From Villa Appalaccia to 2 Witches

Last week, our good friends Bob & Yvonne invited Brugger and me to accompany them to Villa Appalaccia Winery on Saturday for a day of wining and dining; it goes without saying we were not wont to refuse. Villa Appalaccia, just off the Blue Ridge Parkway in Floyd County, has long been one of our favorite destinations for spirits and good times. Brugger and I typically visit in the fall, just before Halloween, but we've been known to head that way whenever the mood takes us. It sure took us this weekend.

 

We rode up with Bob & Yvonne early afternoon on Saturday and, once at the winery, met their friends, David & Mary, who are originally from Venezuela. Kimberly and I had made their acquaintance at a couple of other gatherings at Bob & Yvonne's, and we were pleased to see them again. Nice folks, and during one of the hired musician's breaks, Mary stole the stage, grabbed a guitar, and went to town. Fun. We ordered a few of Villa Appalaccia's excellent paninis for lunch and accompanied them with a variety of wines. Good, good stuff all around.

 

We headed back toward Martinsville late in the afternoon and stopped at Lovers' Leap, probably the most famous and scenic overlook in the state. Over the years, I have visited there countless times (one year, in fact, Brugger stumbled into some bear shit there), and the view is still incredible; however, recently, construction to widen US Highway 58 in that area has utterly destroyed the surrounding scenery. Distressingly, much of the devastation has nothing to do with the road itself but the horrific greed of the logging companies, who have deforested countless acres along the highway. It's an infuriating disgrace, and as far as I'm concerned, the motherfuckers responsible ought to be flayed alive.

Good times at Villa Appalaccia. Old Dude, Ms. B., Bob, Yvonne, David, Mary

L: Stella Trudel, the contracted performer; R: Mary, rocking out during Stella's break

A view from Lovers' Leap

On cheerier subjects, on Sunday, Kimberly held one of her regular arts & crafts group gatherings at our place, and friend Terry came along with his wife, Beth, so that he could accompany me (just for the hell off it) to a geocaching event at 2 Witches Winery & Brewing Company in Danville. Some years ago, Brugger and I frequented 2 Witches, but now, it's been quite a few years since we haunted their halls. Both  Terry and I, like most of our geocaching friends, opted for the beer. It turned out to be a large and enjoyable event. Several cachers of my acquaintance whom I've not seen for many years showed up, so in some ways, it felt like a most welcome reunion.

 

In the coming week, both Brugger and I have a lot of work to keep us busy, though not necessarily out of trouble. Whether in or out of it, I'll probably write about it. So, until then, peace out.

Tom (Skyhawk63); Audra (Homestyle, our hostess); Ken & Jennifer (the Alethiometrists)

Tom (Skyhawk63), Audra (Homestyle), Lynn (Spring1), Tom (Night-Hawk), young feller (Hoagland Hunter)

Cards Against Posterity

As the sole survivor of my immediate family, I often find myself reflecting on the profound influence of certain people, places, and events from my youth. Since my younger brother passed away a few years ago, I am the sole keeper of the memories of my family's life and times. When Phred was alive, he and I frequently took pleasure in sharing our most meaningful recollections of our days together as kids, our reverence for our parents, and our perspectives on the zeitgeist of the 1960s and 1970s. Apart from old photographs and a few sketchy diaries that we kept, the only first-hand knowledge of the most meaningful and intimate moments in our family's history resides in my brain. Of course, that's just how it is with life—and its inevitable passing. Whatever tangible marks one might leave behind, the most personal, intimate parts of ourselves simply depart.

Thanks to my fondness for revisiting much of the music my parents enjoyed, I find myself wanting to articulate some of my most vivid impressions from the mid-to-late 1960s and 1970s, when Mom and Dad were in their thirties and forties, if just as a little reminder to myself. So, I'm going to indulge the whim and see where it takes me.

My folks tended to be social animals. They frequently gathered with various other couples, and for me, the most memorable of these was when they hosted their regular Bridge Club at our house. We are talking a classy affair. There were generally four to six couples in attendance, and everyone dressed in their finest apparel. Mom didn't drink, but Dad was known to enjoy a few spirits from time to time. For Bridge Club (and whatever other gatherings they hosted), Mom always brought out the fancy china and drinking glasses, which had silver bands around the tops, and Dad filled the crystal decanters with bourbon and scotch. As they got themselves ready for the big event, Dad liked to put some music on our big console stereo, usually something in the easy-listening department. For a spell, his favorite was Frank Sinatra's "Days of Wine and Roses" album, which featured his version of "Moon River," otherwise made famous by Andy Williams. To this day, whenever I hear that song, whoever performs it, I think of Mom and Dad prepping for a social event, whether it be at our house or somewhere else.

Even though these were strictly adult events, I always found myself captivated at those times by what I perceived as a special magic in the house. Even when I went off to college, Mom and Dad were still active in numerous social—and, more importantly—philanthropic gatherings. My parents, whether in public or in the privacy of our home, were what I can only call classy, exceptionally decent human beings. Of course, they had their faults, shortcomings, and blind spots, as we all do. But Mom and Dad held themselves to such high standards in thought, word, and deed that I despair of ever being able to truly emulate them. Now, this last bit strays from my original reflective intent, but you know, sometimes that happens, and since this is me essentially rambling...there it is.

