Most North Carolinians would simply have described this day as ‘really, really hot.’

But Gerald loved to read, and thus he was more articulate than someone who would merely have described this day as ‘hot.’

Gerald would instead have used ‘sultry.’ ‘Hot’ didn’t quite describe today’s stifling humidity, or the languid torpor that seemed to drain a body of any trace of vitality. ‘Hot’ didn’t quite do justice to …

Well, today.

Gerald hung his head miserably, wiping a tear from his chubby cheek. Today was Saturday. Normally he’d be sitting on his bed, hiding from the sun in his trailer home and reading comic books.

But he wasn’t.

He wasn’t because today, on this sultry, miserable afternoon, old Pappy was being laid to rest.

Gerald closed his eyes, listening to the preacher droning on and on. It didn’t seem right, thought Gerald, that this minister was giving Pappy’s eulogy. It would have seemed more fitting for one of Pappy’s dear friends to have given it.

Pappy hardly even knew this minister, after all, although he would occasionally have a few of the church deacons over. “A bit of religion never hurt nobody, boy,” he used to tell Gerald, usually while taking an unhealthy slug from his moonshine crock. “A man’s gotta remember the Almighty once in a while, don’t he? Don’t seem right to go through life without rememberin’ your Maker ever’ now and again.”

Gerald smiled a little as he felt a gentle hand taking his own. At his right stood Kylie McGuinness, his dearest friend in the world. Kylie was pretty, with her sky-blue eyes and blonde ringlets, and popular at school. She was the polar opposite of chubby, unpopular Gerald.

Pappy wasn’t any relation to Gerald. For all Gerald knew, he wasn’t any relation to anyone. He was just a nice old man who loved to sit on his front porch, waiting for someone to walk by and chat with him. His ramshackle old house sat smack in the middle of Watsonville. The town had tried to condemn it many times, but the old man had always managed to beat the system. And it was a good thing that he did, too, because Pappy had more than ‘a touch’ of agoraphobia. He never left his wreck of a house, and always bribed local boys to deliver his groceries for him. As for his moonshine and pipe tobacco, well … his local ‘shine’ supplier was more than happy to make house calls to his best customer.

Gerald loved old Pappy.

Gerald’s parents were no kind of parents at all, neither his shrewish, chain-smoking mother nor his beer-swilling, loud-mouthed father. His home life was well-nigh unbearable, but whenever home became too much to bear, Pappy was always there.

Pappy listened to Gerald. He was kind to Gerald. He always shared his half-burnt meals, and his door was always open. There was something in Gerald that desperately needed a father figure, and there was obviously something inside of Pappy that yearned to feel needed, to be seen as something other than a worn-out old man.

Death had shattered that bond now. A part of Gerald wanted fiercely to regret that he, at the tender age of ten, had chosen an octogenarian as his mentor. But he couldn’t. Pappy had meant too much to him.

Gerald watched with blurred vision as Pappy’s casket was lowered into the ground. The town, in the absence of a will, had claimed his house. While the house had been condemned, the property had turned out to be quite valuable; thus, money had been set aside for a decent burial.

Gerald was grateful for that.

Pappy had no actual relatives here, at least as far as Gerald could tell. Had Pappy always been alone? Or had he just outlived his entire family?

Somehow, that didn’t seem to matter. Nearly the entire town was here, all the friends and neighbors that lovable old Pappy had mingled with throughout the long years that had been his life. He may not have had any living family, but he had a wealth of friends.

The crowd dispersed at last, eager to flee the punishing heat as the gravediggers moved in on the plot. Soon the cemetery employees would back-fill the yawning hole in the ground. Soon, Pappy would become one with the earth.

“Young Man?”

Gerald turned, letting go of Kylie’s sweating hand. “Yes, sir?” he said politely.

The minister knelt before Gerald.

“Pappy left this for you,” said the minister, handing Gerald a small envelope. “It was found on his mantle, next to a note saying to give it to you in the event of his passing.”

Gerald looked away, pushing his glasses up as his eyes flooded anew with tears.

“Son …?”

“Thank you,” murmured Gerald, as Kylie took his hand once more, “ever so much.”

“You’re welcome, son,” said the minister, rising and patting Gerald awkwardly on his chubby shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“What is it?” asked Kylie curiously, swishing her black skirt to fan herself as the minister walked away.

“I don’t know,” said Gerald, opening the envelope.

Whatever was in the envelope would be priceless, this Gerald instinctively knew.

Inside was a plain white card, folded in half.

Gerald opened it with bated breath. Only two words were written inside, in Pappy’s shaky scrawl …

Remember Punkin, it read.

“What does that mean?” asked Kylie, raising a pretty eyebrow as she looked over Gerald’s shoulder.

Gerald suppressed a sob as he lovingly folded up the card.

“It’s a long story,” he quavered.

***

The Week Before

“My dad’s been belly-aching all morning,” Gerald said sourly, taking a bite of something that was very badly burnt. Pappy claimed that it was meatloaf, but Gerald was a bit skeptical. “He didn’t vote for the new mayor. Since his guy lost, according to him, now the whole town’s gonna fall apart.”

“Well, some men don’t know how to just let be,” said Pappy wisely, chasing his bite of ‘meatloaf’ with a slug from his ever-present moonshine jar.

“I suppose,” said Gerald, drowning his next bite underneath a flood of cheap ketchup in the hopes that his meal would taste less like used charcoal. “I mean, it’s just the mayor.”

“Did I ever tell you about Watsonville’s first mayor?” said Pappy, taking another bite without bothering with any condiment except liquor.

“You remember our first mayor?!” said Gerald, choking as he swallowed.

“Shore, boy,” said Pappy, taking another slug as he swatted a fly that didn’t seem bothered by the deplorable quality of the food. “When I were born, Watsonville was run by the town council. It weren’t until the railroad came through that we decided we needed a mayor.”

“Who was he?”

“Well,” said Pappy, “he were a strange sort of fella, came from up north. He was short, with spindly little arms and legs, and a fat belly. He kinda looked like a spider. He had these thick glasses that made him look like an owl, too. His mustache stuck out from the sides of his face, and his grin looked like a damn shark’s.”

“He sounds kind of weird,” said Gerald.

“He always wore this suit with patched elbows and tails on the jacket. He wore this old beat-up top hat, too. Sure, boy, he was kinda weird.”

“So did he have to run for the mayor’s office? You know, like win an election and all?”

“Well, sure. But everyone knew he’d win,” said Pappy, pushing his travesty of a meal aside and reaching for his pipe. “He could talk the bark right off a tree, that fella. Smooth as a baby’s ass, his talkin’ was. Bunyip was his name, and the local children started calling him Uncle Bunyip.”

“That sounds downright ridiculous!” laughed Gerald, following Pappy’s lead and pushing his plate aside. “What kind of name is ‘Bunyip’?”

“Well, his name didn’t sound so ridiculous when he won his election by a landslide,” said Pappy, lighting his pipe with a match. “Everybody was happy for the new mayor, except this one young fella.”

“And who was that?” asked Gerald curiously.

“There were this one boy,” said Pappy, blowing out a puff of smoke. “I never knew his name, but everybody called him Punkin.”

“Pumpkin?” said Gerald.

“Yep,” said Pappy. “He were an orphan, but he lived in his daddy’s old house just outside of town. He musta been about thirteen, and he got along by doin’ farm labor.”

“They just let him live all alone?” said Gerald. “Being just a kid, and all?”

“Times was different back then, I reckon,” said Pappy, taking a long draw from his pipe. “People was just kinda used to letting well enough alone, you know? So yep, Punkin lived all by hisself.”

“So why didn’t Pumpkin like the mayor?” asked Gerald.

“He said the mayor was a bad man,” said Pappy. “Said he saw him creepin’ around houses, making nice with the ladies when their husbands weren’t home. He said that he saw the Yankees who ran the railroad meeting with Uncle Bunyip out in the woods, where no one could see. He said ol’ Bunyip was selling out our town to outsiders, just to line his own pockets.”

“Was all that true?” asked Gerald.

“I dunno,” shrugged Pappy. “But Punkin believed it, and he made so much ruckus that Uncle Bunyip had to give a speech to explain hisself. Oh, he was in fine form, ol’ Bunyip. He talked all nice and smooth, and did this little jig with his tiny feet as he waved his arms about. It was really something to see.”

“And then what happened?”

“I’ll never forget that night,” said Pappy soberly, blowing another cloud of smoke. “I remember Punkin. He was this skinny red-headed kid, and he always wore this old pair of worn-out denim overalls. He was freckly, and he always had this dirty coon-skin hat that he wore, summer and winter both. Well, when Uncle Bunyip finished his speech, Punkin stepped toward the front of the crowd, all by hisself. Everybody took a step back, waiting for him to speak. Punkin was all alone, the one fella who had the balls to say what no one else would.”

“And what did he say?” asked Gerald, waving the pipe smoke away from his face.

“He pointed straight at Uncle Bunyip, and I’ll never forget his face. He was angry, for shore, but he was also brave. He was gonna say what he was gonna say, and he didn’t care if he had to say it all by hisself or not.”

“But what did he say?!” pressed Gerald.

“He pointed right at ol’ Bunyip,” said Pappy, “and he said this: YOU’RE THE DEVIL!!! I SEEN YOU, AND YOU AIN’T FOOLIN’ ANYONE!!!”

“And what happened then?” asked Gerald.

“Everyone laughed at Punkin,” said Pappy. “Even me. I didn’t know why I was laughin’, mind you. I guess I just figured that everyone else was laughin’, so I should, too. I’ve always been ashamed of myself for that night.”

“Why?” asked Gerald.

“’Cuz Punkin was brave, and I wasn’t,” said Pappy. “’Cuz Punkin believed in something, and I just went along with the crowd.”

“But what if Pumpkin was wrong?” asked Gerald. “About Uncle Bunyip being the Devil?”

“That’s what I told myself,” said Pappy, swatting away a fly. “But that was before Bunyip shut down the church.”

“What?” asked Gerald. “He shut down the church? How do you even do that?”

“He got the town council to pass a motion,” said Pappy. “He said with the railroad coming through, our town was gonna become more ‘diverse.’ Hell, boy, most of us had to look that word up in the dictionary. He said a big church might offend people with different religions, or people who weren’t religious at all. He said we should shut down the big church, and let Christian folk just meet in houses like they did in the old days. He said that would be best for the town, and he scheduled a big speech on a Saturday afternoon to explain hisself.”

“So were you at his speech?” asked Gerald.

“I was,” said Pappy. “But before I went, I finally found some sand in myself. I went to Punkin the night before, in his shack out in the swamp.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Gerald.

“I said he should skip town,” said Pappy. “I told him that folks were talking, and the word ‘lynch’ was coming up more and more often. Remember, son, this was over seventy years ago. Watsonville still had an active Ku Klux Klan chapter back then. Uncle Bunyip used to talk trash about the Klan being ‘lawless’ and all, but that’s another thing Punkin said. He swore he saw Bunyip and the Grand Dragon meeting in the woods. He said Uncle Bunyip was makin’ backdoor deals with the same folks he said he hated.”

“Wow,” said Gerald.

“Punkin gave me the saddest look you ever seen when I warned him,” said Pappy. “But he agreed that he should leave town. Said he had one more thing to do first, though.”

“What was that?” asked Gerald.

“Well, I wouldn’t find out until the next day,” said Pappy.

“What happened the next day?” pressed Gerald, pushing his glasses up his chubby nose.

“Well, Uncle Bunyip showed up in front of the whole town to give his speech, explaining why he shut down the church. I seen me some fellas I knew was in the Klan, waiting for Punkin to show up again.”

“And did Pumpkin show up?” asked Gerald.

“Yer damn right he did, boy!” said Pappy, taking a draw from his pipe. “Ol’ Bunyip started his speech, and doin’ his little jig.”

“And …?” said Gerald.

