To the Ancient, Forbidden City of Selma and Back

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

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

In the past, I've posted about a few of my experiences at Camp Cheerio (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

Geocaching 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

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

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.

Middle Earth in Caswell County

No country for old men.

There's a very cool bunch of geocaches next door in Caswell County, in the extensive Caswell County Game Lands preserve. The caches are all based on characters, settings, and events in Tolkien's The Silmarillion, and the hider, "Stumpwater" Dunn, did a fabulous job of finding hiding places that possess a kind of Middle Earth atmosphere. I headed out there at the crack of dawn this morning with my two Rob friends—Rob "Rtmlee" Lee and Rob "Robgso" Isenhour—for a six-plus-mile hike through the wilds of Middle Earth. This was definitely the time to be out in these woods; come summer, much of that area will be impassible and crawling with snakes, bugs, and other potentially unpleasant critters. The terrain types and altitude changes are dramatic, to say the least—everything from sheer, rocky hillsides that ascend to vertiginous heights to low-lying marshes and bogs along Country Line Creek, where you might expect to find the Boggy Creek monster. There aren't any trails to speak of, so it was almost all bushwhacking. Some of our terrain challenges included spelunking, climbing waterfalls, doing acrobatics up in trees, and fussing at briers that lacked the courtesy to get the hell out of our way (Brer Rabbit could have claimed a plethora of Laughing Places). Each of us fell on his ass exactly once, and we all donated no little blood to the briers ("No fun unless you shed some blood," as Uncle RobGSO likes to say). Several of the hides had multiple stages, and in the end, we came out of there with our signatures on 13 cache logs. One of them was, for me, cache number 3,200, so now I've got a total of 3,208 caches under my belt (and I've still managed to lose weight).

Since, between the three of us, age-wise, we have the 40s, 50s, and 60s covered, we figured Team Old Fart was just the moniker for us. At the moment, I gotta tell you, at least one member of Team Old Fart is tired, a little sore, and looking forward to the evening's first martini.

Damned Rodan and Robgso climbing the Falls of Lanthir Dinen (thankfully dry)

One wrong move, and Damned Rodan becomes an amphibian.

The soggy bottoms around Country Line Creek

It's a long way up...

...and a long way down.

Of Monsters and Mooks

Monsters was pretty danged good. It was one of those flicks I'd hoped to catch at the theater when it came round, but circumstances decided otherwise. Streamed it on Netflix last night, and I've gotta give it three habanero martinis out of four (not that I've ever quite knocked down four habanero martinis during a flick, but that's another story).

A space probe carrying alien life forms has crashed to Earth, resulting in an "infected zone"—mostly northern Mexico—where the gigantic critters take root. A massive barrier separates Mexico and the U.S., and it really is intended to keep out aliens, which, in this case, are distinctly unpleasant—and quite spectacular when revealed, albeit with relatively little screen time.

Monsters is a story of survival, primarily focusing on two characters, photojournalist Andrew Kaulder (Scoot McNairy) and his boss's daughter Samantha "Sam" Wynden (Whitney Able). They're stuck in Mexico and, quite understandably, need to go elsewhere. Neither character is particularly likable from the get-go; they're both self-centered and somewhat egotistical. However, they're also very "typical" as human beings, and the actors succeed in portraying them for sheer believability. As the film progresses and the characters' predicament becomes more dire, they do mellow a bit and manage to become somewhat more sympathetic. By the time the end rolled round, I found myself hoping they'd reach their objective.

One very refreshing aspect of the picture is seeing ordinary Mexican people portrayed in a realistic and sympathetic light. They aren't just a bunch of stereotyped Latinos, as in so many standard Hollywood outings. Even the coarsest, most opportunistic of the lot are shown with some human depth, and our protagonists' interaction with them is absolutely believable. Given the low-key aspect of the monsters themselves, it was this type of detail that helped keep the movie moving and engrossing.

As for the monsters...yes, they have a small amount of screen time, but what you get is excellent quality. Forget the cheese here; these are creepy, chill-inducing critters that you just don't want to meet on a dark corner. The movie reveals their nature by what they leave behind—toppled buildings, wrecked vehicles, remnants of crashed aircraft, mangled human bodies. Though the monsters' appearance on earth is satisfactorily explained, the film retains an appealing aura of mystery from beginning to end.

Far superior to Cloverfield—almost certainly its nearest rival—Monsters may be a bit slow and a tad lacking in spectacle, but it makes up for that and more with its beautiful cinematography, lush setting, and an atmosphere laden with menace. Damned Rodan gives the film a very solid B.

On other fronts, things are moving with the upcoming divorce. Could be better; could be worse. In the end, I hope we both achieve satisfaction.

I do find myself increasingly bewildered, maddened, and saddened by the increasing polarization of people in this country, extreme enough even among people I know, to the point that friends are either no longer friends or their friendships are strained because of politics, religion, world views, what have you. I've never known it to be so extreme in my lifetime. My cynical, conspiracy-theorist side sees it all as a divide-and-conquer tactic by the powers that be (and the powers that want to be). The upside, I suppose, would be that more people than I've ever known are taking active interests in politics and social affairs; the downside is that so many are unapologetically exposing their stupidest, ugliest sides to the world at large, and I find it horribly depressing. "In diversity there is strength," we hear tell. Well, maybe. All I know is that all kinds of stupid does not necessarily constitute diversity.

