far away. The tow truck arrived within minutes and got us to the garage — and then the driver was kind enough to actually take us to the hotel after we got my car dropped off.

Once ensconced in our hotel room, Brugger and I checked maps for some nearby food. Ah... McDonald's. About a mile up the road. No sweat... we have feet. So we put them to good use and hiked up the way toward a late-night meal. Coming upon Spring Hill Cemetery — a large, very old, and agreeably eerie bone yard — was the evening's highlight. The gates were locked, so we couldn't go inside, but we had a great view of the stones and markers from just outside the fence. Quite enjoyed the serenity of the place after a rather stressful evening.

Yesterday morning, as promised, the garage guy promptly got a new starter put in. One quick cab ride later, we had a working automobile and soon enough were back on our way to Waynesboro. When we arrived, it was to find yet more fucked machinery: Cortney's computer had committed stupidcide, right when he was in the midst of a project with a deadline of immediately. Thankfully, eventually, he got things sorted out enough for stress levels to subside to critical. After a wee spot of geocaching with Beth and Brugger — including a most amusing visit to another graveyard — we went for a tasty Mexican dinner, a spot of ice cream, and a bit more caching.

This morning, it was off to Starbucks, where we met some more of our fabulous fiends from the area: Nanci & Phil Kalanta and artist Keith Minnion, who had provided some devilish art for Deathrealm back in the day. The shooting of shit and what not went on for some time, but then Nanci gleefully tortured us with a dramatic reading of Damn You, Demon! — the latest non-childen's children's book by Beth and her sister, Barb Lawson. Following this, we became embroiled in a long, profound discussion, which involved the waylaying of total strangers, about whether Starbuck's interior walls were painted brown or green. Unable to withstand this torture further, Ms. B. and I hastened to depart — but only after I found Beth and Cortney's geocache, "Queequeg" (GC4ARE1)... or Quohog or Hedgehog, or whatever it's called... which is on the premises.

The hunt for a couple of more caches took Ms. B. and me to a picturesque, rustic spot or two nestled in the mountains around Fairfield, VA, and then we hit Roanoke for a great lunch at Blues BBQ Company, which we had discovered last February when we were in town for Shevacon. And then, on to Valhalla Vineyards, atop a mountain just outside of Roanoke. As scenic as a location comes, this place. We quite enjoyed their wines, especially their 2007 Valkyrie — a blend of Cabernet Savignon, Cabernet Franc, Merlot, Malbec and Petit Vedot — and 2001 Cornucopia blend, all of which come from their own grapes. The staff we met were quite personable, and Brugger and I would both recommend the place highly, with the possible caveat that quite a few of the clientele, at least while we were there, were ungodly rowdy and inconsiderate — some playing board games, which, at a winery, ought to be forbidden by at least thirteen statutes and a possible constitutional amendment. Hopefully, this was merely an anomaly, for a place as distinctive and atmospheric as Valhalla deserves more respectful treatment. It ain't no downtown bar and grill.

So, I'm back home now, where I've been trying to suppress food riots amid the feline general population for the past few hours. That's all kinds of rough, I gotta tell you.

Natural High

Beth and Cortney... Yeah,
they're stayin' alive.

Little boosts my spirits more than spending an activity-packed, slightly long weekend with some of the finest maniacal mutants the unnatural world has ever produced. So, on Thursday evening, Ms. Kimberly and I packed up and hit the road, bound for Skeeryvilletown, VA (a.k.a. Waynesboro) — the lair of the dreaded Cortney Skinner-Elizabeth Massie pair. From Greensboro, we had a pleasant drive up U.S. 29, and then, just shy of Waynesboro, we turned off onto Route 6 to make our way up the dark, treacherous bulk of Afton Mountain. (It's nearly as scary as traveling on the Jerry Falwell Memorial Highway.) Safely at our destination, we spent the remainder of the evening sipping Barbera wine from NC's Brandon Hills Vineyards, catching up on all things that required catching up on.

'Tis far better to have a Friday off work than to go to work. It was up relatively early and off to Starbucks for breakfast — an insidious, potentially contagious Massie-Skinner tradition. Then off for some geocaching — we targeted about a dozen. The highlight of the day just might have been a visit to Veritas Vineyards on Afton Mountain, where we enjoyed a picnic lunch on the sprawling, scenic grounds, in the company of the vineyard's very friendly and well-behaved dog. Brugger and I sampled some of the vineyard's dry reds; Mr. Skinner fulfilled his daily requirement of stainless steel with an unoaked Chardonnay; and Ms. Massie overdid it with a carbonated, dark amber vintage from an altogether different establishment, a.k.a. Pepsi.

In the early evening, the four of us met Horrorworld.org maven, Nanci Kalanta; her sinister spouse, Phil; and horror author Matthew Warner at El Puerto Mexican Restaurant for a lively and very satisfying dinner. (El Puerto's tacos diablo, advertised as very hot, proved delicious but did require a few extra shots of habanero sauce to suit my palette.) As might be expected in this company, much horror and hilarity ensued.

