Stephen Mark Rainey's Blog, page 50

Overhauled

Wednesday, June 23, 2021... a date that will live in infamy. The pic has clue enough, no need for more.

On the Do-It-Yourself-Renovate-the-Whole-Bloody-House front, progress has been made — at what physical cost, lord knows, since I hobble to bed every evening unable to remember what it was like to walk upright. Wednesday morning, I ended up taking a full carload of trash out to the local collection station, since it was piling up in the yard and both the trash and recyclable cans were filled beyond overflowing. Then I took a load of ancient electronics and several cans of vintage toxic sludge to the local hazardous waste disposal site. Disposing of waste is one of Greensboro's few strong suits, I will say. After the regular pickup of trash and recyclables, the city grabbed about a dozen metric tons of bulk trash from my curb. Now, did that that finally clear the yard? Why, not even close! There's plenty for at least another trip to both collection points as well as another bulk trash pickup. I tell you, though, after all this, I hope Brugger will be able to find a vacant corner of the house to plop her stuff once she crosses the threshold on a permanent basis. There is, for the first time in a decade here, some room to move in certain quarters.
After those labors, I pulled out the fire pit and put the torch to literally a hundred pounds of old paper bearing personal information, which has been filed away since I had more than a few live hair follicles. Near as I can tell, I sweated off a couple or three superfluous pounds. A few more fires like that on hot summer days, and I'll be downright svelte again. I hope I'm never again able to lay claim to such an abundance of fuel.
Today, after knocking off from the day job, I went to work in the downstairs bathroom (now known as the Kraken Room, since we put up a fun, tentacled shower curtain). Hung the new bathroom mirror, installed a snazzy light fixture that we picked up at Lowe's , and put up some shelves. This took a fair portion of the evening, but a lovely Manhattan helped motivate me. And I took a wee break to cook up a ghost pepper–sauced chicken breast that really generated some delicious heat.
You know, until I took to overhauling this old house top to bottom, I had never noticed how caddywhompus the damned thing is. Nothing meets evenly or symmetrically. In the bathroom, the centers of the sink and the light fixture on the wall are offset just enough to be annoying. In the kitchen, the center of the window above the sink and the center of the sink are about four inches off. One of the cabinets on the wall is distinctly crooked — or was, now that I have removed, painted, and remounted it. The fireplace is not centered between the front window and the front door. In the upstairs spare bedroom — formerly my office — no 90-degree angle exists. Anywhere. Makes me wonder if the folks who built Casa de Rodan also built Hill House.
It's tired out tonight, so I think that's about it. Tomorrow, at least, I anticipate some geocaching. At long last, yay! Before After (A lot more went to the dump than it looks like!)
New shelves, new lighting, new mirror in the Kraken Room. (I'm hoping I can make the whole thing
a Kraken House without get busted.)

Fear the Grassman!

GRASSMAN: THE OHIO BIGFOOTCrossroad Press has now released my Ameri-Scares novel — Ohio: Fear the Grassman! — in paperback. It’s also currently available for Kindle and will soon be released as an audio book.

THE STORY:
Five years ago, young Landon Shrewsbury saw something that scared him to death: a giant, shadowy figure lurking in the woods around his house. Something that left huge footprints in his yard. Now, at age thirteen, Landon has convinced himself he imagined the whole experience. But now, numerous people in Sugarcreek, Ohio, report seeing just such a creature. When his parents leave town for a week-long vacation, Landon is left in his older brother's care. And to his horror, the frightening, shadowy menace from his childhood returns. Landon, his brother Kevin, and his new friend Tami suddenly find themselves being stalked by the fearsome giant known as the Grassman. Now, the three of them must discover the reason for the beast's return—and find a way to stop its violent rampage—before they fall victim to its inhuman fury.

You can check out a couple of excerpts from Ohio: Fear the Grassman! here:

Ohio: Fear the Grassman! Excerpt #1 Ohio: Fear the Grassman! Excerpt #2 Order  Ohio: Fear the Grassman! from Amazon.com.