So says the old man.

Shevacon—No Go....

Alas, I had been planning to attend Shevacon in Roanoke, VA, as a guest this weekend, but I have regretfully canceled the engagement. Nothing dire—circumstances just aren't best for making the trip at the moment. Perhaps another time. Till then.

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....

Another Day on Planet Moronica

I would so dearly love to see something besides all the divisive bullshit being spread by either side on every issue. One isolated sound bite after another, repeated until it becomes gospel word for tiny minds on either side. All unions suck. Well, no they don't. All Republicans are heartless, woman-hating thugs. Well, no they're not. How about recollecting some of the lessons you should have learned in kindergarten about getting along with others and understanding that other highly intelligent individuals might not necessarily share your viewpoint. It might not be as stylish, but the results are usually better. Or is it more important just for your side to "win"? To me, that's just stupid, and while I'm not offended easily, stupidity does offend me. And I am so very weary of being offended.

Addendum: a letter to Governor Scott Walker from a Wisconsin teacher that argues points intelligently and constructively: To The Duly Elected Governor...

The Loch Townsend Cacheosaurus!

Yes, there is—or was—at least one dreaded Cacheosaurus roaming the woods around the watershed trails just north of Greensboro. The remains pictured above, taken by geocachers "Three Newsomes," apparently reside near one of my caches (Threading the Needle, GC1EQD2), just off on the Reedy Fork Trail. The Newsomes were understandably taken aback, as are most people who find themselves face-to-face with a dreaded Cacheosaurus, whether it's dead or alive. At least they had the presence of mind to take a photo, and they were lucky enough for it not to be the last photo they ever took.

For of course, where there are dead dreaded Cacheosauruses, there are always live dreaded Cacheosauruses in close proximity, and this photo clearly shows that these are the remains of a baby dreaded Cacheosaurus. So be advised. If you're hiking out that way, be sure and take a llama with you, for llamas are the only things dreaded Cacheosauruses like to eat more than geocachers and other hapless hikers.

There. That's my public service message for today. Laters.

Krakens, Kaches, and Karrburritos

The back roads of Orange County, not too far from Chapel Hill, NC, seem an odd place to find a big old kraken, but sure enough, there's one out there. Actually, The Kraken is a tavern at the junction of Highway 54 and Dobson's Cross Road, and there's a neat little geocache there. Discovered this, and several other quaint little spots, on one of my regular pilgrimages to Chapel Hill with Ms. B., yesterday. As an aside, you know it's love when you pull up to the cache site, your girlfriend sees the sign, and blurts, "Release the Kraken!" That had me kraken up.

Sorry. I probably lost a few followers right there, I know. I won't do it again.

A highly satisfying lunch at Carrburritos, a reputable little pseudo-Mexican bar & grill right at the dividing line between Carrboro and Chapel Hill, and then the necessary excursions to Trader Joe's and A Southern Season to get wine, extraordinarily hot hot sauce, and a few other assorted necessities. Finally, discovered that the Chapel Hill public library, just off Estes Drive, has a very nice, mile-long hiking/biking trail through the woods around the property—and a couple of caches, of course. One of them is a big old book exchange (placed by cachers aptly known as The Whomping Willows, for you Harry Potter fans out there). In it, I left an autographed copy of Other Gods, which I trust will end up scaring the bejezus out of some lucky...or perhaps unlucky...finder. Now, surely, that's motivation enough to get out there and do some hiking, right? C'mon, it'll be good for you....

Legends and Hungry Spirits

It's been a decent week for receiving author copies of my latest releases. Earlier this week, I received advance copies of the trade paperback edition of The Gaki & Other Hungry Spirits, my new collection of short fiction from Dark Regions; it should be available for purchase any day now, for $17.99. (The signed/lettered and signed/numbered hardback editions are available right now, here, but quantities are limited. Collectors take note.)

Today, I received my author copies of the new trade paperback edition of Legends of the Night from Wildside Books. It's an older collection of short fiction, previously only available as a hardback, containing some of my best work from the 1990s through early 2000s, including my WWII novelette, "Children of Burma," and my homage to H. G. Wells's War of the Worlds, "Before the Red Star Falls." It's readily available from Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Wildside Books online, and other vendors. Click on the book cover or here for a link to the book page at Amazon.com.

Give it a try and see if it doesn't scare the dickens out of you. If it doesn't, I shall happily hunt down your dickens and say, "What the hell is wrong with you?" All righty, then.

Caches, Chocolate, and Hot Chilis

I've never been particularly fond of Valentine's Day. As a kid, I had a textbook case of the Charlie Brown syndrome, and nothing could have reinforced it better than Valentine's Day. In later years, it has seemed little more than a poor excuse for a holiday just so Hallmark could make some money.

I might be feeling a little more generous these days.

Spent a very pleasant weekend in Virginia with my S.O., Kim B., which included a fair bit of caching—which, really, is what Valentine's Day is all about, isn't it? Spent a major part of the day yesterday out on the Fieldale-Smith River Trail, where there were a few new caches waiting to be found, as well as a few of my own, a couple of which needed some maintenance. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the hiking was much needed, since there were also calories aplenty accumulated over the weekend....

