Big, Bad Godzilla

Most folks who know me know I'm a lifelong Godzilla/daikaiju freak. Ever since I saw the American version of the original Godzilla (the "first" Godzilla - King of the Monsters), starring Raymond Burr, back in the very early 1960s, my love affair with giant monsters has been nothing less than passionate. And since junior high school, I have been one of the official Japanese Giants guys — the founding member, as a matter of fact, since I originated Japanese Giants, the magazine, in 1974. Of course, it was the Showa-era films (1954–1984) that I fell in love with way back when, but even with the later Heisei- and then Millennium-era films, my youthful enthusiasm has hardly waned. I suppose no one would be much surprised to learn that my all-time favorite movie is Toho's original 1954 Godzilla. I'd go so far as to call it the best monster movie ever made — yes, surpassing even King Kong — and one the best all-around films ever made. So you may wish to take whatever I have to say about the new Godzilla with that background in mind.

The 2014 Godzilla, the precursor to this film, had its moments. While I appreciated the idea that Godzilla and the MUTOs (Massive Unidentified Terrestrial Organisms) were once the dominant creatures on Earth, that concept received little development. This film expands on those origins, bestowing the name "Titans" to these assorted giants that sprang from our prehistoric times. A subplot using the Hollow Earth theory explains how some of the monsters remained in hiding and/or traveled about the earth undetected. In this film, instead of just Godzilla and two MUTOs, we have a whole menagerie—Godzilla, Rodan, Mothra, King Ghidorah, and numerous minor non-Toho daikaiju bearing names such as Behemoth, Abaddon, Scylla, and others with roots in various mythologies.

So, to the big honking monster fan in me, it would seem we have the seeds of a monstrously entertaining filum.

But then again....

Make no mistake. The monsters are impressive. The designs for Mothra, Rodan, and King Ghidorah hearken back to their early, classic Toho incarnations. Well, not so much Mothra, whose design more closely resembles her appearance in Toho's Godzilla - Mothra - King Ghidorah - All-Out Giant Monster Attack (a.k.a. GMK, 2001). Regardless, for the most part, the monsters look great, and the audio-visual effects convey incredible size and power. It pays to see the action on the big screen. Sadly, of the monsters, Godzilla's design is the least satisfying. With a huge lower body that tapers to a tiny, wedge-shaped head, I get the feeling the designers wanted to make Godzilla resemble a walking mountain or something such. It didn't work so well. He looks more like a big reptilian pinhead with forward-arching, scaly gorilla arms. He's still more akin to our familiar Godzilla than the critter in TriStar's 1998 stinker, but far, FAR inferior to Toho's finest, such as the 1954 original, and the designs from 1962 (King Kong vs. Godzilla), 1963 (Mothra vs. Godzilla), 1968 (Destroy All Monsters), 1989 (Godzilla vs. Biollante), 1999 (Godzilla Millennium), and numerous others. Now, while I don't poo-poo CGI daikaiju, I have a special affinity for Godzilla's "suit-mation" origins, not to mention the exceptional miniature work of the early films. A man in a suit isn't likely to work for today's audiences, but more closely patterning the iconic figure after those superior designs would have made Godzilla himself far more palatable. I actually loved Godzilla's appearance in 2016's Shin Godzilla, if not so much the movie itself. The creature retained enough of its classic lines to be recognizable, yet... it appeared off... a little wrong... yet still, clearly, a monstrous, wicked, impressive Godzilla. I'd take that design any day over Legendary's big walking wedge.

In this film, Godzilla's most outstanding appearance is his first (apart from a partial shot of him during a brief flashback at the very beginning). In this reveal, he swims slowly toward an underwater window, with the audience's perspective the same as the characters'. With fins flashing and eyes glowing, Godzilla is engaged in "intimidation tactics," according to one of the characters. Indeed. No other shot of Godzilla comes close to the majestic power he displays in this slow, menacing approach. This is Godzilla as he deserves to be presented.

Similarly, the "births" of King Ghidorah and Rodan show these monsters at their finest. With a nod to GMK, King Ghidorah is entombed in ice beneath the earth, and its emergence is another high point in the film. Its three heads weave forward on snakelike necks, and in bat-like fashion it uses the clawed tips of its wings to help propel it along the ground. Happily, as it was in the beginning, King Ghidorah's origin is extraterrestrial, making it a distinctly a bad Titan. In a nice tribute to one of our favorite daikaiju films, Ghidorah is first referred to as Monster Zero. Rodan, in acknowledgement of his cinematic roots, bursts from the summit of a volcano, and his flight creates that famous shock wave that destroys structures and sends human bodies flying. An aerial view of Rodan's shadow passing over the earth vividly brings to mind his advent in the original Rodan - The Flying Monster (1957). Rodan's design fairly closely resembles the 1957 original, and it's easily his best screen appearance since that film.

Bear McCreary's musical score makes an effective aural backdrop for the movie. I have admired many of McCreary's scores, and Godzilla may be my favorite. In places, McCreary interpolates Akira Ifukube's famous Godzilla theme, as well as a gorgeous, lush interpretation of Yuji Koseki's Mothra theme. Least appealing, music-wise, is McCreary's interpretation of Blue Oyster Cult's Godzilla, which cranks up as the end credits begin. I have a grudging appreciation of the original BoC song, but including it in this movie... well... it's pure cheese, and we really didn't need that again. Segueing from that, however, is McCreary's closing symphonic suite, which makes sitting through the final credits worth it. (There is a post-credit teaser scene, though I wouldn't consider it necessarily worth waiting for.)

Kyle Chandler as Dr. Mark Russell

So, in the audio and visual departments, we have tons of material to appreciate. But on their own, none of these elements actually make a movie. The movie is a package. And in the overall, unfortunately, the Godzilla package doesn't exactly deliver. While the film boasts a capable cast, including Kyle Chandler, Ken Watanabe, Vera Farmiga, Millie Bobby Brown, Charles Dance, Zhang Ziyi, Bradley Whitford, and others, the script leaves more than a little to be desired, and the direction and editing is often so frenetic that the result is as stomach-churning as Cloverfield (which, due to its cinematography, I will never willingly suffer through again). I've seen Godzilla twice now, and on my first viewing, my brain locked onto the fact that every shot flashed by so quickly I began to feel dizzy. (The next day, I suffered a migraine, and I wonder whether the jumpy cinematography had something to do with it.) Quite involuntarily, I began counting the length of each individual shot, and the longest one lasted 11 seconds, most running only two to six seconds. Though the whole movie. Dizzying.

