Downtown Where All The Lights Are Out

I had to buy gas this afternoon in anticipation of an early morning trip to Big Flat City tomorow to purchase a new shower/tub. (Don't even ask!) Earl the Truck's heavy drinking is beginning to take a financial toll, so I took my camera along to give me something to look forward to after the gouging. I wandered around my side of town for a while, taking a few shots that have been niggling at the back of my mind for months as I drive past these places.







These shots are from an abandoned church in the barrio.










I, uh, found one of the two scooters that live here in Fake Cow.



Love this guy's ingenuity. That junked car has been there for at least a year. He just painted the sign a couple of weeks ago.




Fake Cow is a dead and dirty town in a lot of ways. But underneath the disinterest and neglect there is some interesting stuff. When we come home from a trip, we always wonder why we continue to live here. But, truthfully, cities bore me after a while. Trees and mountains are nice, but they give me claustrophobia after about a week.


I like being able to see the weather approaching for at least half a day before it gets here. I like knowing the cars belonging to the people who have business out on the little road where I live and being able to pick out a strange car as soon as it turns off the highway. I like being able to hear the train, but only at 3:00 a.m. because it is a mile away and the sound carries so well at night. I like finding exciting new ways of threading my FM antenna around the bathroom so that I can pick up a scratchy version of Morning Edition while I'm getting dressed.

I like laughing at the unimaginative marquee at Taco Bell which says simply "Jesus". They are attempting to keep up with the Joneses next door at the chicken joint who excel at insipid religious marquee writing. (They had the prayer of Jabez posted on that sign for almost a year. I couldn't figure it out for months. Every time I drove past all I could think was "WTF???" Mindy finally explained it to me.) I like being deeply concerned with whether or not the band will stretch its years of consecutive sweepstakes to 75-ish, even though I don't have a kid in band.


I like the gold of the corn stalks in the late afternoon sun, even though they cause me much grief and snot. I like knowing that no one is having any luck with tomatoes this year and that it's not just me. I like how we tell distance in hours, not miles. (It's an hour to Cool City and 45 minutes to Big Flat City. My parents have moved only a half-hour away. Takes five hours to drive to Dallas. We don't even bother driving to Houston, because when the distance is greater than 8 hours, you just damn well oughta fly.)



I like the way we all cheered at the news that somebody had filed for divorce and her worthless husband was looking for work in Dallas. "Good riddance," we all said. "They'll kick his butt in Dallas." I like that every story is preceded by the complete pedigree of all the major characters. And some of these pedigrees are real doozies!

I think I'll stick around for a while yet.

Two Words for Ya:

Admiral Stockdale.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Jackson and I were on our way back from Dallas when I took this photo. We had failed to make a turn and were up about 30 miles off course when we finally realized what we'd done. We made this discovery just as we came upon a small town cemetery. Of course we stopped.



As usual, we drove slowly through the graveyard before we actually stopped to take any pictures. When we came up on this stone, Jackson stopped the car and we just sat and stared, open-mouthed. Finally one of us said "That doesn't really say that...does it?"



It does.



The stone marks plots belonging to two families. They list both family names on both sides of the stone. Those with the top name are buried behind the stone. The bottom name are in front. I have some misgivings about posting this, because I don't want to offend anyone. But my better judgment seldom, if ever, prevails in these moments, so, here it is:






















Eventually.























Way on down the page.

































I'm watching the Obama speech. "Eight is enough! Eight is enough!" And what the hell was the deal with MSNBC reading half the damn speech before we got to hear Obama give it? That was just wrong. I really like Keith Olberman, but c'mon! He ain't Barak. Chris Matthews really gets on my nerves, but I love Rachel Maddow.














Oh wait, where was I?


















Here it is:

How do you spell Kolachi?

This picture is from last Saturday morning. Jackson was, shall we say, less than thrilled that Katie and I got hungry at the ungodly hour of half past nine and dragged him out of bed and over to Mi Mexico for the Breakfast of the Aztec Gods.



He survived. And Katie got to test the camera on her new cell phone. Notice how Jackson continues my brother's tradition of wearing his place of employment on his chest at every possible opportunity? Unfortunately, you can't really see my shirt, because it's way cool. A close up of Alan Rickman. Bought it at Hot Topic. I know how jealous you all must be.



This Saturday is "something completely different".



Sometime this week Mindy will tell you the story of our newest business in town - an independent coffee shop. The story is damned hysterical and she tells it so well. We're a little behind the curve here when it comes to cultural relevance. But we do try and the results are sometimes hilarious.