Worse Than Moving?

Current view of one corner of the living room. The whole house looks like this. Well, I dunno if the seemingly endless prep for combining households is actually worse than picking up and moving a whole house, but it’s gotta be pretty near. Ms. B. and I have gone from minor upheaval during the initial do-it-yourself painting/refurbishing phase to all-out holy horror as we prepare to have both painters and flooring people come in to complete the interior overhaul of Casa de Rodan. Brugger and I have spent most of the week cleaning out every nook and cranny (with some most welcome assistance from friends Terry & Beth), dumping what we can and reorganizing — or at least attempting such — the things worth saving. Most of her belongings aren’t even here yet, so where we‘re eventually going to fit everything is probably the biggest question of our lifetimes. And we still have a long way to go before this business is finished.
In the process of dismantling every neatly organized grouping of my personal belongings, I did find a number of things I had thought permanently lost, such as a cassette tape of my brother’s music and some artwork I did during and after college. I also discovered a couple of boxes full of copies of Deathrealm issues #20 and #23 — unopened — which I had no idea were even here. I thought all that stuff had been cleaned out long, long ago. Go figure. Anyhoo, I plan to keep a few extra copies of both, just for good measure, and probably recycle the rest.
Add to all this yet work on my brother’s house, which I managed to fit in this morning. I truly hope that place is now ready to sell and that it will move relatively quickly. While I was in Winston-Salem, I snagged a handful of geocaches this morning, which was the extent of the weekend’s caching. Friday night, Ms. B. and I did spend some quality time with authors/friends Stephen Provost and Samaire Wynne in Martinsville. Good company, foods, and drinks.
I hope I survive long enough to see all this in the can. A newly discovered box full of copies of Deathrealm #23, circa 1994. Cover by the late, great Lew Hartman,
back cover by Ian McDowell

Talking Dark Shadows on the Lovecraft eZine Patreon Podcast

Lovecraft eZine proprietor Mike Davis asked me the other day if I’d like to join him and author/Dark Shadows expert Rick Lai on the eZine’s regular Patreon podcast to talk about...you guessed it...Dark Shadows. You don’t think for a minute I would say no, do you?

It’s tonight at 9:00 p.m. EDT. To access the Patreon podcasts, you need to join up to support the eZine. It starts at only $5 per month, so you’ll probably not go broke getting the goods. Anyway, come round tonight to join the fun. It’s Dark Shadows, fer cryin outloud.

Walt Disney Comics Digest

When I was a young ’un, circa 1968–1969, I owned a bunch of issues of Walt Disney Comics Digest, some examples of which you see pictured here. Although a remarkable number of publications — books, magazines, and comics — have survived the decades, mostly in the attic of Pleasant Hill, apparently none of these did. For me, the October 1968 issue, pictured at left, is easily the most memorable, no doubt because of its Halloween theme. I was most taken with its Captain Nemo comic episode, as 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was a favorite novel at the time, and I believe had already seen the Disney movie at the theater.

I recently found a few copies of the Walt Disney Comics Digest online, so I decided to purchase them. Happily, the October 1968 issue was among them. I remembered these things being jam-packed with comic stories, ranging from zany to educational, as well as puzzles, mazes, jokes... just about anything an adventurous, inquisitive youngster would find engaging. And sure enough. At 192 pages each, these things are dense, with as much educational material as goofy Disney character escapades. And even the goofy Disney character escapades were generally well-written — entertaining as well as a tad challenging to the young mind. I remember spending hours with these things, and it’s really no wonder. Lord knows, I may end up spending hours with them at age 62.

I don’t know if there are comparable products these days; if so, I’m sure they’re digital. For all the virtues of digital products, I don’t know that they can engage youngsters on the same level these jam-packed adventure comics did back in the day. Maybe so. Kids may find all kinds of benefits in the digital world that I don’t see, simply because that’s not my world anymore. But I am sure enjoying revisiting these remnants of days gone by. And no way am I going to let these particular issues go the ways — whatever those ways might have been — of my old, original copies.

