If You're Creepy and You Know it, Clap Your Hands!
Vol. 3: The Number 13, an apple and maple cocktail, and a short story debut. Ta-da!
July makes me sigh? I cry all July? I'd rather set sail with Captain Bligh, than suffer this heat the whole month of July? July, July, I can feel my eyeballs fry?
Time to enter the world of Autumn, where the air is brisk, the leaves are red and gold, and we're swinging a plastic bucket of candy. Or tiny liquor bottles. Just get in the Munster Mobile and howl.
Phobia of the Week!
It's triskaidekaphobia, the fear of the number 13. Not to be confused with the fear of Friday the 13th, which is paraskevidekatraphobia, of course.
The word triskaidekaphobia (there's some painfully slow typing happening here) comes from the Ancient Greek and was first used by psychoanalysis pioneer Isador Coriat in his 1910 book, Abnormal Psychology.
Origins of this fear are believed to trace back to Christian beliefs that Judas was the 13th Apostle at the Last Supper, or that Loki was the uninvited number 13 at a dinner in Valhalla.
The still widely held superstition around the number 13 is why hotels, apartment buildings and many commercial buildings, including casinos, often skip over a thirteenth floor and put you on the “fourteenth” floor. But you know the truth.
The Apple Compote
This is one of my originals, created for my book, The Maple Motherload: A Guide to All Things Maple. It's delicious, all appley and cinnamony and maple syrupy. I think it's Autumn in a glass.
Into an ice-filled shaker:
½ tsp maple syrup
½ oz horchata liqueur
½ oz cinnamon whiskey
3 oz apple cider (not juice)
Shake well and strain into a martini glass. Garnish with an apple slice that has been brushed with lemon juice.
Spooky Booky
Poe-Land
by J. W. Ocker
The Countryman Press, 2015
I should start this out by letting you know that I'm a fan of this author. I'm telling you now because I know I won't be able to stop myself from reviewing all of his books eventually. I'm going to coin the phrase “Ocker-ite” right now to describe my admiration for this family guy who seeks out the strange, grim and spooky, the oddities, all while remaining friendly and curious. Plans don't always work out but Ocker tracks down his destinations with good humor.
Poe-Land sees Ocker traveling through seven states and the U.K. to find Poe history. He visits numerous residences, as Poe really moved around, and West Point, which Poe attended and pretty much ghosted when he realized he wasn't cut out for a life of discipline. But the school was a good sport and erected a doorway arch in his honor after Poe's death. And there turns out to be a surprising number of regal memorials for the Poe connoisseur to visit, including a small bust sitting on a tiny ledge above a Poe-themed pub in Stoke Newington, England. Poe attended a school in the area when he was a boy, so there is a connection. Ocker even met the man who commissioned the bust, Peter Fawn, owner of the largest Poe collection in the world, a life-long obsession that has him grabbing up anything Poe-related or themed, including artwork, stamps and advertising.
Poe-Land is primarily for the Poe fan, but it's also for anyone who enjoys literary travel, and it's a lot more fun with a travel companion this personable.
SS-2: No scares, but plans don't always work out and that makes the incessant planner in me tense.
Here's an original that takes us back to 70's. It's an era of wholesome shag-haired teen heartthrobs on the cover of Tiger Beat. Some were disposable.
Teen Idol
“Who did you come to see?”
“BRIAN!!!”
“Who?”
“BRIAN!!!”
“I can't hear youuuuuu!”
“BRIAN! BRIAN! BRIAN! BRIAN!”
“Alright, then! He's got the hottest song of 1974! Here's the man you've been waiting for, kids...Put your hands together for Brian Barron!”
The auditorium went berserk. The high-pitched screams were deafening as most of the audience members were at an age when they were at their most ear-splintering abilities, yet there was also applause and thundering foot stomps that shook the floor. The curtains opened, revealing a back-up band bathed in a soft blue light as they played the opening chords to “This Night”, Brian's single from last year that hit #8 on the charts. The audience recognized the tune immediately and responded by hitting pitches that could shatter glass.
