If Lindsey Buckingham isn't a lesbian, then I don't want to live!

The root of the problem

The news was all over the internet, or at least the portion that I inhabit. Lindsey Buckingham, former lead guitarist for Fleetwood Mac was coming to town. Now if you're not old enough to remember, or just not into that kind of thing, I probably need to point out just what an amazing guitarist Buckingham is. Soft easy ballads are something handled extraordinarily well,but screaming fast electric is a specialty. What's especially remarkable is he finger picks when he plays. The closest I  can come in comparison would be Chet Atkins, covering lead, rhythm, and bass simultaneously on one instrument; except Chet never rocked as hard as Lindsey can. When I told her about it, Goose (no mean guitarist herself) was almost beside herself with anticipation.
So it was with Great Expectations that we awaited the advent of the concert.
And of course the day finally arrived, as days inevitably do.
"Goose!" I hollered as evening approached. "Are you wearing comfortable shoes? Remember, Headliners is general admission, no seating. We'll be on our feet all night."
She was in comfortable shoes, and eager to see a real guitar hero in person, she quickly hustled me out the door and into the car.
One of the things I really like about living in Clarksville is how close pretty much all the stuff I want to do is to us. We were at Headliners in 12 literal minutes, and honestly I don't think there is anything in the greater Kentuckiana area that's more than 15 minutes away. But like I was saying, within 12 minutes we were pulling into the vacant lot across from Headliners and handing our three dollar parking fee to the reeking, red-faced old Drunkie who was acting as the lot custodian that night.

Headliners with-out

Across the street was Headliners, a heavy and dilapidated three story brick pile that used to be one of Kentucky's better known bourbon distilleries.
Dodging a few barrelling  pickups, Goose and I  hurried across Frankfort Road and pushed our way through the doors into the building.

Headliners with-in

Headliners was as dark and decayed as ever, really just a big empty brick shell with a stage at one end and a bar at the other. There is a balcony across one side with a rail to lean on and a couple of couches for sitting on, but I never go up there because it looks like just the sort of  thing that leads out of a commercial break with: 'Five killed in balcony collapse, film at eleven'. So I avoid it and just stay downstairs and in close proximity to the bar.
The place was filling fast, so I made my first run for refreshment. Pabst Blue Ribbon in 16 ounce cans was the special, so I got us each one plus a couple of Jager shots for good measure.
While I was waiting for the order to fill, I got a good look at the crowd that was beginning to pack the place. There were a few obligatory Hipsters, but what really stunned me were all the balding heads and sagging boobs crowding me in. I mean honest to God, every aging Boomer in Louisville had put on all their Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters finery and headed out to the show. I haven't seen that many  gray beards, paunches, and  jiggling saddlebags in one place since... Look,  I'm really stretching for a clever metaphor here but I just can't find one. Suffice to say there were lots and lots of late middle aged people there and I was not just a little discomfited to find myself fitting right in. Some day I'll probably (but not necessarily) have to come to terms with with my advancing years, but not now. So I hammered both Jagermeisters to make myself feel a little better about my impending decrepitude, then ordered a couple more to take back to Goose.
The show was starting about that time and after just a couple more trips to the bar I was beginning to feel a little frustrated at the pace of things.
"Goose, Who's this old guy and why's he doing all these Fleetwood Mac covers? When's Lindsey Buckingham coming on"?
Goose's look of astonishment should have clued me into the fact that I was really stepping in it, and if I had just shut-up then, I would have saved myself a lot of embarrassment later.
"Fish," she shouted above the crowd and the music, "what are you going on about now?"
"Buckingham." I shouted back. "When's Lindsey coming on? She's the one we came to see. Not this old guy."
"Fish, did you really inhale too much lead this summer, or have I been living with some kind of crypto-idiot for thirty years now?"
"As I've said before Goose, me brain work good. What's the issue now?"
"The issue is, this 'old guy' is Lindsey Buckingham and 'He' is obviously not a 'She'."
"Goose, that's ridiculous. First off, Lindsey is a woman's name, but more to the point, she was notorious for having a lesbian affair with Stevie Nicks back in the day."
"Yes He did, but obviously it was a heterosexual affair."
"Yeah? Then how could they have been in Fleetwood Mac?"
Goose just starred at me goggle-eyed for a moment. Then she blurted out "What?!?!"
"Just what I said. Fleetwood Mac is probably the most famous Lesbian Tribute band of all time. How could Stevie Nicks have an affair with Lindsey Buckingham if they weren't lesbians?"
"Jesus H. Christ, Fish! What in hell is a Lesbian Tribute band?"
"You know, it's where a bunch of women get together and sing songs that celebrate lesbianism."
 "You really have gone mad! Who do you think all the women in Fleetwood Mac were?"
"Well, there was Michelle Fleetwood and Christine MacVie, and then Lindsey and Stevie."
"Michelle Fleetwood? Fish, try Mick Fleetwood."
"Well everybody knows Mick is the diminutive for Michelle."
"No Fish. Only you know that."
"Well what about all their songs? 'Go Your Own Way' is obviously a lesbian anthem, and I hate to think what 'Big Love' is all about."
"It's all about you becoming an idiot. Ask anyone in here if that's not Lindsey Buckingham on stage."
So I did. And the woman next to me who had been weeping and hugging everyone around her all night looked up at me with teary eyes through what I can only suspect was an Ecstasy induced fog and hissed, "Oh, yessss."
The rather distinguished gentleman next to us nodded in agreement.
Well of course I was dumbfounded, but lately that seems to be the normal run of affairs in my life.
"Oh hell Goose. I can't believe what I'm hearing. Fleetwood Mac really weren't a bunch of lesbians?"
"No Fish"
"Oh this is monstrous. This is unspeakable. You mean to tell me that thirty years of my most salacious fantasies are merely fantasies?"
 "Well, yes. A fantasy is inherently just that; a fantasy."
"God, I'm not sure I can handle this. Thirty years of meaningless, idle fancy. Thirty years of misplaced passions devoted to nothing.  I'm going to the bar and see if I can get a Red Bull and vodka."
"Don't you dare! Those things have been known to kill people!"
"Yeah? Well if Lindsey Buckingham isn't a lesbian then I'm not sure I want to live!"