The trio of Walt Disney Comics Digest issues to which I availed myself A spread from “The Adventures of Captain Nemo: Doom Island”

Uh-Oh!

I’ve not drunk a Manhattan since sometime in the Cretaceous period, but while I was in Martinsville on Friday evening, on a whim, I decided to pick up the fixins and make one. Damn, it was good! And it made for good company while I went digging through some entertaining old memorabilia in the attic and elsewhere at Pleasant Hill. I dunno that it will become a new staple, but something tells me it won’t be nearly so long until I make the next such cocktail.
I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with the Manhattan — more the need to get out of my chair on the porch at the time and get the blood moving — but there is a good-size dogwood tree in the front yard that I have never climbed, and so I decided it was as good a time as any. So, yep, I climbed the tree and spent an enjoyable little while up there taking in the view right at sunset. Hey, it seemed like the place to be at the time.
Bright and early Saturday morning, I rode up Fairy Stone State Park  to hunt a new geocache (“ A Bench with a View #2 ” GC9BMGC ), which I managed to find readily. At that hour, there wasn’t much activity going on, although the beach was open for swimming. A few folks were already wet. As a youngster, I made many trips to the beach at Fairy Stone, but I don’t think I’ve been there for swimming (or paddle boating) for almost a decade, when Ms. B. and I spent a pleasant day on the lake. But for geocaching, Fairy Stone is a favorite and relatively frequent destination. Despite mounting heat and a brutal mosquito attack, I quite enjoyed the brief excursion. As I was going back to my car, I heard what I at first thought was a kid hollering “Uh-oh!” somewhere nearby. But then I realized it wasn’t a kid but a bird. My best information is that it’s a fishing crow, a critter I am fairly certain I’ve never heard before. Play the video below to give the amusing little fellow a listen. After that, it was back home to get to work on the home renovation — this time, removing, cleaning, and sanding the kitchen cabinets (at least a few of them this time around) in preparation to paint them. We had the new countertops installed last week, and they look quite lovely. Next step is the new flooring, which we ordered yesterday afternoon. What a job this is turning out to be, not that I ever had any illusions it would be anything else.
For dinner, friends Joe & Suzy came over, and we ordered pizza from Marco’s , which is, in my considered opinion, the best pizza in town. Needless to say, there was a wine aplenty, all good, both white and red. We took advantage of a reasonably comfortable evening to eat dinner and hang out on the front porch for a while before the mosquitos finally drove us indoors. The lighting from our phones provided a weird, possibly intriguing image of the gang Hallo, how are you, nice day
Naturally, this morning saw the No-Dead-Weight Irregulars — Diefenbaker (a.k.a. Scott), Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie), Old Rob (a.k.a. Old Rob), and Old Rodan (a.k.a. me) — getting together for a geocaching outing in Cary, over near Raleigh. We hiked the Hatcher Creek Greenway for several miles, picked up a few caches in other random, nearby areas, and had a dynamite Mexican lunch at Mi Cancun  restaurant — literally, some of the best Mexican food I’ve had in ages (street tacos with very hot & spicy chicken for me). There are plenty of caches left in the area to bring us back, so I suspect we will venture to Cary again in the near future for, hopefully, an equally enjoyable encore.
I anticipate the usual work week coming up, but potential stumbling blocks with Mom’s estate loom large, all the more frustrating because they’re neither of my making nor under my control. But if the worst happens, it’s going to add yet more complications to this endlessly complicated ordeal. It is altogether frustrating and unpleasant. I really, truly, cannot wait for this mess to end. To add insult to injury, I have been summoned for jury duty next month. What a fooking treat.
Otherwise, life is. The No-Dead-Weight Irregulars meet an angel in a graveyard in Cary Long, elevated boardwalk on the Hatcher Creek Greenway in Cary