Brian Barron was shaken by the announcer screaming his name. He stood just offstage, wearing his navy velvet jumpsuit, feeling so lethargic that he suspected he'd fallen asleep on his feet. Which city was this? He thought it might be San Antonio but then suspected that San Antonio had been days ago. His mind was getting tour fog, making the formation of new thoughts impossible after weeks of going through the same motions, same songs and same patter. Gun to his head, he couldn't have told you what he'd been doing an hour ago. A kind of muscle memory had taken over, the body's way of ensuring quality control. He was grateful for it, but he'd need to remember to stop himself from blurting out the wrong town. No “Hello, Cleveland!”, instead just a general, “It's great to be here!” would suffice. Not that they'd hear him over their own screams.
He heard his cue and entering singing, a white spotlight following his entrance across the stage, mic in hand, belting out the hit song.
I've never had a night like this
Alone with a girl so perfect
I'm afraid of what I'll say
But I'll say it anyway
I want you to be my girlfriend!
Every time he came to the line about longing for a girlfriend he felt like an idiot because he was twenty-three years old and had lots of girlfriends, and also, he could hear his back-up band sniggering. Some nights saw the guys barely able to play the notes as they choked on their laughter. It depended on how high they were. But Brian wanted the guys to know he was in on the fun so he smiled as he sang. Being so good-looking sometimes meant that people wanted to see if you were self-aware. If it were up to Brian he wouldn't have pouty lips and perfectly feathered blonde hair, he'd let his hair frizz a bit and go back to its natural light brown. But the record company and his management had done the research, which included questioning the editors of all the teen magazines, and Brian had fit the bill on every count, like a wish list come to life. He knew all this because lots of the people he met in the teen industry had told him so.
At the beginning of the tour, when he'd been introduced to the guitarist, Jet, Ron the drummer, and Dan the bassist, he'd been a little intimidated. They each had good reputations as studio musicians on some popular rock albums and had played together before. Josh, Brian's tour manager, had let it slip that they were touring with Brian only because they'd been given such lucrative offers due to their skills, but also their youth, an important factor for a teenybopper crowd. It had made Brian a bit insecure at first, being amongst such solid talent and actual coolness when he knew his own fame was built on his wholesome appearance, but he'd relaxed as the guys made it clear that they weren't interested in taking the spotlight. They were all in agreement that Brian was the only focus of the show and Jet went so far as to suggest the band play in the dark, with the only spotlight following Brian, but Brian generously vetoed that idea. Josh, a skinny hippie who rarely washed his hair, had kept quiet at the time but later warned Brian that he shouldn't forget Jet's willingness to distance the band from their singer.
“There's always a leader in a mutiny,” Josh had said. “Just keep that in mind.” Brian had.
“This Night” ended and Brian walked to the front of the stage to start his patter. It was standard pablum from a copywriter who worked at the record company and Brian had been rehearsed until he could get each sentence just as it was written. He didn't enjoy being treated like a robot though.
“Hello there! I'm so happy to see you! And-” He paused here to check if the city had come back to him. Nope. Oh, well, off script.
“And isn't this a beautiful city? I'm so lucky to come here and see your beautiful home!” He had no idea if it was a beautiful city or if it smelled like a slaughterhouse. He couldn't remember arriving here at all.
The responding squeals were like an ice pick to the head. He could have been chanting “peasandcarrots,” for all they could hear, the response would have been the same. Behind him, Brian heard Jet whisper, “Where are we? You don't know, do ya?”
Brian took a few steps upstage and accepted a bouquet of flowers handed to him by a smiling girl with a mouth full of metal brackets. This, too, was deja-vu. Every city, every show, he was given flowers by smiling girls with mouths containing enough metal to build an electric fan.
Brian and the band launched into “My Girl”, performing a decent cover of The Temptations hit. It padded out both the show and the latest album. The audience screamed all the way through it.
“I'll bet you know this one!” Brian proclaimed, and the lights went out on cue. Jet strummed the first chord and the girls lost their minds. Dan plucked out the four chord bass line that formed the beat and Ron joined in bouncing the highhat. The melody suddenly roared to life and everyone was on their feet, swooning with joy as Brian belted out his current #3 chart-topper, “Dani”.
Dani and me
in a beat-up jalopy
we go where the wind blows
where no one ever knows
we're runaways!