“And Punkin walked right through the crowd, holding a whisky bottle. Er’body knew Punkin’s late daddy was a drunk, so he had plenty of bottles layin’ around. And Punkin loved to hunt, with an old black-powder rifle his daddy left him.”

“So?” prodded Gerald.

“So Punkin walked towards Uncle Bunyip, as cool as a cucumber. He was holding a bottle filled with black powder, and a lit toilet-paper wick burning through the neck. I was there. I seen him, boy. That kid had murder in his eyes!”

“So what happened?” asked Gerald breathlessly.

“Uncle Bunyip tried to sweet-talk Punkin, but Punkin weren’t having it. So as the Klan boys moved in to protect the mayor, Punkin hauled off n’ chucked that bottle!”

“What happened then?!” asked Gerald, moving away from the edge of the porch. It had begun raining heavily, and quite suddenly. Southern thunderstorms worked that way, and both Gerald and Pappy were quite used to them.

“Well,” said Pappy, chasing a draw from his pipe with a gulp of moonshine, “Punkin’s bomb went off, boy-howdy!”

“Did he kill the mayor?” whispered Gerald.

“Boy, I’ma tell you something!” said Pappy firmly. “But this here’s the damn gospel truth. I done seen it with my own two eyes, and I ain’t ever gonna forget it!”

“So what happened?”

“Punkin done blew up Uncle Bunyip, sure as shit!” said Pappy. “His black-powder bomb went off right in his damn face, and no man coulda survived that! Even the Klan boys took a step back.”

“So he killed the mayor, then?”

“No,” said Pappy, shaking the ashes from his pipe onto his plate. “Boy, I ain’t ever told anyone this. But I’ma tell you, on account of I love you more’n life itself.”

“So what happened?!” demanded Gerald, anticipating the end of yet another one of Pappy’s tall tales.

“There were an explosion, and a big cloud of smoke,” said Pappy. “We expected to see pieces of Uncle Bunyip scattered all over the town square.”

“So did Punkin kill the mayor?”

“Yes, and no,” said Pappy, taking another drink. “The smoke started to clear, and the townsfolk waited until it did.”

“And what happened to the mayor?!”

“There weren’t no mayor!” said Pappy grimly. “A man rose from the smoke, a tall, strong man. He was standing just where our skinny-ass mayor had been standing. He used to be the mayor, that man, but he weren’t the mayor no more!”

“Who was he?”

“He was tall, that fella,” said Pappy. “He was dressed all in black, and he had this handsome face, a face any girl would love. He had long, black, curly hair, too, but what I’ll remember ‘til I die were his eyes! Yellow, they were, and evil as all hell!”

“So where did the mayor go?”

“That’s what I’m telling you, boy!” snapped Pappy. “That man was the mayor, in his true form at last! And I knew then that Punkin was right all along. We’d elected the Devil, for certain sure. I seen it with my own two eyes. I were just a boy, but I seen it and I’ll put my hand on the Bible over it.”

“So where did the yellow-eyed man go?”

“He ran into the smoke, and we never seen him again. But I felt the evil drifting off him, boy! I knew I did right to warn Punkin. He disappeared that night, Punkin did, and didn’t no one never see him again.”

“So where’s Pumpkin now?” asked Gerald.

“I dunno,” shrugged Pappy. “No one does, I reckon. But he did right, Punkin. He stood strong even when no one believed him. He had the guts to stand alone, whether other folks stood by him or not. And he was right about everything. Uncle Bunyip was the Devil! He was ol’ Scratch, Satan hisself. I seen him.”

“Is this just another one of your stories?” asked Gerald suspiciously, ducking away from the rain.

“Maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t,” shrugged Pappy, rising. “But remember this, boy. If you wanna get by in this world—if you don’t wanna be a damn weenie—remember Punkin. He fought a lil’ war all by hisself. He told the truth even when no one else believed him. The preachers say that cowards ain’t gonna inherit the good Lord’s kingdom, and Punkin warn’t no coward, not by a damn sight! I’ll never forget his freckly face, or his worn-out coonskin hat. That boy had more sand than any man I’ve ever met before or since, and that’s a fact.”

Gerald wiped a splash of rain from his face, and pushed his chair further into the porch.

“I don’t wanna walk home in this,” he said plaintively. “And my dad’s gonna be drunk, and Mom’s gonna chew me out for coming home late.”

“You can have the spare bedroom, boy,” said Pappy kindly. “I’ll call your mammy and tell her you’re safe with me. I’ll make us breakfast in the morning, okay?”

Most boys wouldn’t have been comforted by the ominous prospect of runny eggs and burnt bacon, but Gerald was not most boys. “Thank you, Pappy,” he said gratefully.

Pappy stumbled towards his front door, fighting to find the doorknob. “Have a good night’s sleep, boy,” he said comfortingly. “And remember Punkin, would you? He was a strong boy. You gotta be strong in this world, boy, or it’s gonna run your ass right over.”

That was the last time Gerald ever saw Pappy alive.

Pappy called nine-one-one in the middle of the night, reporting chest pains. The ambulance took him away without even bothering to check that anyone else might be sleeping in the run-down old house.

But before he went to bed for the last time, Pappy left a note on the mantle.

***

It was raining again, but Gerald paid the rain no mind as he knelt before the gravestone. The funeral was long over and Kylie was at home, but he still needed a sense of closure.

Here Lies Pappy, read the opening line of the epitaph.

Pappy’s legal name followed the opening line. No one ever used the name, and thus Gerald didn’t even bother to read it. There was also a ‘born here and dead there’ date after it, and he cared little for that information, either. Pappy’s life and death were etched firmly in his young mind, and memory accomplished for him what the calendar never could.

All he could think about were Pappy’s final words to him, lovingly written down on the very night of his demise: Remember Punkin.

Punkin had the strength to stand alone, when no one else believed him. Punkin went toe-to-toe with his enemy, despite the knowledge that he was facing the prospect of his own lynching.

Maybe Pappy’s story was fact, and maybe it was fiction. Gerald had known Pappy to tell more than a few tall tales over the years. But fact or fiction, Punkin’s tale resonated powerfully in Gerald’s young heart.

He rose, and pulled his hood over his head to shield off the pounding rain.

And then he heard something, the sound of someone walking away from the cemetery.

Gerald turned toward the sound, suddenly afraid. Maybe it was the rainstorm that frightened him, or maybe it was just a memory. Either way, he ducked behind the trees, watching as a moonlit silhouette tottered slowly away from the graveyard.

It looked, obscured as it was by the rain, like the form of a stooped old man.

Shivering from the cold, Gerald re-traced his steps back to Pappy’s grave.

Sitting atop the sodden marble headstone was a threadbare coon-skin cap. It was a small cap, a cap sewn to fit a young boy.

Remember Punkin, would you? Pappy had said. He was a strong boy. You gotta be strong in this world, boy, or it’s gonna run your ass right over.”

“SIR!” shouted Gerald. “You left your hat! Sir …?”

But answer there came none.

Gerald hung his head for a moment.

And then he lovingly picked up the sodden hat, and placed it upon his own head.

Maybe Pappy’s story was the gospel truth, or maybe it was just another well-spun piece of fiction. One could never tell with Pappy. But Gerald would never forget Pappy’s final words.

Remember Punkin …

THE END

Anyone who knows me will tell you that it doesn’t take much to get me to throw up the horns and start head-banging. Honestly? It’s kind of a reflex. Musical chaos just kinda makes me happy all over, you know?

But heavy metal didn’t just fall out of the sky one day. It evolved from rock, which itself evolved from jazz and the blues. Both of those were evolutions from American folk music, which in the twentieth century came to be known as “country” before a fat, demon-possessed hobgoblin named Garth Brooks came along and perverted the definition of the word.

But I digress …

It all began in the rural American south, where the humble Scots/Irish brought over their guitars from Europe and began shaping America’s unique musical heritage. How such a heritage eventually mutated into Metallica and Megadeth makes for a long and fascinating story, but for today …?

Today we’ll be hanging with a musician whose songs are stylistically much closer to the beloved tunes that first emerged from the hills and “hollers,” and then went on to define our culture.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet JIM RAY!!!

Welcome, Jim! And congrats on being the first musician on my humble lil’ blog who’s never gotten a neck injury from head-banging! Can you tell us a bit about your musical journey?

Sure, Virginia! Maybe I should start by saying, I am the son of a Mom who was the church choir director and a Dad who thought that “Musicians are all bums!” Nevertheless, when I got my first guitar from Mom and Dad at Christmas, when I was 13, my Dad told me, “Now, I want you to use this to become rich and famous! Then you can take care of me in my old age!” I’m afraid I failed at that mission, but I did start writing songs just as soon as I was learning how to play guitar. And I’ve never stopped.

I hear you there! I got into writing for the money … and you’re welcome to follow me on FB for more advice on poor life choices! What drew you to songwriting as a form of self-expression?

I can’t say that I really know the answer to that question. It just seemed to be the natural thing to do as a young guitar player just learning how to play.

Who were some of your influences in the beginning?

You know, I listened to all the stuff that was on Top 40 radio, back in the day – and you’ve got to remember, this was the late sixties and early seventies, so there was a lot of good music to listen to back then. When I really started listening to other songwriters, I know I was moved by writers like Jackson Browne and Jim Croce. Later, Guy Clark became a real influence. But I think the fellow who really influenced me most was the fellow who became my best friend, my best man, and my musical partner in the late 70s, Frank Arduini. You’ve never heard of Frank, but he’s the guy who really taught me how to write songs, not by trying to teach me anything, but just by writing great songs himself. We were a duo whose bread and butter, as far as I’m concerned, was great two-part harmony. We didn’t write together, but we brought each other our songs and we harmonized together. Frank’s songs, in my opinion, were always deeper and more excellently crafted than mine – which, I suppose, inspired me to work harder at achieving the same high quality.

Jim Croce will always be special to me, may he rest in peace. Where’s Frank Arduini now? And I gotta ask ‘cuz I suspect the answer will be funny: why did your father think musicians were bums? I mean, yeah, we’ve all heard of the disdain that “squares” had for “hippies” in the sixties. Was it that or was it something else?

By the way, Frank and I wrote our first song together just two years ago. After 40+ years, we got back together for one performance and collaborated together in writing one special song for the occasion. My first ever collaboration.

If there’s one “perfect song” I’ve ever heard that I wish I had written, it would be Jim Croce’s “Operator.” Love that song! BTW- Croce’s son, AJ Croce is a marvelous musician as well. Saw him a few years ago doing a concert of his own and his father’s work. Frank and I were in the Army together and we played together from about 1976 to 1981 – wherever the Army might send us. We played from New York to Georgia, Florida, Oklahoma, Texas, and California. Finally, the Army sent us in different directions –him to Turkey and me to Germany– and we never saw each other again until 2023. Frank got out of the Army and wound up in Colorado working in the medical supplies industry. And, when I got out, I went into the police department in Tampa, FL, before answering the call into ministry, which has taken me all over the place. Honestly, I don’t know where Dad got that idea, but he expressed it in exactly those words the very first time he met Mom’s family, not knowing they were all musicians! I suppose only true love can overcome a faux pas like that!

The best romance novels often begin with a faux pas! I would know. How did you end up going from military to law enforcement to … ministry? Soldiers and preachers tend to employ opposite methods of helping people meet Jesus, don’t they?