Ken Watanabe as Dr. Serizawa

Storywise, plot elements rush up, swat you in the face, and then scurry away with reckless abandon. Hollow Earth Theory? Check. Wow, before we know it, we're inside the earth, some shit happens, and then, well, that was that. What a momentous theme and one that an entire script could be built around. Alas, no. Oxygen Destroyer? Apparently, unlike the original Dr. Serizawa's world- and history-changing device — for which he gave his life, to keep his invention from falling into the wrong hands — here, the military just happens to have one. So they set it off, and it does a number on Godzilla. But suddenly, oh, no... setting it off was a bad idea because this leaves King Ghidorah unchallenged, and King Ghidorah, the all-powerful space monster, has set about terraforming the earth to suit its own preferences (which is a fine enough idea and is presented in spectacular fashion). Then, in a turnabout that seems drawn from 1991's Godzilla vs. King Ghidorah (NOT a favorite), our protags decide to use a nuclear bomb to revive Godzilla. In Godzilla vs. King Ghidorah, nuclear radiation is used to create monsters as casually as water is to create sea monkeys (that reference may date me; Google unfamiliar terms). This sets up a scene so that Dr. Serizawa (Ken Watanabe) can sacrifice himself and revive Godzilla. The scene may be Watanabe's shining moment — he brings believable gravitas to his character. This scene this leads to Godzilla being revived but on the verge of meltdown, a la Godzilla vs. Destroyer (1995). Needless to say, Godzilla doesn't melt down.

Zhang Ziyi as Dr. Chen

Sadly, despite these worthy tributes to earlier entries in Godzilla's ongoing saga, the movie is fraught with so many Hollywood tropes they become as dizzying as the cinematography. Top to bottom, from snappy-but-not-snappy dialogue, to deliberate lulls that culminate in an all-too-expected "shocks," to characters outrunning massive explosions and all-engulfing flames, to that goddamn dysfunctional family that needs to be reunited — which I never fucking want to see again, ever, thank you very much — the film throws in every Hollywood disaster-action-adventure-monster-film cliche that can be crammed into 2 hours and 12 minutes.

Millie Bobby Brown as Madison Russell, Vera Farmiga as Dr. Emma Russell

Stepping beyond the bounds of the motion picture itself, one of the most galling arguments I keep hearing from the film's defenders is that you don't go to a Godzilla movie expecting anything better than the best monster scene. "In the movies of old, the story and people scenes were largely crap, so it's perfectly okay for the story and people scenes in this one to be crap." No, no, no, and NO. So many of the early Godzilla films had colorful, fantastic, oftentimes whimsical stories, not necessarily geared to American audiences. They had top-flight casts, innovative effects (certainly for their day), brilliant scores, masterful cinematography. But Japanese sensibilities and ours oftentimes do not quite overlap. Never was this more clearly illustrated to me than when, back in my Chicago days of the 1980s, we Japanese Giants Guys hosted any number of Japanese guests, some who were fans, some who were actually affiliated with Toho and other Japanese studios. In talking with them, I often marveled at the differences in what we saw in these movies, what we loved, what we disliked. Any movie, any creative work, is subject to criticism, of dissection, of approval, and/or disapproval. Because one isn't enamored of a particular movie, or aspects of it, he or she is not automatically a hater. God, what facile and imbecilic term so often applied to people who simply are not blind followers of fad or fashion. Too often, disagreeing with the masses of "lovers" is tantamount to personally insulting them and challenging them to duel. Foolishness is what that is.

Now, I like lots of bad movies. With them, I have no illusions that I'm looking at, or should expect, great art. With Godzilla, I did hope for, if not expect, a movie that did not necessarily adhere to every convention for a Hollywood blockbuster, down to the letter. Now, I did not hate this movie; but believe you me, I know some who did, and they can spell out their every reason for it. And that's perfectly all right. Just as it's perfectly all right for you to love this flick far more than me. But to dismiss out of hand any legitimate criticism of a beloved property, that's the purview of the ignorant, spoiled fan. Don't be one of those.

As I trust one may infer from the above, Godzilla has its redeeming qualities. When it comes out on BluRay, I expect I'll pick it up. Parts of this movie warrant watching over again; yes, the monster scenes. However, even if I should rate the critters four or five, in the overall, I can't give Godzilla - King of the Monsters more than two out of five Damned Rodan's Dirty Martinis. If you give it five great big ones, or zero. That's your perogative, and more power to you.

The birth of Mothra

The Monarch command ship facing off with King Ghidorah

Godzilla on the verge of meltdown

The Temple of Doom

Geocaching buddy Tbbiker (a.k.a. Todd) has been clamoring for an expedition to the Uhwharries in Davidson County for some time because there's this multi-cache called Temple of Doom (GC50F7F) down there that has a high (potentially deadly) difficulty and terrain rating. And why would one not desire to risk life and limb to find a tough cache and claim another smiley? I can't think of one.

Tbbiker had been to the site on at least one previous occasion but had only found the first of the cache's four stages. Today, although the weather forecast warned of serious storms, several of us decided to take our chances, brave the possible rain, and take on the Temple of Doom challenge. Four of us formed up at the parking area for the forest area: Tbbiker his own self, as well as regular caching companions Diefenbaker (a.k.a. Scott) and Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie). We came prepared with several tools of the trade, such as a 12.5-foot collapsing ladder, rope & tackle, flashlights, gloves, beef jerky, trail mix, and lots of water.

Diefenbaker just hanging about

Tbbiker making the ascent to stage two, which
turned out to be missing.

Victory!

The "temple" is a group of ancient structures that were once part of an iron mining facility — how many years ago I do not know. In any event, we knew we would have to take on physically challenging tasks to claim the cache, and we really hoped the rain would hold off, as negotiating the terrain is tricky enough without it being extra slickery. We lucked out. While the sky occasionally leaked some superfluous water, no serious storms assailed us.

Stage one involved clambering over one of the structures at an appreciable elevation, so we set to work in earnest. This was the one stage Tbbiker had already found, but he sat back to watch in amusement while we hunted. At last, Diefenbaker made the find, which provided the coordinates for the next stage.

Stage two is one of the stages that require either a ladder or ropes (or both) to reach. In this case, a railroad spike hanging high up in a tree indicates the altitude one must search along the cliff. We mounted up, hunted, hunted, and hunted, all to no avail. Much of shale cliff had collapsed (some while Tbbiker was hunting on his last trip) and it became increasingly clear to us that the physical stage here must be gone.

