the art of jacking around

This afternoon while my spiritual and real world sidekick had a girly thing to attend I had a few hours to … whatever. I offered to play taxi-ist so she could experience the cosmopolitan nature of cosmopolitans. So, dropping her at the girly event location, I headed to Westport. I hadn’t really planned to head to Westport, but I was awaiting contact from a fellow girly event bachelor and so had little to do for a spell.

Now what? I decided I check out a spot I’d not frequented since probably 1994. No, not a barber shop, Streetside Records. I’d worked for another record shop for ages and had allegiances to good friends’ business after that, so I had no reason to go there. After an intense three minute perusal, I realized I had no reason today either. I was edified by the 10/$2 LP bin, but found only a couple suspect Sons of the Pioneers records therein. I departed empty handed.

Outside Streetside.

I further roamed Westport for a few minutes, passing by … nothing much. I did see this, though:

Who knew the International Headquarters was located right there on JC Nichols Parkway?

Being Saturday afternoon, I don’t think anyone was in puncturing patients.

Still interested in consuming music (and when am I not, really?) I headed for a funky little shop called Zebedee’s on 39th Street (dig it: new website design coming in January 2008! Oh well …). Therein I ogled such wonders as a Kansas Song for America t-shirt and a $25 vinyl copy of Zappa’s Sheik Yerbouti. It really is a cool store, full of posters and boxes full of records in every corner— just the type of establishment that has regrettably gone missing from our landscape. In a pathetic attempt to help them stay in business, I came away with Crawdaddy by The Darling Buds on CD for $1.

As I was paying up(when else would the goddamn phone ring?), I took a call from my lunch appointment in waiting, Mr. Horsepower. Would I like to meet him and his youngling at Minsky’s? Goddamn right I would.

I hot-footed it to 5105 Main for a bite, on the way thinking, damn, The Darling Buds beat James to that snare sound by three years. Yep, that’s what I was thinking.

We dined, we laughed, we talked about Patti Smith and April Wine—it was probably just about like your lunch. Now what? These girly functions aren’t brief. We still had HOURS to kill. Yeah, you guessed it: guitar store.

We wagon-trained it to Big Dude’s Music City (“new site coming soon” … come on, music retailers, get your virtual shit together …) where it was possible to examine and purchase items like an exceedingly angular and beat-to-shit Kramer Striker and drums and cymbals emblazoned with caricatures of Carmine Appice. Can’t say I expected either of those. More importantly, we ran into the magnificent Go-Go Ray (hey, I wouldn’t place a Myspace link if there wasn’t something worth seeing there … check out Go-Go—one of the most bewitching drummers around), with whom the shit was shot about webcasts, New Orleans, and Trilok Gurtu. Very good, very good.

Realizing I’d only taken about 348732937 photos in the past few weeks, I decided to venture on, solo, toward downtown KC. Why not, aside from the fact that it was breezy and in the lower 30s? I parked at 10th and something and set out on foot, taking pictures of, that’s right, buildings and shit.

Buildings and shit.

I was in the vicinity of Quality Hill and hearing a loud clanging in my head. Turns out this time it was actually emanating from the Cathedral of Immaculate Conception, a real motherfucker of a cathedral just across Broadway.

C of the IC in the distance. Can you pick it out?

Drawn to its ostentatious cupola, I proceeded west. Looks like a long, cold walk, doesn’t it? I would walk to the ends of the earth for you, blog reader. As I passed by the holy joint at precisely 4:29 (Sprint time) a bell rang out exactly 53 times—yes, I counted, fuck you—signifying … any of you Catholics know? Interesting.

So, now I’m freezing my ass off and blocks from the car. But it’s ok, because I came across this:

Oh.

Hey, now I don’t have to do that in Photoshop! Thanks, dizzying sign that I don’t quite understand!

(If you’re interested in 1,000+ photos of buildings and a lot more and have escaped my spam elsewhere, check out my Fotki albums.)

If you know me, you’ve probably figured out that I’m a little dense. Need more evidence? Here it comes. As I rounded the corner of 8th and whatever, I stumbled onto this, an improbably large needle.

'So,' a needle pulling thread, also the scalar manifestation of the dominant ...

How about that? You don’t see that every day, do you? With a frozen mustache and a call from the wife, I left the towering sewing utensil behind and heading for the car, realized that I’d been walking in the famed garment district. Don’t believe me? Eat this:

GARMENT district, I tell you.

