Stephen Mark Rainey's Blog, page 95

That Which Ought Not Be

I bet you think you're looking at a very red-tinted photo of Droolie up there. Not exactly. You're looking at a very red-tinted photo of something that ought not be.

Look down near the left-hand corner of the pic. There's a dark, solid-looking round thing on top of the covers, which — given the position in which I was lying in the bed — would have been resting on my stomach. And clearly visible to me, as my head was propped up on the pillow, just out of view of the camera lens. It looks like a hockey puck. Or perhaps a lid to an insulated coffee mug. Its left edge is reflecting the lamp light from the nightstand. It casts a shadow.

I took this photo of Droolie the other night and was just going to delete it because the lighting was so funky. But then I noticed that object in the corner. And it's no use, I've got to post this: at the time, there was nothing there. Nothing like that rested on the covers, in the bed, in my bedroom, in my house. In that bed, there was Droolie, and there was me. That dark object, whatever it is, was not there.

I was on the phone with Ms. Brugger at the time, and I immediately remarked to her, "What the hell is that thing?" In no way does it appear to be an optical illusion — no gap in the covers, given some sense of dimension by the lighting. There's no weird trick of perspective, evidenced by the fact that the focus is consistent across the frame.

There was nothing there. Given where my head was in relation to that object, there's no way I could not have seen it, if something was actually there. There wasn't. Subsequent photos revealed nothing on the covers, so I didn't save them. I tore apart the bed — the whole room, basically — to see if some object, something which might explain that, might reveal itself. Nope.

So I'm left with a photo of something I can't explain, and while you may have no reason to even believe it, I'm telling you God's honest truth: there's something in that photo, and I cannot account for it. No doubt there's some prosaic explanation, but I don't know what it could be.

Mainly, I have this fear that some ghostly hockey player, somewhere, is missing his puck, and may be in foul humor over it. I'm pretty sure I don't want to meet him.

Fun With Copperheads

'Twas a lovely day for Three Old Farts — Diefenbaker, Robgso, et moi — to venture forth to Hillsborough for a bit of geocaching, chowing on BBQ, and snake hunting. Well, we didn't exactly set out for the latter, but we did chance upon a happy little copperhead lounging on the trail near the Old Oconeechee Speedway. He attracted some crowd of onlookers, but Diefenbaker helped him get across the trail without ill effect to either snake or to hikers.

I've encountered numerous copperheads at close range over the years, and thankfully, much like black widows — our other most common venomous creature around these parts — they generally do their best not to chomp on you. My favorite encounter with a copperhead was about four years ago while caching in a wooded area not too far from home. I was making my way down a rocky hillside toward a creek that flowed into a long culvert, which I had to enter in order to reach the cache. I stepped on a large, loose rock, and what should emerge — or perhaps I should say erupt — but the biggest copperhead I had ever seen, with a body over four feet long and a good two inches in diameter. It shot like lightning into the creek below and vanished from my view.

Realizing the snake could have easily chomped on me had he so desired, I was a little reassured that he was more keen on putting some space between us. The pipe I had to enter lay about twenty feet upstream, and I hoped at this point that my lengthy friend might have proceeded downstream. Undaunted, I made my way into the dark pipe.
[image error] Old fellow on guard for No-Shoulders Joe
Nope. Sir Copperhead has gone inside the pipe to mope, and now finds himself incensed that the tall dopey creature, rather than fleeing screaming, is entering his domain. Snake, curled up some ten feet away, takes it upon himself to lunge at me, forcing me to back up a few steps. Fortunately, the creek is full of large rocks, so I heft one of them and chuck it into the water in front of the snake, hoping to deter him. Oh, no, he'll have none of that. In fact, by now, he's kinda mad at me, so he lunges again, this time stopping only a couple of feet short. I grab another rock, shove it at him, and this time, he's splashed up into the air and comes back down in the water six or seven feet away. He coils up to gather his wits, and I take this opportunity to vacate the creek, hoping he hasn't called in his friends as reinforcements. Thankfully, no, so we bid each other cheery farewells, all is forgiven on both ends — well, at least on my end — and I promise not to return until hibernation season.

Just last week, Ms. B. was taking her trash out and nearly trod upon a baby copperhead reclining on her carport. They really do seem to enjoy our company, but I don't recommend petting these nice little guys, however great the temptation.