 

When I inherited our old house after Mom died, I kept all the surviving trappings of those bygone days. Brugger and I now use those old glasses, the china, the decanters to preserve what we can of that "classy" aspect of my family's history.

 

I suspect that I'll be occasionally posting other such ramblings. Join me if you like, but if not, I quite understand.

 

Till next time! 

Mom & Dad, circa 1963

Fire in the City

Many years ago, mainly back in my college days, I wrote songs, which I performed on guitar and wailed along with real loud. It's been a long time since I even touched an instrument, but a few years back, I played semi-regularly in various public venues, sometimes accompanied by Ms. B. (some of you poor wretches may recall this). One of the last songs I ever wrote (probably 1987, when I lived in Chicago) was called "Fire in the City," and it was largely about my difficulties dealing with the chronic madness of the human species as I saw it at the time. But never has there been a more challenging time to live with said chronic madness than today—and it's at a level far beyond any I could have imagined in my youthful and certainly more optimistic days.

In July 2018, at one of the singer/songwriter events hosted by the now sadly defunct Daily Grind in Martinsville, I played "Fire in the City," which Ms. B. bravely recorded. I'm gonna post it here just because it is my personal statement for today. The sound quality is only so-so, but listen if you wish, or don't; I can't guarantee the performance won't harm your eardrums.

Fire in the City

The chilling air is hot with sound
As snow turns the ceiling gray
People crawl through streets of ice
How hard it is not to hate

Snail’s pace is the pulse of the city
Sounds of traffic grow and fade
Wintry voices slash my ears
How hard it is not to hate

People laugh and people cry
But I have turned my eyes away
Compare their lives against the truth
How hard it is not to hate

Pollution of the heart and mind
Runs rampant in the human haze
And drowning in this sea of life
How hard it is not to hate

Some release would help the heat
That rises up within
But the burning fire below is lost
And smothered by the snow

Grass-a-Lot

Today would have been brother Phred’s birthday — 57th, I believe. I found it gratifying to see many of his friends remembering the occasion on social media. I devoted some time to listening to his music, looking at old photos, and reflecting on our lives together.

For at least a fair portion of his Industrial Soldier days, Phred lived in the sticks outside of Blacksburg, VA, following four years and some change at Virginia Tech. Although I believe he wrote “Grass-a-Lot” while he was in college, probably dwelling on campus, he preferred remote, relatively isolated living, which is what his later residence outside of Blacksburg offered him. In the late 1980s, after moving back south from Chicago, I spent a considerable time with him out there in the sticks, and I rate those days as among the best we ever shared. “Grass-a-Lot,” for its youthful, mildly rebellious tone, could have been his musical banner during that period, not to mention the days and years that followed. The sentiment is one he and I have had in common. That sense of belonging to a place — even a time — is as powerful in me now as it was then, and hearing this particular song after something like three decades brings me around full circle, emotionally. Its power comes largely from a youthful perspective that speaks just as loudly to the old fart in at least some of us.

In those days, Phred’s vocals were raw and untamed, but the composition and musicianship, as with everything Industrial Soldier, more than stands up to critical listening.

You can check out “Grass-a-Lot” on Dropbox here.

Grass-a-Lot
©Phred Rainey, Industrial Soldier

Behind this fence we dig our trench
And grab our part of the land
We got here first, and here we are
And now get out of hand

It’s occupied, now we’re on our own
We’ll take it off the map
And place it here
Far as eyes can see

We could give the neighbors something to talk about
Perhaps they’ll make a law someday and make it safe to live loud
Are we far away?
Do we owe them any sleep?
Not today

They come from miles around to see if we are real
If the creeps are in our yard, we’ll down ’em
And bury them in the field
We know what's right and this is why we know what’s at stake
Our lives are here
To a bitter end

We could give the neighbors something to think about
Perhaps they’ll make a law someday and make it safe to live loud
Are we far away?
Do we owe them any sleep?
Not today

Inside the fence we raise our fists and grab our part of the land
We got here first and here we are
So get off our land
Truth to tell, we’re doing well in a place we can call our own
Our lives are here
Our grass is here

We could give the neighbors something to talk about
Perhaps they’ll make a law someday and make it safe to live loud

This Way It’s Easy

Before Joe the Fireman, there was Industrial Soldier, a wonderful little band my brother and several of his compadres formed in their college days, early- to mid-1980s. In 1986, when I lived in Chicago, Phred sent me a cassette tape of Industrial Soldier, which I listened to no end because it was freaking good. The musicianship was incredible, far better than any college town band I ever heard back in my day, save REM, whom I saw semi-frequently in my UGA days in Athens, GA. Sadly, despite having turned this house upside-down, I have been unable to locate that old cassette. I know it’s got to be here... somewhere. I played it for Brugger several years ago — so wherever I put it back then, that is no doubt where it is now.