Collecting my darling, I headed home where I did not write this blog, nor drink several Pacificos. Then, I’m not kidding you, hours later, I put together the big ass needle and the garment district. Oh well. It was a fun afternoon.

man of seasonal joy

… that’s me.

Tomorrow will mark the first Thanksgiving that we’ve really had “kids come home” for a holiday. With two out of three official sons and an unofficial one all currently living out of the house we’re looking forward to getting everyone together. Also, as has become a tradition, we’re having some friends over for added revelry. So, while V takes care of the important stuff (cooking—she declared Turkey Day to be, “the most important of the year as a mother and a chef”) I’ve worked on other details. Aside from some straightening and art hanging, I’ve been up a ladder.

Away we go.

Remember all those nice, temperate weekends we’ve had of late? You know—days in the 50s or 60s? Do you think I bothered trying to hang Christmas lights then? Of course not. It’s just not traditional to be teetering on an aluminum ladder on uneven ground with my head in a tree without feeling a brisk wind. So, in a Griswoldian fit of festiveness, I started into this project this morning.

Some of these bulbs work.

Generally I wouldn’t consider decorating before Thanksgiving, but as we are having company on that day, I’ve conceded.

My kingdom for a hammer.

If there were such a thing on Facebook, some people in my household would have a status reading, “Became a fan of never putting fucking tools away where they belong.” I looked high and low for one of a possible four hammers just to drive a couple tiny nails. Nope. Wound up using a prybar. Alas.

...

Why so smug, fucker?

Bulbous, also tapered.

This projectlet didn’t really require all that much swearing. This is a little surprising. It’s not that the infrastructure left from last year was so stellar. It’s not that the lights were left in such great shape. It’s not that I’m skilled in the ways of seasonal festooning—I stepped on and crushed at least one bulb and dropped another on the garage floor as I plugged a strand in, causing a puff of suspicious smoke to spew forth. That was pretty cool. It just came together. Perhaps I’ve gained a lot of perspective this year and realize the nails and hammers really aren’t that fucking important.

I also had to place the Soldiers. They’ve been a fixture at our house for four or five years now. We bought them second hand somewhere and judging from their apparent age, they were a fixture at someone else’s home for many years before that. I like that.

Ten-hut.

Right after I placed these fellas, I raked the entire yard. Yeah, that’s what I did. Not a single leaf left. Yep.

The wreath is up too.

Reef.

There’s still an improbably large candy cane to deal with. Perhaps early tomorrow.

With the outdoor enhancements brought to a stopping point I headed inside to deal with other cleanings and pickings up. And to wait for dark to check my work.

Cue Tchaikovsky.

Lit.

Hey—not a bad start!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

fog studies

This is why I always try to take my camera with me. You just never know when you’ll run across a tiny oil well shrouded in fog. I snapped a couple of shots out of my window, pausing just long enough to not get slammed into by some (other) distracted rural motorist.

It’s interesting just how much color actually lives in what appears to be essentially a black and white photo. Once I started jacking with various parameters it was surprising just what could be coaxed out. A few filters here and there  added to the subtle variations. So, here are a bunch of them for the hell of it.

Of course, anyone can make a bunch of image variations using Photoshop; but I’ve tried not to make any of these “stunt pictures,” using blatant effects.

walking around

As always, I try to make the best of business trips. Actually, that sounds a little too fancy–this is a work trip; I won’t be conducting any “business.” At any rate, owing to some effort put in last night, I didn’t have a very early call today; but I was still up early. (This daylight savings time switch along with jumping two time zones has my sleep rhythms royally fucked up right at the moment.) That’s ok though–I like to explore to the extent I can. So this morning I located some black coffee and set out with the camera to see what I could see. Listening to the rattley and haunted folk weirdness of Larkin Grimm I ventured into (and beyond) San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter.

Petco: It's no Jack Murphy stadium.

They have this thing called, “The Park at the Park,” where you can damn near walk onto the playing field at Petco Park, home of the San Diego Padres. Since the Padres are nearly as lowly as the Royals, I felt right at home here.

There is, understanably, a statue of Tony Gwynn beyond centerfield. I once heard that when, late in his career, Steve Garvey was a member of the San Diego team and had paternity suits swirling around him there were bumper stickers in circulation that read, “Steve Garvey is My Padre.” Har har. Apparently, however, Mr. Gwynn is “Mr. Padre.”