Well, I never did get my RBV, and it turns out Lindsey Buckingham really isn't a lesbian. But later on I did manage to hustle a Martini out of the Goose.
"You know Goose",  I said a couple of days after the concert. " You can see how i got confused about Fleetwood Mac. They were popular back when I was boycotting television, so I never really got to see them in videos. I never really knew what they looked like."
"So you just assumed they were lesbians?"
"Well it's sort of a natural thing for guys to do. Like what about Scarlett Johannsen and Penelope Cruz?"
"Oh God, don't even start."
"Sure like in 'Vicki Christina Barcelona'. Sort of a combination of strawberries and cream and dulce de leche all in the same bowl."
"Fish, you're letting your imagination run away with you. You're getting all worked up about nothing."
"I don't know Goose, sounds pretty hot to me."
"Then how about a nice martini to cool you off?"
"Mmm....Usually one will kind of get me in a lather."
"Yes, but as soon as you have one you'll want another. And after that you'll just fall asleep and forget about the whole thing."
"True dat, Goose. Bring 'em on."
And so she did and so I did.


Live Long and Prosper,
Fish

Calcimine Is Not A Parrish In Louisiana

When the Goose is up a ladder, it inevitably leads to beer.

Our Stuff

And up a ladder was how i found her when I got home from work last Saturday. She was wrapped head to toe in her working gear, splattered with paint and dust. Everything in the laundry room, from the winter clothes we had stored up high, to all the miscellaneous  hardware and trappings of a modern lifestyle that just don't fit anywhere in a Victorian house were now piled around throughout the kitchen and the rest of the house.
We don't have much in the way of storage. Evidently the Victorians really didn't have much in the way of stuff, so spare rooms and closets are in short supply in old houses. We on the other hand, have stuff and almost all of it is packed into the laundry room or utility room or service porch or whatever you want to call it, just off the kitchen. In fact, I think the room was the kitchen back in the day because there's a utility chimney in there, just right for connecting a wood or coal fired stove to.

Goose's Swabbing and Scraping

But anyway, Goose was up a ladder busy swabbing and scraping the ceiling  in preparation for paint, and it was obvious she had been hard at it all day. The laundry room is the only room here that hasn't been restored or updated. Everything has a dingy off-white paint job and the original plaster ceiling (the only one left in the house, the rest have been drywalled throughout the years) is cracked and showing signs of past water damage. But Goose had scraped and re-plastered and the ceiling was ready for a coat of paint.
"So...What's for dinner?" I inquired.
"You're going to have to find your own tonight. I really want to paint this ceiling".
"Tonight you mean?"
"Of course tonight."
"Oh."
So I found my own dinner, and Goose labored long into the night, her reward a freshly coated and radiant ceiling, the beginnings of her grand plan for restoring the laundry room.

I was at work eating lunch the next day when I learned of the disaster.
Four words, a simple text message, but it was enough to tie my stomach in knots; "THE SKY HAS FALLEN!"
"What up? R U  ok?"
"No, wait till U get home!"
So the next five hours were spent in an agony of apprehension that was almost unbearable by the time I arrived home.

Sherds

I found her downcast in the kitchen, a lone, lore, pitiful creature.
"What happened?"
She pointed into the laundry room and it was immediately apparent that the sky had fallen. Pieces of something that looked like shredded wall paper covered everything. Shreds several inches long and shards the size of coins were strewn about as if someone had thrown paper into a fan letting the chaff fall wherever it would. The ceiling above was as dingy as ever, old grayish plaster with all it's cracks and discoloration.