Bill Vickers — Unforgettable

The relentless parade of death marches on, this week taking my favorite and most memorable teacher from my school days. William (Bill) D. Vickers was my tenth grade biology teacher at Martinsville High School (1974–1975), and I consider him among the most positive influences on my life — maybe the most, outside of my immediate family. Mr. V. was, first and foremost, a likable, well-spoken gentleman who showed respect to everyone — even when some of us scarcely deserved it. He didn’t tolerate any guff, but his personality was such that even the worst of us didn’t want to give him any guff.
In class, Mr. V. gave us all nicknames. I was Polo (you know, as in Marco). We had Sir Slab, Ms. Red Nose, Jaypee, Bonneville, and all kinds of other colorful names. In later years, he called my brother “Mark” — not after me, but after comedian Mark Russell, whom he said Phred favored.
Now, I can’t say as I remember shit about Gregor Mendel or the phylogenetic tree of life or the finer points of natural selection. But I clearly remember the labs where we evaluated the merits of evolution vs. scientific creationism (because in those days you could do this without setting off a holy war); debated whether marijuana should be legalized (and to what degree, be it medicinal or in general); and analyzed current social issues (such as whether we favored busing students to distant schools to fulfill integration quotas). Of course, we did actually study the more traditional aspects of biology, and to reinforce our learning, we regularly played games, such as Chalk Talks, which made the subject fun and, above all, memorable.
Later, when Mr. V. became interim principal at the high school, I would on occasion drop in to say hi, and he’d take time out of his busy day just to shoot the shit for a while. One day in the late 1980s, when I was living in Chicago but visiting Martinsville, I saw him coming out of church as I drove past. I stopped the car, we started talking, and that went on and on for some ungodly spell. Again, I’m sure he had other things to do, places to be, and people to see, but he never short-changed anyone his time.
I believe the last time I saw him was in the early 2000s, when his daughter was babysitting for friends Joe and Suzy. When he came to pick her up, once again, we ended up deep in conversation for a ridiculously long spell.
Martinsville Bulletin writer Holly Kozelsky interviewed me earlier today about Mr. V., and she did a bang-up job getting a lovely profile written and on the site in just a few hours. Here’s the link:

“ Peacemaker Bill Vickers: What He Did Was He Listened ”
I just wish I had been able to see Mr. V. again before it was too late. At least during those encounters with him after high school, I let him how in no uncertain terms how profoundly he had influenced my life. (I’m still working on those life lessons about showing respect to people who I calculate don’t rate any.) I trust there were many, many folks within his sphere of influence who share my better sentiments.

Bill Vickers — My Most Memorable Character

The relentless parade of death marches on, this week taking my favorite and most memorable teacher from my school days. William (Bill) D. Vickers was my tenth grade biology teacher at Martinsville High School (1974–1975), and I consider him among the most positive influences on my life — maybe the most, outside of my immediate family. Mr. V. was, first and foremost, a likable, well-spoken gentleman who showed respect to everyone — even when some of us scarcely deserved it. He didn’t tolerate any guff, but his personality was such that even the worst of us didn’t want to give him any guff.
In class, Mr. V. gave us all nicknames. I was Polo (you know, as in Marco). We had Sir Slab, Ms. Red Nose, Jaypee, Bonneville, and all kinds of other colorful names. In later years, he called my brother “Mark” — not after me, but after comedian Mark Russell, whom he said Phred favored.
Now, I can’t say as I remember shit about Gregor Mendel or the phylogenetic tree of life or the finer points of natural selection. But I clearly remember the labs where we evaluated the merits of evolution vs. scientific creationism (because in those days you could do this without offending a bunch of overly sensitive religious pricks); debated whether marijuana should be legalized (and to what degree, be it medicinal or in general); and analyzed current social issues (such as whether we favored busing students to distant schools to fulfill integration quotas). Of course, we did actually study the more traditional aspects of biology, and to reinforce our learning, we regularly played games, such as Chalk Talks, which made the subject fun and, above all, memorable.
Later, when Mr. V. became interim principal at the high school, I would on occasion drop in to say hi, and he’d take time out of his busy day just to shoot the shit for a while. One day in the late 1980s, when I was living in Chicago but visiting Martinsville, I saw him coming out of church as I drove past. I stopped the car, we started talking, and that went on and on for some ungodly spell. Again, I’m sure he had other things to do, places to be, and people to see, but he never short-changed anyone his time.
I believe the last time I saw him was in the early 2000s, when his daughter was babysitting for friends Joe and Suzy. When he came to pick her up, and once again, we ended up deep in conversation for a ridiculously long spell.
Martinsville Bulletin writer Holly Kozelsky interviewed me earlier today about Mr. V., and she did a bang-up job getting a lovely profile written and on the site in just a few hours. Here’s the link:

“ Peacemaker Bill Vickers: What He Did Was He Listened ”
I just wish I had been able to see Mr. V. again before it was too late. At least during those encounters with him after high school, I let him how in no uncertain terms how profoundly he had influenced my life. (I’m still working on the life lessons about showing respect to people who I calculate don’t much deserve it.) I trust there were many, many folks within his sphere of influence who share my better sentiments.

Memorable Memorial Day Weekend

Never do I forget what Memorial Day is actually about. Every year, I welcome the reminder to reflect on how those who gave their lives in the service of our country have helped shape the quality of life I enjoy every day, regardless of the trials and pitfalls that being alive inevitably brings. I expect few of us have not known someone, or multiple someones, who died in the country’s service. As a student of history, particularly military history, I believe it is paramount to understand the ideals and sacrifices made by those who have come before us.
That said, I feel no compunction about relishing life and the opportunities for joy on this day — or any other, for that matter — and this weekend has offered a welcome respite from numerous stressors, most specifically the brutally sad job of dealing with my mom and brother’s deaths. The resolutions for both estates are progressing in their ways, and the depth of grief, if not truly diminished, is generally more manageable than it was for some long time. Still, this is the hardest, most stressful time of life I’ve ever known, and the accompanying fatigue, both emotional and physical, has at times thrown me for unexpected loops. Add the stressors of the pandemic — now somewhat lessening, thank Yog, since I opted to bear the unthinkable risk of taking the COVID-19 vaccine (yes, that is a dig at you, some of you unconscionable fucks) — and it is fairly safe to say that, at the very least, life is not boring.