The rest of today's geocaching expedition was fun enough. We got in several decent little hikes in the woods, found a night cache in broad daylight, and enjoyed some first-rate beef brisket at the Hillsborough BBQ Company. Bumped my total number of finds up to 9,027.

Ta ta.
Another happy little copperhead Ms. B. and I came across on a greenway in Chapel Hill a while back And then there was this gourmet critter, chowing on a cricket on my front porch last night [image error] Just passing by here today, on our way to a night cache in Hillsborough [image error] A couple of old farts I was caching with today. And you thought snakes were dangerous! [image error] We discovered an overgrown bench in the woods — pretty much not where one would
expect to find a bench in the woods.

Horror at the The Daily Grind

As many of y'all know, scary fiction and music are among my passions, and while I work at creating the former almost daily, it's less common for me to break out the git-fiddle and make a scary racket. Still, now and again I am known to do this thing and inflict some lovely pain and suffering on an unsuspecting populace. So shall it be this coming Friday, September 16, at The Daily Grind in Martinsville, VA. From 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM, The Daily Grind is holding a Songwriters Showcase for local musicians to perform some of their original compositions. Now, I haven't written music in decades, but there was a spell back in the 1980s and early 90s where I composed a fair number of guitar-and-vocal tunes, many of them — I'm sure your shock is palpable — featuring scary themes. Come Friday, I'll be performing a few of them.

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

Just for good measure, here's a video from two or three years ago of Ms. Brugger and me belting out our version of October Project's "Bury My Lovely," though — sadly — she will not be in attendance this coming Friday. And too bad for me, as she improves my stage presence by a couple hundred percent.

I want all your garmonbozia.

Q: The Winged Serpent

Back in the mid-1980s, I think it was when I lived in Chicago, I caught the video of Q , a stop-motion-animated monster flick written and directed by B-movie guru Larry Cohen ( It's Alive , It Lives Again , Island of the Alive , The Stuff , The Phone Booth , et. al.). I thought it was reasonably good fun, but I never saw it again afterward, and pretty much forgot it ever existed. A couple of weeks back, the movie's name popped up on my computer, I think while browsing titles to add to my Netflix queue. I figured, what the heck, I'd give it another look, as I do love my B movies, especially the flicks I remember from the heyday of the drive-in movie theater.

Now, I never saw Q at the drive-in, but this one is consummate outdoor movie fare. It came out in '82, when drive-ins were already on the decline, so it missed the glory days of the prior couple of decades, but as pure shlock, Q fits right in with the best (or worst) of the grindhouse pictures of the 1960s and 70s. From the opening notes of the score by Robert O. Ragland ( The Touch of Satan , The Thing With Two Heads , Grizzly , et. al.), you can smell the popcorn and exhaust fumes. The film's production values are anything but extravagant, but its Manhattan setting offers some intriguing scenery, everything from intimate shots of its seediest backstreets to panoramic aerial views of New York City in all its splendor. There's enough gore and coarse language to justify its R rating, at least for its day; some entertaining, if sparse special effects; and... Michael Moriarty.

A handful of other recognizable names/faces appear here — David Carradine, Richard Roundtree, Candy Clark, and Eddie Jones — but Moriarty, one of Larry Cohen's staple performers, chews and chews his way through this movie, playing manic-depressive two-bit crook Jimmy Quinn, who, despite more than plentiful foibles, might just become the savior of the Big Apple. I recall during my first viewing of Q , way back in the day, it struck me as mostly too talky, with people scenes aplenty and monsters too few. But with the perhaps questionable benefit of age and experience here, I can tell you that Moriarty — a reliable talent in countless movies and TV series — is a joy to behold, his character offering up dizzying mood swings, ridiculous soliloquies, and an almost likeable manner, despite needing his teeth punched out in every other scene. It's Moriarty more than the monster that drives the movie's momentum, such as it is, and it can safely said that, without him, there probably wouldn't be enough here to justify paying for the popcorn.