It was.

However, one of our party had some vague intel from a previous finder about where to find the final stage. Vague enough that we couldn't be quite sure we would be at the right place. We did indeed find a likely spot: one of the stone structures whose roof was missing, with a tree growing out of it. The only way in was to scale the exterior and then either haul the ladder inside or use rope & tackle. We had the bad feeling the 12.5-foot ladder might not be tall enough for our purposes, so our resident ropes expert, Diefenbaker, set to work constructing a rope ladder and safety harness we could use as needed.

Since Tbbiker had been the motivating force behind our expedition, he volunteered to attempt the cache's retrieval — if it did actually lurk in that deep, foreboding chamber. He and Diefenbaker geared up, scaled the parapet, and positioned themselves above the opening. I hoisted the extension ladder up to them, and they lowered it into the chamber. And what do you know: the ladder was just tall enough to allow Tbbiker to both descend into the depths and climb all the way back out, which we had feared would not be the case. Down he went... and after a brief search, he came up with the cache in hand.

Sadly, even though the cache owner — Ranger Fox (a.k.a. Christopher) — had used a sturdy container and sealed the log book in a plastic bag, water had seeped inside and ruined the log's pages. I did have a spare log book on hand, so I replaced the ruined one but saved it, in case Christopher should like to keep it as a souvenir. But we had accomplished the all-important task: found the cache and signed the log book. Another nice smiley to reward each of us for risking of life and limb!

And so, with this one put to bed — and having already found the several other caches in the vicinity — Tbbiker opted to take his leave and return home to the wilds of Rockingham County. Diefenbaker, Ms. Fish, and I, having not found the four other traditional caches in the vicinity, opted to continue on. And, oh, what a choice. It was at this point we discovered the real terrain challenges this area of the Uhwharries provides.

Almost at the summit

Let it be said that I have ventured into the Uhwharries after caches numerous times, and every time, the Uhwharries have kicked my ass. They did it again today. Our next target was the Bald Mountain Challenge (GC15CC2), residing some 800 feet vertically above the low-lying area where we had begun our adventure. And steep? Why, yes. This is not a trivial slope. Up, up, up it goes, through woods and rocks, with nary a trail to be found. Yessir, all bushwhacking. Thus, this cache boasts a 5/5 rating, the most difficult on the geocaching scale. Now, it is an older cache (2007), and while the rating for the hide itself might be a bit much (I'd call it a 3), the 5 terrain rating was not a joke. Thankfully, we managed to locate the container without much trouble, and then we took a brief rest break.

From there, it was downhill to another cache, and then... holy horrors... another big uphill trek. As with a couple of other Uhwharrie hikes, I began to wonder if maybe I had bitten off more than I could chew. But there he was, Diefenbaker, five years older than me, booking it on up that hill, putting this old man and the much younger Ms. Fish to utter shame. Some old fart! What a machine!

Happily, we finished our day claiming all the caches we had set out to find in the forest. On our way back to Greensboro, Ms. Fish and I grabbed a handful of nice, easy caches, and stopped for a pleasant Mexican dinner in Thomasville. I did reach (and pass) cache find #11,111, which is kind of a fun number. At the end of the day, my total cache count stands at 11,115.

Once back home, I discovered via the Temple of Doom cache page that its owner, Ranger Fox, had gone down to do maintenance on the cache today — apparently, right after we had completed it. He did confirm that stage 2 was missing, which we found gratifying in its way because it meant we were not simply a bunch of inept geocachers who couldn't find an iron spike if it were hanging right there in front of them.

A most satisfying day, despite having my ass whipped yet again by the Uhwharries. One of these days, Uhwharries....

A view of the distant Tuckertown Reservoir, taken from about halfway up our ascent

Some of the sheer cliffs we passed as we made our climb

Simon Clark's The Night of the Triffids

John Wyndham's landmark novel The Day of the Triffids (1951) holds its rightful place as a classic of science-fiction literature and has been a personal favorite since I first read it in my mid-teens. I cracked its covers last in my early 30s, and now I'm kind of feeling the need to revisit it — mainly because I recently (re-)watched the 2009 two-part movie starring Dougray Scott, Joely Richardson, Eddie Izzard. That one is occasionally true to the spirit, though certainly not the details, of Wyndham's novel, although it's unquestionably truer than the 1962 film, which I still love in spite of its myriad foibles — especially since it opened my eyes to the joyous horror of these mobile, venomous, and possibly intelligent plants (see Triffidus Celestus, October 23, 2013 for a personal retrospective of that film). Rather significantly, watching the 2009 film jolted my brain into remembering I owned the Kindle edition of Simon Clark's sequel, The Night of the Triffids (2001), which I had picked up back when the e-book was first released.

Clark's novel takes place 30 years after the events of The Day of the Triffids, the protagonist being David Masen, son of the original novel's protagonist, Bill Masen. After "The Blinding" from Wyndham's book — a celestial lightshow that resulted in most of the world's population going blind — only a handful of settlements of sighted people exist around the world. Most of the planet has devolved into a wasteland, inhabited only by the triffids. The Masens have settled on the Isle of Wight, which has slowly but surely developed into a self-sufficient community. David, not sharing his father's proclivity for scientific innovation, works as a pilot for the island's small defense force, which is kept to fend off occasional raiders from other settlements.

I owned this Crest Book edition of The Day
of the Triffids when I was a youngster;
somewhere in the vault, I still have it.

One morning, Masen awakes to find an inexplicable, total darkness has fallen over the world. He goes up in a jet, hoping to ascend above this atmospheric enigma, but his plane ends up crashing on a bizarre, floating shelf of vegetation. Here, he discovers a young woman of mysterious origin, with a limited ability to communicate. And triffids. Lots of triffids, intent on snacking on a pair of helpless humans. In the nick of time, a passing ship picks them up, crewed by members of another sighted community. However, rather than returning David and the girl, Christina, to the Isle of Wight, the vessel's captain cites an unnamed emergency and transports them to New York City, which appears to have been restored almost to its pre-Blinding glory.

Here, David meets a young woman named Kerris Baedecker, and the two develop strong feelings for each other. But David soon discovers that this thriving, vibrant New York is but a facade for something much darker. He meets the political and military leader of the city, a man named Torrence — coincidentally, an old enemy of his father's — whose designs for civilization, as well as the young woman David brought with him from the floating island, are anything but benign. David finds himself forced to join a group of unlikely allies to prevent Torrance's influence from spreading as far as his home, and to overcome the escalating threat of the triffids, whose ability to adapt and evolve baffles even those scientists whose lives are devoted to studying them.