This is one I believe Phred wrote while he was in college. An awesome tune. You can listen to it on Dropbox here: This Way It’s Easy

This Way It’s Easy
©Phred Rainey, Industrial Soldier

Wheel up in my eye
Offends the sky

Take my space to fill this place among
The pioneers of waste
Anything you had to do and more
That way was hard

Do what you would never do if
You didn't have time to do it
The real kind of patriot's dream I see
Is mine, you're welcome to it
I got no damn complaints
Whiskey ain't for saints
Or me

Dog's back in town
Pushed me around

Take my space to fill this place among
The pioneers of waste
Anything you had to do and more
That way was hard

Do what you would never do if
You didn't have time to do it
The real kind of patriot's dream I see
Is mine, you're welcome to it
I got no damn complaints
Whiskey ain't for saints
Or me

Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart

Although my brother didn’t professionally record many of his tunes, he did release a few songs on vinyl, CD, and MP3. His best-known song would probably be “Orange Kid,” which goes back to his Industrial Soldier days, mid- to late-1980s. In the early 1990s, he recorded it and released it as an orange vinyl 45 rpm record, with a superb tune on side B called “A Smash” (the lyrics to which I shall endeavor to transcribe when I can). In more recent years, he recorded and most frequently performed “Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart,” another moody, melodic ballad that speaks of his personal experiences and feelings. His vocals on this one are particularly heart-rending.

You can listen to the audio file of “Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart” here.

Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart
©Phred Rainey/Joe the Fireman

Honeysuckle came and went
Faraway evenings spent
In my castle without a moat
Smelled just like May-times do
And midnight lovers do
When they’re lucky enough to have and hold

Couldn't send a message far enough
Just waiting around for you to call my bluff

Last night, the stars fell all apart
It means a man don’t dream
It means man will cry
For stars to fill an evening sky
If only just to break your heart

Back then when pigs could fly
I rose above that other guy
I was willing to flash and burn
Like Red River fireworks fly
I stole a kiss and let it ride
Before I lost my nerve and lost my turn

There’s no better time to feel like a winning man
Could it be to cheat myself was part of my plan?

That night, the stars fell all apart
It means a man don’t dream
It means man will cry
For stars to fill an evening sky
If only just to break your heart

Then on the beach your pleasant hand
Told me that I’m the man
To make or break or take you home
Then I sang a September song
But the names and dates were wrong
Too much, too soon, and all alone

There’s no more waiting now, my cover’s blown
Twelve hundred miles away, I guess you're on your own

Last night, the stars fell all apart
It means a man don’t dream
It means man will cry
For stars to fill an evening sky
If only just to break your heart

The High Life Beckons

My brother Phred was a flawed angel; some would say with an emphasis on flawed. He struggled mightily with his own foibles, and sometimes, even when he won against them, he did so only to introduce a set of unforeseen side effects. Per his custom — his drive — he described these things in his songs, bluntly and without whitewashing. He kept so much private, yet he confessed his very soul to his listeners. I knew much of what was going on in Phred’s life at any given time, but it was only after hearing him sing that I felt I could truly understand what he was going through. “The High Life Beckons” is a perfect case in point. Here are his lyrics.

“The High Life Beckons”
©Phred Rainey

Some night sharp, and some nights dull

Some half empty, some half full

If I could only drink wine

     But not all the time

And not fall from grace

     Or on my face

But that just ain’t to be

     Such is me

Sometimes I think I’d rather be in handcuffs

Strolling down the avenue in handcuffs

     Whistling a merry tune I’d be

     Wondering what it’s like to be free

Each night I let the bottle down

And every single bar in town

It’s part of the daily grind

     My body aches for wine

The comfort that it brings

     And not those other things

But that just ain’t to be

     Woe is me

You people ought to see me in my handcuffs

I’ll never get out of these handcuffs

     A wretched life awaits if I do

     So hard to believe, but it’s true

Back for Swing

I’ve long said that attempting to psychoanalyze or ascribe specific motivations to an author based on his or her work is an exercise in futility or outright mistake. Some years ago, my depiction of a character in a short story prompted a reviewer to accuse me of antisemitism — which I can only decry as a baseless and utterly foolish claim, far more revealing of the reviewer’s prejudices and preconceived notions than the author’s. However, songs — poetry in general — and straight fiction are wholly different animals. My brother, Phred, used his lyrics to reveal his deepest feelings, undisguised, vividly painted and paired with his most wistful, poignant melodies. I so hope to get some of his recordings preserved digitally, though I fear that even high-quality analog versions will prove few and far between. There is still much material to sort through.

“Back for a Swing” is one of Phred’s most revealing compositions, a brutally honest confession of his own objective glimpses of himself. This song — a beautiful ballad that rings of something between Neil Young and Tindersticks — makes me weepy every time I listen to it.

Back for a Swing
©Phred Rainey

Take a pull on that wine
And pull on my sleeve
You know that I
Would never make you leave

That’s what I want you to say
It’s what I dreamed about
It’s what I want you to say
That’s what I want to hear
All I want to hear

My clothes on the floor
A dead car in the yard
All those things that you see

It shouldn’t be so hard
To change the things that you see
And get a spark out of me

You want to change what you see
To get the most out of me

It shouldn’t be so hard
To make a man out of me

You see I don’t come across
Like a normal man
I keep too much to myself
As much as anyone can
But I can’t hide anything from you
Can’t hide anything from you

I wish I could say you’re responsible
I wish I could say you’re impossible
But it’s too easy to
And God knows it ain’t true

I took what I saw
I didn’t think you’d care
I thought of laying them back
I saw you lying there

You shouldn’t be so hard
You’ll make a man out of me

I tried to walk through a swamp
I tried to make my own way
It’s just the things that I do
That make a lie of what I say

I can’t hide anything from you
Can’t hide anything from you
I can’t hide anything from you
Can’t hide anything from you

If I Were a Carp & Other Unpopular Opinions

It’s a song I particularly enjoy, although it is a bit fishy.