It goes like this. People are disappearing from unlikely places — window washers from their precarious 40th-floor perches, young women sunbathing on rooftop terraces, construction workers from high-rise girders. At the same time, several mutilated bodies turn up, all bearing all the hallmarks of Aztec ritual slaughter. NYPD Detectives Shepard (David Carradine) and Powell (Richard Roundtree) are at first baffled, but with the help of young Quinn, who, during his escape from a bungled diamond store robbery, sees the murderous beast up close and personal, they piece together an unlikely scenario: someone is conducting ritual murders in order to placate the fearsome Aztec serpent god, Quetzalcoatl, who has decided to pay the Big Apple a big old ugly visit. Indeed, the winged serpent is alive and quite animated (courtesy of David Allen, Randy Cook, and Peter Kuran), having taken up residence in the uppermost reaches of the Chrysler Building.

Once it's ascertained that the beast exists, they need a plan to destroy. And who should come up with the means to do so but our all-but-failed, mostly cowardly hood, Mr. Jimmy Quinn.

Larry Cohen enjoys his police procedural stories, and Q 's extensive police drama is well enough done, with Carradine and Roundtree occasionally expending a modicum of energy in otherwise dry, two-dimensional roles. At one point, after a particularly close call with the monster, Carradine glances at his partner, looks momentarily bemused, and then says, "Big!" with a little chuckle. I don't know whether the scene was ad-libbed, but it does present a welcome moment of spontaneity from someone other than Moriarty.

With Q , it goes without saying you're not getting sophisticated entertainment, but if you're a fan of stop-motion animation, the critter is right fun, and for the people scenes, Michael Moriarty — with the tiniest bit of help from Carradine — adds energy by the bucket load. I'd put this movie neck and neck with The Crater Lake Monster for cheap, fun, late grindhouse–era entertainment. Not one I'm likely to watch again anytime soon, if ever, but at least it made for one evening of solid amusement.

Three out of five Damned Rodan's Dirty Firetinis.
The winged serpent scouting for an appetizer Jimmy Quinn has a brilliant idea, or a million. Have a heart, Mr. Aztec High Priest dude! Unlike many reptilian monstrosities of our acquaintance, substantial amounts of
small arms fire inflict Q with a case of heartburn.

Cache #9,000

It's hard to believe I've been geocaching for over 8 years; it still somehow feels like a "new" activity to me. I discovered it in late 2007 and found my first cache in the spring of 2008. For several of these "milestone" caches, I've headed after some particularly challenging or intriguing hides, such as "Dr. Evil Visits Mebane" (GC2B9TZ) for #5,000; "Another DAM Skirt Lifter" (GC3W0G6) for #7,000; and "All Alone in Goblintown" (GC1EAWF) for #8,000. However, as it's proven to be something of a pain in the tail trying to plot an outing in advance while finding just the right number of caches in the interim, I decided to let #9K fall where it may. As it was, there was a relatively new cache not too far off the beaten track — "Mt. Bubba" (GC6PQAA) — so I went after it yesterday afternoon. Quite by coincidence, I had gone after "Dr. Evil Visits Mebane," #5K, on September 1, 2012, which means I've had a perfect average of 1,000 caches per year for the last four years. Apparently, I'm slowing down in my old age, since prior to that, I was averaging 1,500 to 1,800 caches per year. Actually, it's mainly because I have to go so much farther afield now to claim caches I haven't already found. That and time flies so much faster now than it used to....

Now, on the writing front, I've been really cranking it these past few weeks. I just finished new short stories — actually, fairly long stories — for a pair of anthologies I was invited to, the second of which went out to the editor last night. If you've checked in here recently, you've probably seen that Young Blood , my novelization of the Smith Brothers' indie vampire flick, was recently released, and that Return of the Old Ones , featuring "Messages From a Dark Deity" is on deck.

Lots to do this weekend, some fun, some the usual responsibilities with Mum. At least it's a long one.

Laters.

A New Smorgasbord From Dark Regions Press

Dark Regions Press is officially announcing three new horror anthologies, including Return of the Old Ones (edited by Brian M. Sammons), which features a right scary little tale of the Cthulhupocalypse, titled "Messages From a Dark Deity," by this old man. Dark Regions is kicking off an Indiegogo campaign for all three books, with a regular smorgasbord of perks and extras, much like their highly successful campaign for World War Cthulhu (which featured another of my Cthulhu Mythos tales, "The Game Changers"). The other two anthologies are You, Human (edited by Michael Bailey) and The Children of Gla'aki (edited by Brian M. Sammons and Glynn Owen Barrass).