Given the original novel's stature, creating a worthy successor would be a daunting task for most any author. Clark does an admirable job with his narrative voice, and the story generally moves at a balanced pace, combining well-developed atmosphere with compelling drama. His triffids retain their horrifying character from the original novel and also display a few added "features" as they rapidly evolve in a world where they are the dominate species. Their climactic appearance makes for an effective surprise, although imbuing the plants with intelligence enough to affect their own evolution seems a bit contrived. Wyndham's triffids remained primarily in the background, a deadly but less prevalent threat to the struggling human race. While there is plenty of human conflict in Clark's novel, the triffids play a more integral part in these conflicts' outcomes.

Clark draws his characters with an assured hand; David Masen, in particular, is easy to accept as Bill Masen's son, with similar mannerisms and thought processes. His recon flight into the heights of the atmosphere, culminating in a harrowing crash landing, is one of the best scenes in the novel. Once he meets the ship's crew — who will take on important roles as the plot progresses — and we see him interact with others of unknown alliances, the real human drama begins. His relationship with Kerris Baedecker blossoms at disconcerting speed, and though her character displays inner strength, at times she seems more a cipher, an object to motivate Masen to action when he needs a little extra oompf.

Moving the setting from Great Britain to the United States doesn't quite seem the ticket for this book. The restored New York never rings true, especially its "dual" nature. This bit bears the hallmarks of a mediocre Hollywood post-apocalyptic movie, rather than a logical continuation, or expansion, of the world as it might develop following The Blinding. The return of Torrence, a minor character in the original, also seems a forced attempt to tie the books together, given the improbability of this cold-hearted but basically petty gentleman assuming such a strategic position in society.

The most unsatisfying aspect of the story is the mysterious darkness — the very "night" of the title — which falls over the earth in the beginning chapter. Clark explains it away as the result of a passing comet, and once done, it no longer plays a part in the drama. Its presence seems nothing more than a device that allows the book to open on a disconcerting note, and then, once the story has progressed, it is conveniently swept away. It has no appreciable impact on events after the first third of the novel.

That Clark respects his source material is clear, and he does present some masterfully rendered moments, such as the jet recon of the atmospheric darkness; the floating, floral island where he finds his mysterious companion; several up-close-and-personal encounters with the triffids themselves. Perhaps it's fair to say the novel succeeds as a thriller in its right more than it does as a sequel to a literary classic.

The Night of the Triffids is readily available in paperback, specialty hardback, and e-book editions. Big Finish, who produces the Dark Shadows audio drama series to which I've contributed three entries, has produced an audio version of this novel as well.

Let's give this one a mixed rating: 2.5 out of 5 as a sequel to The Day of the Triffids, and 3.5 out of 5 as an action-filled, post-apocalyptic thriller.

Blue Devil Island Now an Audio Book!

Now from Crossroad Press...
My World War II historical drama-slash-horror novel Blue Devil Island is now an audio book, narrated by Joshua Saxon, available from Audible/Amazon.com.

About Blue Devil Island
October 1943: The tide of war in the Pacific has begun to turn in favor of the United States and her allies. With the opening of a new offensive campaign, the U.S. military deploys a number of new air groups in the Solomon Islands, including a naval fighting squadron known as the Blue Devils, commanded by Lieutenant Commander Drew McLachlan. From their base at a remote island known only as Conquest, McLachlan and his brave pilots mount a number of successful raids against the enemy, eventually making a name for themselves that comes even to the attention of the Japanese.

A new and sinister force begins to stir on the island, seemingly disturbed by the very presence of the American fighting forces. Several men disappear under mysterious circumstances, but their bodies turn up horribly mutilated. The sound of drums begins pounding out of the jungle. And Lieutenant Commander McLachlan witnesses a gigantic, half-invisible shape moving atop the mountain at the center of the island.

Soon, the Blue Devils are forced to fight on two fronts: against the known enemy, the Japanese, and an unknown, predatory force on the island that threatens to destroy McLachlan and his men....

Click here to order the Blue Devil Island audio book
from Amazon.com

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"...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

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Blue Devil Island is also available in paperback and e-book editions.

Into the Andeleas

Illustration for "Into the Andeleas" by Joe Sheridan

Having recently paid a visit to Ferrum College, my old alma mater (at least for my Associate of the Arts Degree), today on a whim, I paid a visit to Ferrum's website to look up some current info on the school. While I was browsing, I discovered a link to The Chrysalis, the college's literary magazine. Much to my surprise, the site features an online archive of past issues going back to the dark ages — even as far back as my interment in the late 1970s. The 1979 issue features my story, "Into the Andeleas," which, in its way, helped set me on this questionable course as a writer of fictions. It went like this:

From 1978 to 1979, I masqueraded as a studious sophomore, and at some point in the latter months of the former year, I came upon a flyer advertising The Chrysalis's annual literary contest, which offered a cash prize of $25 (not shabby for an all-but-destitute college student) as well as publication in the magazine. One had but to write a short story; submit it to the magazine's staff, which would evaluate the tale; and win the contest to claim the cash and revel in the fame that comes with publication in a college lit mag.

In those days, I was pursuing a degree in fine art (which I eventually earned), but I did have a strong predilection for writing (if not necessarily good writing). So one evening while I and several friends were partaking in substances best not described, I declared I was going to win this literary contest. Mind you, I had supportive friends, who on this night drank heartily to my success; in retrospect, I rather wish there been some wagering on said proposition, that I might have increased my potential take-home rewards. Alas, not. Suffice it to say, I spent a couple of evenings working on a story. I submitted it to the literary magazine and won the contest.

And so, in Spring 1979, "Into the Andeleas" appeared in that year's issue of The Chrysalis, and at an award ceremony just prior to the Class of 1979's graduation, I received a check for $25, dutifully lobbed at me by my favorite English professor and unknowing mentor, Dr. Daniel Gribbin. Upon reading the tale, one can rightly infer I was an avid reader of sword & sorcery fiction back in the day. While the story may have been a pale imitation, I can at least say that it was sincere. Kind of like Linus's pumpkin patch.

The illo pictured above was by one Joe Sheridan, one of those supportive friends who drank to my success. In those day, Joe was more commonly known as "Radical" because, well, Joe was radical. Who knows, maybe he still is. I do recall I regarded him as an awesome fellow.