See the picture of that chocolate bar up yonder? Yep, that sumbitch is infused with hot chilis, and Ms. B. gave me one for an early Valentine's Day gift. Man, that thing is good. Very smooth and mild dark chocolate, but then a growing—though still modest—burn as the pepper sets in. One of the most interesting and actually enticing combinations of flavors I think I've ever experienced. It is to smile.

An enjoyable Valentine's dinner at Rania's last night, lunch at the Dutch Inn today with Mum, and a first-to-find on a very creative cache hide, courtesy of "Indian Giver," at a new trail in Martinsville this afternoon. Then, on the way back to Mum's, I happened to spy a couple of folks at one of my nearby caches, so I went over and introduced myself. Always fun to encounter other cachers out in the field, as most are among the most cordial folks in the world. Very nice meet to Mr. Bighead12 and his young 'un.

All-in-all, this turned out to be an invigorating and unrelentingly calorie-filled pre-Valentine's Day weekend. I can't help but approve.

"Under Construction" by Indian Giver

Martinsville's Big-Ass Chair, where one of my caches is located (Chair City, The Other)

Okay, I Forgive Gibsonville

Back before Christmas, I'd been caching around Gibsonville, just east of Greensboro, and gotten hung up in their friggin' Christmas parade, which made me all kinds of ornery ("Everyone Loves a Parade"). I figured I might never forgive Gibsonville because, I mean, really, it was bad. However, last night, my friend Ms. B. and I had reason to be out that way, and I gotta tell you, I'm suddenly feeling far more kindly disposed toward Gibsonville and environs.

The first place I must recommend is The Grove Winery, a small but impressive enterprise out in the sticks of Guilford County, just west of the Alamance County line. Ms. B. and I had picked up a Groupon for a wine tasting at The Grove, which we've been to a few times and enjoyed, and we enjoyed it again, very much. Since we were so close to Gibsonville, we decided to see what kind of dining options it might offer. We chose Kimbers Restaurant, an unassuming little establishment on the corner of Main and Route 61. As it turned out, we discovered a wonderful little place. Kimbers has a fine menu, is reasonably priced, and the manager and staff are quite cordial and prompt. The wine list isn't extensive, but we found a decent California Cabernet Sauvignon, which actually went quite well after an extensive sampling of The Grove's wines; I had chopped bison steak with baked potato, and Ms. B. ordered sauteed shrimp with a sweet potato. The restaurant was almost full at 6:30 p.m., and most folks were very casual, though the atmosphere was a bit more toward the fine-dining side.

I must admit, Gibsonville has at least a few hidden treasures—and some of them are not geocaches. Of course, it has those, too.

I Am Not a Number...

I've been a fan of The Prisoner, the Patrick McGoohan surreal espionage/science-fiction/thriller series, since its original broadcast in the 1960s, but it's been many years since I've given it a look. Thankfully, Netflix and other such services make it fairly easy to view a lot of older shows without having to resort to buying them (which, in the case of The Prisoner, is a blessing since the entire series is not inexpensive), and I've finally gotten around to availing myself to this one again. It's easy to see why the show remains in the public consciousness after so many years; it's relevant, nostalgic, colorful, puzzling, classy, thought-provoking, and outright addictive in ways that few television series can claim. Patrick McGoohan—star, writer, and director—as #6 possesses magnetic charm; he's a dedicated individualist thrust into a world of outward conformity, beneath which lies inscrutable mystery and deadly danger. While the Cold War certainly served as the backdrop for the show in its day, the show's theme of human individuality and self-worth is just as relevant, just as engaging now as it ever was.

I'm about halfway through the series' run and just about impatient to get on with the rest of it. For the moment, though, it's back to the grindstone with "The Demons of Ice Valley," my novella that's currently in the works.

Be seeing you.

X-tream Evil

It's a multi-stage geocache — "X-tream Evil," that is (GC1AM8X). I won't be giving away any secrets by revealing that, in order to reach one of the cache stages, you have to construct a rope bridge over a ravine, which — out of necessity — makes the whole business a team effort. Our team consisted of folks with monikers like 3EaglesHigh, DLF2001, RobGSO, and Damned Rodan; we were also accompanied by the cache owner his own self, Mr. Rich "Night-Ranger" Colter, who made sure things got fixed after we broke them (or in one case, broke a stage so that it would actually work). We hit the woods at 8:00 AM, and got the quickest, easiest stages done promptly. No problems at all until we actually constructed the rope bridge across the rocky ravine. On the first test, the lower support line suffered a catastrophic failure — due to faulty equipment — which would have been bad news indeed had someone actually been out on the line. But that's why God made cache owners. In a fairly short time, he provided us with the new, necessary item to make reparations, and soon enough, a secure "Postman's Walk" spanned the ravine.

Uncle Rob went across first and procured the item that needed procuring in order to continue. Next, the two young eaglets went across, making it look shockingly easy. But then came the old dude's turn, and I gotta tell you, my crossing was far less graceful than the young 'uns who preceded me. Now the bridge isn't terribly high, though it's far enough up that, if you fall into the ravine, it's going to be an unpleasant experience. Fortunately, I remain just agile enough to maintain some semblance of balance. I reached the far side without mishap, and the rest of the team soon followed. From there, we set out for the final stages of the cache, only to find ourselves bamboozled when...lo and behold...a stage turned out to be missing.