Then... oh, my lord... back to the ranch to watch the short film Abed, made by Jenny Lasko, Philip Nutman, and Ryan Lieske, based on Beth's short story, which originally appeared in the anthology Still Dead (edited by John Skipp and Craig Spector, Bantam, 1992). Truly, the most graphic, sanity-stretching zombie film my innocent little eyes have ever beheld. Not sure I'll ever be quite the same, and there's certainly no knowing the long-term ramifications for my sex life. The antidote for this brain-searing horror was 1973's snake-fest, Ssssssss, starring Dirk Benedict, Heather Menzies, Strother Martin, Richard B. Shull, and Tim O'Connor. I had seen this at the theater when it came out all those happy years ago, and back then, it kind of messed up my poor little mind. This time, the only casualty might have been Brugger's good sense.

Alas, as all fun things must end, yesterday morning, after yet another Starbucks' breakfast and a handful of local caches, Kimberly and I ventured southward to Natural Bridge, VA, to view one of the most spectacular natural formations in the world. I had been there a number of times in the past, the first being the summer of 1974; this was Brugger's first visit. It's still as breathtaking as it was the first time I saw it. It rises 215 feet above Cedar Creek, made of solid gray limestone, 40 feet thick and 100 feet wide, spanning a gorge of 90 feet. The bridge itself is estimated to weight about 72 million pounds, and is in the neighborhood of 500 million years old. In 1750, George Washington carved his initials in the rock wall beneath the bridge, and they can still be clearly seen today. Thomas Jefferson purchased the bridge and 157 surrounding acres from King George III in the year 1774, for twenty shillings of "good and lawful money" (a little over $2 in today's currency). There are certainly more tourist attractions around the bridge than when I was a kid — such as a wax museum and a Styrofoam replica of Stonehenge called "Foamhenge" — but the natural grandeur of the place is still beyond impressive. Photographs cannot do the bridge justice.

Our lunch was at the nearby Pink Cadillac Diner, which does indeed feature a pink Cadillac out front (along with a geocache), a giant statue of King Kong, a bronze Elvis, and lots of other gaudy goodies. Damn good meatloaf.

And today, it was out to the trail to place a new geocache. It might be a tough one. It's called Darth Fox....

Click images to enlarge.

Ahh, nuts.

Creeple people at Veritas Vineyards, Afton Mountain, VA

At El Puerto Mexican Restaurant: this very scary man would not leave us alone. 

Brugger playing the bizarro Fay Wray.

Apt sign at the Pink Cadillac Diner.

Creepy creepers at the McCormick Farm, near "Don't Fear the Reaper" (GC28RCC)

A Day in Old Lynchburg

Headed out bright and early to meet good friends Elizabeth Massie and Cortney Skinner in Lynchburg, VA, for a fine day of geocaching. It started out pretty chilly—temp right at the freezing mark—but it warmed up nicely as the day went on, and we ended up signing our monikers on quite a few log sheets. Caching always takes one to intriguing settings, and I had no idea that a warp in the space/time continuum would drop us right smack into the middle of Easter Island. See the pic with me and the big old stone dude? That's Easter Island. No shit. There was even a sign on a nearby building that said so.

We discovered a cache at a very scenic, historic graveyard—The Old City Cemetery—which consists of four museums, 20,000-some graves (including 2,200 graves of Civil War soldiers), and an arboretum. It's also the site of the first public execution by hanging in Lynchburg. The criminal in question was strung up on the gallows, and as he fell, the rope broke, thus sparing his life—at least long enough for the hangman to give him a drink of water, lead him back to the gallows, and try it again, this time with somewhat more success. They weren't quite sure he was dead, so they let him hang for an hour. Take no chances, that's what I always say.

We had a mammoth-size lunch at IHOP; fortunately, we each got in enough hiking to burn off about a half-ounce of the maple syrup on the pancakes. Good stuff. On the way home, I stopped for a couple of more caches in Alta Vista, just south of Lynchburg, and then it was back on the road. All in all, that's what I call an entertaining day.

Helluva lot better than working on taxes....

The old Stapleton Train Station, now a museum at the Old City Cemetery

You'd think Ms. Massie is pointing to something exciting and fantastic. She's not.
There's nothing up there. At all. Let's not tell her any different.
Oh, wait. Maybe she's pointing to some chap climbing a light pole.
That's something, I reckon....

Damn That Betty White!

Old Rodan in the middle of a predicament.

Back from a none-too-profitable but all-too-entertaining book-signing event in Williamsburg, VA, this weekend. Drove up last night from Greensboro, working in a number of geocaches along the way...of course. East of Petersburg, it's a gorgeous drive along Route 5. One of the highlights was stopping for a cache at an excellent little tavern in Charles City (which is one of the four or five buildings in town, I think). It was full of character, and I had one seriously good cowburger. In fact, after that, I don't know that I'll be able to eat a McDonald's cowburger ever again.

Stayed at a cheap but decent hotel very near the college bookstore (and several caches, which is important). And today at the signing, I met up with a passel of very good friends—Beth Massie, Cortney Skinner, Tom Monteleone, Matthew Warner, Beth Blue, Sarah Schoenfeld, and Mark Sieber—and met Mark's friend Laura Long and writer Ron Malfi for the first time. Things were slow...to say the least...but when the caching team of emvirginia (Ms. Massie & Mr. Skinner) and Damned Rodan headed out to claim a nearby cache, we discovered just what was up.