This week, I have had a regular moment (or several) of grief for my brother’s death each day, usually in the morning while I am working and listening to music. So much of what I listen to (mostly eclectic tunes on Pandora or Amazon Music) is due either directly or indirectly to my brother’s influence, or it reminds me of certain times together with him. But the feelings are not quite as raw as they were the previous week. Well, at least, most of the time they are not. I have no deadline or expectation for grieving. Grief comes as it will, and I embrace it right now. It feels...necessary.

Yesterday morning, I awoke to find a new geocache had been published in town — at UNCG, in one of the parking garages, which do tend to be challenging, since they frequently offer a choice of levels for hunting. Initially, I did not read the cache description as thoroughly as I should have (shameful for a writer of such ill repute!), and thus I ended up spending considerably more time and energy on the hunt than was necessary. In the end, I did find my quarry; in fact, I snagged the almost-coveted first-to-find slot. As I was logging my find, a group of geocachers I had never previously met (they were from the Raleigh area, it turned out) showed up on the scene. Sadly for them, they had missed out on the FTF, but they appeared to have an enjoyable time on the hunt. They clearly found it in far less time than it had taken me.

Later, Ms. B. came round to put in a shift working on our kitchen upgrade project. On a trip to Home Depot, we stopped for another newly published cache, which I managed to find in short order. But as with the other cache I found this day — both created by the madman known as cachecredit (a.k.a. Ken) — accessing the log required some additional time and effort (although this one proved less complicated than its brethren at UNCG).

Unpopular opinion time:

I have very little appreciation for the "classic" 1961 film, The Innocents, based on Henry James’s “Turn of the Screw.” I had never much cared for it on previous viewings from many, many years ago, but having found the recent The Haunting of Bly Manor a brilliant, masterful work, Ms. B. and I decided to revisit The Innocents and give it another look. Despite exquisite cinematography and extraordinary performances by the two kids, the film itself is one of the most unengaging, overwrought, self-conscious works ever. There are perhaps two scenes that qualify as “creepy.” The characters, to the last, remain too distant to relate to, their identities largely defined by how much noise and blather they can emit — so unlike the sensitive portrayals of emotionally traumatized individuals in Bly Manor. It’s exceedingly difficult to resist comparing The Innocents, not so much to Bly Manor, but to Robert Wise’s The Haunting (1963), which is, to my mind, a classic that gives The Innocents a pounding rivaling Abigail Crain’s cane on the walls of Hill House.

Between last night and this morning, we had significant precipitation, some rain, some snow, some sleet. Mostly, it made mud. Today, I spent some time working on a new short story for an upcoming anthology. Since the sun came out midday and the temperature turned out tolerable, I took a nice break and headed out to Triad Park to hunt a trio of relatively new caches. I went, I saw, I signed logs. A fine outing, to be sure. And now it is back to the story, for our deadline, she be tight.

Despite mucho precipitation during the night and early morning, the afternoon
weather turned out perfect for geocaching.

The cache was not in “there,” but the pipe made for a nice, muggle-free environment to sign the cache log.

That Lucky Old Moon and I

My brother, Phred, was a songwriter. He composed and performed dozens, if not hundreds, of his own compositions over the years, usually under the moniker Joe the Fireman. Sometimes Joe the Fireman was a band, comprising widely varying personnel; other times, Joe the Fireman was Phred going solo.

Phred’s songs tell his life’s story. Sometimes, they’re in cryptic code; sometimes, they spell out, in raw, graphic fashion, every struggle of his oftentimes troubled soul. Since his passing a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been reacquainting myself with his music, inasmuch as it is possible. I have a few cassette tapes of his songs, some performed solo, some with a backup band. I don’t know whether he ever wrote out lyrics, or set down chords, or left any kind of record, other than random tapes, a couple of vinyl pressings, and a few digital files that can be found here and there. I’m taking it upon myself to transcribe as many of his lyrics as I can manage, so that in some fashion, at least some of the story he related via his music may yet be preserved for posterity.

Here are the lyrics to “That Lucky Old Moon,” which rates high among my personal favorites.

That Lucky Old Moon

©Phred Rainey

I guess I might like the things she did

At least the things that I thought I saw

Rolled out the carpet, at least I think I did

Was purely open-hearted, that’s my tragic flaw

Came time to split the difference

Pared down to half a pair

I found a color to match her name

Fit her eyes like it filled the skies

Saw it brighten and I saw it fade

She wandered off and I wondered why

Came time to feel the distance

Who was I not to know the difference?

That lucky old moon and I

Get to count the stars at night

And count the reasons why

Fall in the lake

Hide in the hills

Then the spotlight became my friend

And lit the things that I turned to see

A brighter color and a brighter end

And got me off the ground that could bury me

New time to feel the difference

I found passion, no despair

Now that lucky old moon and I

Get to count the stars at night

And smile at the reasons why

Float on the lake

Make love in the hills

If You Weren't at The Daily Grind Last Night...