Somewhere deep in the vault, I still have a copy of that issue of The Chrysalis, but I cannot begin to calculate how long it has been since I have so much as seen it, much less opened it. I had completely forgotten, until discovering it today, that I had also contributed a pen & ink illustration to accompany the tale. As with so much of my creative output from the day, the drawing had potential, but I do rather rue the fact that, in so many instances, I tended to rush things in favor of procuring my next bag of weed, and it showed. Still, the critter pictured in the — unfortunately — rather poor reproduction of the art is the precursor to the Fugue Devil, which sprang from a night horror I experienced in my early teens. The novelette, "The Fugue Devil," at least, captured what I felt needed to be captured from that experience. It is currently available in the Dark Regions Press edition of Other Gods.

Still, that a number of impartial readers saw fit to honor this tale with a cash prize, not to mention publishing it in the magazine, to this day fills me with even measures of gratitude and resentment, since, truly, had I not won this contest, I probably would not have set forth on this rollercoaster life as a writer of fictions, which has brought no end of satisfaction, frustration, pure joy, and something like despair.

I've often wished I had been better at numbers.

Anyhoo, should any of you devoted readers care to have a look at the verbiage that constitutes one of this writers' earliest paid publications, go forth to the 1979 Edition of The Chrysalis and flip to page 23. I suspect you will survive, if not altogether unscathed.

Winston-Salem Rambling

Friend Suntigres (a.k.a. Bridget) has gone through a rough patch these past few weeks, having been hospitalized with lung problems. Happily, she is breathing again — mostly — so this morning, she, husband BigG7777 (a.k.a. Gerry), and Old Rodan (a.k.a. moi) packed up some portable oxygen and headed into the wicked wild lands south of Winston-Salem to hunt a few caches with relatively easy terrain ratings. I had anticipated going after a small number — like, five or six — but the lady insisted on keeping up the momentum, so we ended up with considerably more: an even dozen for me, and fifteen for my companions, since we stopped for a few I had claimed in days past.

Have you seen the cache?
Where's that confounded cache?

Highlights included a novel little cache at a picnic shelter behind a church. I swear I had already searched the spot where Suntigres located the container. Another was a cache hidden beneath a highway bridge, which required considerable searching down in Troll Land. The cache might or might not be in the condition it was intended, as it looked like there might have been more to it at one time, but find it and sign the log we did.

For dessert, we sought lunch at The Tavern in Old Salem, an authentic 19th-century-establishment that features locally farmed food; an extensive wine, beer, and cocktail list; costumed servers; and dinners by candlelight. (We had to forgo the candlelight, since it was, like, daylight.) The fare here more than hit the spot. For me, fried chicken livers with smashed potatoes and green beans, accomanied by a delicious bloody mary (x2). For the other folks, chicken pie with gravy, also with smashed potatoes and green beans. Gerry had a pleasant Riesling, while Ms. Bridget went with a Maple Old Fashioned, which I sampled —most delicious. I'm thinking that Ms. B. and I should have an evening meal at the Tavern, as it strikes me as agreeably intimate as well as rustic. The only downside about visiting Old Salem is that I have found all the caches there. Someone needs to get on the ball and place some new ones. Seriously, people.

And so it was. Till our next!

Suntigres and a nice chicken pie

The best little dead chicken organs around, I can tell you.

Water Under the Bridge

Old Rodan at Ferrum College with Vaughan Chapel in the background

These days, I spend a great deal of time in Martinsville, where I grew up, helping to look after my aging mom. When I'm there, it's a real treat for me to be able to get out and about on a geocache hunt, especially in the rural areas of Patrick, Henry, Floyd, and Franklin Counties. A month back, there was a nice caching event at nearby Philpott Lake (see "Cachin' Passion in the Parks"), and 20-some caches came out in conjunction with it. I've claimed most of them over the past few weeks, but I still had one of those left to find as well as a relatively new one at Ferrum College, where I went to school somewhere back in the dawn of man.

So this morning, I drove my favorite back roads up to Ferrum to seek "Water Under the Bridge" (GC82ZH8), located under a nice little footbridge on a walking path around the campus. Upon my arrival, I discovered a major to-do happening at Vaughan Chapel, not far from ground zero, so I ended up parking some distance away. However, as it was a perfectly beautiful morning, I enjoyed the opportunity to get in a little extra walking. The campus has always been scenic, but it's far more so now than it was in those dim, distant days, thanks to numerous renovations over the years. Entertainingly, on my drive up, Sirius XM radio was playing a trove of the songs that were popular during my interment. Stuff like Led Zeppelin's "Trampled Under Foot," Pink Floyd's "Time," and the Steve Miller Band's "Fly Like an Eagle." Man, talk about getting into the mood. Upon seeing Garber Hall, where I had several science and history courses, a rush of memories swept over me, for Garber Hall was also used for the student cinema, and it was there that I saw The Texas Chainsaw Massacre for the first time... an experience that culminated in the worst drunk of my entire life (see "Why I Don't Drink White Wine" for whole sordid story).

Not exactly a traditional signature, but in the
absence of a working pen, one must
sometimes improvise.

Once at ground zero, I dove down deep and commenced to hunting. I hadn't been there long, though, when a nice lady on a morning run noticed me playing troll, and asked if I was hunting for something. My response of "a geocache" drew an enthusiastic response. Turns out she works for the college, and we ended up having a lengthy conversation about caches, college, my writing career, dark lit in general, and folks we both knew or had known. Eventually, I found my quarry, only to realize I had discarded my non-working pen and failed to grab a new one. Since signing the log sheet is kind of a prerequisite for claiming a cache, I poked three holes in the log and took a photo of it to verify my find. Fortunately, I had a spare pen in the car for any further cache finds.

On the way out of Ferrum, I stopped off at the site of the old House Restaurant, where, back in the day, I frequently consumed massive quantities of pizzas, turkey subs, and cheap beer. There's very little left of the place, as it caught fire some decades back. A number of years ago, on one geocaching visit or another to Ferrum, I had managed to get inside and explore the ruins, although it's currently so overgrown and hazardous that I wouldn't even consider making such an attempt.

From Ferrum, it's not very far to Philpott Lake. In fact, during my college days, bunches of us spent considerable time at Horseshoe Point, Mines Branch, Ryan's Branch, Jamison Mill, and other recreation areas around Philpott Lake. My destination today was "The Guardian of Ryan's Cache" (GC86WN6), which I managed to find quickly.