Well, suffice it to say that the cache owner again came to the rescue, this time with a pair of bolt cutters. So off we go to the final stage, which proved to be a rigorous physical challenge in its own right. I'll give no more away than to say it was simultaneously deep, dark, dank, and very high. Uncle Rob and I undertook the necessary steps to retrieve and then return the final cache container to its rightful place.

I might mention here that all this activity takes place shockingly close to a big old Wal-Mart. We did receive some highly entertaining stares from Wal-Mart patrons, who surely thought we must be a group of maniacal survivalists training to get through the coming apocalypse. Well, it was all great; everyone contributed, and no one died. A good day's work.

Afterward, my friend Bill Mann came round for an afternoon and evening of daikaiju films, which we must on occasion do. This was all quite nice as well, though after the morning's exertions, I found my eyelids heading south several times during the movies. I reckon that's okay; I've seen them all before, and nothing appeared to be missing from the house when Bill took his leave.

Putting it all together

Uncle Rob on the Postman's Walk

LEGENDS OF THE NIGHT Trade Paperback

A vintage book, in a new — and inexpensive — edition! Wildside has released my 2002 short story collection, Legends of the Night, as a trade paperback, retailing for $14.95 — about the same as a decent bottle of wine, except that Legends lasts a bit longer and is probably scarier. The book features 13 of my short stories, including several of my Cthulhu Mythos tales, such as "The Children of Burma" and "Stalker of the Wild Wind." It also features my story, "Before the Red Star Falls," a prequel to H. G. Wells's War of the Worlds, set in medieval Scotland. This story is available as a free sample at my website; and you can check it out right here.

If you haven't read any of my work before, now is a really good time to give it a try. Many of my books are readily available, in various formats, including e-books and audio books. Plus I have more releases coming down the pike very soon — my collection, The Gaki & Other Hungry Spirits, forthcoming from Dark Regions, and my novel, Blue Devil Island, forthcoming as a trade paperback from Marietta Books. Visit my website for a decent overview of my entire catalog, with links to Amazon and other book sites for quick and easy ordering. There's other fun stuff, like my Daikaiju review section and my James Bond 007 soundtrack review site. I'm also offering autographed copies of several of my titles, which you can purchase securely via Paypal, directly from The Realm of Stephen Mark Rainey.

I can guarantee you'll get your money's worth...and hopefully then some. Do drop by!

THE GAKI (Hardcover Editions) Now Available for Pre-Order

The signed & limited hardback editions of The Gaki & Other Hungry Spirits are now available for pre-order from Dark Regions. Estimated date of delivery is January 31; the trade paperback edition will follow shortly thereafter.

Contents are as follows:

• "The Gaki," 2005; originally published in Cemetery Dance magazine, 2005
• "Ghost Lens," 2006; originally published in Horrors Beyond, Elder Signs Press, 2007
• "Terror From Middle Island" (with Durant Haire), 2002; originally published Frontier Cthulhu: Ancient Horrors in the New World, Chaosium, 2007
• "Black Tom," 2008; originally published in Northern Haunts, Shroud Publications, 2009
• "Iron Heart," 2008
• "The Forgiven," 1988; originally published in Robert Bloch's Psychos, 1997; Legends of the Night, Wildside Press, 2001
• "Festival of the Jackal, Off Broadway," 1987; originally published in Grue magazine; Fugue Devil & Other Weird Horrors, Macabre Inc., 1994
• "A Tale of the Terrible Dead," 2005; originally published in Doorways magazine, 2007
• "Abroyel," 2007
• "Megan," 2008; originally published in Darker Discoveries, Dark Discoveries magazine, 2008
• "Demon Jar," 2007; originally published at HorrorWorld.com, 2008
• "The Spiders of Galley Cove," 1993
• "Free Sample," 1997; originally published in The Conspiracy Files, Pocket Books, 1998
• "This Old House," 2008
• "Sarcophagus," 2007
• "Field Dressing," 1995
• "Misfits," 1989; originally published in Midnight Zoo magazine, 1991; Quick Chills, Scream Factory Books, 1992; The Last Trumpet, Wildside Press, 2000

The signed/limited hardcover is $40; the signed, leather-bound deluxe edition with slipcase is $99 (only 13 of these are available). I believe the trade paperback will be $19.99. Cover art is by the right beastly M. Wayne Miller. For more info, and to order, click here.

This book is a pretty thorough cross-section of my short fiction from the past 20 years; six of the tales are relatively new and never-before-published. Whichever edition may appeal to you most, I think I can guarantee you'll get your money's worth. Give it a try. Note: Other Gods, my earlier short fiction collection, is also available at Dark Regions, also with cover art by M. Wayne Miller. For more info on it, click here.

Out on the Dam Trail

There's something very satisfying about hiking in the snow, especially when there are geocaches to be found out yonder. In higher-traffic areas, most of the white stuff has melted, but there's still plenty of it out in the woods. I managed a first-to-find on a fairly new, very evil cache, hidden by the right wicked Mr. Rob Isenhour (a.k.a. robgso); then it was off to Martinsville and a hike out by Fisher Dam, on Marrowbone Creek. Back in the days of my checkered youth, I spent lots of time at the dam, imbibing things that probably ought not have been, and in later days, I occasionally accompanied my brother out here, where he was fond of walking his dog, Luther (R.I.P.). It's a beautiful site, a few hundred yards back in the woods off an old country road. Back in 1925, the land was owned by the Fisher family, who built the dam for hydro-electric power — largely for operating the pumps to milk their 200+ cows, so I'm told. Just for good measure, they put up streetlights in the area, making it one of the only places in rural Henry County to have electric streetlights in those days.