Katie is out of town this weekend, and I'm not pushing my luck with Mr. Happy Face two Saturdays in a row, so I'm hanging out here this morning, trying to make do with a steamy cup of earl grey until he drags himself out of bed.



I am having the bestest time.



Fake Cow is not a college town. Even though we have a university which is a major employer and economic powerhouse (well, maybe economic powershed?) this is so not a college town. So, when Starbucks opened a store here on the interstate about two years ago, we all scoffed at their overpriced coffee and knew in our hearts that it was the beginning of the end for that particular franchise. And yes, our Starbucks is on the list for the first round of closures as they try to pull back and salvage some threads of their corporate dignity.



So, this week, when the new coffee house opened, it has been drawing college kids in the evenings like flies to roadkill.



Early Saturday morning is such a different story.



When I first got here, there was a bit of a line. The person in front of me was a professor that Ester and I decided years ago was most likely to be the corpse in a Murder She Wrote episode. Not because he's a bad guy, but because if you were casting a college professor, you couldn't find anyone, anywhere, who fits the stereotype any better.



Within moments there were a few other happy stragglers cuing up for muffins and chai. Saturday mornings bring out the old folks. And me. Which means... Oh, never mind.



Anyway, I'm sitting here, still enjoying the cuppa, when the guy at the bar calls to his wife - "Stace! Get out here!" We all followed his gaze out the huge windows that line the front of the place. The old guy in the booth next to me drawled loudly, "Oh gawd. This is turin' into a biker joint." We all laughed.



A gang of gnarly-lookin', white, middle-aged scooter-riders (Scooter-ers? Scooteristos? Hell's Errand Boys? I don't know what to call them.) were carefully lining up their candy-colored rides in a bad-ass line in front of the old diner.



They have flames on their helmets.



I honestly didn't know there were more than two people in this town who owned scooters. Motorcycles are another story, but scooters? Not s'much. We're on a slippery slope now, it appears. If this keeps up, the gins will stop handing out gimme caps and the John Deere dealership with start selling golf carts.



What's next? Restaurants with salad bars?



Pray for us.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Frame Of Reference

Katie has been turned to the dark side.

They did it in less than two hours. It started simply enough - an invitation to dinner. Dinner for all the brand new, incoming seventh graders at church. I felt a cold chill go down my spine as I drew the innocuous looking sheet of grey stationery from the envelope. I knew it was from the church, but it was signed by...

dum - duh - DUMMMM

...the Youth Minister.

Horrors!

It was only two hours, a hamburger, a board game and some wii bowling. How bad could it be, I thought? I was so wrong.

She was a 12 year old when I dropped her off. She was in Junior High when I picked her up. When we got in the car, the first words out of her mouth were "OH my gosh! This is so random! The boys were, like, so retarded!"

She's been Stepfordized.

I was still reeling when she totally switched tracks - "Are we going to church tomorrow night? Please, please tell me we're going! Even though we're not officially 7th graders until next week, they're going to let us go to the youth service tomorrow night. With the band! Please can we go?"

I considered weeping.

Eventually, in an attempt to steer the conversation into less treacherous waters, I asked how the meal was. It was good, she said. And she drank a Dr. Pepper.

"That's cool," I said. "You just can't go wrong with Dr. Pepper."

"Yeah, but I didn't know until later that they had Coke. I would've had a Coke."

"What are you? Some kind of communist?" I was rather shocked.

"What do you mean?"

"You're a Texan. All Texans drink Dr. Pepper. It's like the law or something!" My incredulity knew no bounds.

"Well, I guess I'm not a Texan," she said archly.

"Which makes you a communist." My logic was razor sharp.

"No I'm not! I'm...I'm..." wheels turned and wood burned as she searched for an answer. "I'm Chinese!" she finished triumphantly.

Once I explained why I was howling with laughter, she said "Oh yeah? Well, then, I'm gonna be from Korea!"

I could've wrecked the car. When I explained that one, she then said, "Well, fine! I'm gonna be from Russia!"

I thought I was going to hurt myself.



Guess I'll be going to church tomorrow night.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

The title of this photo should be "Thank God For Photoshop". I took this photo in Dallas. Dijea pointed this statue out to me. It's a beautiful monument and in wonderful condition - no broken wings or fingers. It marks a classy little family plot.