And yet, no statue of Gene Tenace.

Of course, this Gaslamp Quarter is an artificial environment, a sanitized version of things for the tourist and convention trade. I always find it interesting how close by are hidden the blight and the underprivileged. On one block you have this:

Pacific architecture.

 And on the next block, you can find this:

Barbed wire. Just in case you were thinking about unauthorized entry into this shitty ... whatever it is.

 And this:

...

 But the hotel rooms all point at the bay and the tall, shiny buildings, to it’s ok.

Hmm … that turned a little cynical, didn’t it?

It was mostly a very enjoyable walk, all things considered.

declaration

“Nothing is worth more than this day.”

-Goethe

I hereby renew my vow to the universe to live every second of every day, to take it all in, to be amazed at all that I have.

I have a friend who is extremely sick. Thoughts of her and her family weigh heavy on my heart right now. I am reminded of the fragility of it all and of how quickly what was once normal is no more. I don’t use words like “blessed” very often, but I do feel blessed to have the love of family and good friends, my health, my life in general. It would be absurdly arrogant of me to even frown today.

This bench is outside my hotel. It really speaks to me.

 

Tejas 2009 2.0

Texas had such a good time with Federation of Horsepower this spring that they (the state) invited us back for another round of rocking. Wasn’t that nice of them? What follows is a post-mortem reconstruction of what actually may have happened. Some names (like “Gregg Todt”) have been removed, stricken and otherwise redacted to protect … something.

08.12.09 – Wednesday
“I wheeled into a truckstop in Texas a little place called Hamburger Dan’s

I heard that jukebox a playin’ song about a truck drivin’ man”

I think Dave Dudley might’ve been singing about Gregg in that song. I mean, Jeezus, if we had to get from Vancouver to Tallahassee (and don’t think that we wouldn’t schedule something like that) in one fell swoop, Gregg would be just the man to drive us there non-stop. Now, we didn’t stop anywhere called “Hamburger Dan’s” (goddamnit), but with a van full of gear and people in drastic sunglasses we did roll all through the night from KC through Oklahoma, straight to Austin.

When we went this direction in April we made a stop in Joplin, MO for some Hackett Hot Wings, LLC. Oh, and also for a show, but that was kind of secondary to Hackett. This time with no show booked, we still had some Hackett in mind. Calling to inquire how late they were open while rolling down US71, we received an answer of, “9:00?” Yes – there was a question mark on the end. Perhaps they sensed that there was no way in hell we’d make that deadline and were open to a counter offer. Anyway, we had Hardee’s or some shit. Not the best way to set the food tone for the trip. At any rate, like some pissed off rock and roll Anthony Bourdains, we headed on south.

We passed through Oklahoma. It was dark. You know the drill: Big Cabin, Pryor, Muskogee, Atoka etc. Are we in Texas yet?

By my calculations, we crossed the border sometime after later-than-shit. All I can be sure about is that we were in fact at the Czech Stop in West, TX at 3:12 a.m. Good time for a kolache, yes? Yes.

08.13.09 – Thursday
Yeah, I know, Thursday actually took place earlier in the time line, technically. Deal. So … we hit Austin sometime after 8:00 a.m. (Seems like a good time to go to bed, Gregg.) We set up home base in a funky little house at about 51st & Airport. How funky was it? The answer: LAVA LAMP FUNKY.

And, funky chair … funky.

PLUS – it was right around the corner from Tamale House.

Helluva place to go for breakfast.

After catching some sleep we arose to learn that Les Paul had died. Shitty. Last year when we went to Dallas Isaac Hayes died. Hey, music legends – stop keeling over when we’re out of town, eh?

Our plan was to head out radially to our gigs from the Austin house. The first show was Thursday night in Houston. In mid-afternoon that’s where we headed. From the scalding heart of Texas we set out toward (but not quite to, damn it) the Gulf Coast. Houston welcomed us with a badass thunderstorm. Hello, Houston.

After locating and checking out the venue, Fitzgerald’s, we went in search of beer. Damn, this is something like paragraph ten and we’re just now getting a drink? We were directed to a fine establishment called Alice’s Tall Texan. Only beer, only cash. Pretty much our type of joint.