Hiking along the river past the dam, I found numerous piles of ancient bricks and other building materials. Mountain laurel grows in profusion along the banks, and wild turkey apparently enjoy congregating in the surrounding woods. Most significantly, judging by the eerie sounds I used to hear out there late at night, I'm pretty sure shoggoths also haunt those woods, lying in wait for unsuspecting victims.

It's a damn fine place for geocaching. I definitely approve. But do mind the shoggoths, if you want to live to cache another day....

Click on the pics to enlarge.

Stone-Cold Stunner

Yes, that's my It's-bloody-cold-out-here-but-I'm-having-fun face. Temps were in the mid 20s yesterday, but it was otherwise not nasty, so I resolved to hit the trail and hunt a few caches. Went out to Cedarock, just south of Burlington, and put in a good couple of miles. It was a fine day of hiking, and I really enjoyed myself, but I did witness an accident that could have been a lot worse than it apparently was. I had found a cache, signed the log, and re-hidden it, and I was just getting back on the trail when a couple of horses and riders came around a curve ahead. It was on a steep hill, and I don't know whether the horse didn't expect someone else to be on the trail or what, but that thing bolted and threw the young woman on its back down hard. The horse ran off in a panic, but the other rider hauled ass after it and apparently caught it before it got too far away. The young woman assured me she was all right, though obviously dizzy and in pain. Still, she appeared to shake it off and not long afterward was able to get going again.

Hope all was okay. That ground was frozen mighty hard. Anyhoo, snagged seven caches in the bargain, and rescued a bag of caching supplies for a fellow cacher who had apparently lost it. At least one good deed done....

BALAK Audio Book Now Available

Balak has crawled out of chaos and is now available from Crossroad Press. I've given a portion of it a listen, and I'm very pleased with Erik Synnesvedt's narration. Audio sample is available here:

Check out Balak at Crossroad Press here.

Sneak Peaks

The cover of the new audio book release of Balak, coming soon from Crossroad Press (see December 27, 2010, blog entry for more info on Balak).

The cover of The Gaki & Other Hungry Spirits, my new collection of short horror fiction, coming soon from Dark Regions.

Adventures in the New Year

Freaky people at Chateau Morrisette

Or almost in the new year, as the case may be. Fit in a good many activities over the weekend (so far), a couple of which proved to be a bit on the hair-raising side. Headed to Martinsville with Ms. B. on Friday; needed to do some maintenance on a couple of my geocaches, so it was off to the trail we went. Getting to one of the hides, called Castle Rock, requires negotiating some pretty steep and rocky terrain. Well, Ms. B. should have read the cache description. It says, "Be careful. The hillside is rugged enough that you may be injured if you fall." Did we take note? Noooo. Fortunately, Ms. B. bounces, though she brings home an embarrassing contusion or two.

Next, we headed up to Chateau Morrisette, in Floyd County, for a nice New Year's Eve dinner. It's a beautiful setting in any season, but with the holiday decorations still up in profusion, it was especially appealing — and the food and wine brought on some serious hollering (of the good sort). Afterward, having set our sights on a geocache at a covered bridge farther out in the county, we hit the road, opting for the most direct route — which, as it turned out, became rather frightening. Initially, we encountered no snow, ice, or other hazards, and it seemed the drive would be a piece of cake. However, once we got pretty far along, conditions changed, and we suddenly found ourselves at a point of no-return: due to the narrow road and steep incline, there was no way to turn around and go back. Down the mountain we went, on a muddy, occasionally icy road, down hellishly steep straight-aways and around tight hairpin curves. At one point, when we broke free of the woods for a brief spell, we could see by the distant lights in the darkness just how high up we were. Suffice it to say, I made up my mind not dwell on the altitude; it would have been unhealthy. The GPS map was absolutely invaluable here, for I could see when the hairpins were coming up and get an idea of how far we had to go anywhere along the way. A hairy ride to say to the least, but thanks to God looking after fools and dedicated geocachers, we at long last made it to the covered bridge — and after an enjoyable nighttime hunt, we found the cache. From there, we made our way back to lower, flatter, and less harrowing altitudes.

Today, the weather turned surprisingly warm, so it was off to the Laurel Bluff Trail to hunt a new cache. The trail was still a bit mucky and icy, bound by a beautiful, almost eerie mist. And, literally, the moment I found the cache, rain started falling. Happily, it wasn't heavy or cold, and the hike back to the car wasn't very long.

A satisfying end to the old year, and perhaps a propitious opening for the new.

Let's watch those slippery boulders, Ms. B.

The bamboo grove on the Laurel Bluff Trail

Mist over the marsh near the trail

The War Lords of Leng

A nice way to end the year. Robert M. Price, editor of From Secret Asia's Blackest Heart, has accepted my recently completed short story, "The War Lords of Leng," for the anthology. Happy day. The book is scheduled to come out in 2011 from Mythos Books.