But those flowers? They're fake. Bright yellow and blue plastic, a la Wal-Mart. Hideous. Roses and poinsettias, I think - not exactly a naturally occurring combination. The most dead thing in a cemetery? Plastic flora. More so than ceramic fauna.

Just say no to fake flowers.

Back at home and back at work.

Dallas is indeed a hellacious place in August, but it's survivable. Humidity is an amazing thing. Give me dry and dusty any day! (Any day in August, anyway...)

The conference I went to has generally been some of the best training that I attend in an average biennium. This year was slightly different. A few years ago, in the midst of one of those governmental shakeups that happen every so often just to see who's staying awake, the Texas Commission on Alcohol and Drug Abuse was officially kaput-ed. Bits and pieces of their operation were taken over by a brand new, made-up, state agency with a ridiculous acronym. (The agency's big-wigs threatened the employees with disciplinary action if they referred to the agency by the term "dishes" which is basically what the acronym spells.)

Over the past couple of years, the people who administered the training were either forced out or decided they didn't want to play anymore. This time there was a whole new team running the program.

Shake-ups aren't necessarily a bad thing. I'm generally a fan of change. I know all about those "last seven words" *.

But...

The first speaker pridefully informed us that this training now complied with all - ALL - applicable state rules and regulations. Talk about a kiss of death! As a result the training was thoroughly and predictably horrible.

Thankfully, there were plenty of things to do after the classes ended each day. Jackson seldom made it back to the hotel before 10:00 or 11:00 at night, so I spent my evenings on blogger blind dates. The first was with Dijea.

We had a fabulous dinner at a Salvadoran restaurant. Just the thought of it makes me hungry. (Or maybe that's because it's supper time and we forgot to turn on the crock pot this morning!) Dijea has some wonderful stories - she kept me laughing the whole time. I felt like I'd known her forever - it was a great blind date!

Then she took me to a wonderful cemetery in downtown Dallas. Dijea has a great eye for photography and we had fun traipsing among the tombstones. Some of them were beautiful and some were just odd. I've got some great new material for cemetery blogging. One of her shots from that evening is posted on her blog. Check it out.

The next night I hooked up with a whole posse of revgals. We spent hours in an Indian restaurant, eating, drinking and laughing. I'd never had Indian food before, and I might be a convert. Which is bad, because there is basically NO Indian food to be had in this part of the state. We think Indian food is basically dried buffalo jerky and flatbread.

Dogblogger and Alpha, Mid-Life Rookie and Gifted/Talented, Mary Beth, Elastigirl and the Vicar of Hogsmeade were every bit as fun as you would think. When I got back to work, everyone wanted to know how the meetup went. I told them it was just like having lunch at work - nonstop laughter and instant camaraderie.

I was a little late for dinner because I drove by the place three times before I found it. That was ok, because on the third pass, I had a lovely conversation with a terribly exuberant Asian man in a big white SUV stopped next to me at the traffic light. Evidently I have a very friendly twin by the name of Misty living somewhere in the metroplex. I didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't me.

My conference ended on Wednesday; Jackson's classes continued through Thursday. We returned my rental car Wednesday night and I rode along with him the next morning to his venue. I was going to explore downtown while he did his thing.

He had to be at the Hyatt Regency by 7:00 a.m., so we paid for parking and he headed off to class whiled I wandered around downtown. I wandered the streets for a while, watching the sun come up between the high rise buildings.