I think we got all of this for about $6. Alice’s Tall Texan, will you marry us?

Kriss Ward contemplates a cold one and a Mexi-mullet.

Neither especially tall nor Texan, Gregg outside the bar doing important shit on his iPhone, such as looking up directions, checking funds or searching for Freddy Fender’s real name.

So, Fitzgerald’s is a pretty cool place. Decent stage, decent P.A., easy load in. Too bad our show was such a shit-fest. There exists a soundboard recording of this gig. You will likely never hear it, but it confirms that we didn’t play our best show, to put it one way. Actually, our rhythm section of Kriss Ward and Johnny Catfish were pretty well kicking, but Gregg and I sounded like we were trying out for a Pere Ubu tribute or something. But we had fun, sold some stuff and got to listen to our bros, Ese.

Mr. Horsepower striking “Love Gun” from all set lists.

Our van. Parked next to a palm tree. I’m pretty sure this has never happened before.

We found out later that there had been a noise complaint about our set from a couple blocks away. Hello, Houston.

Exhausted, we loaded up and pointed the van back to Austin. But not without getting some Whataburger.

08.14.09 – Friday
A good portion of Friday would be spent traveling the 223 miles from Austin to San Angelo, TX, the site of the next show. Between the two cities we saw the following: an establishment called “Fudge Pump” in Valera, TX, a restaurant called “El Jimador” in Bangs, TX and 3,343,052 cacti. Oh, we also saw … never mind – that’s all there was.

However, when we finally pulled in to San Angelo and located the Dead Horse, we knew things were going to get awesome. If I tell you that EZO and Krokus were playing on the house P.A. will that help you understand the awesomeness of the Dead Horse? Perhaps not. But it was a great club owned and operated by musicians.

After some fish tacos and steak fingers (that’s two separate dishes) we got on with the rock, sharing the bill with our old friends Thunderosa and San Angelo’s own Butcherwhite. To obliterate the previous night’s effort, we hit that shit hard. The crowd was enthusiastic and made us feel great. After our set we discovered that The Rocky Horror Picture Show was being projected in a parking lot adjacent to the back of the Horse. Whoda thunk?

On the way back to Austin we got pulled over by a TX state trooper (or ranger, or local cop – not sure) who appeared to be all of 20. He was wowed that we were an unknown rock band from Missouri and let us go with a warning. Thank you, officer – you made the night a complete success.

08.15.09 – Saturday
Finally a day not to be consumed by the van. The evening’s gig would be at the Dirty Dog and there was nothing pressing in the meantime. The full effect of brilliantly booking a run of shows in Texas in August showed itself this day. By the time we were wandering around town in various splintered groups, the temperature approached 102.

The view from South Congress.

Some of us eventually made the pilgrimage back to the Continental Club to catch Redd Volkaert’s matinee again. Redd’s set and a couple Lone Star’s was just the thing for a scorching afternoon.

At some point we became aware of a show happening down the street from ours: punk legends D.I., Agent Orange and FEAR were playing at Emo’s. Through a quick call to some mysterious person called “Bristow’s brother,” Gregg got himself plus six on the guest list. It was going to be a fun night.

The Dirty Dog is a cool venue on Austin’s famed 6th Street. Apparently they usually have a house drum kit and bass rig. This is why you can see Kriss Ward on a Pearl set. Word is that the bass rig was stolen recently, so every other band played through Cathfish’s gear (including Meatwood’s bass player who inexplicably didn’t even bring a fucking bass to the gig and also borrowed John’s instrument). The show had no cover charge – not a bad ploy considering the ridiculous number of things to do in Austin on a Saturday night. (Aside from the aforementioned show, there was reportedly a special screening of Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious [sic] Basterds [sic] featuring a talk by the director.) With the 6th Street-facing windows and doors wide open, we blasted our set out into the night. And people came in to listen.

We were told later by various sources that we blew everyone off the stage. Thank you. That is usually the plan and it’s nice when it works out.

We snuck out to the punk show after our set (apologies to Bexar County Bastards and Thunderosa). There were a helluva lot of people in Emo’s, a helluva lot of people in the streets. What an atmosphere. We stuck around there until we absolutely had to get back to the Dog to load out. When it was all said and done, our group had variously shopped, eaten Mexican and Japanese, witnessed country and punk legends, toured hangars containing solar power arrays, received a new tattoo and played a killer show. Pretty good Saturday.