 ...you weren't where you should have been. There was a fine crowd for the Daily Grind's Ninth Songwriters Showcase in Martinsville, VA, with near a dozen individual performers, including the old Geocaching Noisemaking Horror Writer. Songwriters came from all around Virginia and North Carolina, including Martinsville, Chatham, Richmond, and beyond. For my set, I played my original songs "Scan in Progress," "My Love Goes On," and "Paranoid Schizophrenia." And at the end of the show, a bunch of us got together and raised a ruckus with a freestyle jam the likes of which I haven't experienced since my college days. It was great too, since these young guys were playing The Rolling Stones, ELO, Bob Dylan, and such with enthusiasm like I haven't seen in forever. A nice beer tasting ran along with the show, which, for the audience, helped make even the old dude sound reasonably sweet.

The Songwriters Showcase is the brainchild of musician-Daily Grind proprietor Danny Heiss, who played an impressive solo set as well as an intense duet with guitarist Angus Hobson. The event is held on a quarterly schedule—more or less—and there should be another one coming up in the fall, which I hope will work out for me time-wise. Last night's was among the best ever, and those of you who weren't there (you know who you are) missed a helluva treat.

Danny and Angus going to town on one of Danny's original compositions

Old Rodan and Young Angus getting in tune for the jam

ROCK AND ROLLLLLLL!

Today, Ms. B. and I made a day of it in Danville, as she had wanted to visit the Woodwick Candle Outlet in Blairs, a few miles north of town. We caught some sushi for lunch at Tokyo Grill, one of my regular Danville haunts; grabbed a few Geocaches; enjoyed a spot of wine at the always pleasant 2Witches Winery & Brewing Co.; and check out Vintages by the Dan, a nice little wine/brew shop on the fringes of Danville's historic district.

One of my Geocaching targets was close to the historic Grove Street Cemetery, which Brugger particularly enjoyed exploring. In it, there are graves dating back to the Civil War, including a section for local slaves, who were, of course, not individually identified. A somber yet peaceful and scenic location. Here, I ran into old Geocaching friends esddan (a.k.a. Stokes and Joyce), who were among the very first cachers I ever met, back in early 2008, at one the first caches I ever placed. A full but relatively relaxing day of it all around.

Till the next.

Songwriter Showcase at The Daily Grind

As you diehard regulars here have surely deduced, scary fiction and music are among my passions, and while I work at creating the former almost daily, it's less common for me to break out the git-fiddle and make a scary racket. Still, now and again I am known to do this thing and inflict some lovely pain and suffering on an unsuspecting populace. So shall it be this coming Friday, July 20, at The Daily Grind in Martinsville, VA. From 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM, The Daily Grind is hosting another Songwriters Showcase for local musicians to perform some of their original compositions. Now, I haven't written music in decades, but there was a spell back in the 1980s and early 90s where I composed a fair number of guitar-and-vocal tunes, many of them — I'm sure your shock is palpable — featuring scary themes. Come Friday, I'll be performing a few of them.

You folks in the area, please come by and feel free to hurl, heckle, and chuck things. It's all appreciated. The Daily Grind is located at 303 E Church St, Martinsville, VA 24112 (see map below).

How Do You Do?

It was just about a year ago that I took pleasure in torturing you fine folks with videos of a couple of songs (Soul Coaxing, Softly Whispering I Love You) that had some strangely profound connection to my youth, and I never got around to following those up, as I had threatened. Well, why not? Little could be more a garish reminder of the early 1970s than this video of How Do You? by Mouth & MacNeal, which, in 1972, was a song that simultaneously repelled and attracted me—not unlike a gory car crash. I have vivid recollections of hearing it endlessly that summer, particularly on a family trip to Callaway Gardens, GA, a place I adored in my childhood (and would love to visit again if I didn't have to take out a second mortgage to stay there for a few days). I don't know for sure whether I saw this video on television back then, but I did see it somewhere, sometime, before coming across it again on YouTube several years ago.

Oh, my lord, this thing is a mess, a jaw-dropper, a train wreck, a horror show. Long before I saw the video, the song sent my thirteen-year-old self into weird fits of spasmodic bouncing, over which I had no control and that made me feel ashamed to be human. I wonder... will you experience this song and start bouncing? Oh, my goodness, wouldn't that be fun?

Just remember, someone may be watching you....

Songwriters Showcase Tonight!

Lately, I've been about as busy playing music — or something akin to it — as writing fiction. Of course, the composing of prose is my secondary profession, while banging on the guitar and hollering to scare the wits out of innocent passersby falls more in the "hobby" department. Still, I've become a regular at the The Daily Grind's quarterly Songwriters' Showcase in Martinsville, VA, and we have one tonight — Friday, October 20, 7:00–10:00 PM. I'll be one of several singer/songwriters playing a set of original tunes, mine based primarily on the darker sides of life (and death), which I suppose surprises the hell out of my faithful followers.

BEER ALERT! There will be a beer tasting tonight as well. The Daily Grind also has a good selection of wines.

Do you have superhuman courage? Well, come on out and have a listen! But only heckle me if you really mean it.