I cursed the humidity yet again when I first took my camera out of the bag. It was wet! I cleaned the lens and then tried to take a photo of the old red courthouse. The lens fogged up again before I could snap the picture. It turned out to be kind of a cool effect. I was getting sort of hungry, so I found a man taking out the trash and asked him where I could get a good breakfast. Garbage guys are always a wealth of information as well as surprisingly jolly people and this guy was no exception. He directed me a couple of blocks over to a good breakfast spot.
The restaurant was just opening up for the day. They hadn't even turned on the air conditioner. It was ungodly hot. Sweat was trickling down my spine while I ordered a couple of breakfast burritos and a diet coke. I decided to take 'em to go, since it was cooler outside. After collecting my repast, I hit the streets again. I wandered through the bus stops in the West End. The juxtaposition of wealth and poverty there is sort of mesmerizing. People came in hordes from every direction, trying to catch their ride to work. They carried sacks or bags and stared either at the ground or at me. Just one block away, people - mostly men - were arriving from the suburbs to their jobs down town. They carried briefcases and newspapers. They stared either at the ground or at me. I found a bench right in the middle between professional world and manual labor world. I shared the bench with a passed out guy. You can see him in this photo - below the walk sign, wearing white, sorta slumped on the bench. The burritos were bigger than I expected, and I was considering waking him up to offer him the second one, but I figured that wasn't really a very good idea. While I was snarfing my breakfast and managing not to spill hot sauce on my shirt - which was easily the most incredible event of the day - people continued to stream past us on the way to catch the bus. Without warning, one of them plopped down on the bench between Sleeping Beauty and I. (He didn't seem to mind. Or even notice.) The lady who squeezed in amongst us didn't have anything to say. She was carrying a tote bag and an almost empty bottle of orange soda. She sat there for a moment, surveyed her surroundings, then reached into her bag. She pulled out a whiskey bottle wrapped in a paper bag. I recognized the label, because I'd seen one just like it in the cemetery a couple of days before. She proceeded to fill the soda bottle with whiskey. There was just enough of the orange drink left in it to mask the color of the whiskey. Once that was done, she hopped up and hoofed it down the street to the bus stop. I finished my breakfast, then explored a while longer. You can see and appreciate tons more stuff when you're on foot. For instance, I had never seen the gargoyles on top of the old courthouse before. Have you? The courthouse wasn't officially open yet, but I snuck in through an unattended door and hung out with the security guard for a while. He was a fun guy who hooked me up with some trivia about the building. I figured he was way more interesting than the museum itself, so I left before actually taking a tour. It wasn't just past 8:00 a.m. and I was already tired of the sweating. So, I took a seat on the benches by the fountain in Dealey Plaza and watched the cars go by. It was cool just to watch people and pick out interesting details in the buildings around me. Eventually I decided to move, so I walked a little further on, close to the Dallas Morning News building. There was a fountain there that had a real Mary Poppins vibe. You'll be relieved to know that this did not make me sing. I snapped a few more pictures before heading back down to the Hyatt for the frozen comfort of their lobby. I passed this bit of electrical engineering which reminded me of the War of the Worlds. But, maybe that's just me. All in all, I had a great time. Maybe we can go back again before long. Hopefully in the WINTER.




* "We never did it this way before."

Friday Cemetery Blogging

It's still Friday for another half hour or so.


That gives me just enough time to post a picture I took in Dallas.





Let me know how this looks on your browser. I'm having trouble - maybe? - with pictures appearing darker on the blog than they do otherwise. I know this is pretty subjective, but does it appear too dark to you? It's supposed to look gloomy, but not totally midnighted!


I had a great time in Dallas - especially on a couple of fabulous Blogger Blind Dates that I will have to tell you about later. But now, I'm goin' to bed!

The road to hell...

I flew into Dallas this morning.

It was a full flight and being one of those people who don't print their boarding passes until the morning of the flight, if at all, I was in one of the later boarding groups. I managed to find a seat in the front of the plane, squeezed between a couple of female readers.


The aisle reader was a lady I'd noticed in the terminal. She was reading serious literature. She wore socks with her sandals, a denim skirt and her graying hair was in a thin, fuzzy braid that snaked down to her shoulder blades. You've seen this woman, right? You can always trust 'em to be perfectly compatible seat companions. They just want to read.


The woman in the window seat was younger. Short black hair. Kicky black framed glasses. Pale skin. Indecisive. She brought a copy of Cosmo, and a skinny paperback; both of which she ignored as she flipped through all the printed material that was in the seat back pocket in front of her.


We were a very quiet row.


As we began our descent, I put my book away and looked past the pale girl and out the window. Two reasons for that. One, I can't read when the plane is bouncing as it always does on its way down to the ground and two, I always play a little game in my head during landings. It's called "Can I Survive A Fall From This Height?" No real rules, just sort of mentally estimating my chance of survival. My estimates are admittedly unrealistically optimistic, but that's probably normal for us superhero types.


Anyway, as I was looking out the window, the pilot made a weird turn that made the plane feel like it was pivoting on the left side wing. (Port? Starboard? I think port, but I wouldn't put money on it.) Pale girl dropped the sky mall magazine and grabbed for the armrests.


No sooner had he straightened out, than the pilot dipped us violently to the other side. Pale girl was even more so.


I smiled at her and finally spoke. "Nothing like coming into town at a freakish angle, is there?"


"Nope," she said with a nervous laugh. "I really hate to fly."

I smiled at her again, hopefully encouragingly. By now we were very close to the ground and the plane started to dip back in the other direction. I thought I would make some small talk to help take her mind off the landing. I glanced back out the window.