"Messages From a Dark Deity," takes place during the days leading up to the eve of global destruction, seen through the eyes of an investigative journalist. As the world around him becomes increasingly more bizarre, he attempts to deny the evidence of his senses, attributing the horrors he witnesses to some kind of hysteria, but Nyarlathotep — the messenger of the Great Old Ones — refuses to allow him even this dubious comfort.

The fantastic cover work you see above is by Vincent Chong. For more details about all three anthos and their attendant perks, visit the Dark Regions Indiegogo campaign page. And here's the promo video — knock yourself out on these visuals.

Why the Female of the Species Is Deadly

Druid Hills School in Martinsville, VA, where I learned that females can be deadly
In nature, it's plain that the male members of certain species operate at a clear disadvantage. After mating, many female spiders turn around and eat the unfortunate chap that just did his part to help propagate their kind. Some male insects, the poor sods, will mutilate their own genitals to improve their chances of surviving an encounter with a female. Oftentimes, the human female has been known to up and stop the heart of an adoring male, simply with an approving word or touch of a gentle hand.

It was the mid 1960s, I was probably in second grade, and Mum and Pop had allowed me to ride the mile or so to Druid Hills Elementary School on my bike for the first time. Most of the kids in my neighborhood were already riding their bikes, and I was feeling the peer pressure to keep up. Now, I could already ride a mean bicycle. I could pop wheelies with style; ride long distances with no hands; go down steep hillsides, hit a jump ramp, fly out into the air, and land without mishap. A regular daredevil, I was.

Getting to school that morning was great. I was proud as a peacock as I turned my little red spyder bike into the school parking lot for the first time. I could just feel the eyes of every young lady on the premises watching me and bursting at the seams with admiration for my clear pedaling prowess.

But it was that afternoon, when the final bell rang, that my true chance to shine arrived. All the kids were coming out from their classrooms, some bound for buses, some for their parents' cars, some for the sidewalk to walk home, and some — like me — for the bicycle rack. Out there, I think I engaged in conversation with a couple of third and fourth graders who'd ridden their bicycles, confident they would no longer look down on me because, by god, I was on my bike. What a great feeling that was. But it was as I went pedaling out of the parking lot and down the street toward home that I saw my opportunity to impress not just any ordinary people but girls.

Yes, it was Ellen Hundley and Nancy Carter walking down the sidewalk, and my young heart went zooming into overdrive. If I pulled this off, I knew they would never again look on me as a wee little shrimp of a fellow.

So I pumped those pedals, picked up speed, and took my hands off the handlebars. I passed them waving and shouting, and I think they both smiled at me, which spurred me to pedal faster. Faster.

It was then I turned around and saw that, somehow, a parked car had gotten in front of me. I hit the brakes, but it was too late. BAM! BOOM! THUD! CRUNCH! Over the handlebars I went, up onto the trunk of the car, over the side, and onto the asphalt. Holy god, the pain. I saw more skin on the road than on my arms. My head felt like a cantaloupe that had split open, and probably looked like one, with what few brains I possessed spilling out onto the pavement.

Ellen and Nancy walked on by, giggling. I think a passing adult took a look at me and asked if I required medical attention. I just shook my head and motioned for them to go on because there was no way I was going to try to explain what had just happened to anyone. My bike's handlebars were bent and the chain had come off, so I worked everything back into place and pedaled on home, where my poor mom nearly had a heart attack at the sight of me. I told her a dog had chased me and I had fallen over. I think both my folks were a little concerned that I couldn't really describe the dog or where it had happened, but in the end, I healed up, and I went on to perform all kinds of daredevil stunts on my bike, quite successfully as long as no women or parked cars got in my way.

But after that, you'd best believe that I had a pretty healthy fear of the human female. Two of them had damn near killed me.