Still Believing, Young Blood, and More

Scary author with the novel Young Blood

Ms. B. and I have returned home from a whirlwind weekend in Martinsville, which started Friday evening at The Daily Grind with the Writers' Round Featuring Tokyo Rosenthal and me, turned into a spend-the-night party at Mum's with our good friends Terry & Beth, continued on Saturday with some hiking in the woods (including a bunch of geocache maintenance for me), and more-or-less climaxed at The Hollywood Cinema last night for the fifth anniversary celebration of The Smith Brothers' first movie, Young Blood: Evil Intentions, the novel of which I wrote with Mat & Myron. I had a small small part in the movie as a concerned citizen (see Young Blood: The Movie, March 9, 2012), and you can bet your ass I appeared concerned as hell on the big screen.

Late this past week, I became really concerned that the onset of some fairly severe fall allergy symptoms would do a number on my ability to sing (which many might question at the best of times), but with the benefit of a couple of throat lozenges before the show on Friday, I managed to belt out a dozen songs without completely choking. To say it was fun is a gross understatement—at least for me; I can't speak for anyone else. There's a video down below of my song "Still Believing," which Ms. B. was kind enough to record. Mr. Rosenthal proved himself a consummate professional—one of the most adept acoustic guitar players I've ever met, and a fine singer and lyricist. It was a pleasure to have shared the stage with him.

A couple of my trail caches in Martinsville needed fixing up, so Ms. B. and I undertook a couple of medium-size hikes to repair/replace them, one along the Dick & Willie trail, where I discovered an entire boulder, which housed my cache ("The Boxcar," GC263XX), had somehow gone missing. Odd, the things that can vanish without a trace. The other, on a bike trail out in Chatmoss ("Sticks," GC1WNG9), required the construction of some new Blair Witch–style stick figures, a trail of which will lead an intrepid adventurer to the actual cache container. Yeah, it got kind of hot, muggy, and buggy out there.

The Young Blood anniversary celebration brought many of the movie's actors and fans together again, and the theater lobby was decorated with a couple of tons of memorabilia and merchandise, including posters, DVDs, original artwork, and promos for Myron Smith's Sweded films (not to mention some scary clown props, as the theater was also showing It).

When I was writing the novel, I watched the movie many times over and had it virtually memorized, but it had been long enough that, watching it again, I had a whole different view of it—the humor was funnier, and the more disturbing parts were really disturbing. A neat little movie it is, and I'm quite proud to have had as much a part in it as I have.

Check out the Young Blood Facebook page here.

The celebration resulted in a fashionably late dinner at Yamato Japanese Restaurant, which Kimberly and I enjoyed no end (suffering from the Great Starvation will do that to one—just ask my cats). We had thought we might join Mat, Myron, and other folks in the Young Blood crowd at Mtn' Jax in uptown Martinsville, but by the time we got there, they had already left. So Kimberly and I returned to Mum's and sat out on the back porch until the wee hours of the morning sipping a fine Pinot Noir. At midnight, we were treated to the thunderous sounds of fireworks from the Martinsville Speedway, which—as the crow flies—is only a couple of miles or so from our house, where they'd had their first nighttime NASCAR race. Unfortunately, we couldn't actually see the fireworks, but when they first went off, we thought the bomb had dropped. Big noise! But we actually enjoyed the celebratory racket, and I hope the race brought lots of business into town. In all my years, I've never been to a NASCAR race, nor had any real interest in going, but the Speedway is a real draw in Martinsville, and more power to the fans.

This morning, it was back home for the both of us to deal with our respective cats, who all were suffering from The Great Starvation. Poor little guys! (Note: They're not that poor. Nor little.)

See you at the curtain call.

Original Young Blood artwork on display in the Hollywood Cinema lobby

Posters for Myron Smith's Sweded movies. I have a wee part in Alice in Wonderland.

Writers' Round at The Daily Grind

September is going to be a busy month, the weekend of 9/22–9/23 busiest of all, with two events in Martinsville, VA. On Friday 9/22, I'll be performing a bunch of original songs at the Writers' Round at The Daily Grind in Uptown Martinsville, and on Saturday 9/23, I'll be on hand at the Young Blood Five-Year Anniversary Event at the Hollywood Cinema.

Having made a racket at several of the regular Songwriter Showcase events at The Daily Grind, I'll be back to share the stage with songwriter Tokyo Rosenthal for a two-man show, which runs from 8:00 PM to 10:00 PM. You may look forward with mounting dread to a dozen or so of my original compositions, many of which —shockingly enough—gravitate toward the spooky side of life (and death). Admission is a mere $5, and along with a variety of sandwiches, wraps, salads, and specialty coffees, The Daily Grind offers an excellent selection of wines and craft beers.

Your opportunity to chuck things at the old man is here. Let's fill the place up, people!

I want all your garmonbozia....

• What: Writers Round Featuring Stephen Mark Rainey and Tokyo Rosenthal
• When: Friday, September 22, 2017, 8:00 PM
• Where: The Daily Grind, 303 E Church St, Martinsville, VA 24112
• Admission: $5.00

The Racketeers

Last night... such a fateful night... a half dozen or so dangerous men with musical instruments gathered at The Daily Grind in Martinsville for the fourth Songwriters Showcase and unleashed a racket fit to wake the dead — and now you oughta see the all those walking dead shambling past my window. It is to be afeared.