Dani and me
we're young and we're free
just need our own space
no one on our case
we're the happiest runaways!
So what if we're broke
this world is a joke
I don't have a care
as long as Dani is there
Run away with me
Daniiiiii!
There were nights when he just held the mic out to the audience and let them sing that last wail. They loved it and it gave his voice a needed break, but he always sang that high note when they performed “Dani” for the second time in each show, as the final song of the show. It was embarrassing and he'd argued with Canoe Records for days but he'd been overruled, just as he knew he would be. The record company owned everything Brian did, which included his stage name, image, recordings and tour merchandise, and they chose his set list for live performances. Sometimes he went to the bathroom at the recording studio just to make a small decision for himself of whether or not he needed to shit.
If this tour gave him anything for himself, it was that he was allowed to have a private room both backstage and in a nice hotel every night, and after the studio exes and magazine hacks left the after-show backstage gathering each night, it was up to him then if he wanted to be alone or not. But surprisingly, he saw signs that the crew seemed to think he had some control over the show. He didn't, but it was still nice that he was seen as having some power.
So “Dani” was the current hit and the company wanted to give their young customers what they wanted, and that meant “Dani” was performed twice each show. The band had laughed when they were given the set list for the tour. It was written in stone, “Dani”, twice. It wasn't as if Brian had a huge catalog of hits to pull from anyway, so even he had to admit to silently himself that he enjoyed the guarantee of the crowd having at least two meltdowns per show.
The band went straight on to “Linda”, #6 from Brian's first album three years ago. It was a breezy melody, fluff written by an in-house songwriter because the name Linda was popular. Brian's albums were stuffed with songs such as this, using a common girl's name to illicit teen fantasies that Brian was singing right to her. “I'm Caroline's Guy”, “Don't Leave Me, Susan”, “Meeting Marti”, which also played into the trend of sporty girl names like Dani, as it had been explained to him. If anything would ever stick in Brian's mind when he was old and thought back to the seventies, it would be the image of some sixteen year-old girl in platform heels and a scarf around her head, telling him to sign an album “To Markie” or “To Toni”.
The show ended with the second rendition of “Dani”, the audience screamed for more while the blue backlights were cut, and the band left to allow Brian a final moment of solo adoration, which he basked in. This was why he'd become a singer. Being able to carry a tune was a bonus for a teen idol, but Brian's face could have made him a star as a tv actor. He'd consciously thrown himself into music after experiencing that gush of love coming from the stage at a high school talent show at fifteen, when he'd played a solo rendition of Peggy Lee's “Fever” on his guitar. You didn't get that from doing a play or being on tv, only musicians had this level of adoration, but sometimes Brian wondered how long the record company would have him singing these innocent songs. The Beatles had gone from “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” to Sgt. Pepper's in just a few short years. Why couldn't he grow up too?
Making his exit offstage, he was surprised that the band hadn't waited for him. They may not be friends but the guys had always extended the professional courtesy of waiting for all the performers to leave the stage. Brian came around the curtain just in time to see the backstage door closing. He wondered if he'd done something wrong tonight.
He tried to look unconcerned later as he placed a few sandwiches from the catering table on a plate and sat down in his dressing room. He left the door open, no need to be standoffish. He opened some white wine and casually drank from the bottle while picking at the food and expecting groupies, fans, record execs, reporters, anybody to poke a head in, but for the first time he was left alone after a show. It was unusual and niggled at him. He chewed a ham sandwich and looked around the room for a sign or logo that would give him a clue of which city he was in, but the room was blank and spotless, not even framed shots of past performers. This was a first. He ran his mind over the tour dates but couldn't remember what came after San Antonio. That's the last date on the itinerary he remembered for certain.
Finally he saw Josh practically gallop past the open door. Brian called out to him and Josh appeared in the doorway, a little reluctantly it seemed to Brian.
“Hey, man, what's going on?” Josh asked quickly, his eyes everywhere but on Brian.
“Did something happened during the show? I've never seen backstage so dead before.”
At this, Josh gave a little smirk and said, “No, man, same old, same old. Just trying to pack up.”