Then it was back to Martinsville to run another few errands for Mom. I returned to Greensboro by way of Eden, where I was able to pick up a couple of newer caches. For tomorrow, there's a wee bit of additional caching planned with friends Suntigres (a.k.a. Bridget) and BigG7777 (a.k.a. Gerry). "I just can't get enough," as the song goes....

A frequent view during my Ferrum days. I lived in Riddick Hall (the left-hand building) during my
freshman year; Chapman Hall (the center building) during my sophomore year; and got kicked out of
Susannah Wesley Hall, the girls' dorm (the right-hand building), on numerous occasions.

Garber Hall, where I had several classes. The student cinema was also there, where I first saw
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Gross events followed.

All that remains of The House restaurant, where I once consumed massive quantities of pizzas,
turkey subs, and cheap beer. A few years ago, I went in and explored the ruins, but it's now
overgrown and too-near-collapsing to warrant any further such exploration.

A Nano on the Lake? Seriously?

The mad Arab, Abdul al-Rodan, taking a breather under bridge after having summoned
the Great Dagon from his lair beneath Lake Townsend in Greensboro

Why, yes... very seriously!

After a memorable and invigorating geocaching outing in Chapel Hill yesterday (see "Taberna Ferramentorum and Others"), three of the four members of Team No Dead Weight — Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie), Diefenbaker (a.k.a. Scott), and Abdul al-Rodan (a.k.a. Me) — gathered again this morning to take on a couple of paddle caches on Lake Townsend, in northeast Greensboro. Today, for our collective moniker, we opted for Team No Dead Fish. After waiting considerable time for Diefenbaker, who had made the mistake of listening to the lady navigator in his GPS and ended up at the wrong lake, we left the marina in our respective kayaks and made our way to "Goose" (GC807N1), a neat little hide placed by friend Punkins19 (a.k.a. Linda) about a half mile from the marina.

Then came the big paddle. From there, we had to go almost the length of Lake Townsend — over three miles — to "A Nano on the Lake" (GC7ZYGF), hidden by Skyhawk63 (a.k.a. Tom, a.k.a. Linda's Exceptionally Old Man). It is, in fact, a nano (a magnetic container about the size of a pencil eraser) attached to the sheath around the base of an electrical tower in the middle of the lake. It took some time and fair effort to get out there, but get there we did, and it wasn't long before we found the container, happily in good condition. Once we had scrawled "Team No Dead Fish" on the logsheet, we began the long paddle back to the marina.

For afters, we planted ourselves at Uptown Charlie's, my favorite destination for chicken wings. Their Suicide Sauce is the bomb, almost literally.

Today's lake journey was my second longest lake paddle, the longest being on Philpott Lake in Virginia, when I went after my 8,000th geocache in 2015 (see "All Alone in Goblintown"), and Ms. FDTS's longest. I'm fairly certain that at least one of us is going to feel the burn tomorrow. Maybe even from the exertion.

Tomorrow, it's back to the office... and such a shame. I've been going great guns on my latest work of short fiction, and I'd sure love to spend the day making forward progress on it instead. Alas, the sadness overcomes me.

And they're off! Diefenbaker and Fishdownthestair race toward the cache.

View from under the bridge at Yanceyville Road. Our destination is visible in the distance.

Almost there.

Taberna Ferramentorum and Others

That unusual-looking critter you see in the photo is a two-foot-long Hammerhead worm, the first specimen of which I've ever seen in the wild. Team No Dead Weight turned it up while hunting a geocache over in Chapel Hill this morning. Hammerhead worms are not especially dangerous to humans, but they do prey on earthworms, which are beneficial to humans. Hammerhead worms use a virulent neurotoxin on their prey, which actually dissolves the earthworms they catch. This particular chap might not be what I would term pleasant-looking, but it certainly was fascinating. That thing just kept extending and extending, appearing to actually grow longer and longer as it moved. We let it go on its way, although had I known at the time it doesn't really qualify as a dear friend to people, I might have had a somewhat different reaction.

Our team — Robgso (a.k.a. Old Rob, a.k.a. Bloody Rob), whom we managed to keep up with this week (see "Where's Rob" from last Sunday); the ubiquitous Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie); and Diefenbaker (a.k.a. Scott) — had determined to visit the North Carolina Botanical Gardens in Chapel Hill, as there are numerous geocaches on a host of trails in and around the facility. The day was miserably hot, but we made the best of it, as we found a number of intriguing caches, including one in the deep, dark catacombs underneath the local Trader Joe's.

We started out at a five-stage multi-cache — Taberna Ferramentorum (GCYZ2Q) — which we didn't realize had such a long history. It was originally placed in 2006, and it hasn't had many finds in recent years. It started out simple enough, but as we proceeded through the stages, which included Roman numerals etched on rocks and such, we found that time and weathering had done a job on the information we needed. By a process of educated guesses and pure intuition, we managed to make our way toward the final stage, which turned out to be at a very old, very secluded area back in the woods just outside the Botanical Gardens' farthest reaches. Completing this multi required no little time and a fair distance hiking, but we enjoyed the experience immensely, especially since we had to rely on some outside-the-box thinking to make the find. We also found Roberto, a beautiful, six-foot black rat snake, who seemed pleased to have some friendly visitors. We sat and chatted for a while, but the conversation was, admittedly, somewhat one-sided.

A neat old, abandoned bridge we encountered along our way. It's not far from collapsing
into Morgan Creek, it would seem.

Roberto

Three-quarters of Team No Dead Weight: Bloody Rob, Diefenbaker, Old Rodan

From here, we made our way to several other caches, most of which proved relatively easy to find. We had spent quite some time on the trail by this point, so we headed to Cerritos Cantina for a late (and very satisfying) Mexican lunch. Scott and I both had the Tacos Diabla, which, I will tell you, are not even a little bit not-hot. They are hot. We hollered for happy. And just hollered.

All day, Ms. FDTS had been clamoring to hunt an underground cache. The NC Triangle has plenty to choose from, most courtesy of Mr. Vortexecho (a.k.a. Christian) his very own self. And there was indeed one that looked tantalizing. It's been staring at me from the map for many years now. We did notice that it had not been found in almost six years, and you never know how a cache in an extreme environment is going to weather the years. But we decided it was worth a shot. I won't post the cache name/GC number here, although by way of deduction, I'm sure some geocachers might determine which one it actually is.