That’s an interesting question and an interesting assumption. I surrendered my life to Jesus back in 1964 when I was just a kid. And, surely, I have wavered in my faith and in my life many times since then. I might even say, I wasn’t much of a Christian during a good portion of my army years. As a matter of fact, at some point while I was in Germany, I codified my philosophy of life in two statements: 1. Life is a game, and I play it better than anyone else. 2. The rules are only meant for those who don’t understand the game. Pretty far from any Christian concept, eh? My turn around, back to Jesus, began with the death of our second child, a daughter we named Melanie. Had she lived, she would be 42 later this month. I was standing by the grave as we were burying her, and in my heart, I was realizing, “This is no game. This is real life, and you only get one. You better get serious about the way you live it.” Thus began a slow and faltering return to Christian faith. It was a few years later, when I was a uniformed patrol officer in Tampa, that I really got a look at so many ways life can go awry – and it got me thinking much more deeply about my commitment to Jesus. I started actually reading my Bible for the first time in my life. And, one evening, while reading my Bible, I was struck by the knowledge that God was calling me into ministry. And I hated the idea! I have a natural love of adventure. And I was loving that aspect of being a police officer. Every day was different from the day before! You hit the streets and you never knew what you were going to see that evening! For four days, I fought the urge to obey God’s calling. This was NOT what I wanted to do with my life! Then, one Saturday afternoon, just after lunch. I was sitting at the table while Donna was doing the dishes, and –out of the blue– she said to me, “Jim, you ever thought about being a preacher?” Oh, man! I can’t tell you how everything I’d been struggling with the previous four days came flowing out of my mouth! When it all was said and done, we agreed – I needed to obey God’s call. Being that it was mid December, I then said, “Ok. We’ll get our things in order and make plans to start Bible College next fall.” Immediately, Donna said, “Oh no you won’t! I know you. If you put it off, you’ll never do it at all! We’re going to talk to our preacher tomorrow and we’ll see about getting enrolled right now!” So, that’s what we did. On Sunday we spoke with our preacher. On Monday, he drove us to Florida Christian College, where we enrolled. And two weeks later, in the beginning of January, we started school. And, because we couldn’t find any housing we could afford in the area, we –a family of four– we lived in the dorms.

Wow! That’s quite a story. I am so sorry for your loss. That’s not the kind of wake-up call that anyone wants to have, for sure. Did your time as minister influence or change your approach to music?

Well, for the most part, I’m not writing what I would call explicitly Christian music. I mean, I’m not writing hymns or worship songs. But most of my songs are small, intimate stories – either my own or that of someone close to me. And, because my relationship with God is such a fundamental part of my life, there are certainly expressions of it in my music. Just off the top of my head, for example, I can think of three of my songs with “God” in the title. (“God Help Me,” “I Thank God,” and “Thank God for the Little While”) All that said, I do try to express in my songs what I try to live in my life – compassion toward others, thoughtfulness, kindness, etc. And maybe not so much self-centeredness. I did co-write a song with my good friend Tim Ogle, that he will soon be releasing, called “The Sin Side of Jordan” which might be characterized as an Appalachian hymn.

I love Appalachian hymns, with “Let the Circle Be Unbroken” being the fave! I have one last question before we wrap up, one that I always ask because I think it’s important. What advice would you give to a new/aspiring musician?

Hmm. Maybe a few things: Do your best to learn your instrument or instruments. If I were a better guitarist, I’m sure I’d be a better songwriter. Pour yourself into your craft. As a songwriter, I write almost every day. I generally end up writing two or three songs a month. And they are not all winners, but they all help me to sharpen my mind and my skills. Read. Read stuff that’s not related to your everyday life. Read classics. Read novels. Reading widely gives you a broader vocabulary and viewpoint – both of which contribute to your songwriting. Knock them doors and send them emails! You won’t get any gigs if you just sit and wait for venues to find you. I guess that’s enough from me for now. Thank you for giving me this opportunity to gab, Virginia. Catch you later, my friend! Oh, and if anyone wants to find out more about me or my music, here’s the link to my website: Jimraymusic.com And here’s the link to my YouTube channel: https://youtube.com/@jimray-songwriter?si=2AQo6bY8rs_XDSSx

Jim Ray

Home page of Jim Ray, an americana, folk, rock, songwriter artist from Youngstown, OH. Craftsman and singer of true-to-life songs.

Thank you so much for hanging out today, and best of luck to you!

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to my humble lil’ blog!

Crazy V has an extra special treat for y’all today! We will chatting with Dean and Nathan of the crushingly heavy band DELIBERALIZE!

So, without any further ado …

So let’s start at the beginning. How did y’all get to together! I’ve been listening since ‘Unhallowed Halls,’ which was a while ago.

Dean: Nathan is my son and he grew up listening to death metal. I’ve been playing drums for about thirty-three years so I was hoping Nathan would take an interest in it when he got older. He did and quickly learned guitar, bass, and vocals.

Holy …! What I adore the most about Nathan is how clear his lyrics are even with his vocal chords turned all the way up. That’s talent! You don’t often see that in death metal, including my lifelong faves My Dying Bride and Carcass. The vocals may sound great but the lyrics are often muddy, you know? Kudos to him! Who writes the lyrics?

Dean: I write all the lyrics.

I quite like them. I’m listening to ‘Unseditious’ at the moment, which is fantastic. We’ll get back to the music in a minute, but we may as well come out of the gate with the obvious: It’s clear (given both the band name and the lyrics) that Deliberalize – much like old-school Black Sabbath and Megadeth – has a message. What would that be? And do please speak your mind; this ain’t the mainstream media here. I’m a musical journalist, not an ideologue or narrative peddler!

Dean: We believe there’s a deep moral and cultural decay happening in the world right now. Our music reflects our view that a lot of the decline is driven by corrupt leadership, ideological manipulation, and narratives that undermine truth, faith, and taking responsibility for your own actions. There’s been an erosion of traditional values. Somehow the rejection of truth has become normalized and there has been a cultural shift away from faith and biological reality, such as more than two genders existing. At the end of the day, our songs are not about hate. They’re about confrontation. Death metal has always been a genre that exposes what it sees as evil, corruption, and decay. We are just applying that same intensity to the modern political and cultural world as we see it today.

Death metal has ALWAYS flipped the establishment the bird! It’s funny, I did a deep dive into history for my new novel series. I held my nose and read both ‘Mein Kampf’ and ‘The Communist Manifesto.’ What leapt out at me is this: What they have in common is that they put God on a back burner and ask their adherents to follow the whims of capricious state leaders. I LOVE the cover of one of your albums: ‘It is when a people forget God, that tyrants will forge their chains!’ One will either serve a loving and just God or self-serving and corrupt men. I don’t think I see a third option and it kinda looks like you guys don’t either. Tell me, did this message evolve or was it planned going into your first album?

Dean: It was intentional from the beginning. We started Deliberalize with the goal of channeling our frustrations about what we saw as government corruption and cultural decline into something creative and aggressive. But at the same time, we didn’t want to be just another cliched death metal band writing purely shock-based horror themes about the exciting journey of a maggot eating a corpse. We wanted our music to reflect real world issues that matter to us rather than fictional gore narratives.

I LOVE it! Using music to express anger and discontent is civilized; it’s a form of dialogue. Chucking bricks at police and ICE agents is barbaric, and in my opinion doing such things is removing oneself from civilized society and becoming a savage. Dialogue is civilized. Chucking bricks is some shit that a caveman would do. Tell me, have you guys ever gotten any pushback against your music? (Note: I won’t be at all surprised if you say yes, since I write from a similar perspective to yours and I’ve taken some heat.) So, any pushback …? Trolling?

Nathan: I run the social media for Deliberalize. Surprisingly, no. We’ve only seen positive feedback on YouTube and Instagram. People saying they love the nineties feel of our music. Some have commented that they agree with and enjoy the conservative lyrics. No one has tried to ‘cancel’ us.

That’s good to hear! I think coming out of the gate with who and what you are heads trouble off at the pass. At a glance, people who love Bad Bunny and think Robert de Niro is a genius will look at your marketing and walk away rather than listening, getting pissed off, and leaving nasty comments. So, that having been established … back to he MUSIC!!! Dean, who were your drumming influences? Death metal drummers often sound like machine guns. I listen and I’m like, oof! That sounds like my better half emptying his AR-15 magazine as fast as he can! (He loves doing that, btw.) Your style is much more measured and nuanced. So which drummers did you listen to while you were learning?

Dean: When I first picked up drumsticks, it was Dave Lombardo and Lars Ulrich. Deicide’s Steve Asheim’s double bass and blast beats blew me away and opened my eyes to a whole new technical and speed-based style. Mike Smith of Suffocation and Gene Hoglan. But my biggest influence of all time is Sean Reinert of Cynic and Death. He was so good it was almost non-human.

I know Cynic and Death! Lars has slipped as of late, but it’s not his fault; he has admitted that his shoulders are completely shot. But when I saw the ‘Load’ and ‘Reload’ tours, he was rippin’ through his ‘wall o’ drums’ like nobody’s BUSINESS! Nice choices. So, Nathan, who were your vocal influences?

Nathan: Chuck Schuldiner is my biggest influence. His style was unique, no one else was doing vocals like that at the time. Others include early 90s Chris Barnes, Frank Mullen, and Mohammed Suicmez from Necrophagist, and Glen Benton.

NICE! You do a fine job, young man. So expressive and articulate! And, yes, Necrophagist I know as well! Sadly, gentlemen? I can’t do death metal vocals ‘cuz they hurt my throat; I can only admire, since I’m your usual choir-trained alto/soprano. And I never mastered the full-body fluidity required to artfully play the drums. Generally, I just count out the beats, turn in my chair like Micheal Keaton’s Batman in his stiff rubber mask, and I sound like I’m typing with drumsticks … which, I suppose, one would expect from a writer. But I DO know guitars and bass! Who plays those in Deliberalize?

Nathan: I write and record the majority of the guitar and bass. The solos are a combination of both of us as we trade off similar to the way of Death and Slayer. He does the structuring and we both record bass and guitar depending on the song.

LOVE IT! The precision of the rhythm guitar reminds me a lot of Dimebag Darrel (may he rest in peace.) Interestingly, the lead guitar fascinates me as well because it has Dimebag’s precision but delivered with an expressiveness that one would expect more from the likes of Steve Vai or Eric Johnson. So, Nathan – me being a tech geek here – let’s talk equipment! What’s your preferred gear? I’m an Ibanez guitar gal with an affinity for Fender amps. But it always interests me which instruments and amps players prefer because they choose them according to their playing style. So …?

Nathan: Ibanez guitar, strictly. I love the feeling of Ibanez guitars, I’ve played Fenders and Gibson, and Jackson, etc. But Ibanez guitars feel right. I play an Ibanez Xiphos, the most comfortable guitar I’ve ever played. For amps, I mostly enjoy the dual rectifier and the ENGL powerball and the Marshall JCM 800 are my favorite amps. For cabinets, ideally, I go for strictly ENGL because I like the way they sound. Maybe some Mesa/Boogie cabinets. I record vocals on a Shure Sm7b.

I love the feeling as well; the slender necks suit my small hands. K … done geeking out now! Dean and Nathan, I’d like to ask y’all final question before we go. I always end with this question, and honestly? I always get similar answers. But I think it’s an important question AND an important answer! Gentlemen, what advice would you give to a young/aspiring musician?

Dean and Nathan: Practice relentlessly, tighten your sound, and treat your music like it matters, because it does. Write what you feel and genuinely believe. Stand on it. Don’t back down from haters. Most importantly, don’t be afraid to tell the truth whether people agree with you or not. Conviction is powerful. Music has always been a voice for expression, so don’t be afraid to use it.

THANK you, gentlemen, for gracing my humble blog this evening! Your music is amazing and what makes it even more amazing is that you have a powerful, heartfelt message. Here’s looking forward to more from DELIBERALIZE!

Dean and Nathan: Thank you, V, for giving us this opportunity. We are working on a new album called Wrath of Euphrates that will be releasing sometime later this year. Your readers can find us on YouTube, Instagram, and Spotify.

EVEN COOLER, YOU CAN ALSO GET MERCH!

https://deliberalize.bandcamp.com/merch

Thanks again, gentlemen, and best of luck to you!

I was walking through a department store a couple weeks back, pushing my cart with the new blinds I’d just had cut for the bedroom. I was leaving the electronics section, where I’d just checked to see if there were any cool Nintendo games that I’d somehow missed.