Betty White had stolen our entire audience.

Yep, they were all out there—thousands of muggles, all waiting for Betty White, who was in town to do a benefit for her animal rescue program. She was set to make a big entrance riding in a carriage and then do a presentation/autograph session at one of the businesses on the square. We even figured maybe we could get Betty to hawk some horror novels for us, and we'd cut her in on a percentage. Alas, we never got to see Betty White; when we were outside, she was in, and when we were inside, she was out. Or something to that effect. At any rate, she didn't sell any horror novels for us. Conversely, we didn't autograph any Christmas ornaments, so really, whose loss is it?

Yep.

Ms. Massie, a little too happy.

Mark Sieber and Laura Long, also too happy.
Matt, Ron, and Tom, suitably somber.

Malfi and old dude, once again all too happy but laughing at muggles.

Damned Rodan and Emvirginia, posing with Thomas Jefferson and
some Betty White muggles. Yeah. Too happy.

Star City Stashes

Team emvirginia and Mr. Rodan

Headed to Roanoke, VA, this morning to meet up with three of the world's least despicable souls — Ms. Beth Massie, Mr. Cortaid Skinner, and Mr. Ben My-Name-Is-Not-Linus-Rothman — to do some serious geocaching. If you're visiting here, you probably know that Ms. Massie and I have collaborated on a couple of novels, including Dark Shadows: Dream of the Dark, and nowadays, most gratifyingly, we can occasionally collaborate on some serious geocache hunts. It was a gray day, and we had to dodge some raindrops now and again — particularly later in the afternoon — but we managed to make a most enjoyable circuit of southwestern Roanoke, snagging lots of park-n-grabs as well as a few more terrain-intensive cache hides. One of the best, if the not the best, aspects of caching is visiting all kinds of places I'd never find if I weren't hunting a little container with a piece of paper to sign inside. We discovered some beautiful neighborhoods, a fabulous mom-and-pop pancake house, and a patch of woods where certain of our party absolutely refused to go pee, despite a pressing need. Only got moderately wet as the rain set in, and the excellent company made this a day to remember fondly.

I'll never see a Hamricks' sign the same way again, that much I can tell you....

Mr. Mountainview and Team emvirginia

An emergency chopper arrives at Roanoke's Carrillion Hospital

Under the bridge downtown is where he logged his find.

Book Em, Damned-Ro

This past weekend, Mrs Death and I drove up to Waynesboro, VA, for Book Em, an event sponsored by the Waynesboro Police Department to promote literacy. It was a day-long affair, held at Kate Collins Middle School, where 60-plus authors—some local, some from as far away as the UK—gathered to sell and sign books. The early morning crowd was anything but—easily the smallest I've seen in the three years I've been an attending author—though I can't say as I was suprised, given the state of the economy. Hell, I can't afford to plunk down money to buy books. In fact, I probably would have been surprised to see a turnout as big as in past years. However, over the course of the day, patrons arrived in ebbing and flowing waves, occasionally pretty much filling the gymnasium where it it was held. I managed to move a few books—about the same number as I did last year—so, even after Book Em takes its 40%, I more than paid for my trip up there.

Book Em made for only a small part of the trip, though. Of special note was getting to hang out again with good ol' Andrea Locke's face, Elizabeth Jones (pictured), who writes kiddie fiction—and quite well; she's an Edgar-award winner. Anybody remember Andrea Locke? She was the magazine reviewer for Deathrealm magazine. I think everyone knows at this point that Ms. Locke was actually no less than five individuals, and Ms. Jones was the only female in the bunch (and the only one who didn't actually write reviews). Back in the good old days when she and her family lived here in town, we used to do a lot of camping together. I think this was the first time we've seen each other in a decade. Gad.

Other highlights include hanging out with the Beth Massie/Cortney Skinner dynamic duo; Beth's sister, Barb Lawson; Matt and Deena Warner; and Joan Vander Putten and her husband Tom. Joan was—way back in the darkest 1980s—a regular attendee of Ms. Massie's infamous Pseudocon and a bona fide Deathrealm author. We attended a rather bizarre production, called the River City Radio Hour, in downtown Waynesboro,which featured an SF/comedy skit penned by Mr. Warner himself and a howlingly funny diatribe by the right-irreverent Ms. Lawson. All good fun, and the local talent is in no way lacking.

No trip would be complete without geocaching, and Mrs Death and I did some considerable hunting—on the way up, while there, and on the way back. Much to our delight, we discovered that the Warners have become involved in this most sublime activity, so we spent yesterday morning caching around Staunton, VA, which is one of the most beautiful little towns I've ever encountered. I think our total number of finds for the weekend came to 38, give or take a couple. And I must say, it's always heartwarming to be a couple of hundred miles away from home, find a cache, and discover in the logbook the signature of one "Night-hawk, Oak Ridge, NC." Night-hawk is a local State Farm agent.

It's true; he's not unlike a bleedin' good neighbor.