"Hey look! We're flying right over the cemetery!"






Not helpful. Soooo not helpful.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Feeling a bit faded? Washed out? Worn thin? It happens.

I'm actually feeling great, but the muse decided he needed a vacation and has deserted me without even the promise of a postcard. The lazy bum. He hasn't really produced anything worthwhile in weeks. He claims he's stressed out and unable to work under such conditions. I think he knows he's on thin ice with me and he's trying to pull some sort of a drama queen act or maybe he's making preparation for an ADA claim if I try to fire him. Either way, I'm not impressed.

Next week I'll be out of town. Going to training in Dallas. And getting to meet some cool bloggers while I'm there. I even have a date to meet a stranger in a cemetery. A first for me and I'm feeling way all French Connection-ish about it.

This afternoon I think I had a life-changing experience. I reached out to grip the arms of my desk chair so I could stand up and usher someone out of my office. When I touched the metal on the underside of the arm, something shocked me. It hurt - a lot! I never ran into static electricity with that kind of lasting effect before, which made me realize that it couldn't have just been a random electrical discharge.

It must have been a radioactive spider bite!

Yep. Spider bite for sure.

I've been waiting all evening for my superpowers to show up. So far, nothing. But I feel certain that by dawn I won't need glasses, except as a clever disguise, and I'll be able to fly. In which case, I'll probably take a day off from work.

"We've got both kinds - Country and Western"

We spent the weekend at Caprock Canyon. We got lucky because Jackson and I didn't get around to making the reservations until last Monday.

Jackson called the park and spoke to the Rangers...

J: "Is the drive-in movie open this summer?"

Lady Ranger: "Yessir! It sure is!"

J: "Do you know what they're showing this week?"

Lady Ranger: "Well, I'm not real sure. I drove by there the other day and, well, I know those are good folks that run that place. I think their sign said somethin' about showing some movie called Hell-somethin'. I just couldn't believe those folks would be showin' a movie like that."

J: "Uh...was it maybe Hellboy 2?"

Lady Ranger: "It sure was! That was it! What do you reckon that's about?"

J: "Its based on a comic book. Is that what's showing this week?"

Lady Ranger to co-workers: "Hey! Do y'all know what's showin at the drive in?"

Guy Ranger: "I saw the sign, but some of the letters were missin'."

Lady Ranger: "What did it say?"

Guy Ranger: "Wall and then somethin that started with E. I guess the rest of the letters got blown off the sign. It's been windy."

J: "Oooo-k. Well, thanks for your help. See you this weekend!"

Hellboy 2 was still showing. The Spooky-Jackson Entertainment Review Consortium rated this movie as Extremely Lame. Do not waste your time or money. Read a comic book instead.

The dog liked it, though. She was incredibly well-behaved. She's never been camping before and she had the time of her life. She enjoyed the movie, but swimming in the lake is now her favorite thing on the entire planet! Better than food! Better than sleeping! Better than licking her privates! Yay for swimming!

She pretty much slept through the whole movie. We should have followed her example. It was a better use of two hours.

And yes, the dog is wearing three collars. She's a slave to fashion.

This is the only wildlife we saw this time.

The colors in this canyon are really incredible.

I'm pretty sure Sand Pirates buried their treasure somewhere in the canyon. Yep. Pretty sure.

Don't you want to go camping? Caprock Canyon is definitely off the beaten path (and evidently isolated from all major media outlets) but the peace and quiet are so worth the drive.

Random Stuffs of Monday Madness

Anybody besides me going to be in Dallas during the first week of August? I have to go to training for the drug education class I teach and Jackson will be in town starting work on his Phd. He's getting a doctorate in digital basket weaving or something like that. I think we're staying in Richardson. If you're interested, holler at me and we'll figure out a time to meet for dinner or something.



I'm still kicking around a really pitiful little problem. I can take free classes at the local university since Jackson works there. I have to take night classes. Or online classes. But I have no idea what to study. I am so damn tired of psychology - I have zero desire to get a Master's degree in that particular discipline. They don't offer a Master's in Criminal Justice, and I don't think I would want it if they did. There is some sort of masochistic Master's degree in Public Administration, I think. I also think I'd rather stick hot pokers in my eyes than take those classes. I have no desire to administrate the public. I've kinda been kicking around the idea of an English degree, although I have no desire to teach. What else does one do with an English degree? (I'm thinking I may need to order the Prairie Home Companion's English Majors collection for use as some sort of discernment tool.) I'd really love to take art classes, but they offer very, very few of them at night. So, you can see my dilemma, no? Free liberal arts education and no real desire to take advantage of it. Tragic, isn't it? There may be starving children in Africa, but I can't be bothered with that! I have to decide how to attain a graduate degree with the least amount of effort possible!