BALAK Now Available on Kindle, Nook

My first novel, Balak, has been set free to run amok once more, in the form of an e-book release (Kindle and Nook formats), as well as an audio book release from Crossroad Press (forthcoming in the next few months, read by Erik Synnestvedt). I originally wrote the novel in the early 1990s and then overhauled it in the late 1990s; in 2000, it was published by Wildside Press, some months after the release of Dark Shadows: Dreams of the Dark (HarperCollins, 1999), which I co-wrote with Elizabeth Massie. Thus, my first novel was actually my second published novel.

Balak may be considered a Cthulhu mythos story; it draws its inspiration from Lovecraft's mythos, to be sure, though it features few of its overt trappings. Primarily, it's a police procedural novel with an undercurrent of dark fantasy, set in Chicago in the early 90s; in fact, many of the locations in the book are actual places in and around the neighborhood where I lived during the 1980s, fictionalized... perhaps... to incriminate the not-so-innocent. Unlike so much Lovecraftian fiction, in which the cosmic scope of the story so frequently overshadows the characters, Balak is a distinctly character-driven story; the cosmic events, such as they are, tend to be glimpsed in bits and pieces by the various characters involved.

You can download free samples of the novel from both Amazon and Barnes & Noble for you e-reader. Here are links to the respective book sites:

Balak for the Kindle from Amazon.com

Balak for the Nook from Barnes & Noble

Of course, the original trade paperback edition is still available, nicely packaged by Wildside Press. You can get more info, including an excerpt and numerous reviews of the novel, at my Web site: Balak at The Realm of Stephen Mark Rainey. From that page, you can also order autographed copies of the book directly from me, via Paypal.

Enjoy. Or run screaming, whichever turns your crank....

"Stephen Mark Rainey brings us a Cthulhu Mythos novel that neither gushes with avant-garde blood nor creaks under the rusty chains of homage. Balak strikes me as the best story of its kind since Russell Kirk’s Lord of the Hollow Dark (1979)...Rainey moves his story along with just the right balance of suspense and revelation, and provides a resonant climax."
—Paul Di Filippo, Asimov's Science Fiction

Black Tooth Pond

Confession is good for the soul, so they say, and maybe today a good unloading is in order.

Back behind Martinsville High School, my old alma mater, there's a fairly extensive woodland area, and in the middle of it, a medium-size pond, which I've always called Black Tooth Pond. Now, that's not its actual name, if it even has one; I coined it because, at the pond's southernmost end, a large number of broken, blackened tree trunks once protruded from the water — probably the result of a fire from many years ago. If you've read certain of my short stories, you might recall I used this exact setting, and the name Black Tooth Pond for the first time, in "The Weird Violet," which appears in my short-fiction collection, Fugue Devil & Other Weird Horrors (Macabre, Inc., 1994).

From the get-go, Black Tooth Pond was for me a place of higher learning. In 11th grade, circa 1976, my biology class hoofed it down the old dirt road to the pond and took samples to test for water quality. Later, I furthered my education here with a select number of female specimens of the species. Not long afterward, I returned to the area to conduct experiments with certain chemical substances, the results of which are in some cases hazy. When I first started geocaching, this was one of the spots I seriously considered for placing my first hide, but I never did get around to putting one here. Alas.

But let's backtrack a little ways. It was my senior year in high school. I was dating a singularly appealing young woman, whose aplomb with certain physical exercises left me very much in a state of awe. As with most teenagers, one of the biggest hindrances to practicing these exercises was the lack of a setting that offered even a modicum of privacy. As you have astutely deduced, we found such a setting back in the woods by Black Tooth Pond.

At that time, my folks owned a 1970 Ford LTD station wagon, and if you grew up anywhere near the same time I did, you'll know that this was the perfect vehicle for conducting highly specialized scientific experiments. One evening right around Halloween, this young female specimen and I drove down the treacherous dirt road into the woods around Black Tooth Pond and proceeded to practice some of the exercises mentioned above. Well, we had settled ourselves in the back of the station wagon and were just getting ourselves prepped to exercise when we heard the distinctive sounds of footsteps in the woods, not very far away. Being a little nervous about doing scientific research on what might be someone else's property, I opted to withdraw from the position I'd gotten myself into, open the back window, and thoroughly evaluate the situation.

I suppose it's lucky I did.

There, about fifty yards away, starkly silhouetted against the purple twilight sky, was the distinct figure of a man traipsing toward the car, a rifle or shotgun clearly at the ready.

With a holler that likely shattered my test subject's eardrums, I unceremoniously abandoned the experiment at hand, vaulted over two seats, and within three seconds flat had that 1970 Ford LTD station wagon hauling ass down the treacherous dirt road, back toward the high school — or at least, that's what I hoped. Problem being at the time, I wasn't exactly sure which direction I had to go. I mean, we didn't have GPS technology in those days, and I had been paying attention to other things while navigating those winding little roads....

Then it happened: Ba-BOOM! Pothole! Big, big pothole! The rear tires left the ground more than once, and as the car bounced violently, I saw in the rear-view mirror something metallic go flying into the air.

The license plate. My parents' license plate. Even in my panic, I had the presence of mind to realize that that was one damning piece of evidence. Then and there, I had to make a decision: face a potentially homicidal maniac with a gun or my dad's wrath.