Anyway, the book section is just outside of the electronics section. I don’t generally look at department-store bookshelves, since they’re always stocked with the same handful of cookie-cutter authors who should probably have stopped writing years ago.

But, that day, a single book caught my eye: Long Live the Pumpkin Queen, by Shea Ernshaw. https://www.amazon.com/Long-Live-Pumpkin-Queen-Nightmare/dp/1368069606/ref=sr_1_1?hvqmt=p&mcid=6bce978c039838dfbd3974fa2fc74375

Being a die-hard fan of ANYTHING connected to the classic film The Nightmare Before Christmas, I stopped and flipped through it. Honestly? I assumed that it was a gimmick, probably something that would only appeal to a kid. Besides, I haven’t the foggiest idea who Shea Ernshaw is; the cover says that she’s a ‘#1 New York Times bestselling author.’ But, then, so’s Tom Clancy and he’s terrible.

I was immediately stricken by the lush, dream-like quality of the writing:

Jack leans forward, eyes damp at the edges, and presses his grave-cold mouth to mine—and my seams feel like they’re going to fray and burst, like they can’t contain this swollen, chest-widening feeling rupturing through me. A feeling so strange and unknown and peculiar that it makes me dizzy. Makes my head swim, my legs teeter.

Jack and I are married.

He wipes away the tear streaming down my cotton cheekbone to my chin and looks at me like his own chest is about to fracture. And for a moment, I’m certain I’m certain they should bury us both here, at the center of the graveyard. Married, and died on the same day. Unable to contain the unspeakable, awful, wondrous emotion breaking against our eyelids.

The dreadful residents of Halloween Town applaud, tossing tiny dwarf spiders at our as we leave the cemetery, and the warmth in my chest feels like bats clamoring for a way out of my rib cage. Trying to break me apart.

I am now Sally Skellington.

The Pumpkin Queen.

And I’m certain I will never again be as happy as I am right now.

I closed my eyes for a second, hearing in my mind’s ear the soft moaning of wind through the dead trees as the fallen leaves rustled along the ground. I could hear the werewolf’s mournful howl in the distance, answered by the playful barking of Zero the ghost dog …

Well, that settled it! Into my cart went Long Live the Pumpkin Queen, right next to the blinds.

The book is just as well plotted as it is lushly written. The tension is almost unbearable as the Sandman—escaped from Dream Town—makes his inexorable way through the holiday lands, putting everyone into a deep, dreamless sleep. It falls to Jack Skellington’s new bride to keep the holidays from going forever extinct …

I’ll definitely be reading more by Shea Ernshaw, if for no other reason than her hypnotic use of prose. She’s amazingly talented, and I thoroughly enjoyed her tale—doubly so since it was set in a such a familiar, nostalgic setting. I particularly enjoyed the portrayal of Dr. Finkelstein, fleshing him out as a true icon of evil.

I found only one flaw in the book, which wouldn’t have bothered me except for one thing: By virtue of its subject matter, this book will inevitably appeal to young readers. For a time, a vampire brother fell in love with Mr. Hyde, and a witch sister with the mayor.

There is another, similar reference, which is two too many. Look, y’all, I’ve enjoyed—and even promoted—books that have sexual deviancy as a plot element. But I’m an adult! There is NEVER an excuse to put such references in a book for young readers!

Was that Ms. Ernshaw’s doing? Was she trying to be subtly ‘woke’? Or was it done at Disney’s bidding? After all, John Nolte—one of my favorite journalists—always refers to the company as ‘The Disney child grooming syndicate.’ Whosoever idea it was, inserting such elements into a book peddled to young people is inexcusable.

That having been said, it certainly didn’t ruin the book for me although I wouldn’t give it to a seven-year-old.

All in all, Long Live the Pumpkin Queen was a dream-like, gripping tale reminiscent of the likes of Ray Bradbury or Daphne du Maurier. Five stars!!!

I don’t usually review books from big names and/or publishers. I prefer to help out the struggling author, the unsung genius trying to find his or her feet in the world of publishing.

But, sometimes—just sometimes—a big-name book really grabs me, and I feel the need to share it.

Dr. Werthless by writer Harold Schechter and artist Eric Powell is just such a tome. https://www.amazon.com/Dr-Werthless-Studied-Murder-Industry/dp/1506744362/ref=sr_1_1?hvqmt=p&mcid=c9a3d9c8d6d73deda9dd804b89eb394d

Dr. Werthless is biographical, non-fiction graphic novel, rendered in a similar style to Schechter and Powell’s earlier Did You Hear What Eddie Gein Done? In fact, the infamous serial killer/grave robber Ed Gein appears in the narrative, as he was interviewed by the title character: the notorious psychiatrist Fredric Wertham.

Dr. Wertham is best known for Seduction of the Innocent, a book that I read as a teenager. It’s no exaggeration to say that Seduction of the Innocent severely crippled and nearly destroyed the booming comic-book industry; comics wouldn’t fully rebound until their second ‘Golden Age’ in the nineteen-nineties. How long did the comics industry flounder in the shadow of Wertham’s hatred for it, you ask…?

Seduction of the Innocent was first published in nineteen fifty-four. But, I’ll get more into that later.

Schechter and Powell do a fine job of telling Wertham’s life story, detailing both his incredible strengths and his deplorable flaws. While I knew—as does every student of comic-book history—about Fredric’s mad crusade against sequential art, there was also a lot about him that I didn’t know.

For starters, Wertham became renowned for his ability to at least interview—if not effectively treat—serial killers. He spoke to them as people, without judgment or fear, and got them talking in ways that other therapists could not. His work with the likes of Robert Irwin, Albert Fish, and Ed Gein shed a great deal of light on the mind of the serial killer.

While he was known for his affability and compassion with murderers, Fredric Wertham was nevertheless poison to his peers. Stubbornly opinionated and often neurotic, he was viewed as brilliant but unstable. Despite his shortcomings, Wertham took it upon himself to start a psychiatric clinic for underprivileged youth in Harlem. Since many of his clients proudly refused to be treated for free, Wertham began charging twenty-five cents per session, earning him the nickname ‘Dr. Quarter.’

The founding of such a clinic—particularly in the nineteen-forties—took iron will and force of personality. For this, Wertham deserves historical acclaim …

Unfortunately, it was his time at the free clinic that led to the manic obsession for which Fredric Wertham will be forever known: his unreasoning, blistering hatred of comic books.

The early fifties was known as the ‘Golden Age’ of comics. Detective Comics (DC) had its vaunted superhero universe. EC Publishing produced some of the finest horror and ‘true crime’ comics ever seen, many of which are reprinted to this day. (The incredibly popular “Tales from the Crypt” television show is based on the books by EC.) Dell Publishing had the rights to Disney characters such as Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge, as well as many other ‘funny animals.’ Business was booming, and culture-defining tales were being spun on a daily basis.

It’s unclear as to exactly when Wertham’s obsession with comics began, but it appears that it came from his time running his free clinic. He began to link comic reading to anti-social behavior, using an almost laughable formula: Anti-social youths read comic books, therefore comic books cause anti-social behavior. It’s the same flawed reasoning that money-grubbing televangelists such as Jimmy Swaggart and Pat Robertson would later use in regards to heavy metal music, horror films, and role-playing games. (For more on this topic, check out this brilliant interview with my better half: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhxUdyfMdyE )

Wertham’s assertions would probably never have flown today because there was no control group! He never created an isolated group of test subjects to prove his ‘cause and effect’ theory; his ideas were purely anecdotal. Indeed, Wertham’s base assumption—that children are ‘blank states’ and all negative behavior comes from outside influences—was never an idea that he bothered to test. Wertham simply did not believe in the innate depravity of the human heart, and—rather than testing his skepticism—he went on a mad crusade attacking said ‘outside forces.’

Seduction of the Innocent was never extensively peer-reviewed. It was not influential because psychiatrists took it seriously; rather, it was influential because hysterical parents did. Instead of testing his ideas in a clinical setting, Wertham ‘tested’ them in the court of public opinion.

Facing massive pressure from parents, the comics industry soon found itself operating under an onerous censorship regime known as ‘The Comics Code Authority.’ Gone now were most horror comics, and the few that survived were pretty toothless, much like the PG-13 horror films of the nineties before the rise of After Dark Productions and A24 Studios.

Only Dell refused to bow to the CCA, but that was because Dell’s books were fairly tame anyway. Rather than submitting their books for code approval, Dell instead opted to insert its own ‘Pledge to Parents’ inside every cover.

It wasn’t until the eighties that the industry began to push back. DC Comics launched its iconic, adults-only line of comics with such titles as “The Swamp Thing,” “Hellblazer,” and Neil Gaiman’s “The Sandman.” The rules began to relax a little, allowing for darker characters such as Wolverine and the Punisher. Horror and dark fantasy comics slowly crept back with such titles as “Eerie” and “Heavy Metal,” skirting around the code by marketing themselves as ‘magazines’ rather than ‘comic books.’

It wouldn’t be until the nineties—with the founding of Image Comics—that Wertham’s fascist legacy finally got flipped one big, fat bird: Image refused to submit its books for code approval. Honestly, classic books like “Spawn” and the “The Maxx” wouldn’t have been approved anyway, but it was the raw, visceral nature of their storytelling that made them legendary.

Marvel Comics was the last publisher to drop the code in the early two thousands, rendering it officially extinct. Most books today will have some kind of label stating such things ‘Rated T for Teen’ or ‘for mature readers only.’ Books with explicit art usually come in plastic bags, which is common sense.

Still, a once-proud element of America’s unique cultural heritage wallowed in the darkness of censorship for four decades. How many epic tales were never told? Or, if they were told, got watered down so badly as to lose their effectiveness?

Schechter and Powell did a fantastic job of rendering Wertham’s story—both the good and the bad—into a riveting, beautifully-illustrated narrative. Their summary of Wertham’s life and work is spot on: If there is a tragic element to his life, it is that this limitation—his monkey-see-monkey-do view of human behavior—has so thoroughly overshadowed his many admirable traits. Fairly or not, in the world of comicdom, he will always remain …

“Dr. Werthless.”

How the ‘Osbourne Identity’ Was Unlocked

-In July 2010, a “phlebotomist”—whatever the fuck that is—took a sample of my blood and sent it to a lab in New Jersey.

-DNA was taken from my white blood cells, dissolved in salt solution, and then sent off to Cofactor Genomics in St. Louis, Missouri.

-At Cofactor, my DNA was “chopped up” into ten or twenty-five trillion pieces thanks to some heavy-duty shaking. After that, they spelled out all the chemical letters—in precise order—that make me the certifiable nutter I am.

-For the next sixteen days, Cofactor used a photocopier-sized machine—which cost more than three Ferraris, I’m told—to “read” my genome thirteen times over and put it on a hard drive.

-The hard drive with “me” on it was sent to Knome, Inc., in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

-Knome compared the six billion letters in my genome with every other genome on the planet—to find out why the fuck I’m still alive. Then they put all the findings on a little USB stick thing and presented it to me at home.

-While trying to understand what had just happened … my brain exploded.

– Ozzy Osbourne, on having his genome sequenced. (From Trust Me, I’m Doctor Ozzy)

John ‘Ozzy’ Osbourne is no longer with us. The lead singer of Black Sabbath and solo metal icon has, sadly, gone to the Great Mosh Pit in the Sky. I should have written this blog a while ago, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t put my thoughts together, or wrap my head around going forward in life without the musician who provided the soundtrack of my life.

A co-worker broke the news to me, and I immediately hung my head and wept. My favorite boy cousin and lifelong bestie Eric was similarly heartbroken. He went home, hid in his ‘man cave,’ got blasted (Ozzy-style, you know?), and watched Ozzy Osbourne: Live at the Budokan. Me? I hid in the den, wrapped myself in a blanket on the couch, and sniffled through Black Sabbath: The End ...