My niece is spending the evening here while her parents take in the new Batman movie. (Highly recommended by the Spooky/Jackson Entertainment Appraisal Consortium, by the way.) Jonboy and Mindy (not THAT Mindy) seldom let her stay here when she was shorter. They feared our influence, no doubt. Unfortunately the tides have turned. The Pink Child got Barbies on my carpet. Now I'm gonna have to vacuum. And probably disinfect.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

How crazy of a week has it been when I forget that it's Friday?

Totally, completely forgot.

Darn it.

So, here's a quickie cemetery photo that hopefully I haven't posted before.

I've had this photo for months and I think this is a really classy headstone. Every week as I go through my photo files, this one is always begging to be used. There is a really perfectly witty little comment out there that fits perfectly with it. It's just that I've never been able to figure out what it is!

Do you have any ideas?

Answer to Another Question

Presbyterian Gal asked about my favorite B movie horror flick.


I don't know that I really have a favorite. They're all the same, you know.


I'm a fan of all the old classics - Bela Lugosi and Lon Chaney. And of course Vincent Price. I love everything Vincent Price ever did. (Even that Discover Card commercial where his wife talks about how they spent their 'reward' rebates on "a little something for Vincent". Anyone else remember what they bought?) (I love his voice too. If you have a chance, check him out as The Saint in old time radio programs. Pure silk, I'm tellin' ya.)


The best of the crappy horror flicks were made in the fifties and early sixties. That was when the genre was really into morality plays and such. I guess they were hoping to save those over-heated souls in the backseat of the cars at the drive-in.

The horror movies rules really take hold in these years, too. You know the rules - the first couple to have sex seal their fate and die spectacularly early in the film. There's always one dark-skinned dude and he always outlives the sleazy light-skinned chick. The virginal blonde may work as a logger or a rescue diver or something, but she will twist her ankle towards the end of the film and will not be able to recover in time. The stoners survive longer than the sluts, but not a lot longer.


Usually I just rent these cinematic gems when I'm in the mood to watch them. However, I do own a few; one of which is Carnival of Souls (got it for .49 cents on clearance at the video store - imagine that!). It's a great story told in black and white and makes absolutely no sense. It starts with a classic scene...

Three young ladies in the front seat of a car. They are laughing and talking animatedly - probably about, gasp!, boys. The car careens down the road, being driven too fast - obviously by a loose woman. The other girls are putting on - grimace - lipstick. And all three of them demonstrate their preference for damnation by listening to 'rock-n-roll' music on the radio.


The heavy black sedan crosses on to a bridge. It swerves unexpectedly and plnges nose-first into the judgmental river below.

Cut to a scene of solemn-faced officials watching as the mechanical carcass is pulled ashore and divers dredge the river bottom for bodies. It has been hours since the accident. The general feeling amoung the men appears to be that it was a terrible, if not wholly undeserved, tragedy.

Suddenly the crowd becomes even more hushed as the heroine - a platinum blonde with straight seems in her nylons - emerges pretty much unscathed from the depths of the river.


Following her freakishly miraculous escape, she decides to leave home and move to another town to take a job as church organist. I kid you not. Church organist.


The city is not unlike the one she left, yet she is haunted by nightmares and images of the suspiciously abandonded carnival on the edge of town and the zombies that inhabit it. The ghost carnival somehow summons her spirit, drawing her into a twilight world that dangles on a thread between life and death.

Well, not really.

I don't really know what the carnival does. The movie stops making sense at this point. It is gleefully misedited and just sort of ends for no apparent reason. Sort of like this post.












Well, not really.

There is a fairly new remake of Carnival of Souls out there. It's a remake in name only. No mention of a church organist anywhere in it. The remake tries too hard to make sense and relies on such nonsensical devices as plot and narrative. It fails miserably. Don't waste your time on it. Stick to the 1962 version.







I wrote this in between innings at the softball game. (Katie hit a home run.) As I sat there making marks in my little black notebook, I kept hearing some guy back behind me calling to someone. He was repeating a name over and over. Poor man. I wondered why he was being ignored. He kept calling - "Miz Fairly-Common-Name! Miz Name-That-Rings-A-Bell!"