08.16.09 – Sunday
And then we drove home. Our most accurate records indicate 62 tacos consumed, 51 beers dispatched, 22 ridiculous jokes started or revived, three shows in the books and about 40 hours in the van. Wanna come along next time?

we’re all alright

Somewhere in there is Cheap Trick

Here is the set list from Cheap Trick’s performance at Kansas City’s Sprint Center last night.

1. Way of the World
2. I Want You to Want Me
3. These Days (?)
4. She’s Tight
5. Southern Girls
6. Sick Man of Europe
7. Dream Police
8. The Flame
9. Surrender
10. Auf Wiedersehen

Robin Zander, how dare you sound so good?

nowhere, man

Yes, it is summer, the time of humidity, bugs and laziness. In fact, V and I sampled all of the above during a recent trip to just-to-the-left-of-the-middle-of-nowhere, just the other side of Jasper, AR. We’ve been fortunate enough to vacation at one beach or another several of the past summers, but with no large scale trip in the offing in ‘09 we accepted some friends’ generous offer to crash at their rented cabin for a few days. So off to the Ozarks we went.

Wednesday 07.01.09
Our destination – Creek’s End – was about a five hour drive from the Kansas City area. Remote as it was, the directions were necessarily so absurd that I thought I’d written them myself: “look for the first road with a stop sign … go by some big pastures … there will be about 17 mailboxes” and so on. And they weren’t kidding. Once we left paved roads the going was … treacherous. And slow – I figure literally 10% of our travel time was taken by this sort-of-driveway.

At any rate, arrive we did, frazzled nerves and all. No sooner had I encouraged V to take a deep breath because we’d made it without issue than I noticed the result of 5.9 miles of potholes:

Tire: flat on one side.

Though it didn’t happen in the dramatic and potentially catastrophic manner of our 2007 Florida trip, the tire did blow. (The following day a local ["most of them are friendly"] suggested we avoid shale because it can be sharp. Huh.) Oh well, that’s why one carries a spare. Incidentally, I wouldn’t recommend jacking your car up on inclined gravel. Another reason for the oh well type attitude – oh yeah, we’re here!

Lodging.

The cabin was a comfortable and quaint spot beneath a canopy of trees and overlooking … I guess it was the Buffalo River. I never really got accustomed to which way was up out there, let alone what anything was named. It was pretty interesting to observe, “oh hey, the sun is going down over there, that must be west.”

The small sky.

  

Den of Lazing.

The Buffalo River. I guess?

The owner of this place must be an interesting individual, judging from some of the rather hippie-fied decorations and the assortment of randomly lurking statues.

The vociferous and abundant crows made me want to place a bust of Pallas.

After many long and winding roads, the remainder of Wednesday was spend unwinding. Food and drink were ample and we got  the guitars out, playing Kristofferson, Jellyfish and Buddy Miller, among gawd knows what else. It looked a lot like this:

The Hat of Marchman.

Thursday 07.02.09
Another fine point of the travel directions I found perplexing prior to actually getting there was the mention that the nearest town was, “12 miles (30 minutes).” Of course that made perfect sense after one run up to the house. Any “trip to town” had the potential to turn into an all day event. But there were attractions to be experienced. We hit Jasper proper for some tire fixery (“I can tell you right now it’s toast,” said the tire guy), lunch and junk shopping.

Ok, this isn't where we ate. But this was the better signage.

Like I said, junk shopping.

Our ultimate goal for the afternoon, however, was Mystic Caverns. It was pretty nice to escape into the constant 58 degrees from the day’s heat. There were lots of stalagmites, stalactites, Sleestaks and other things. Additionally, we got to see formations that looked like Cthulu and B.O.C.’s Cultosaurus Erectus and check out some bitchen cave reverb as our tour guide sang one phrase (and one phrase only) of “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” I suppose you had to be there.

Do Not Touch.

Track one: "Black Blade"

I hate to break it to our wheezing traveling party, but according to those internetz, the elevation of Harrison, AR, near which the caverns are situated, is but 80 feet higher than what we’re used to. Damn the thin oxygen! Sheesh.

But it was some taxing walking. So what were we to do except retire to the deck for food and beverage? Nothing.

"Empties"

Impressionistic point-of-view, a couple hours later.