And, yes, there was ice cream involved.

It’s impossible to talk about Ozzy without talking about my early years, during which his music slowly evolved as a massive influence. The following narrative might feel a bit meandering to some, but it makes sense to me. In any case, to quote the Joker from Batman: The Dark Knight …

Here … we … GO!!!

My mother was a religious psycho when I was a kid. No, I don’t mean a ‘Christian’ ; that’d be me. (A crappy one, mind you, but I try.) She was no ‘Christian,’ but she was a ‘religious psycho’ because it made her feel like she was better than everyone else. It also gave her an excuse to exercise brutal, ironclad control over her children’s every word and deed. In the end, it was all about superiority and control; religion was just the means to the end.

So, hard rock and heavy metal were off the table. My mother bought into the ‘Satan hatin’’ hysteria of the eighties, which was fueled by money-grubbing televangelists claiming to represent Jesus while they bowed at the altar of The Almighty Dollar. Jim Baker, Jimmy Swaggart, etc. … Those clowns have a court date in Hell, and, honestly? They keep coming back like toenail fungus. Now, we have Joel Osteen raking in the big bucks while he preaches heresies. And, it’s all preach and no practice to him. Love your neighbor? Use your ‘mega church’ to take in the flood refugees of Houston in their hour of need? Oh, HELL no!!! These are new carpets!

The ‘Satan hatin’’ crowd really was idiotic! Fueled by sleazy TV ‘stars’ masquerading as preachers (many of whom got caught with hookers or busted for embezzlement), parents bought into the absolute DUMBEST conspiracy theories! Your kid loves metal? Pull down his shirt collar; he’s probably wearing a Baphomet amulet. Your kid loves horror movies? He’ll be a serial killer before he graduates high school. Check his room for signs of blood and maybe a few dead bodies. Worst of all, does your kid play ‘Dungeons and Dragons’? Watch for his head starting to spin around while he bazooka-barfs pea soup. Also, check your house for signs of demonic activity. If the spots won’t come off your dishes, your household is probably possessed.

The scary thing is that parents actually bought into this shit! As a writer molded by heavy metal, horror films, and role-playing games, I take extreme offense. For an excellent rebuttal to all this nonsense, check out this podcast starring my long-suffering better half: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhxUdyfMdyE

But, for better or for worse, my parents believed that garbage. They ate it up like pig slop.

Ozzy wrote at great length about how hard it was to deal with protestors and matchstick men masquerading as preachers. I didn’t take that to heart until twenty-sixteen, when my better half and I took a long road trip to Minneapolis, Minnesota to see Black Sabbath during their finale tour.

There was this whole crowd of yahoos on the sidewalk in front of the venue, screaming into bullhorns. “THIS IS THE SONG OF FOOLS!!! YOU ARE ALL HERE TO WORSHIP THE DEVIL!!! YOU WILL BE DAMNED AND BURN FOR ALL ETERNITY!!! WE WILL BUY BACK YOUR TICKET TO SAVE YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL!!!”

My first thought was you haven’t figured out that nineteen eighty-five left without you?

My second thought came from a much angrier place: if those idiots were standing outside one of the Planned Parenthoods, gay bars, strip clubs, or Masonic lodges that we passed on the way to venue, I’d have asked to borrow a bullhorn so I could join them. We would have unarguably held the moral high ground! But, a concert? Raining on everyone’s parade during what might have been the high point of their lives? How many people can say they’ve seen BLACK SABBATH, and these clowns had to shit all over it?!

This scrawny dweeb with a bullhorn got in my better half’s face, which was a mistake; scrawny dweebs should never confront burly, muscled men who weigh an eighth of a ton. That’s just dumb. “YOU ARE GOING TO HELL!!!” he shouted.

My better half didn’t yell at him, and that was bad. When he yells, he’s just blowing off steam. When he speaks in a calm, measured tone he means exactly what he says. “If you don’t get that horn out of my face,” he said with a menacing half-smile, “I’ll shove it so far up your ass that it comes out of your nose.”

Scrawny Dweeb got the hint and backed off. I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that he didn’t get into my face. It’s one thing to poke the bear; it’s quite another to poke the bear’s mate. My better half would have dragged him out into the street, curb-stomped him into pothole filler, and up-ended his bullhorn over his carcass as a makeshift traffic cone.

It’s one thing to read someone else’s account of being hassled by nutjobs. It’s quite another to have nutjobs coming at you! In real time. In your face. Foaming at mouth and screaming out psychotic ideas that they’re too crazy to ever be talked out of. The experience was unnerving, and I’ll never forget it. I’ll talk about the concert later, because I’ll also never forget THAT!!!

Yeah, this was the garbage that my parents fell for. So, yep! No metal for me.

But, there was my crazy uncle …

My mother gave birth to me when she was sixteen, so when I was old enough to start remembering things (around four) she was twenty. Her baby brother is six years younger than she is, so he would have been fourteen. Letting him babysit me was a ‘measure of last resort,’ but it occasionally happened.

And, my uncle would always bring over a backpack with records in it. I remember the first time I ever heard Ozzy’s ‘Crazy Train.’ I was dancing all around the living room, gleefully head-banging like a pint-sized maniac! “Careful, V!” laughed my uncle. “You’ll make the record skip!”

My uncle was my lifeline. He introduced me to music that reflected the darkness that I felt even at such a tender age. My childhood was defined by brutal verbal—and occasional physical—abuse. I always felt like I was strangling from the ironclad control exercised over my every word, my every move. I couldn’t breathe, and the dark music that my uncle brought over was oxygen. For just a few hours, I felt free. I could breathe again. People were singing thoughts that mirrored my own, and suddenly those thoughts became a lot less scary. Ozzy—and others like him—made it okay to harbor dark ideas about the suffering being inflicted upon me.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Metal is catharsis. By turning fear and pain into art, fear and pain are robbed of their power over you. Horror films have the exact same effect. Life moved on, and soon I wasn’t four anymore. I was seven…

I loved listening to my hometown rock station, FM99, on my headphones after my mother and stepfather went to bed. As much as I enjoyed their music, it bugged me that they rarely played metal. Oh, they had all the ‘classic rock’ and ‘glam rock’ covered—and I loved both genres—but playing the likes of Black Sabbath, Ozzy Osbourne, or Metallica? You were lucky to get one song a day by those bands. Metal wouldn’t become ‘mainstreamed’ until Metallica released their self-titled album in nineteen ninety-one.

So, I had to get my hands on cassettes. There was no other option.

The only record store with bike-riding distance to me was this tiny shop that sat in what was otherwise a sprawling, empty lot between Sewell’s Point Road and I-64. The window was completely covered in fading, dusty posters of pop, soul, and R&B stars. It was widely rumored that the shop was just a cover for less-than-legal activities, and it was on the bad side of the Five Points intersection.

But, it was a RECORD store!!!

I talked a neighborhood boy into making the initial journey with me, since I was kind of scared of the neighborhood. That wasn’t hard; I was always a pretty lil’ gal (no brag, just fact) and getting a boy to tag along was effortless. He was like, whoa! I get to hang out with V?!

The bike ride was pretty scary, but, times were different then. You didn’t have to afraid in a bad neighborhood until you were a teenager. Gang-bangers didn’t mess with small children. Now? They’ll murder a three-year-old but it wasn’t like that back then. So, we made it to the record store safely. (Notice that I’m not giving the name of the record store? Just in case the owner wasn’t involved in less-than-legal activities, I don’t wanna slander him …)

(That having been said, I’m pretty sure he was.)

So, we walked inside. The owner was watching a flickering black-and-white TV behind the counter. He was a, um, ‘large gentleman of color,’ and he looked at my escort and I like we both had three heads. “Whatchoo lil’ crackas’ DOIN’ in here?!” he demanded.

“Just looking for some tapes, Sir,” I replied politely. (I’ve been called a ‘cracker’ more times than I can count. That’s what it was like to grow up in culturally-divided Norfolk, Virginia. Honestly? It never really offended me. Yes, I’m white. Which—in colloquial terms—makes me a ‘cracker.’ I don’t get bent out of shape over racial slurs. I don’t think it’s any worse to use a racial slur than it is to call someone a ‘big, fat stupid-head.’ An insult is an insult, no more and no less. It’s dumb to elevate one kind of insult over another.)

But, I digress …

A cursory look through the dust-covered records and cassettes made one thing immediately obvious: This record store had a ‘no white artists allowed’ policy. “Sir,” I asked the portly owner, who still looked shocked by our presence, “do you have any Black Sabbath albums?”

“I don’t sell no ‘white people music’!” he proclaimed.

I hung my head, defeated …

And, then his demeanor softened. Despite whatever sketchy business he may or may not have been involved in, he obviously had a heart. “But,” he added, “I do got dis catalogue!”

I perked up as he pulled a phone-book sized catalogue out from under the counter. “You tell me whatchoo want,” he explained, “and gimme fi’ dolla. Come back next week, and I’ll have yo’ tape and you pay the other fi’ dolla den.”

And, that’s how I got my hands on a cassette copy of Black Sabbath’s Paranoid …

I did a fair amount of business with that portly black gentleman over the next couple of years. The routine was always the same: bat my eyelashes at a boy to get him to go with me, tremble in fear on the bike ride there and back again, tell the fat man what I wanted and give him ‘fi’ dolla,’ and then repeat the ritual the next week to pick up my cassette.

I kept my cassettes hidden in my closet. If I didn’t, they’d get confiscated and I’d get grounded for engaging in ‘Devil worship.’

It’s funny, when Guns n’ Roses came out with Appetite for Destruction, I went in and ordered a copy. Upon being given the band name the fat man hastily blurted out ‘I don’t sell guns!” Which, of course, immediately told me everything I needed to know. Of course he did! I’ll wager that he had a dozen handguns under his counter (sans, of course, a dozen serial numbers).

But, you know what? I don’t give a shit. He was kind to me and we did a lot of (legal) business. What lawn-mowing money of mine didn’t go to him went for comic books, and thus I was content.

When I was twelve or so, my parents bought me a mountain bike for Christmas that went a lot faster than my dirt bike. I was also getting bolder about venturing further afield, so one day I made the journey to Traxx Records in Ward’s Corner.

Traxx was the TAJ MAHAL of record stores!!! Think Empire Records from the movie by the same name. Suddenly, the angels started singing from the heavens. No more paying ‘fi’ dolla’ in installments; they had everything in stock!

Ward’s Corner is in the Jewish section of Norfolk. The Jews have a synagogue there, and they all live huddled in this one neighborhood so they can walk to the synagogue on nice days without breaking Moses’ law about walking too far on Saturday. I felt much safer because—unless I’m badly mistaken—you don’t often hear about people being robbed by Orthodox Jews.

So, my bike trips to Traxx Records continued until I got my driver’s license at the age of seventeen. And. no, thank God, I never got mugged by a rabbi.

So, what treasures from Black Sabbath and Ozzy Osbourne did I discover during those years? What amazing music did I acquire whilst trembling past gang-bangers and waving cheerfully at Jews on hot summer days?

Lessee …

After Paranoid, I’m reasonably certain that the next album I bought was Black Sabbath’s self-titled debut. Talk about getting blown away, now! The opening track gave me the absolute shivers; it reminded me of the old Universal Studios horror films that I so loved as a kid. What is this/ that stands before me/ figure in black/ which points at me/ turn ‘round quick/ and start to run/ Find out I’m the chosen one/ OH, NO!!! (Fittingly, Black Sabbath takes their name from a horror film starring Boris Karloff of Universal Studios fame. On a side note, I have a pet sugar glider named Boris. Yep, after Boris Karloff.)