After several shouts,I finally realized why the name was so familiar. He was talking to me! He was calling for "Miz Married-Name"! Hell, I've been married for nearly nine years and I think this is the first time anyone ever actually called me that. (Neither Jackson nor I changed our names when we got married.) Poor little guy now thinks I'm either stupid or a complete snob.

There is yet another game tonight. Maybe Ichabod and I will have time to work on another question.

Answering a Question

Bunny Bunster asked about my favorite author. There is no way to narrow it down to just one. I've mentioned before that I'm addicted to English country house murder mysteries, so pretty much any of the classic crime writers of the early twentieth century could qualify as favorites.

Bill Bryson has to be somewhere near the top of my list of favorites, too. His work makes me laugh louder and longer than just about anything else I've ever read. We come from different generations, but much of his experience as a child growing up in middle America mirrors my own experience. Or at least the feel of my experience. I love his attitude towards life. Anything he writes is gold, from travel memoirs to stories of his life to his side-splitting book on English grammar and his short biography of William Shakespeare.


As much as it pains me to admit it, Jane Austen is another of my favorite writers. It's sad but true. I am not a romance reader but I can't help but love her books. I like how such massive and pivotal things happen with just a few simple words between her characters. She has an occasionally cynical view of humanity as well as a good natured sense of humor that make her stories fun to read.

I tend to crave quietness and subtlety in my free time. My work environment is normally loud and crass. I'm accustomed to working in a boisterous setting and that is perfectly fine with me. I wouldn't change it. But when I'm away from that and looking for something to read, I gravitate towards Austen's restrained and whispery world.

My favorite of her books is probably Persuasion, but her best humorous scenes are in Pride and Prejudice. The sadly comedic picture she paints of the whole Bennett family is dead on perfect. I think I have met Mrs. Bennett several times in my life. And she is almost always - regardless of her particular incarnation - married to a Mr. Bennett.

Truthfully, whatever I'm currently reading is my favorite. I just recently finished the original Zorro story, compiled from the pulps of the 1930's. Loved it. (I have a bit of a thing for costumed vigilantes, or hadn't you noticed?) Now I'm starting a new retelling of the legend - Zorro by Isabel Allende. Her touch seems to be just perfect for this story. I've not read any of her other works, but I'm thrilled with this one so far.


My current unfavorite author is Caroline Graham, the creator of the Inspector Barnaby mysteries. (Do you love Midsomer Murders on BBC?) I just finished two of her books in quick succession. I was in a crummy mood when I read the second one and was incensed to find that in the end Barnaby was unable to arrest the murderer. He knew whodunit, he just couldn't prove it. It was very realistic of course, but who needs that? There is far too much reality in the world already.


Graham is actually an excellent writer. Her continuing characters are almost secondary to the intricate communities she weaves for each of her books. I'll read more of her work later, I'm sure.


So, is that way more than you ever wanted to know about what I like to read?

Friday Cemetery Blogging

It's raining here. It never rains in July, but the sky has spit and sputtered at us all week. I fear tonight is the last, however. I have a flaming thunderbolt of a headache, which usually means the weather - or at least the barometric pressure - is changing.

My muse refuses to make an appearance while the head is pounding. Can't really blame him. I wouldn't be here myself if I didn't have to be. Hopefully next week things will be back on track with the writing.

I could use some inspiration, so I think I'll borrow a page from Mindy's book and ask if you have any questions you'd like answered. Anything? Ichabod the Muse sees all and knows all. (Well, not really, but if he doesn't know, he'll make stuff up.)

How was your weekend?

This sign is why I love Cool Cool City. There is stuff like this all over this town. We followed the road, just to see... There was only an abandoned helium plant at the end. It was very Men In Black with it's uniformly painted buildings all dilapidating in the same uniformly peeling way. There were slightly mysterious bits of machinery all about and slightly innocuous real estate signs posted on the security fence. And the US Department of Interior and the Dim Arts signs posted inside the fence were suspiciously new. Their bright blue paint clashed with the weird peach and orange color scheme of the buildings.

We were on our way to a movie and didn't have time to stop and explore. But maybe next time. (And, uh, if you're willing to help post my bail once I'm arrested for trespassing on Homeland Property, please let me know.)

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Pearl Pickrell was a twin.