Obviously, there was nothing for it but to stop and retrieve the wayward item. I reluctantly slammed the car to a stop, praying I hadn't busted any axles, leaped out the door, and ran back to find the license plate. There it was, lying in a pool of mud. I grabbed it up, paused long enough to take stock of the situation, and — much to my horror — heard footsteps in the woods, making a beeline toward me. Running toward me.

Damn. Back into the car, and off we went again, and... somehow... before I knew it, I was out of the woods and back on the road that led to the high school. From there, I'm certain I broke every traffic law in existence returning the subject of that experiment to the safety of her home; privacy be damned.

Before heading back home, I was able to re-attach the license plate (after much scrubbing of mud), and it's only by the grace of God that I hadn't completely screwed the car's alignment. Indeed, they made those cars durable in those days. I can only imagine trying to undertake such a panicked escape in my current Buick Century. I'd be leaving pieces of that car strewn all over Martinsville and Henry County, and maybe beyond.

So, one scientific experiment a massive failure. Despite it all, I still have a great fondness for Black Tooth Pond. However terrified I might have been at the time, it didn't stop me from conducting further experiments in those woods, all of which certainly contributed to my well-rounded education.

The Big Old Stomp That Rocked My World

Or...
A Whole Lotta Shakin' Going On
The following originally appeared in G-Fan magazine, issue #70, Winter 2005

One evening in the late 1960s, in the small town of Martinsville, Virginia, Mr. and Mrs. Carl Rainey took an evening out for dinner and bridge, as was their occasional habit, leaving my little brother and me in the care of a teenage babysitter (a fine young gentleman named Mike Combs; in later years it would be his sister Sherry, with whom I would fall madly in love…but that’s another story). On this particular night, it just so happened that Godzilla, King of the Monsters was playing on TV, and Mike could not have been a better choice of sitter for us because he was something of a dinosaur and daikaiju enthusiast. By age eight, I had already seen Godzilla three or four times, Gigantis at least twice, and Godzilla vs. the Thing once; I had already hit a few mileposts on the road to becoming a diehard. Mike, on the other hand, though a monster movie buff, was still a layman, and like most, looked to me to provide background information that would help him understand the movie.

“What the heck is a HEELIE-copter?”

“That’s just Perry Mason’s way of saying ‘helicopter,’ Mike.”

“Oh.”

Now, before you throw up your hands, I have to tell you…yes, I had been baiting him, for I knew that Perry Mason was a fictional character portrayed by Raymond Burr. Sadly, by not correcting my intentional gaffe, Mike proved himself unworthy of being called a true Godzilla fan. Still, I had to admit he offered lots of spirited advice to the fleeing citizens of Tokyo (“Run to the side, you idiots, not straight in front of him!”), and anyone who could get so worked up over a Godzilla movie was okay in my book.

The movie ended at eight o’ clock, and a critical discussion immediately ensued.

“Yes, his eyes were made of plastic!”

“No, they were actually marbles painted to look like eyes.”

“Who told you that?”

“None of your bees’ wax.”

“You’re a moron.”

“No, you are.”

“No, you.”

In the middle of all this, I thought I heard a roll of thunder. What a cool coincidence; on the screen, Godzilla had first shown up during a raging storm. But then the light fixture began to sway, and the windowpanes behind the couch took to rattling. This was no ordinary thunder! By now, Mike’s eyes looked a lot like painted marbles popping out of his skull, and my little brother, who had the audacity to sleep through the movie, began to plaintively scream and holler.

After about thirty seconds, the rumbling stopped. But Mike and I were charged up. We spent the rest of the evening peering out windows, surveying the neighborhood from the front porch, even braving the spooky stairs to the attic because the upper windows afforded a panoramic view (even if it was pitch dark outside). I bitterly rued the fact that, at the time, I didn’t own a tape recorder so I could leave behind some kind of verbal record for Mr. George Lawrence, United World News, Chicago, USA, should the worst happen.

Only when my parents came home around ten o’ clock did I learn that Martinsville, Virginia, had experienced its first sizable earth tremor in over 150 years. Now, to most, an earthquake might have been a stimulating spot of news; to me, however, it was anticlimax exemplified because, for a little while there, I had completely repented of my heretical hypothesis that Godzilla’s eyes might be made of plastic. As far as I was concerned, his eyes—as well as all the rest of him—were far more real than plate tectonics.

That incident might not have been the beginning of my love affair with Godzilla, but it was certainly the one to most impress an impressionable young lad. (Some will say I’ve hardly changed; that again is another story.) To this day, the booming footsteps and roars at the beginning of Godzilla inspire a twinge of excitement unlike any other. If I hear Raymond Burr’s voice in some other show or movie—be it Perry Mason, Ironside, Rear Window, you name it—lines from the original Godzilla inevitably flood my memory. Of all the tape-recorded monster movie soundtracks I memorized word-for-word during my teens (I bet some of you reading this did the same thing), the English-language soundtrack to Godzilla, King of the Monsters is easily the one I recall best.