Another song that blew me away was ‘N.I.B.’, so named after the shape of drummer Bill Ward’s head which looked like a fountain-pen nib. The rabid ‘Satan haters’ claimed that the name was an acronym for ‘Nativity in Black,’ which would later become the title of a Black Sabbath tribute album. I loved the song because I love any song that tells a story! The lyrics come from a seductive lover wooing a young woman: Some people say my love cannot be true/ please believe me, my love/ and I’ll show you/ I will give you those things you thought unreal/ the sun, the moon, the stars all bear my seal…

But, I love the twist ending. After all the sweet talk and self-adulation, the young lady finds that her seducer is actually the Devil: Now I have you with me/ under my power/ my love grows stronger now/ with every hour/ look into my eyes, you’ll see who I am/ my name is Lucifer, please take my hand …

Cue the BASS riff!!!

That song became particularly poignant in my twenties. Who hasn’t fallen for some smooth-talker that finally tipped his hand and went from being an angel to becoming the Devil?! ‘N.I.B.’ is a timeless tune.

Another album I bought after Black Sabbath was Sabbath Bloody Sabbath. (An album/song title that U2—the worst band ever to have set foot on a stage in my opinion—would later rip off.) The title cut, in my opinion, is Ozzy’s best vocal performance ever. Sabbath bloody Sabbath/ what you gonna do?/ living just for dying/ dying just for you. Recorded in a creepy castle (as described in Ozzy’s autobiography I am Ozzy), the album is a fitting reflection of the drug-addled, dark circumstances under which it was recorded.

I also bought Ozzy’s Bark at the Moon. Honestly? I didn’t like it and I still don’t. But, Ozzy was still reeling from the sudden death of his guitarist Randy Rhoads, and I think he struggled to work with his new guitarist Jake E. Lee. The album was born of a disjointed working relationship, and it shows. Except, of course, for the title cut which is pure GENIUS!!!

I loved that Jake E. Lee used a movable chord for the main riff, much like Zakk Wylde would later do with the iconic balled ‘Mama, I’m Coming Home.’ The lyrics—once again—were reminiscent of my beloved black-and-white horror films. Howling at shadows/ living in a lunar spell/ he finds his heaven/ spewing from the mouth of Hell/ those that the beast is looking for/ listen in awe and you’ll hear him/ BARK AT THE MOON!!! I love the werewolf howl at the end; I always have to do it when I’m singing along. AWOOOOOOO!!! Whoa, whoa, yeah, bark at the moon!

Ozzy’s next release with Jake E. Lee on guitars, however, was NOT ‘disjointed’!!! I have only ever used one word to describe The Ultimate Sin: ‘elegant.’ My favorite song on the album is ‘Killer of Giants,’ but, honestly? Like Pink Floyd’s The Wall or Iron Maiden’s Brave New World, I can never just listen to one or two songs. I MUST let the album play all the way through!

Then came No Rest for the Wicked …

THAT was the first Ozzy album to feature guitarist Zakk Wylde, who is, um, yeah, kind of a demi-god in my household. Zakk went on to become the front man for Pride and Glory and Black Label Society, and he also released two brilliant acoustic albums under his own name. What’s cool, though, is that while Zakk would go on to become an incredibly nuanced musician, No Rest for the Wicked is an amazingly raw piece of work. Ozzy’s iconic voice played off of Zakk’s heavy riffing, and the world was handed a slice of heavy metal at its absolute finest.

Then came No More Tears ...

Good grief, y’all! Can you imagine a world without ‘Mama, I’m Coming Home’? The one track that always hit me hardest was ‘The Road to Nowhere.’ I’m still haunted by lingering ruin that was my twenties, and Ozzy sung quite eloquently about the topic: The wreckage of my past keeps haunting me/ it won’t leave me alone/ I still find it all a mystery/ could it be a dream?/ the road to nowhere leads to me …

So, yep, that’s the hodge-podge of albums that I bought from the fat black man and Traxx Records. But, it didn’t end there. When I was seventeen, Ozzy released Ozzmosis. I can’t even BEGIN to tell you what that record meant to me and what a profound influence it was during my late adolescent years. Me n’ my favorite boy cousin Eric used to sing along to it for hours. We weren’t izzackly ace singers, but, that’s okay. Music is about participation, not perfection; it’s about enthusiasm, not operatic training. I don’t give a shit if you sound like Bob Dylan, just go ‘head and sing! I don’t mind. I’ll sing along with you!

So, let’s switch gears here …

I’ve often said that Ozzy Osbourne’s/ Black Sabbath’s music is the soundtrack of my life. Why? What moments during my short existence could have conjured such music into the forefront of my brain?

Lessee …

‘Crazy Train’ – I remember jamming around my living room at the age of four or so, and I asked my crazy uncle ‘what did Ozzy say there? I didn’t understand.’ So, my uncle explained that the lyric was mental wounds not healing. I didn’t understand that either, so he had to explain what ‘mental wounds’ were. At which point I sat down on the carpet and mournfully replied, ‘yeah, I got those.’

I’ll never forget the look on my uncle’s face. He knew how crazy his sister was and he tried his best—particularly during my adolescent years—to shield me from her relentless abuse. ‘Let’s order a pizza, kiddo,’ he said kindly. ‘Your mom said we could.’

‘Miracle Man’ – Ozzy penned the lyrics to this one after televangelist Jimmy Swaggart got busted with a hooker. Miracle Man got busted! I found the song quite cathartic. Suddenly, one of ‘Satan haters’ who caused me so much pain got his just desserts. Jimmy Swaggart fanned the flames of the anti-metal movement, blaming Ozzy’s song ‘Suicide Solution’ for a tragic teenage suicide. Even a cursory glance at the song tells you that it’s a song about alcohol addiction and not an endorsement of suicide: wine is fine/ but whiskey’s quicker/ suicide is slow with liquor/ take a bottle, drown your sorrows/ then it floods away tomorrows/ evil thoughts and evil doings/ cold, alone, you hang in ruins/ thought that you’d escape the reaper/ you can’t escape the Master Keeper.

Jimmy Swaggart fucked up my life just like he fucked up Ozzy’s. I was quite happy to hear that ‘Miracle Man’ GOT BUSTED!!!

‘Mama, I’m Coming Home’ – Yes, this is just a pretty ballad to most people. But, it has much more meaning to me. A few times a month, my better half stumbles home from work looking like he’s been run over by a truck. He’s pushed himself to the limit and he’s finished. When that happens, my world comes to a complete stop. It doesn’t matter what I wanted to write or what I meant to do that evening; the head of my household is down for the count and now I’m ‘up.’ I know my place. Genesis says that ‘the Lord God said “it is not good for man to be alone; I will make a helper who is suitable for him.”’

I’m not the ‘mover-and-shaker’; I’m the helper. My better half always gushes with gratitude when I take care of things after he’s been busted to shit; he always tells me he looks forward to coming home. It scares me when he comes home in such a condition because he’s not the same strong, happy-go-lucky guy who left for work that morning. That’s when Ozzy’s song springs to mind: Times have changed/ and times are strange/ here I come but I ain’t the same/ Mama, I’m coming home.

My role was assigned at the beginning of Creation: ‘a helper who is suitable for him.’ His was assigned at Creation as well: ‘subdue the earth.’ If either one of use fail to do our jobs? Another line from Ozzy’s song will come true: selfish love/ yeah, we’re both alone/ the ride before the fall …

That’s probably anti-feminist but I was never much of a feminist anyway. God ordered this world to work in a certain way, and men and women were both created for specific purposes. I know mine. When I peep through the kitchen curtain and see the head of my household stumbling out of his truck, I think here I come but I ain’t the same …

He thinks Mama, I’m coming home.

And, that’s marriage. To understand your place in Creation leads to a happy relationship. Fighting against your place in Creation leads to being alone, embittered, and wondering where the hell all the good men went.

I’m not alone and I’m not embittered. ‘Mama, I’m Coming Home’ is also one of my favorite songs to play on guitar. When I was first learning to finger-pick that was one of the first tunes I figured out. And, I’ll never forget Ozzy’s profound lyrics until I either croak or go completely senile.

‘I Just Want You’ – There are no un-lockable doors/ there are no un-winnable wars/ there are no un-rightable wrongs or un-singable songs/ there are un-beatable odds/ there are no believable gods/ there are no un-namable names/ shall I say it again/ there are no impossible dreams/ there are no invisible seams/ each night when they day is through/ I don’t ask much, I just want you.

People have often asked me why I love that song so much when it says ‘there are no believable gods.’ To me? Even as a Christian, that lyric makes perfect sense. A deity, by definition, is unbelievable. That’s why we’re rewarded for having faith; we found the strength to believe the unbelievable. Ozzy spoke the truth: there are no believable gods.

But, this song has always held an even deeper meaning for me. When I started dating my better half it always played in my mind’s ear. Yeah, I’m told I have a near-genius IQ. What the fuck ever. If I do indeed possess all the smarts that my educators said I did, it still doesn’t mean a damn thing. Everything I know is a drop in the bucket compared to all that there is to know.

I didn’t know any more when I was dating my better half than I do now, but I did know this: I wanted that relationship to be my last. No more fooling around, no more mistakes, and no more disappointments. Each night when the day is through/ I don’t ask much, I just want you.

I got what I wanted. Life is good!

Honestly? I could go on forever. Ozzy Osbourne was a profound thinker but he always delivered his profound thoughts in a blue-collar, relatable manner. His sense of humor was amazing, as was his humility. He made a boatload of mistakes (like, you know, going on a forty-year bender) but he always readily admitted to them. When his album Ordinary Man came out, I slowly began the mourning process: I’ve been the bad guy/ been higher than the blue sky/ but the truth is I don’t wanna die an ordinary man. (That was a duet with his longtime friend Elton John, by the way.)

After Ordinary Man came Patient Number Nine. Patient Number Nine was fitting finale for our beloved Prince of Darkness. The songs were all co-written with a ‘who’s who’ of epic guitarists. Zakk Wylde, Toni Iommi, Eric Clapton, the late, great Jeff Beck … That album was INCREDIBLE!!! But, it was also haunting. You could hear Ozzy facing his own upcoming demise. I love the song ‘Mr. Darkness’: Dear Mr. Darkness/ I write you again …

Who hasn’t felt so low that he feels like his only solace are his own dark thoughts? While Ordinary Man was a fairly even-tempered album, Patient Number Nine was heavy as HELL!!! Talk about throwing a hand grenade through the door on your way out.

In twenty-sixteen, I saw Black Sabbath in Minneapolis, Minnesota. It was worth the road trip and it was worth fighting past the bullhorn-wielding idiot who nearly got himself snapped in half by my husband. To hear the First Voice of heavy metal shouting ‘GOD BLESS YOU ALL’ and demanding that you clap along with him, well …

I clapped. And, clapped and clapped until my arms felt like rubber. And, then, clapped some more. That’s the magic of the legend that was Ozzy Osbourne. Seeing him live didn’t feel like a concert. It felt like a party, and he was your enthusiastic host! He made it his duty to ensure that you had a wonderful evening and you left his party with a wide grin. He once wrote about that: ‘That’s what I do. I’m an entertainer.’

Yes. Yes, he was!

Shortly before his passing, Ozzy rejoined Black Sabbath for a finale concert. Who’d have guessed that he was giving us his two-week notice? But, that was the Oz-man for you. I waited a while to write this blog because I needed to recollect my memories to give that ol’ bat-eating maestro a fitting tribute. One does not simply take the entire soundtrack of one’s life and then re-arrange it into a neat blog in one day …

I didn’t start writing until I stopped crying.

That’s what Ozzy wanted. As he wrote in Trust Me, I’m Doctor Ozzy: I honestly don’t care what music they play at my funeral—they can put on a medley of Justin Bieber, Susan Boyle, and “We Are the Diddymen” if it makes ‘em happy—but I do want to make sure it’s a celebration, not a mope-fest. Also, it’s worth remembering that a lot of people on this earth see nothing but misery their whole lives. So by any measure, most of us in the Western Hemisphere—especially rockers like me—are very lucky. That’s why I don’t want my funeral to be sad. I want it to be a time to say ‘thanks.’