As for My World and Welcome to It, I did something on Friday evening I haven’t done in ages: stay up till the wee hours watching movies without falling asleep halfway through. These days, I tend to be vigorous until about 8:00 p.m., zonk for an hour, then get a second wind that lasts until about midnight, give or take an hour. But for whatever reason, the other night, 20-year-old Mark saw a resurgence, and somewhere around 11 p.m., I started John Carpenter’s Prince of Darkness, which I have not seen in at least three decades. It was about as I remembered: intriguing in its way, but not nearly as polished or engaging as Carpenter’s films that came directly before or after. Once Prince of Darkness  was over, undaunted by fatigue, I took to searching the Roku for something entertaining and, eventually, settled on Splinter (2008). This one struck me as the perfect late-night (roughly synonymous with “drive-in”) horror flick. This ran until damn near 3:00 a.m., at which time I contemplated starting something new. Alas, by then, the old body had begun to argue. I shuffled off to the bedroom and slept till almost 9 the next morning, which is not an “Old Mark” thing to do, not by a long shot. Generally, I am up far earlier, despite my most fervent hopes, wishes, and dreams.
Saturday morning, a couple of new geocaches awaited my attention, one of which was dedicated to friend Old Rob (a.k.a Old Rob), placed by devious friend Ms. Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie). This one took some serious hunting, in difficult terrain and oppressive heat and humidity. But find it we did, and thus earned the ever-dubious first-to-find honors. Afterward, I found another of Ms. FDTS’s new hides before returning to Casa di Rodan. Toward evening, Brugger and I drove Burlington way for another nice cache, and then we settled ourselves for wonderful dinner at Simply Thai in Elon. Following, we watched the 2009 remake of The Taking of Pelham 123. We had just watched the original, an old favorite of mine, a while back, so we wanted to compare. The new one wasn’t bad, not by a long shot, but it remains inferior to the original 1974 classic. American Gothic, the Creeple People edition
Yesterday, the No-Dead-Weight Irregulars — this weekend’s incarnation comprising the aforementioned Old Rob and Ms. Fish — headed to Winston-Salem, first and foremost to put the finishing details on my brother’s house so that it can be listed on the real estate market this coming week; secondly to hunt geocaches. Most happily, we avenged a couple of DNF (Did Not Find) attempts from a while back, and we discovered a loverly trail system in historic Bethania that includes an old mill and a scenic, serene graveyard dating back to the early 1700s. We had lunch at Village Tavern  in Reynolda Village , which has, historically, been one of our favorite destinations for mealtime on geocaching days. The food was its typically good self, but service was S.L.O.W. beyond the bounds of reason, considering the place appeared to have more than adequate staff for the number of patrons. Now, I am willing to give any establishment the benefit of the doubt for the occasional unsatisfactory experience, and given the number of places needing help, I wonder if there wasn’t some training of new folks happening at the time. That being the case, I am very understanding of the situation, and I just hope things will improve. No, Village Tavern has not struck out with me, not by a long shot.
This morning, a single Old Rob cache lurked out on the Owl’s Roost trail near  Bur-Mil  park, so Ms. FDTS and I met at 10:00 a.m. and hiked out to it. We managed to find the little bugger after a relatively brief search. Then we headed over to the nearby Palmetto Trail so I could perform maintenance on one of my really old hides (“ No Dead Baby Jokes, Please ” [ GC2YVWF ].
And that brings me around to where I am. Remember why Memorial Day is what it is; get yourself vaccinated, if you haven’t undertaken this ungodly monstrous risk; and try to treat your neighbor better than I do. That can’t be very damned hard. Old dude’s playhouse? Old dudes will play, after all. Abandon all hope, ye who enter. Old feller with one foot in the grave No wonder the British lost; Cornwallis’s road peters out after just a couple of hundred feet.

Secret Asia’s Blackest Heart

FROM THE PUBLISHER...
To many westerners, Asia might be considered an entirely different planet right here on earth. The ancient wisdom of its many cultures — some of it esoteric and fantastic — has been described by travelers like Alexandra David-Neel (Magic and Mystery in Tibet) and Madame Blavatsky (Isis Unveiled and The Secret Doctrine), who invited Westerners to imagine the existence of Asia’s deepest and most sinister secrets. Sax Rohmer, Talbot Mundy, John Taine, E. Hoffman Price, and so many others attest to this. Nor was H.P. Lovecraft immune to the lore of this fictive Orientalism. For example, the hidden Plateau of Leng was likely another name for Tibet. August Derleth set up his lemonade stand right next door, creating the shunned Plateau of Sung in Burma, where the terrible Tcho-Tcho People planned their mischief. Lin Carter joined the game, contributing his own Plateau of Tsang. There seemed to be room in the vastness of Asia for all of them and more. The title of the present volume is a phrase taken from one of Carter’s Mythos tales, and it nicely sums up the general theme.

Some of these stories are set here in the West, but they derive their horrors from imported Asian traditions. Others actually take place in Asia. All are fascinating and full of wonder and dread. Our gurus of gore and and lamas of lore include the likes of Ann K. Schwader, Stephen Mark Rainey, Don Webb, Michael Fantina, Joseph S. Pulver, Laurence J. Cornford, and Pierre Comtois.

Secret Asia’s Blackest Heart, edited by Robert M. Price and published by Sweden’s Timaios Press, features my story, “The War Lords of Leng.” Check it out at Amazon.com here.