I imagine I was around ten years old when the fact that I had always seen an “Americanized” version of Godzilla truly began to dawn on me. And at that moment, the original 1954 Japanese version hit number one on the “must-see-before-I-croak” list. On subsequent viewings of Godzilla, I scrutinized every frame of film, assiduously looking for telltale signs of tampering with the original material. Suddenly, my eyes were opened. Holy cows—that wasn’t Dr. Yamane, but a look-alike, and not a particularly convincing one. And looky here! “Emiko,” whose back seemed to be her most prominent side, was dressed a tad differently from camera angle to camera angle. How could I have ever missed such blatant cinematic blunders?

Anyway…I spent a good portion of my adolescence convinced that American audiences had been robbed, and that the perpetrators deserved to be punished with extreme prejudice—sans the benefit of a Perry Mason defense. Without having seen a frame of the original, unadulterated Japanese movie, I became one of the most vociferous detractors of the American version in the western hemisphere.

Of course, all it took was one more viewing of the American release, somewhere around age 13, to convince me that, well, maybe Raymond Burr in Tokyo wasn’t really that big a stretch. Hey, it was still Godzilla. And Godzilla…good. (Fire is our friend, and all that.)

And finally…almost twenty years after the earthquake that loosed Godzilla upon Martinsville, Virginia…I got my chance to cross number one off the must-see list. Mid-1980s, Chicago, USA. A few years earlier, I had moved to the Windy City so that I might reside near Japanese Giants co-editors Ed Godziszewski and Bill Gudmundson (not to mention the main office of United World News). As some of you may recall, the technological toy of the day was the laser disc player. Ed had one; I had one; and one day, we struck gold. Ed obtained a catalog where we could order original Japanese laser discs.

Toho discs.

Godzilla discs.

THE Godzilla disc.

In those novel days, region coding was still an unrealized bit of idiocy; and through Ed’s ingenuity, we obtained an English script of the movie.

I don’t think the excitement of an earthquake surpassed the excitement of sitting down in Ed’s living room to watch the 1954 Godzilla, complete with a typed English translation (which was admittedly a little more inconvenient than reading subtitles). But moly hoses. A gorgeous print on a flawless LD system…it just didn’t get much better.

Ed pushed the start button.

My initial impression was that the movie moved faster than what I was accustomed to (the opening scenes of Tokyo’s devastation in the American version notwithstanding). The absence of Raymond Burr and his somber narration, which extended each individual scene, seemed almost disconcerting. Perhaps the most jarring aspect in the first half hour of the movie was that, on Odo Island, Steve Martin and Tomo did not go out among the natives.

However, a new fire exuded from the Japanese cast; especially during the conference at the Diet Building, where Dr. Yamane dramatically testified that Strontium-90 had been discovered in Godzilla’s wake. Dr. Serizawa had more screen time—meaningful screen time. The triangle between him, Emiko, and Ogata took on an entirely new poignancy. Godzilla’s rampage, shown as it would have actually progressed through the streets of Tokyo, seemed somehow grimmer. And Serizawa’s final sacrifice, shown in its deeper context, hit home with far more power.

After Godzilla was over, I knew I had seen, not just a different version of the movie, but a different movie altogether. Certainly a better movie. A movie whose heart and soul did not revolve around the monster, but around its characters. For years, I had considered Godzilla, King of the Monsters and King Kong of roughly equal stature in the grand scheme of monster movies. No longer. Godzilla had left old Kong in the dust.

For many years afterward, I would occasionally watch Godzilla—even without the script, for I had come to know it inside and out; perhaps not as intimately as the American version, but certainly well enough to recall key dialogue. And Godzilla…well, he spoke a language in which I was already fluent.

But as well-acquainted with Godzilla as I considered myself, its well had far from run dry. In the 80s, with the laser disc and English translation in front of me, I had wondered how it might get any better. In 2001, I attended G-Fest, where Godzilla appeared on the big screen (at the Woodfield Mall Cinema, Schaumburg, Illinois—my old stomping grounds), and now I was in a real theater surrounded by a horde of honest-to-god, diehard G fans. There was a time—and trust me, it doesn’t seem all that long ago—that the very idea would have seemed too fantastic to be believed. All my young life, I was the sole Godzilla fan among many casual observers; even as an avid reader of The Japanese Fantasy Film Journal, and later as editor (and then co editor) of Japanese Giants, which exposed me to lots of like-minded individuals, I was a fan in a near-vacuum. But in the last years of the 20th century, things had changed, and now going into the 21st…

The environment at G-Fest could not have been more conducive to a meaningful viewing of the original classic. Here I was, sitting next to my old friends Ed and Bill—and new one, Robert Scott Field; the screen lit up, and the booming footsteps and roars began. Just as expected. But something was different. I had seen this version of this movie countless times, and yet I felt as if I were about to witness something wholly new and remarkable.

And so I was. The big screen; the fact that there were no obnoxious kiddies to distract one’s attention; the absolute silence during the long, solemn passages where the characters absorbed and reflected on the events as they happened…these things came together to create nothing less than a transcendent experience. As the girls’ choir sang their prayer following Godzilla’s stroll through Tokyo, I actually discovered my eyes burning. Never in my 42 years had I been moved to tears during a monster movie. Especially not one I had seen an average of twice a year for well over a decade.

Damn!

There are times nowadays, when I think it would be mighty sweet if, one day, while watching my favorite movie in the world, the earth started shaking…and this time it wasn’t just an earthquake.

And his eyes would not be made of plastic.