The Songwriters Showcases present local artists playing all original songs, and the first three filled up the house. Last night, we started out with a somewhat smaller group, both musicians and attendees, but over the course of the evening, more and more people filed in, and at the end of it all, the place was nearly packed. Each musician brought a unique sound to the place, from refined, jazzy instrumental (Darryl) to raucous improv (Angus and Daily Grind owner Daniel). I played a couple of sets, five songs in all, and no one threw any shit at me, which was a refreshing change of pace. Okay, well, no one's actually thrown any shit at me, but I bet they wanted to. Unfortunately, none of the ladies who have made some exceptional contributions to the gatherings came round last night, which was disappointing. In particular, I was hoping Morgan would be there to play some of her signature, Celtic-inspired ballads, mais alas....

Come Friday, September 22, I'll be part of a two-man show — The Writers Round, Featuring Tokyo Rosenthal and Mark Rainey — in which each of us takes several turns playing individual sets over the course of the evening. I can always use as many hecklers as possible, so I hope some of you folks can make the show. That's going to be a busy weekend too, as on Saturday, September 23, The Smith Brothers will be presenting a five-year anniversary screening of Young Blood: Evil Intentions at the Hollywood Cinema in Martinsville, and I'll be on hand to autograph copies of the novel. More on that event a bit later.

Finally, to leave you with a sample of what was and what will be... last night's performance of "Fire in the City"....

Something Evil

Gray clouds cry in the thundering sky,
Yellow fire darts between billowed masses.
The voice of the wind is howling in my ears,
And the trees quake as the thunder crashes.

Inside the fire roars, and there’s someone at the door
Coming in from the gloomy, pine-black forest.
Cloak drawn around him, and his boots are caked with mud.
He sits down for an ale and me another.

He tells a tale as he downs another ale.
There’s a fear down deep behind his eyes.
Out in the storm something fearsome is born,
Something evil that now comes with the night.

And with his words,
A sound is heard from outside.
Fear clouds his eyes,
And he dies
In his chair.

Out in the rain looking through the window pane,
Two eyes glowing in a fiery brimstone red.
With a thunder I can hear, my heart pounds with fear
As a shadow fades into the forest.
Carrying my gun, I break into a run
Through the trees that were once so familiar.

But as I run through the rain and the mud,
There’s a sound that echoes from behind.
Back at my house, all the lights go out,
And I’m standing on the edge of a nightmare.

Sound drawing near,
I can hear
But I can’t hide.
Lost in this dream,
I hear a scream.
It is I.

Gray clouds cry in the thundering sky,
And the air is lit by streaking forks of light.
Out in the storm, something fearsome is born,
Something evil that now comes with the night.

©1983, 2017 Stephen Mark Rainey

This spooky song and plenty more may be heard when I play at The Writers' Round Featuring Tokyo Rosenthal and Mark Rainey at The Daily Grind in Martinsville, VA, on September 22, 8:00 PM to 10:00 PM.

Threnody

Kicking back and grooving to Krzysztof Penderecki's Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima is probably not something most of us do lightly. I expect that most of my Blog followers, as well as those on my Facebook feed, know where this piece most recently gained significant exposure—yes, episode 8 of the Twin Peaks revival series on Showtime. But my introduction to it was in 1987, at Madcon, a relatively small, intimate gathering of writers, readers, and fans of Lovecraftian horror at the domicile of R. (Randy) Alain Everts (editor of the venerable Etchings & Odysseys magazine) in Madison, WI. I had only recently begun editing/publishing Deathrealm magazine, and it was this gathering that opened my eyes to what would too-soon become a burgeoning aspect of horror fandom, whereas at the time, delving into Lovecraftian lore seemed a solitary, almost lonely venture. Some of the folks I met then remain friends of mine—such as Roger Trexler, Paul Dale Anderson, Rodger Gerberding—all of whom also ended up contributing to Deathrealm. What a time it was.

Etchings & Odysseys, issue #8,
produced by R. Alain Everts

Memories from that gathering are vague, a good 30-plus years later, but I believe it was the late John Brower, musician and music scholar, who introduced me to Penderecki, by way of playing for the assembled group a recording of "Threnody," along with numerous other dark compositions—"The Litanies of Satan" by Diamanda Galas being among the most notable. At the time, almost as if precognizant, I sensed that Penderecki's "Threnody" shared a certain commonality of theme, aural and otherwise, with György Ligeti's "Lux Aeterna," which was used to such profound effect in 2001: A Space Odyssey, though I could never have guessed that the Penderecki composition would, in later years, become the soundtrack to another visual—and deeply emotional—journey, via Twin Peaks.

MadCon 1987 was also the genesis of my story, "Threnody," which has seen print in numerous venues, thanks to musician Paul Dice, whose hand-made metal sculpture, which he used as a percussion instrument, inspired the "Transonifier," a device I wrote into "Threnody" and several tales beyond.

But anyway. If you dare, turn out the lights and listen to Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima. It is, without any association other than that for which it is named, ultimately unsettling. And sometimes, unsettling is just the ticket.

Now... shall we continue on exlusively to Twin Peaks? Yeah, why not. If you're not watching, or don't care to, you are excused, and I do thank you for dropping by. But I'll tell you, the new season of Twin Peaks has hooked me like nothing else has in more years than I can remember, and this blog entry is for that percentage of the million fans who do check in here. For that I thank ye....