I’m trying not to be sad. I’m trying to remember the wise words of Dr. Seuss: ‘Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.’ On a final note, I will leave all you lovely readers with this: a few thoughts on death sung by the Man Himself. Don’t cry, just sing along. That’s what Ozzy wanted you to do. That was his final wish, and I for one honor it.

As the iconic playwright Jack Thorne once wrote: ‘Those we love never truly leave us. There are things that death cannot touch.’ It is impossible to write about Ozzy without mentioning his well-documented foibles, and I have. But, as Jack Thorne also wrote: ‘They were great men, with huge flaws, and you know what—those flaws almost made them greater.’

Rest in peace, Old Friend. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9yYJ6ZAYns&list=RD-9yYJ6ZAYns&start_radio=1

The year was 2020 …

I’d just been signed on with a respected romance imprint. The first book I ever read from said publisher was one written by my good friend Estelle Pettersen, who took the gig just before I did.

We were both ‘newbies,’ you know? I’ll always have a soft spot for Estelle because of that. We were both trying to find our feet in a new world, and working together made us more confident. Estelle asked me to read her script before it was released.

Naturally, being the good ‘wing gal’ that I am, I did. This is how it opens …

Look, y’all, I ain’t gonna mince words here. There’s a certain dissonance when it comes to art. I adore horror films, but I am not in the least inclined to run out and kill someone. I like sexy stories, but they don’t make me toddle out and cheat on my better half. Honestly? That’s why I love Estelle. She’s never said ‘boo’ about my sadistic tales; she just takes them in stride. I don’t judge her any more than she does me. I don’t write tales that hit the top of the ‘erotic’ scale, and Estelle doesn’t drown the world in literary blood. I’m violent. She’s erotic. And, honestly? It’s all just ‘pretend,’ both the blood and the blowjobs.

If erotic stories have a ‘cause and effect’ impact on you – if ‘Lessons on Seductions’ will tempt you to do something immoral – then don’t read it. It’s funny, though. Estelle’s public bios paint her as a loving ‘family woman.’ I know her; she’s a devoted wife and mother. (And, yes. I have a policy of never saying anything about a fellow author that the author hasn’t already said to the reading public.)

‘Lessons on Seduction’ is a fantasy, nothing more. The author—like me—is detached from her fantasies. Much like my own brutally violent fiction, this tale is just an escape. We authors LOVE to write about things that we would never do in real life! I would never harm anyone—brutally or otherwise—and I’m reasonably certain that Estelle would never wreck her happy home with grossly inappropriate sexual behavior.

That having been said, ‘Lessons on Seduction’ a ROCKIN’ tale! The opening made be blush. Bad writing elicits no response from me whatsoever, blushing or otherwise, but that’s not ‘Lessons’ …

Sapphire, the leading lady, is a complete skunk. She has the morals of an alley cat. And that’s what makes her story SO much fun to read! Her tale is a deliciously naughty one. Remember, this is fantasy. Not real life. I found Sapphire to be a very engaging leading lady; in fact, I think it was her shameless amorality that made her such a standout from other romance heroines, including my own.

Julian, the leading man, is cut from the same cloth as Sapphire. It is no small task, molding a yahoo who generally thinks with his second head into someone truly likable. But Estelle does. Julian’s evolution of character is subtle; the shifts in his thinking are so gradual that you don’t notice them. Then, when you’ve finished reading, you look at who he is at the end of the book compared with who he was at the beginning. Only then does the contrast hit you.

The ending—the last few paragraphs—really sticks the landing. Skunks don’t run around behaving like skunks and then miraculously earn a ‘happily ever after.’ Not in real life, anyway, but this is a story. Sapphire and Julian’s happy ending reads beautifully. (And, no, that’s not a spoiler. Romance—erotic or otherwise—by definition always has a happy ending! If a love story doesn’t have a happy ending, then it’s just a love story and not a romance. See also Titanic, or maybe Romeo and Juliet.)

What I loved most about this tale is how Estelle artfully inserted profound thoughts even if they were woven throughout all the sexual hi jinks! That is truly indicative of great writing. Great writing doesn’t just tell you a story; it also makes you think. It challenges your ideas and your belief system.

‘Lessons on Seductions’ is a great book. Full stop. Yeah, read it with caution or maybe don’t read it at all if it will tempt you to do something wrong …

But, honestly? If you can handle it, it’s a damn good story. Five stars. I THOROUGHLY enjoyed it!

IF YOU DARE TO READ ‘LESSONS ON SEDUCTION,’ YOU CAN FIND IT HERE!!! https://www.amazon.com/Lessons-Seduction-Estelle-Pettersen-ebook/dp/B08BKRPF63/ref=sr_1_1

Andrea Miles Rhoads was a both dear friend of mine and a ferociously effective mentor. Her clever marketing landed me not one but three bestsellers: ‘Haunting at the No Return Hotel,’ ‘Genesis Rising I: The Children of Apep,’ and ‘Genesis Rising II: The Angel and the Beast.’

Honestly? I miss her most as a friend and mother figure. Andrea was quick to ‘get after me’ when I messed up, and quite stern about telling me what I needed to do in order to become the author that I wanted to be. But, behind all that business-like sternness beat a heart of the purest gold. Andrea cared about me as a younger author, and she never wavered in her belief that I was tough enough to evolve into the writer that I so craved to become. Working with her was like working with one’s mother: the perfect balance of love and discipline.

Why discipline? Because Andrea possessed something that I lack: Marketing skills. I had to be molded into something that I was not, and she made doing so her mission.

Andrea’s passing was sudden and heartbreaking. Like my fellow author Gerry ‘Alan’ Souter and my poet friend Chris Taylor, not a day goes by that I don’t mourn her. But, as Dr. Seuss put it: ‘Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.’

I’m smiling. Sadly, some days, but still smiling. Andrea would have sternly ordered me to smile, and then given me an ass-chewing if I didn’t. And, then she’d go on to tell me how awesome I was even if I didn’t believe that myself.

What follows is an unreleased interview with me that Andrea did, meant for one of her newsletters. Sadly, it was never published. But, Andrea always did tell me that my biggest marketing strength was my ability to be a ‘ham,’ at least when I could hide behind a keyboard.

So, here’s me … answering a few questions from one of the greatest women I’ve ever known. Andrea left the world a better place than it was when she came into it. I – and many authors like me – will testify to this.

So, without any further ado …

AMR: Where did you grow up and do you still live there?

Sadly, I don’t live there anymore. I do miss the ocean! I was born and raised in Norfolk, Virginia, USA.

AMR: When you were younger, what did you want to be when you grew up?

I wanted to illustrate comic books as a teenager. I made fair amount of money in graphic design, advertising art, and portraits in my younger years. I was accepted by the Joe Kubert School of Animation and Art … and then I second-guessed myself. I was like, those artists spend fifteen hours a day hunched over a drawing board! Is that really how I wanna live?! So during my later years, I gravitated toward writing. It struck me as a more direct form of self-expression.

AMR: Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

Honestly? Dead. The world is blowing itself up even as I type this, and I’m not naïve enough to believe that I’ll escape the fallout. But as Michael Ende—the author of the iconic The Neverending Story—put it: ‘That is another tale, and shall be told at another time.’ In the meantime, God blessed me with a wonderful life. When it’s over, it’s over. I love the quote from one my favorite films, The Village: ‘We are grateful for the time that we have been given.’

AMR: When did you start writing and why?

I was in my teens. I fell in love with the works of Ray Bradbury, Mark Twain, and Daphne du Maurier. But I was still mostly an artist back then, so the writer that bridged the gap between writing and art for me was J. Marc DeMatteis—a comic-book writer. J. Marc’s writing brought Sal Buscema’s art to glorious life, and that’s when I began to examine the written word. Sal Buscema I already understood; he was an artist, like me. But there was something about J. Marc DeMatteis’ storytelling that I found very intriguing, and wanted to further explore.

AMR: What is your favorite movie?  How many times have you seen it?

I have three: The Lion King, The Crow, and Natural Born Killers. Honestly? They never get old. I’ve seen all three at least a hundred times, maybe more.

AMR: What genre do you write?

ALL of ‘em!!! Literature is just one big, exciting adventure for me. There’s always some new frontier, you know?

AMR: What is your favorite book or character that you have written?

I have two favorite characters. Jillian is a werewolf, and she was featured in “Renewing Forever” and “Beginning Forever,” both published by Black Velvet Seductions. And then there’s ‘The Dark One.’ I ain’t spilling the beans quite yet, but you’ll meet him soon enough! (V’s Note: ‘The Dark One’ appears in ‘Genesis Rising II: The Angel and the Beast.’)

AMR: Do you have a new release coming out? What is the title and genre?

I have book one and book two in a series entitled Genesis Rising. The genre is dark fantasy. The titles are The Children of Apep and The Angel and the Beast. The contracts haven’t come in yet, but I think I also have two short stories on deck: a sci-fi romance entitled “Talitha,” and an erotic romance entitled “Behind the Wall of Sleep.” (V’s Note: Both of the anthologies in which those stories first appeared are out of print, but both tales have been re-published in ‘Even in Madness.’)

AMR: What are your rituals before you start writing?

Drink a lot of beer. DON’T judge! I’m working on that … (V’s Note: I’m trying to recover from alcoholism now …)

AMR: Who is or are your favorite authors? Favorite Book?

Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, Ray Bradbury’s The October Country, and Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. I re-read all three every year. And yes, that’s my triad of literary idols!

AMR: Fun facts about you?  Or unusual thing about you.

I like tartar sauce on my omelettes. I’m also a huge fan of musicals, despite my well-deserved reputation as a metal chick. Phantom of the Opera and Hairspray are two of my favorites!.

AMR: What words of wisdom would you give someone wanting to become a writer?

Don’t do it. Seriously. It ain’t worth it. But if you MUST do it, well … go ‘head and PM me. I may have some advice for you! Being an author is both a blessing and a curse. It’s best avoided if possible, but yeah, if it’s your curse—and you can’t escape it—I’m here for you!

AMR: If you had 2 hours to talk to whoever you wish alive or dead, who would it be and why?  And what would you talk about?

Jesus. Humans cannot truly create; we can only re-arrange the elements of that which has already been created. I’d like to sit down with the true Creator—BEFORE I kick the bucket—and ask Him what that process looks like.

AMR: Anything additional you wish to add?

DON’T write because you wanna be rich and famous! It ain’t happening. Trust me, I would know. If you wanna be rich and famous, go screw some Hollywood producer and hope that he puts you into a movie. Good luck with that! Not the screwing part, of course; that’s easy. The ‘being put into a movie’ is the hard part, and may require repeated screwing.

Write because you want to, and for no other reason. Write because you have stories to tell. Write because you hope that your words will inspire a young person. Write because you can’t imagine what your life would like if you weren’t a writer. Whatever your reason … just write! Writing is pure. Writing is clean, and comes from an altruistic place in the human heart.

If you love stories—if you love the written word—you must write! The world is desperate to hear what you have to say, whether they realize it or not. The social-media haters might say otherwise, but hey …

F**K ‘em!!!

And that’s it. If I were to keel over right now, I think those would make fitting last words for my tombstone.

I mean, there’s even an F-bomb in there …

May God rest the soul of Andrea Miles Rhoads. Sleep well, my friend. I’ll be seeing you soon enough. – V

LADIES AAAAAAND GENTLEMEN!!!

Boy howdy, do I EVER have a different sort of band for you today! You know how we all have our own quirky record collections? How most of us have a lot of our favorite genre and then we have a little something of everything else?

Imagine a band that somehow managed to put ‘everything else’ onto a single record …

That band would be DIRTY SPACE GROOVE!!! My new friend Dave Neri was kind enough to have a chat with me, representing his band and explaining some of the ‘stories behind the songs.’

So, without any further ado …!

K, here we go … Dave, can you tell us about Dirty Space Groove and how you got together?