Her brother Percy was the black sheep of the family. He ran off to join the Merchant Marines a couple of days after a young lady and her father drove over from Mobeetie to speak intensely with Pearl and Percy’s parents. The ladies sewing circle was abuzz with that news for several weeks thereafter.

Pearl didn’t have her brother’s gregarious personality. She and her twin looked an awful lot alike, which didn’t do Pearl any favors. What came across as slender and alabasterish in Percy manifested itself as skinny and sallow in Pearl. Percy was scholarly. Pearl was bookish. Percy was earnest, Pearl was desperate. She never quite measured up.

After the unpleasantness which resulted in the banishment of the prince of the realm to watery parts unknown, Pearl blossomed slightly. It was nothing really noticeable – Pearl never really came out of her shell – but she threw herself into her job at the local bank with renewed vigor.

Having graduated from high school the year before, Pearl had landed a position as one of two tellers at the local bastion of high finance when Mrs. Montbalm retired after 39 and one half years in the job. Pearl was diligent, pleasant and generally uninspiring and slipped effortlessly into the chair that Mrs. Montbalm had previously occupied. Customers congratulated the bank manager on his hiring prowess because, with Pearl in the job, it was as if nothing had changed and they could look forward to another 39ish years of pleasant inanities while feeling secure that their deposits had been properly credited.

Pearl spent her weekends in trivial household pursuits. Being only barely of age and as yet unmarried, with – let’s face it – few prospects on the horizon, Pearl continued to live at home with her parents. Her great pastime was going to the local theater to sample the weekly Hollywood fare. She was a student of films in all their glorious manifestations – Romance, Mystery, Drama, Westerns and Adventure. Her favorites were the noir pot-boilers: romance, crime, drama and adventure all rolled into one. She especially liked anything with Claudette Colbert or a leading man with a decidedly foreign air.

Her mother attributed the later tragedy to the lack of judgment that she and Pearl’s father showed in letting their daughter expose herself to such heady nonsense.

It was 1931 and Pearl had worked at the bank for a little over a year, when, one sultry afternoon in early autumn, a gentleman in a white suit walked into the lobby of the First National Bank.

Folks in town later reported they knew he was up to no good. None of the people they knew would have been caught dead in a suit like that. And he wore his fedora pulled way to low over his eyes. He had ‘convict’ written all over him.

When he stepped up to the counter of the First (and only) National Bank, Pearl thought he had ‘swarthy South American Casanova’ written all over him. She almost swooned dead away right then and there. He demanded, in a guttural voice, (Pearl would have called it ‘husky’) that she hand over the contents of the till.

Pearl didn’t move. He thought she was being resistant. In reality, she was just smitten.

He growled at her – repeating his demand. Pearl was certain the sweep of his eye wasn’t at all meant to ascertain the location of the silent alarm button, but rather his way of declaring his approval of her rigidly slim frame and the stark white prettiness of her lace cuffs – a concession to frivolity in an otherwise somber working girl wardrobe.

She took the burlap bag from his hand, her fingers dancing lightly over his hot Latin skin. She almost giggled. He scowled. She shivered.

She filled up the bag with money then held it out to him. He reached out to take it, but she held it fast for just a moment longer than necessary, causing his gaze to meet hers and she batted her eyelashes daintily at him, just like she’d practiced countless times in the bathroom mirror.

He yanked the bag free and ran for the door.

Pearl took one look at Mrs. Easterhouse, the other teller, then stood up, closed her till and promptly jumped the counter and ran after the bank robber.

He was already in the car by the time she made it to the curb. No doubt heartbroken because he interpreted her hesitancy to follow as a lack of interest on her part. No worries, she could convince him otherwise once the car stopped and he rescued her from the passenger side running board. She clutched desperately at the car door and smiled serenely at her paramour, as she was already starting to think of him.

He glanced over at her, registered her presence with wide, wild eyes (no doubt overcome by passion) and yelled at her. She couldn’t understand what he said but it didn’t matter. There would be time for endearments later. For now they had to concentrate on getting out of town.

The Model A Coupe sped around the courthouse square on two wheels and took off on the southbound road. The sheriff peeled out of the courthouse parking lot and followed behind. Her love reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun. He started firing wildly behind him. The sheriff replied in kind.

Nobody ever bothered to determine for sure who killed Pearl - the lawmen or the bank robber. It didn’t really seem to matter.

Thanks to C. Wright for the pun and some of the other details!

If you build it...

...they will hit the ball too darn hard and have to go look for it in the corn field.




I think it's gonna rain.