He disappeared out in the darkness and Brian was left to throw his meal away and pack up his stage gear as Missy, the wardrobe girl, had apparently left with Jet. She'd done this once before and been warned by Josh, but obviously she thought bedding the guitarist would keep her from being fired. The band could call this a teenybopper show all they want, but Brian and Josh expected some professionalism.
He couldn't believe it when he realized he'd drifted off again the next night just before the show, coming to when he again heard his name being trumpeted by a radio deejay or newscaster or, hell, the owner of a car dealership. Josh roped in all kinds of local big fish for the honor of bringing Brian onstage. But the sound of his own name being called made Brian snap to attention like he'd been in a stupor. He strolled out, lifted his hand and was relieved to find that, yes, a microphone was indeed there, and he sang...
I've never had a night like this...
It was a good audience that night, not as good as the night before, wherever that had been, and come to think of it, Brian still hadn't asked where they were tonight, but it was a decent show. The guys obviously weren't in such good spirits, as Brian wasn't hearing any snarky whispers and didn't catch even a smirk. All three kept their heads down and played perfectly so Brian guessed Josh had spoken to them about their unprofessional attitudes, but the songs had a rather cold feel, as any song will when the musicians didn't enjoy what they were playing. Brian's personality got bigger to make up for it, smiling down at the metal-mouthed girls and calling out “I love you all!”, which got a hearty response even though this turned out to be the first city in which he didn't receive even a single bouquet.
Backstage, the guys had apparently walked off the stage and straight out the back door. Again. After taking his solo applause, Brian walked off stage and couldn't believe they were gone that quickly. He even pushed the door open and stuck his head out to see if they were outside, but they were gone. For a performer, it was like a slap in the face. He knew that he must have caused some offense to one or all of them. Had some interview been published that they didn't like? He did so many interviews but couldn't remember saying anything wrong. He'd like to ask someone but being on tour had created a bubble around him, one where he was unable to get his agent or even his mom on the phone after the gig last night, just their busy signals that told him he'd have to keep trying.
He couldn't remember the last interview he'd done, which was weird. Off tour, he had a whole schedule of interviews and photo shoots every day. Just the thought of a photo shoot brought a sudden and quick image that came out of nowhere, a moving light in his face, very bright, very close, but he couldn't place it. What photo shoot had he done with such a blinding light bearing down an inch from his face?
Brian knew that he was the star and shouldn't care about the band ditching him, but it niggled at him. He liked people to like him. Everybody wanted to be liked, especially when you're sharing such a tight space in the world. The tour bus was like living in a vault. The private bedroom in the back was all his but it was smaller than his childhood bedroom while the guys had the whole rest of the bus. Cast about in his mind, he suspected they had found out that he was holding some primo Humboldt and were angry that he hadn't shared. Well, okay, he didn't mind sharing. He'd grab his bag and go over to their hotel.
The third night that Brian woke upon hearing his name, he actually huffed in exasperation. He couldn't believe he had nodded off again. How strong was that weed? How much did I smoke?
He shouldn't have smoked such strong stuff while touring, it always wiped him out, but he wanted to show the band he was a good guy.
It wasn't until the lead into “Is Melody Home?”, that something clicked in his head, disturbing him like the flash of a traumatic memory. It was the realization of a void. He hadn't met up with the guys last night, didn't remember going to their hotel or even talking to them. Or smoking his Humboldt. In fact, he didn't remember going to his own hotel room. Brian decided the tour was taking an odd turn as he looked out at the crowd. Unsure as to which city he was in, it was clear that Josh had messed up because instead of a professional auditorium or concert venue, the show was in a school auditorium. It stunk of teen sweat and the floor space was covered in cheap plastic chairs. The bleachers to the right side of the stage were mostly filled. Not a sold-out crowd, but nearly.
On the fourth night, Brian woke with a snort when he heard his name. He stood just off stage and looked around with bleary eyes until the notes of “This Night” fell into place in his head and he practically trotted out in a cold sweat. And the band played the whole show behind him in the dark. Looks like a power play. What can you do, get another band by tomorrow night? No, whatever their problem, it's coming to a head. Brian knew he'd have Josh and the record company on his side.