Old Rodan at the cache

Our destination turned out to be an underground passage, about 50 feet wide, into which Booker Creek flowed. Old Rob, being intensely un-fond of such grottoes as this, opted to remain outside, while Diefenbaker, FDTS, and I made our way into its shadowy confines. We had to walk on a narrow ledge along one wall, a few feet above the rather disturbingly deep water. The first thing we found inside was mud. Deep, slippery mud, all along the ledge. We also found lots and lots of huge spiders, which made for pleasant enough company, as long as they didn't try to hold our hands. After going some distance, we spied a foreboding object ahead — a long, narrow pipe that spanned the passage — which we suspected would host our quarry.

Indeed it did.

It was decided that Old Rodan would do the retrieval honors. Why, thank you so much, my friends. Getting onto the overhead pipe and scooting out to the container indeed proved physically challenging, but as we were this close, there was no way we were going to let this thing get away from us. I persevered, and a few minutes later, I had the container in hand and Team NDW scrawled on the log.

Then I had to make my way back to the narrow space by which we had accessed GZ. What fun! Scooting backward, I can tell you, is somewhat more difficult than scooting forward, particularly so close to the rafters, which constantly threatened to gong me in the head. Happily, Diefenbaker did a fine job warning me when I should duck. Soon enough, my feet were back in the deep, slippery mud, and we trudged once again into the hated heat and brilliant, blazing sun.

And that, my friends, is what geocaching was all about. After that experience, I felt enervated for a short while, but I've recovered nicely, and tomorrow there is a lengthy kayak trip on the docket. It's gonna be another scorcher too. Hooooeeeey.

And g'night.

Albert, a great big snapping turtle we made friends with at North Carolina Botanical Gardens

Team No Dead Weight

Where's Rob?

I am either holding a very small geocache or welcoming you to the
Island of the Burning Damned. One is as likely as the other.

Once again, Robgso (a.k.a. Old Rob, a.k.a. Bloody Rob) and Ms. Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie) joined up with me as Team No Dead Weight on this scorching hot May Sunday to hunt some geocaches, this time in Cary, NC, over near Raleigh. We had expected to spend a little while finding some quick park-and-grab hides and then hitting a nearby greenway to get in a nice hike. As is wont to happen on caching trips, things didn't work out precisely as we'd planned.

We did find a handful of neat hides, cleverly camouflaged and nicely placed. Then we discovered a parking garage.

I've had plenty of experience with parking garage hides. You tend to go up and down and up and down, trying to find the precise spot a tricksy hider might place a cache. This is a private garage, so we couldn't drive into it. Thus, we parked outside and hoofed it up to the highest level. We hunted and hunted, and even with some intel from a previous finder, we couldn't come up with it. Alas. But then we had to leave. We had entered the garage from the front of the building, then gone up several flights of stairs. We figured we'd go back out the same way.

Have you seen this man?

Somewhere on our descent, Natalie and I realized we'd lost Rob. What the hell, Old Rob? Okay, so we'll meet him at the car. We didn't recall how many flights of stairs we'd gone up, so we went down to level 0 and out the door. Nope, this is not it. Go down to level SUB-0. Nope, this is not it either. So back up to level 1. Sign reads "NOT AN EXIT." WTF? Go up to level 2. Okay, an exit, Weird fucking garage, man. Out we go and make our way to the car.

Where's Rob? Oh, dear, there's no Rob. We pull up to the front entrance, and about then Natalie's phone rings. It's Rob. "Where are we? We are sitting outside the front entrance waiting for you. Where are you? You don't know? Oh dear."

Rob promises he'll figure out his predicament and join us shortly. About ten minutes pass.

Me: "We should never let Rob try to navigate on his own."

Natalie: "We didn't do such a good job of navigating ourselves."

Me: "But we are here."

After a while, I place a long-distance call to Rob. "Hey Rob, have you discovered Fayetteville?"

Rob: "Well, I'm outside the building."

Me: "Whereabouts?"

Rob: "I don't know."

Me: "Do we need to call in a Search & Rescue Team?"

Rob: "I don't know."

Me: "Wait. I see you."

Rob: "Okay. Where?"

Me: "Where you are."

Rob: "Now I see you."

He did see us, and even got back in the car with us. Brave Rob.

After this adventure, we needed to find lunch, which we did at The Big Easy Oven & Tap. Gator bites, bayou shrimp, smoked brisket... good vittles and good beers, yes. Then we had a good many more caches to go after and somehow keep up with Rob. We did all this and more, and avenged one of those direful DNFs (Did Not Find logs) from a previous outing. Even got in a few entertaining physical challenges along the way. So yeah, it was all good.

Oh, crap. I think we've lost Rob again.

Rob? Hello?

There was a geocache inside the enclosed portion of a guardrail post. Rather than stick our hands in there
willy-nilly, we used our phone cameras/flashes to examine the interior. I don't know what the hell I'm seeing,
but I'm glad I didn't reach on in there to find out.

Follow That Dragon!

So here's the cover of Ameri-Scares Michigan: The Dragon of Lake Superior. There may be an adjustment or two to the colors, but this is pretty much what she's going to look like. Crossroad Press has not announced an official release date yet, but it won't be too long. I will, of course, post updates and any new information as it comes. In the meantime, here's a little something to whet your appetite.

#

On a hike along the shores of Lake Superior, thirteen-year-old Anna Hendrix sees a huge creature rise from the waters and—to her horror—sink a tour boat. Soon afterward, Jeff Griggs, also thirteen, encounters a similar but smaller creature in the woods around his parents' vacation house.

Unable to resist investigating, both Anna and Jeff venture into the nearby forests. They meet each other at a huge waterfall, where they discover a partially hidden cave. Inside it, to their surprise, they find a cave painting of a creature that resembles the ones they have seen. Suddenly, in a bizarre twist of time and space, the youngsters are transported to strange, unknown land, vastly different from the Michigan they know. Here, they meet a strange but friendly young man who calls himself Skyhawk. He claims to be a member of a civilization that can only be reached by way of the cave.

In this strange land, huge monsters roam freely. Skyhawk and his people worship the beasts as gods. But while the people of this land appear friendly, Anna and Jeff discover they hide a deadly secret. And the two youngsters realize they must somehow find their way back home before the passage between the two worlds closes forever.

The Dragon of Lake Superior

I decided to revisit some of my photos from my 2014 trip with Ms. B. to Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Somehow, I had forgotten taking this one from Lake Superior, while we were having a picnic at Chapel Rock. Go figure! I guess I'm getting old. But I dunno, maybe I could actually do something with it, like use it in conjunction with my upcoming Ameri-Scares novel, Michigan: The Dragon of Lake Superior, which I sent in to Crossroad Press a little while back.