My first reaction to episode 8 was impatience. Episode 7 had, at last, started moving the show's narrative forward, and I was really wanting to see where things would go with the threads that did (and still do) need addressing if not resolving. And episode 8 completely derailed those hopes and expectations. It was enough of a pisser to convince me I'd never watch that episode again.

By the following morning, I couldn't get the imagery, the sounds, the mood of episode 8 out of my head. So I decided to watch it again. I started picking up on the subtleties of all that lay within, not to mention things that were slapping me in the face the first time through but that I didn't pick up on because I was too busy formulating expletives. It was like some big hand coming out of the sky, turning me around, and forcing me to walk back every notion I'd had during the first viewing.

Now I've watched it in its entirety three times, and I can't stop re-watching portions of it, experiencing the pure sensation of it. Kinda scary... I really love it now. I mean, I really love the damned thing.

Like many of my friends, I'm going "WTF, David Lynch?" but for a whole different reason than the first time I uttered it.

Hollering, GeoPutting, and The Stokers

Damned Rodan, Yoda Rob, Suntigres, and BigG7777, 2017 Piedmont Triad GeoPutt Champions
(Photo by Robert Isenhour)

Yoda Rob addresses the ball —
"Hellooooo, ball!" (Photo by
Rob Isenhour)

For me, this was another breakneck weekend, having to fit in serious caretaking on the home front while still getting in gatherings with numerous friends, including some geocaching. For the horror community, it was Stoker award weekend — the festivities being held aboard the Queen Mary in Long Beach, CA (which I've had the pleasure of visiting in the past) — and while I didn't win a Stoker Award, I was on the winning team at the 2017 Geoputt Event in Burlington, which involved some serious and very solemn hootin' and hollerin'.

It started on Friday evening, at the end of a long and ugly bout with a sinus bug that kept me out of work for a couple of days. I was scheduled to make a racket at the third Songwriters' Showcase at The Daily Grind in Martinsville, as I have at the past two. I felt a lot better, but my voice was about shot from several days of snorting and hacking. Regardless, I went for it and somehow managed to crank out three songs without choking. Dunno if it scared anyone away permanently, but the audience was loverly, and no one hurled nasty things at me. Score one.

Wailing on "Nova," one of the songs I wrote back in my college days (Photo by Kimberly Brugger)

Saturday, after handling necessary business on the home front, Kimberly and I headed down to Stonefield Cellers in Stokesdale to share some wine and tall geocaching tales with friend Suntigres (a.k.a. Bridget) and her S.O. BigG7777 (a.k.a. Gerry). The wine and company were great, of course, though the prodigious heat and humidity would have had a devastating effect on my hair if I had any. Ms. B. and I eventually made our way back home for dinner and a movie, and I would love to say this was all very relaxing — it actually was — but certain states of affairs about which I won't elaborate online have cost me countless hours of sleep in the past few months, and last night was no exception. Virtually no sleep. Very, very exhausting, it is.

The notorious Night-hawk,
Putt-Putter extraordinaire
(Photo by Robert Isenour)

But sleep deprivation cannot derail certain trains, and thus it was that Old Robgso, Suntigres, and the BigG met up this morning for a day of geocaching and the annual Geoputt event in Burlington. Our first destination was Siler City, where we put in a few miles of trail hiking — again in hair-curling heat and humidity — and snagged somewhere around twenty caches before heading to Burlington for the Putt-Putt event. For the big tournament, which brought thirty or so geocachers out from all around the region, I teamed up with Yoda Rob, BigG, and Suntigres. Now, back in the dark ages, I was an avid golfer — although Putt-Putt and golfing are almost mutually exclusive activities — and my team put in what appeared to be a pretty respectable showing. And at the end of it all, it turned out that we were indeed the winning team of the event. Woohoo! Wahaa! Hooooey! I even brought home a nice trophy for this astounding achievement. The notorious Night-hawk (a.k.a. Tom) won the individual best score, for which he was awarded an entirely too-small orange vest.

And that, ladies and germs, is why we play.

And in the horror fiction category, several authors of my acquaintance and of unspeakable talent took home their own haunted house trophies for superior achievement at the Bram Stoker award ceremony in Long Beach. The winners were:

Novel: The Fisherman, John Langan
First Novel: Haven, Tom Deady
Young Adult Novel: Snowed, Maria Alexander
Long Fiction: The Winter Box, Tim Waggoner
Short Fiction: “The Crawl Space,” Joyce Carol Oates
Fiction Collection: The Doll-Master and Other Tales of Terror, Joyce Carol Oates
Anthology: Borderlands 6, Oliva F. Monteleone & Thomas F. Monteleone
Non-Fiction: Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life, Ruth Franklin
Poetry Collection: Brothel, Stephanie M. Wytovich
Graphic Novel: Kolchak the Night Stalker: The Forgotten Lore of Edgar Allan Poe, James Chambers
Screenplay: The Witch

My congratulations to the winners, all quite deserving of the recognition.

For me, tonight's aspiration to actually get a decent night's sleep, for it's going to be another long week. I do turn a whole year older on Tuesday, don't you know.

G'night.

One of the day's most intriguing geocache discoveries, all hand-knitted
and constructed by Sull427 (a.k.a. Jean)

"Go that way. No, THAT way. Dammit, ball." (Photo by Robert Isenhour)

Punkins19 and Skyhawk63 (Photo by Rob Isenhour)