I'm Not an Idiot... Just Dedicated

Damned Dedicated, Dripping,
Demented Rodan
I suppose some might argue with the title statement, but in any event, it was like this (and yes, it is a geocaching tale):

I was heading up to Martinsville from Greensboro for my regular visit with Mum. Earlier this week, a new cache had been published just outside of Martinsville, and, much to my surprise, no one had yet claimed the first-to-find. So, never one to let an opportunity go to waste, I took the scenic route and ended up in a field behind a Dollar General store, under skies filled with swollen black rain clouds. And no sooner had I gotten out of the car when the bottom fell out. Big rain, folks, and Damned Rodan was out in it hunting a cache. Not only that, but plunging through a brier-filled pit full of all kinds of flora and fauna with which reasonable people rarely care to interact. This did not seem at all consistent with the cache description, which indicated the container was hidden in a location "accessible to persons of all physical ability levels." Not this spot, I can safely say.

It dawned on me then that the name of the cache — and some details in the description — suggested that the little beast was, in reality, hidden a couple of lots over. So I hoofed it on over to the business there, explained I was a geocacher, and that I understood there was a cache on the premises. The very kind gentleman, whom I assume was the owner, pointed to a spot on the map on my phone to indicate where I might actually find the cache — about .16 of a mile away from the posted coordinates.

Well, what's a little rain? Back out into it I went, and within seconds, I was as waterlogged as if I'd been dunked in a swimming pool. Nothing for it but to make the hike and hope the gentleman's description was good.

It was. Far better than the original posted coordinates.

Thanks to dogged determination (not stupidity), I managed a nice first-to-find on the cache. And if you're fond of golfing, I'd suggest paying a visit to this business — The MiniPar Driving Range & Par 3 Course — in Horsepasture, VA. Good folks there, beautiful area, and a geocache, whose coordinates will hopefully be corrected by its owner in the nearest of futures.

Wetly yours.... Damned Rodan

Hot Water

Holy cow, the water in Belews Lake, in Forsyth County, NC, is hot. Hot, I tell you. For years, I've heard about the hot water in Belews Lake, but I experienced it myself for the first time today, and it was uncanny. It's because of the coal-fired Duke Power plant on the lake, which uses the lake water for cooling, and then discharges the super-heated excess back into the lake.

Ms. B. and I received a very kind invitation from geocaching friends Tom (Skyhawk63) and Linda (Punkins19) to join them for a day of geocaching, wining, and dining on the lake in their motorboat, and we were not all that put out to oblige. We had each scheduled days off from work, so we headed out fairly early to meet them at the Piney Bluff access area near Stokesdale. Soon enough we were rip-roaring out on the water, bound for the first of a baker's dozen caches hidden along the roughly 88 miles of lake shore. Some we were able to snag without getting out of the boat, but the first time I dropped into the water, I just about let out a holler.

The air temperature was around 90 degrees today, and the water temperature was well in excess of that — even a few miles out from the power plant. No exaggeration, it was like stepping into a hot tub. The lake never freezes even in the bleak midwinter, when the water temperature averages about 60 degrees. These days, the water is relatively clean, with a healthy supply of fish, though it took roughly 25 years to recover from a massive fish kill around 1978 when selenium — a deadly poison — was found to be leaking into the lake from the plant. Still, when the water temperature is so abnormally high, it tends to make one wonder just a bit. Common wisdom is to keep Belews Lake water from getting on your car because it will permanently mar the finish. Needless to say, we didn't guzzle any of the stuff during our excursions off the boat.

But quite a nice day it was. We claimed a fair number of caches, which put my current total number of finds at 8,962. We enjoyed a bottle of decent wine, a picnic lunch on the boat, and some extra-fine company. There are still a few hides out there left to find, so it would be delightful to make another lake outing in the not-too-distant future.

Maybe in January, when a dip in the water is anything but a brisk polar plunge.
Good refreshment to go with a picnic lunch Hauling! Skyhawk63 sometimes drives with his eyes open, facing the front of the boat. But not always. All that remains of an old bridge from days of yore

Evil Friends

Sheer madness at Silver Fork WineryI tell you, Ms. Brugger and I have some evil friends. On occasions, certain of them will force us — or at least coerce us — into going out and doing things in public, social things, things that are fun, things like hanging out together, having decent food and wine, seeing cool places, even getting in some geocaching. How is one supposed to be successfully mopey, depressed, and hopelessly off-kilter when you've got friends like that? It's damned tough.