You may read a few excerpts from the novel here:
Excerpt #1 from Michigan: The Dragon of Lake Superior (January 3, 2019)
Excerpt #2 from Michigan: The Dragon of Lake Superior (February 19, 2019)
Excerpt #3 from Michigan: The Dragon of Lake Superior (April 13, 2019)

A Visit to the Callamo Mountains

More Tales of the Callamo Mountains
By Larry Blamire
Bookaroonie Press
978-0-557-00564-2
193 pages/$19.45

I enjoy westerns, and I love my horror stories, so when I recently became aware of More Tales of the Callamo Mountains, by author/artist/movie maker Larry Blamire (perhaps best known as the mastermind behind The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra, The Lost Skeleton Returns Again, A Dark and Stormy Night, Tales From the Pub, and other moving picture treats), it seemed right up my street. This collection is actually his follow-up to an earlier volume, aptly titled Tales of the Callamo Mountains (2009), which I have yet to read, but I confess I chose to begin with this one because of its striking cover (which Mr. Blamire created his very own self). Since the stories in these volumes are standalone works, one can evidently read both/either/or of the books and come away altogether unconfused absolutely satisfied.

While Blamire might be best known for his visual humor and unique wit, his western tales, while often infused with whimsy, play mostly as straight drama. Vivid imagery and eerie atmosphere pervade his tales, whatever their respective plots and themes. The sheer horrific drama in the cover image — which does not illustrate any particular story in the volume but essentially tells its own — characterizes the tone found in most of the tales within: a sense of otherworldly dread combined with taut, exciting action. As with virtually all collections, the stories in this one weighed in at different points on the success scale. The best of them I would go so far as to call minor masterpieces, while the least of them I would term flawed but noble attempts.

At the upper end of the scale, "Heliograph Station #24," "The Valley of Capper Crabb," "The Man From the Fires," "The Room With Nine Corners," and "Bar None" all present encounters with dark, deadly unknown forces, told in a consistently assured and often understated narrative voice. As I mentioned upriver, most of these tales, despite their grim earnestness, feature a lightness of tone that accentuates the terror when it does come about. For the most part, Blamire eschews the trappings of more conventional western stories — gunfighters/gunfights, white hats vs. black hats, savage natives, and such — though a few of the stories include their share of these archetypes, to satisfying effect. Most of the characters the reader meets are townspeople, prospectors, ranchers, peddlers, occasional swindlers, and a handful of military officers. Even those of less-than-desirable moral character make for interesting, colorful centers of focus. No character, setting, or menace here would even dream of boring you.

Few of these stories offer any definitive explanation for the inexplicable creatures and/or events that appear in each. One simply accepts that the Callamo Mountains and surrounding environs are a haven for all manner of things dark, direful, and deadly. Thus, one can never begin to guess what to expect from story to story.

"Bright Hawk Takes a Walk" qualifies as my least favorite tale in the volume, but even this one hardly counts as a failure. It reads more or less like a fable (as do a few of the other tales), with a substantive enough theme but never quite jelling, as the more action-oriented pieces inevitably do. One piece whose theme and imagery would have hit on all cylinders is the final tale in the book, "Two Lone Riders," had it been told through the characters' eyes, rather than by way of a third-person omniscient narrator, and included at least a modicum of dialogue. However, yet again, the story's imagery and climax succeed in conjuring a little chill, so I consider the piece a far cry from failure.

My only quibble with the physical production of the book (via Lulu) is that paragraphs are indented and have extra space above and below, which tax my aging eyes more than plain, single-spaced, indented and justified paragraphs. This is admittedly a minor point and in no way impacts the enjoyment of Blamire's authorial voice.

However effective individual tales might be in More Tales of the Callamo Mountains, the collection intrigued and entertained me from start to finish. I shall look forward to delving into its predecessor in upcoming days. Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Damned Rodan's Dirty Firetinis.

Another Decade Down

And... whoosh! There go the fifties. Age-wise, I mean. Overall, it was a fine enough decade for this old man, very possibly the most eventful of my adult life. Above and beyond all else, for most of these past ten years, Ms. B., the nice lady pictured above, has been my partner in crime, and all indications are that we're bound for that great big house in the sky, or wherever, still bound together, somewhere in that unforeseeable (and hopefully distant) future. Apart from my mom's ongoing health issues and a slight decrease in this old machine's agility, life has held itself together as well as could be expected, sometimes even better. Or not. Maybe. Sort of.

As for the birthday event itself—yesterday—it was fair enough. I didn't take the day off from work to go geocaching, as has generally been my custom since I began the activity (at age 49; who'd have thunk I might have been at it so long?). Since Ms. B. and I are saving up our vacation time for an extended holiday down the road, it didn't seem prudent to blow a day off that I might need later. However, after work on Wednesday, I met friends Robgso (a.k.a. Old Rob) and Skyhawk63 (a.k.a. Tom) and snagged a nice first-to-find on a new puzzle cache in north Greensboro. And for afters, Skyhawk and I met his wife, Punkins19 (a.k.a. Linda) at a brewery/beer joint called Gibbs Hundred, which I had never previously visited—or even heard of, for that matter. But as one who rarely drinks beer anymore, I enjoyed it immensely, particularly since friend Tom was kind enough to spring for mine as a birthday treat. Chalk up another one for getting old, I reckon.

Last night, Ms. B. took me out for drinks at Gia: Drink, Eat, Listen, one of our favorite dining/drinking establishments. For dinner, we hobbled next door to Imperial Koi for sushi, which I quite loved. Once back at her place, we watched The Silence, a new Netflix release based on a novel by Tim Lebbon. It was fair, at best. It lacked development and character motivation, which I more than half suspect the novel does not. At any rate, the evening offered some much-needed relaxation, which was most welcome as I've been dealing with an ongoing issue with my mom's daily care—which, to my dismay, is still not sorted out.

At least the celebrations for these little landmarks make for pleasant times and nice memories. There's certainly no excitement about yet another measurable tick on the lifeclock. I confess I'm a little sad to leave my 50th decade behind, as it provided most of the absolute best experiences of my adult life. Some of the worst, too, but at least those don't overshadow the good. Not by a long shot.

And off we go, to take another step in the walk of the unknown. Until next time, I'm your host, Damned Rodan, saying....