The show went on and Brian did his best to charm the crowd. There were still some squeals and a bit of foot stomping, but he noticed this audience was older than usual. A few actual teens, no pre-teens that he could see, but lots of people in their twenties. More male than usual, draped over their seats in what he would have called bored in any other situation.
Brian guessed that this backstage sleepiness had been going on for more than a week when the night came that he heard his name announced, heard his music playing, and walked out to find himself alone onstage. It was a very small stage and he'd strode right across it singing “This Night” and found himself at the other end before he'd finished the opening lyrics. He looked out at the crowd and found no more than fifty people in the audience, and they looked decades too old to be Brian Barron fans. He kept singing automatically as he spun round. His music was coming from some kind of electronic box on metal legs that stood to the left onstage while a small movie screen was behind him, replacing the six foot tall BRIAN in white flashing bulbs that had always been across the stage. The movie screen was scrolling the lyrics to “This Night” in time to the music. Brian took all this in and couldn't help himself, he dropped the mic and stood rooted to the spot with his mouth opened wide, turning his head from the screen that knew his song, to the machine that had replaced his band, to the withered audience that just sat there watching.
What is happening? WHAT IS HAPPENING?!
He stood there and waited for some memory of how he'd gotten there to fall into place, but nothing came. He had no idea.
“Sing, moron.”
Brian looked towards the voice and was enormously relieved to see Josh leaning against the brass railing that formed a walkway to the tables in front of the stage. His arms were crossed but he still wore the tour t-shirt with Brian's face on it.
“Josh!” It was all Brian could think of saying.
“Sing.”
Brian's mind worked like a dinosaur struggling in a tar pit. He couldn't catch hold of any thought long enough to begin a single coherent question, so he relied on remembering the first rule of being a teen heartthrob, which was to always behave in public.
“I think you and I should step backstage, Josh.”
“There is no backstage,” Josh said with a sigh. “Go 'head, look.”
Brian gave Josh what he thought would be a stern look but it was an expression of fright to the audience, who silently looked up at Brian.
“I'm sorry, folks. I'm sorry.” Brian backed up to the music machine as it still played through “This Night”. He looked behind it and to the sides in hopes that Jet or Ron or Dan would be crouched down there ready to spring up. He walked to the side curtains, the way he believed he'd walked onstage just three minutes ago but was met with solid wood paneling, which he banged into with a loud thud. Despite everything else happening, he felt instant humiliation. The audience didn't respond though, not even a titter. Brian looked out, expecting to see smiles, but the audience just watched as he pushed against the paneling hoping it would be a swinging door. It remained solid.
How did I get onstage?
Brian came to consciousness always as a version of “Dani” started from the music machine. The music used to be almost note for note as his live band had played it, but over time (how much time, he had no idea) it had taken on a robotic sound, like something electronic, like the sound of beeps arranged to form a lifeless tune. It used to play through his full stage show but eventually it had narrowed Brian's song catalog down to just “Dani”, which he sang over and over each night. Brian sang about running away with Dani while the audience sat and watched, unresponsive. Josh made sure Brian sang. There had been a small revolt at some point, but Josh had placed the mic in Brian's hand, wrapped his own hand around Brian's and produced a flesh-searing heat that melted Brian's palm to the microphone. He couldn't unclench his hand now and was permanently ready for the stage. Brian had realized before that incident that Josh wasn't really Josh. And this wasn't a real stage and it wasn't a real audience. Brian, his clenched hand still sloughing painful burnt skin, sometimes yelled out, “What did I do?” or whispered, “Tell me what I did.” Usually Josh answered with “Just sing, moron.”
But once Brian heard a different reply from the shadows.
“I don't know.”
Brian called out, “You have to know. You're torturing me.”
Josh's voice took on a plaintive tone as he replied, “Man, You're torturing me. I have to listen to you.”
Brian always regained consciousness at the beginnings beeps of “Dani”. He didn't know if the cycle of unconsciousness and performing ran every twenty-four hours, every six months or every thirty minutes. He had stopped counting how many times in a row he sang “Dani” because it was always different and had no pattern, he just sang until the music stopped while racking his mind for some grand sin he'd committed, but he couldn't come up with anything.