Okay, about three years ago, MTK3 the vocalist posted for a side project band on Mondays. I knew of him from his prior band Kocosante, they were very popular and he’s is a great front man, I was in between projects at the time, so we met up with former drummer Marc from another local band Toasted Marshmallow Zombies, clicked immediately, and began writing songs that night

MTK3?

Mike Thomas Kennedy the Third. This is his stage name

Ah! For our readers, what is your local area? I like to know where my favorite bands are so I can show up, get hammered, and usually land myself in trouble!

We are in south Florida

Lucky … I’m freezing my patootie off at the moment! I’d like to chat about this MTK3, if we may. I’m listening to the single ‘Nancy’ as we’re talking. VERY unique singer! The first thing that comes to mind is ‘edgy nerd rock.’ And I DO hope he takes that as a compliment! See also Michael Stipe of R.E.M. and, of course, Geddy Lee of Rush. I’d be curious as to what drove him toward his unique singing style when rock in general seems to have gravitated toward darker, snarly vocals. Can you share a little about that?

Well, when we got together we were going to write heavier material, but I write more of a dark pop kinda rock style with melodies, so I brought this. MTK3 changed his normal style and really brought that unique voice you hear now. Most people say he sounds like Ozzy, or we sound like Faith No More meets the Red Hot Chili Peppers. But, he really learned a new way to sing, and it’s been really good to be able to stand apart from what is going on and focus on new sounds and vocal melodies

I also hear echoes of Rob Halford. ‘Nancy’ is a pretty heavy song, and the note at the beginning of the video talks about mental illness. Is that a running theme in Dirty Space Groove’s music?

No , we all have family members that fall into all of the categories of mental illness discussed in the opening segment of the video. I worked in memory/ Alzheimer’s care for a while and it really broke my heart, but our music jumps to different genres from we want to party to until the world ends or the climate/ pollution issues just being straight up silly. (V’s note: Yeah, ‘climate change’ is just fuckin’ silly. It’s called ‘weather,’ dipshit!) So, there’s really no path we follow when writing; whatever comes out comes out. We like to play around with the whole ‘alien’ thing; it’s fun, and we’ve all had encounters for our whole lives. When you hear our EP on iTunes you will see how different each song is.

Alzheimer’s really is heartbreaking. Yes, ‘diverse’ DEFINITELY describes Dirty Space Groove! A lot of bands would chase me down and beat me with the mic stand for saying this, but I’m hearing a definite eighties pop influence. Echoes of Wham!, A-Ha, and David Bowie, you know? And, also excellent use of pianos and keyboards. Was it deliberate, adding those elements to the music or did it just kind of evolve?

With My Sweet Space Dream, we did want the eighties elements, the Miami sound, KC and the Sunshine Bands horns, electronic drums reminiscent of the drums on Miami vice, and a bit of the Latin flair. You have a good ear. The synths are played by Carlos we played together in a band prior. I always play with synths, keyboards rather than another guitarist to open up our musical pallet and more soundscapes.

When our good friend Cheri Belfiore-Kane first sent me your music, that was the one thing that really blew me away. Most bands tend to revolve their music around one or two elements, whether it be vocals, lead guitar, bass, etc. With Dirty Space Groove, no one element jumps out … which somehow makes them ALL jump out—perfect balance. You don’t often hear that; I honestly think that’s what made Guns N’ Roses such a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. So, how do y’all write? Is your process structured or do the songs come from jam sessions? Do one or two of you write and the band fleshes it out, or is everyone involved from the get-go? DO share! I’m always fascinated by the writing process.

It’s different with every song. We all bring elements to the songs; someone will have a riff or a complete song and bring it in, or we take some elements from jam sessions that we play every night as a warm-up before rehearsal. But, everyone brings their style to the songs and we all write and play multiple instruments so we have many songs

Wow … I really appreciate the bass and drum players. They almost sound like different musicians with every song. It’s very tempting, I think, to settle on a ‘pet’ set of riffs and tempos. Do y’all do your own sound mixing, or is that subbed out to a studio?

Nancy and My Sweet Space Dream was played by Marc, our first drummer. The rest of the EP was a drummer named Alfredo; he has since left the band and we are working with a new drummer: Jeremy Staska. https://www.discogs.com/artist/261969-Jeremy-Staska from Studio 13; he also co-produced the EP with us and played some Latin instruments on it. Jeremy also mixed the EP and mastering was done by https://coladamix.com/ . We brought our good friend Oski Gonzalez https://www.facebook.com/oski.gonzalez.10 in to play congas on a few tunes, so we have an amazing team behind us.

Indeed you do! Tell me, who made that GORGEOUS video for My Sweet Space Dream? It SO reminds me of one of my favorite films: Heavy Metal!

That was made by Odette, the bassist David’s wife. It is very electric and eye-catching; she did an amazing job. Heavy Metal is one of my favs, too, I seen it in the theater when it came out. The song is about someone that is obsessed with Lady GaGa (Stephene) and he can only see her in his dreams.

Lucky! My mother wouldn’t let me see Heavy Metal when it came out. And, wow! Dreams are a running theme in my writing; I often think we don’t attach enough importance to them. Speaking of theaters, I’m told Dirty Space Groove has a major event coming up?

Yes, we are playing two nights at Deafstock, the first of its kind event to help all walks of life enjoy music and celebrate life.

https://deafstock.org

deafstock.org

Nice! I once knew a deaf fellow who loved going to metal shows. He said he could feel the beat even if he couldn’t hear anything, and he loved the energy. And, that does kind of sound like the first of its kind. How did Deafstock come to be?

This is taken from the page Story of Deafstock Music & Art Festival About Deafstock, Inc.: ‘David Ritchey, a passionate advocate for inclusivity in music and art, founded the Deafstock Music & Art Festival to bridge the gap between the Deaf and hearing communities. Inspired by the idea of Woodstock and frustrated by the lack of accessibility at traditional events, David envisioned a festival where everyone could enjoy music and art together for all walks of life. One evening at a local music festival, David felt frustrated by the lack of accessibility for Deaf individuals. This idea inspired him to create the Deafstock Music & Art Festival, where Deaf and hearing people could enjoy music and art equally. He envisioned a three-day festival with visual art installations, live performances with sign language interpreters, and tactile experiences. David assembled a dedicated all-volunteer team and faced numerous challenges, including funding and skepticism. They launched a successful crowd funding campaign and secured a spacious, accessible park for the event. Partnering with local Deaf and hearing artists, they also incorporated innovative technologies like vibrating dance floors and visual light shows. Deafstock features visual art installations, live music performances with sign language interpreters, and tactile experiences that let Deaf attendees feel the music through vibrations. The festival celebrates the talents of Deaf artists and musicians, providing them a platform to showcase their work. With the inaugural event set for April 2025, Deafstock aims to create a vibrant, inclusive environment. David and his dedicated team have worked tirelessly to bring this vision to life, transforming a spacious park into a celebration of music and art for all. Join us as we break down barriers and foster unity through the power of creativity.’ I seen his post on Facebook about five months ago, and we said we have to be a part of this event. We help out any organization that is for the betterment of humans and brings awareness to any worthwhile cause. We were the first band to apply to play.

Truly a noble cause! Rockers are and have always been the most charitable people I know. Always looking out for others! So, what’s new on the horizon for Dirty Space Groove? What does the far future hold?

Well, we are working with Irongate records, we are putting together a tour, and going back to record another six songs. We’ll have new videos and we’re looking forward to connecting with new fans around the world

WOW! Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes! I for one—to quote Senator Palpatine—will be watching your career with great interest! So, before we wrap up, I have one final question for you. I always ask this one because I think it’s the most important question: What advice would you give a young/aspiring musician?

Learn about the business part as much as the music part. Be yourself and don’t follow trends. Write, write, and write music. Get knowledge on publishing and all aspects of the biz. Collaborate with other artists, and don’t be a dick!

‘Don’t be a dick!’ LOVE it! And, I absolutely agree about learning the business end. I struggled with that as an author but I had some great mentors, as I’m sure you did, too. Thank you, Dave, so much for your time today! Here’s wishing both you and Dirty Space Groove ALL the best going forward!

Thank you, Virginia.

You are most welcome. Cheers!

CONNECT WITH DIRTY SPACE GROOVE ON FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/DirtySpaceGroove

CHECK OUT DIRTY SPACE GROOVE’S VIDEOS! https://www.youtube.com/@dirtyspacegroove

“You were right, Mommy. He’s an angel. God did touch him with his finger! Look at the beautiful scars …” – Line from Suzanne Smith’s Lilah’s Limit

Was there ever any doubt that Suzanne Smith is the Queen of Dark Romance?

Well, in case you missed the memo … yeah, she kinda is. https://virginiawallace.com/2021/03/03/a-chat-with-suzanne-smith/

This is the epitome of dark romance, a gothic masterpiece reminiscent of Mary Shelley and Anne Rice with a dash of Daphne du Maurier thrown in.

Taking place in New Orleans in eighteen seventy-one, Lilah’s Limit is set in the world of New Orleans’ brothel scene. It’s unnerving to think that—in the United States, of all places—there would be human trafficking organizations operating in broad daylight. But, yes, that was actually the case.

What makes Lilah’s Limit fascinating, though, is not the evil setting of the tale. What makes it truly shine in the amazing characters blossoming within said setting—the good, the bad, and the morally ambiguous.

And, if I had to describe Suzanne Smith’s characters –all of them—with simple phrases, it would be these: ‘morally ambiguous’ and also ‘scarred.’  It is very, very difficult to separate her characters from the wickedness that molded them. Some rise above their pasts, and some wallow in them. One of the most vile characters I’ve ever read is the calculating, diabolical Madame Cheney—a sociopath who traffics in the flesh of women less fortunate than herself. Her introduction is positively chilling: (Renault) looked at her incredulously. It was obvious she had no qualms about her immoral role as a flesh peddler. She talked about her girls as if they were unfeeling, mindless horses she was trying to sell rather than sentient human beings. While her dehumanizing and solicitous manner irritated him it also made him a little envious. How he wished he could be like her and shove his conscience aside. Take pleasure in his sinful behavior without feeling an ounce of guilt.

Renault, the leading man, is fascinating character. It was no small task, turning a common whoremonger into a romance hero. He’s the perfect counterbalance to the incredibly damaged Lilah, a woman of birth and breeding forced into a life of prostitution.

The book also raises this question: is murder always a crime? Should the law always remain immutable, unbreakable … or are some people just so evil that the law only serves to aid and abet their heinous deeds? The French Revolutionaries once said that ‘the more wrong that has been done, the more blood it takes to set it right.’

Is that true? It was unlawful for the Revolutionaries to behead Marie Antoinette, but given her sins against her people, History doesn’t seem to judge the Revolutionaries all that harshly. Perhaps sometimes—just sometimes—Civil Law is an impediment to the exercise of the simple Law of Good and Evil.

I will say that this book has a happy ending. I kinda feel like I have to say that, because everything I’ve written thus far is pretty dark. But, mind you, I won’t tell you how the story arrives at said happy ending. That’s the fun part, so I’ll just say that it does.

That having been said, I must also add that this book isn’t for everyone; Suzanne’s books generally aren’t. I’d rather be honest about what’s in a book than have the wrong reader find it, and then pan it. Suzanne is too talented to suffer such embarrassment. So I will point out that this story brutally portrays the realities of human trafficking, from the cold-blooded selling of virginity to outright pedophilia, although this is all written as tastefully as possible given the subject matter.

But, nevertheless, it’s the setting that makes the dark hero and heroine truly memorable. Our scars often define who we are, but sometimes we find the strength to rise above them. That is the overarching point of this tale: that oftentimes incredibly flawed people will surprise you. Not always, but often.

This truly is a five-star read, and I give it my hearty endorsement! https://www.amazon.com/Lilahs-Limit-Suzanne-Smith/dp/B0D1JKGNZM

Enjoy! – V