This time, it was Terry and Beth, and they made us go to Asheville, NC, with them. They did the same thing to us last summer, and I had just gotten around to forgiving them that one. Ms. B. and I departed Greensboro yesterday morning, bound for Lake James Cellars in Glen Alpine, out in Burke County, where we planned to meet. I had targeted a handful of geocaches along the way, but for reasons I will graciously decline to discuss, Terry and Beth ran a bit late, which meant there was time to kill, which meant more caching for me, which meant more torture for Ms. B. (so at least there was that). Passing through the little town of Valdese, we found ourselves in the midst of a massive street festival. According to the town website, "since 1976, on the second Saturday in August, Valdese hosts an annual festival to celebrate the 'Glorious Return' of the Waldensians from exile in Switzerland to their native valleys in the Cottian Alps of Italy in 1689." Well, I hope the return was glorious, and I will say that I quite enjoyed what I saw of the festival as well as a couple of the very nice caches there.

Onward to Lake James. Here, we finally confronted our nemeses and made them ply us with wine. Very good wine at Lake James, I will say, particularly their Cabernet Franc. The building has a great big front porch, perfect for picnicking, so we picnicked, all right. Then we ventured forth to visit the scenic Silver Fork Winery, not very far away. Also some good wine there, if a bit higher priced than most in the region. Their Four Dog Red Blend, made with Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet Franc and Petite Verdot, is their standout dry red.
I saw her hanging out on a street corner with some
kind of strange thing, and I said, "Damn."
So, then it was off to Asheville with us. After we had settled in our respective hotel rooms and plotted and schemed, we Uber'd our way into downtown, where we immediately headed for one of our favorite haunts from our last trip: the Cork and Keg bar at The Weinhaus. There, we enjoyed a nice Tempranillo, alas, sans liver or other organs from unsuspecting victims. Since Terry and Beth have relatively recently discovered the joys of Thai food, we went for dinner to Suwana's Thai Orchid, which was quite good in general, though the Crying Tiger I had did not measure up to the Crying Tiger at a couple of our local Thai establishments. For afters, we wandered the town for quite a while before settling in for a bit of Garnacha at the most excellent Battery Park Book Exchange and Champagne Bar, where they have books by the thousands and wines by the score. I, and probably Kimberly, could have spent more time there than most reasonable people would appreciate, but we didn't. Regardless, by the time we were done there, it was getting well into the night, so we opted to sit on a bench and listen to a trio of talented young musicians (a couple of whom looked to be about ten years old) cutting loose with guitar, drums, and upright bass. Eventually, the Uber man came back around to pick us, and we bid the day good-night.
A couple of the women-folk in the Grove Arcade
I was up fairly early this morning to grab a couple of caches near the hotel. Our gang went for the hotel's complimentary breakfast, and then we headed back into Asheville proper. Ms. B. and Beth had their sights on some shopping at the Grove Arcade, an architecturally spectacular public market full of eclectic shops and a couple of restaurants. Last year, we had enjoyed the fare and ambiance at Sante Wine Bar & Tap Room on the premises, so we opted to try it again for lunch today. They have these intriguing little pizzas there, and we tried several of them, our unanimous favorite being the Ham and Fig, which features figs, prosciutto, Holly Grove chevre, balsamic drizzle, and an olive oil base. We were also impressed by their selection of "Big Ass Chewy Red Wines," so we chewed our way through a few. And since Ms. B. and I have recently taken to making some mighty fine pizzas of our own, we may try our hands at a figgy pizza thing ourselves.

And, well, it wouldn't be the proper outing for the ladies without some antiquing. We discovered there was this great big-ass Antique Barn not far from Biltmore Estates, and the men were given little choice but to transport the women-folk there. Happily, there was a cache right on the grounds — aptly titled "Old Place" (GC3Q8E0) — and it was nicely done, memorable enough for me to award it a favorite point. Because it was a scorcher of a day, the giant antique barn, open to the elements as it was, could have doubled for a human BBQ smoker, so we decided not to stay long enough to become someone else's picnic.

It was all around a fine time, not that we would ever wish such a fine time on any of our friends. But then, we are not the evil ones.
The view from our table at the Battery Park Book Exchange and Champagne Bar Uggh. It's them again. At the Battery Park Book Exchange and Champagne Bar Interior of the Grove Arcade market A particularly fine example of patriotic sculpture found at Big-Ass Antique Barn in Asheville