Like the wonderfully aged former contents of that Ten High bottle, this trip is already starting to ferment and improve in my brain.

V took it upon herself to build a fire at some point. It was an excellent call.

Thursday 07.03.09
We knew this was our last full day out of town and wanted to make the most of it. I’d say we did. Rising early-ish V and I opted for a hike. I’m no adventurer and our roughly three mile jaunt would make hardcore outdoorsmen scoff, but I still have to say this was one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. As previously mentioned, I barely knew we were on a map, let alone which direction the s-, z-, or w-shaped road was taking us. There were designated trails and accompanying literature … and it still didn’t make sense. Anyway, we took off down the road. Finally a passerby (who slowed her car and asked if my wife was “the artist” – huh?) clued us in as to the trail markings. And away we went.

We picked up the red trail first.

The red trail. Don't you see it?

And – we lost the red trail first. It just … sort of ended at the river. So we crossed and forged on. The instructions we read said that if you got lost, go down hill and follow the creek home. That’s basically what we did. I just found it amazingly liberating to be in the middle of the woods, unsure of exactly how far we were from our home base, up to our knees in clear water. I didn’t have the least bit of apprehension (should I have?) or concern for things outside the moment. I was full on Zen. And it was awesome. Some shots from the hike:

Up the road.

36" of snake

I’m not sure what superstition says about a black snake crossing your path. Actually, this snake was blocking the path. I poked it in the head with a long stick to which it responded with a look of, “the fuck is your problem?” We gave him wide berth and moved around.

Camera eye view

We did indeed arrive back at the house. I knew we would.

Later on it was back into Jasper for some dinner (so-so) and a mountain top drive. Yes, we even saw a cow in the road:

Roadcow

On the way back to the cabin we finally found that a shop we’d been passing was open. It turned out that the historic building was the domain of artist David Walker, a very talented and fascinating person. If you’re ever in “downtown” Parthenon, AR (population -3?) be sure to stop in.

David Walker: artist, sculptor, percussionist.

We spent the last night like the previous nights, hanging on the deck with good friends. There was another fire and some more drinks (duh) and at dusk a few of us made the short trek back down to the river to see if we could spy any critters coming out for water. Ultimately we heard some questionable and unidentifiable sounds, the loudest and most obscuring of which seemed to be some pissed off Marlboro smoking bird nearby. And though we were in serious elk territory, had seen a large paw print earlier in the day and witnessed plenty of armadillo and raccoon evidence, that night we saw nothing. Well, no wildlife at any rate. We did see this:

Sigh.

Friday 07.04.09
We spent Independence Day packing and heading home. Yes, of course I stopped for more picture taking:

Fourth of July in mid-America

Sustaining the trip in a fit of cliched tourism, we stopped in that bastion of hillbilly theater Branson, MO for a bit of browsing and lunch in a cafe. And then we got the hell out. Heading west and north listening to k.d. lang and Joni Mitchell (hey, they’re both Canadian – what kind of jingoistic red, white and blue celebration is that?), we descended the remaining 80 feet to home.

For an adjacent-state, on-the-cheap, three-day getaway this was a hell of a trip.

an exposé

Figure 1

Figure 2

Figure 3

jack in the green

I admit it: I’m addicted to Ghost Hunters. V and I watch this damn show every week, anxious to see what the T.A.P.S. crew will uncover at some “haunted” library, prison, theater or … duplex. If you’ve watched even one episode you know the formula: the team gets the call, the team does a site walk-through, the team sets up their equipment and then they go lights out.

But I think there are ghosts in the light.

Have you seen Jack-in-the-Green?

Ok, maybe not ghosts, but … something. I don’t think it needs to be dark for there to be a presence. Have you ever looked into the shade of the woods in broad daylight and thought it a bit creepy?

With his long tail hanging down.

Hell, I don’t even know if I believe in ghosts or hauntings. But I certainly believe in a sort of “cumulative energy” that stabs through the ether. Night and day.

He sits quietly under every tree ...

That’s not to say that the energy/presence/whatever is necessarily negative. It might just be the Jack-in-the-Green. Or the Green Man – have you seen that creepy pagan fucker? Some impish entity.

... in the folds of his velvet gown.

I suppose it may be easier to notice disturbances in the low contrast of the evening. I’m just saying I’m always on the lookout. Maybe we should get an EMF meter.

Jack, put out the light.