And Shards

"What is this stuff?" What's going on with the ceiling?"
"That's the paint and plaster I put on yesterday." replied the Goose. "there was just a little peeling when I came to check it this morning, so I went up the ladder to touch it up and suddenly every bit of paint I rolled on last night just started peeling off and now this is what I've got. All my work for nothing. And worse, it's going to take major work to fix the problem."
"Well, what actually is the problem? I mean aside from your paint job laying all over the floor."
"Calcimine."
"Calcimine?"
"That's what I said."
"Okay," I started in, "what's a place in Louisiana got to do with the paint peeling off the ceiling?"
Now it was Gooses turn to be dumbfounded. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about Calcimine Parrish in Louisiana. I'm pretty sure it's just west of Plaquemines Parrish and below Evangeline. It's that place where I ran over that alligator that time."
"Fish," countered Goose "I know you inhaled a lot of lead paint dust last month, do you think maybe it's  affected your brain?"
"No, me brain work good. But really, I swear I told you about that alligator. It was when I was working on the road and I had to go to Fernis LeBlanc's shop in Louisiana. It's when I found out Cajuns really do talk that way and not just on True Blood."

Alligator preparing for His Run-In

"And you ran over an alligator?"
"Well it was dark and I was just about into town when I thought I hit a log, but when I stopped it turned out to be an alligator child about four feet long. Fernis's son Marcus said it was probably four or five years old."
"What, were you two out on the town or something when this happened?"
"No, no. I showed it to him when I got to his shop"
"You took the alligator with you?"
"Well sure. Alligators makes great shoes and belts."
"So you just put it in the car and drove off?"
"In the trunk actually, but it's okay cause it was a rental."
"Then what happened to the alligator? I never saw it."
"Well, Marcus LeBlanc explained that alligators are endangered and convinced me that hauling dead ones across state lines is a federal beef. Anyway, we threw it in the bayou behind his shop, but I think he really went back and took it for himself to make gumbo or voodoo or something."
Goose just kept looking at me, exasperation or frustration or maybe keen disappointment clouding her eyes. "Fish" she finally said, "I'm afraid you really did inhale too much lead and that's something we're going to have to deal with someday. But right now I want you to listen to me and try not to let your attention wander too far.
Now first, calcimine is not a parrish in Louisiana."
Now when the Goose speaks with that kind of authority, you just have to accept what she says at face value.  But I was so certain about the alligator affair's location, you could have floored me with a bolster when she denied the whole thing. I just had to challenge her.
"Alright then wise guy, where is it and what's it got to do with the laundry room?"
"As I said my poor brain damaged Fish, first things first. Calcimine isn't a where. Calcimine is a form of paint made from a mixture of calcium hydroxide and calcium carbonate. You might know the ingredients as burnt lime and chalk. Our ancestors knew it by the name of 'whitewash'. When Tom Sawyer conned those other boys into whitewashing the fence for him, that was what he was painting with."
"So Tom Sawyer painted the laundry room?"
"No you snide and snarky Fish. Back in the 19th century when people cooked with wood or coal and lit their houses with whale oil, ceilings quickly smudged with soot from their stoves and lamps. A yearly coat of calcimine whitewash was a quick and inexpensive fix. It was also thought to have sanitary properties and in fact whitewash brushes were often referred to as sanitary brushes."
"Well, I still think that 'gator died in Calcimine Parrish and one of these days I'll Google it and find out for sure. But what's any of this got to do with peeling paint and collapsing plaster?

After a Good Rub-A-Dub Scrub

"Crystals Fish, crystals. Calcimine cures back out to calcium carbonate or chalk crystals after a time,so in effect our ceiling is covered with very fine chalk dust. Nothing will stick to it."
"Ever?"
"Not until I scrub and wash and rinse and then scrub and wash and rinse and then scrub and wash and rinse some more, ad infinitum, and then I can probably cover it with an oil based sealer, like 'Killz" and then probably we can think about painting it then."

A Bit of Whitewash

Which is what she did . And truthfully, it looks pretty good for just having a 21st century version of whitewash on it.
"So" I inquired a couple of days later " when are you going to start actually redecorating the laundry room?"
Goose just growled a little under her breath.

And Tom's Aunt Polly Would Be Proud

"Well," I continued "just so you know, I've been thinking about that alligator. I think we could get some if we pedaled over to the 'Blue Bayou'. They serve it fried with hush puppies and slaw."
"You'll be wanting a Martini with it I suppose?"
"Wanting and having are two different things my delicate young Goose. They don't have full bar service there. Only beer and wine."
"Well, you said right from the beginning this was going to lead to beer."
And so it did.


Live long and prosper,
Fish

Me No Think Lead Smell Bad

So there I was sitting around complaining about how my stomach hurt, when the Goose chimes in: "Your stomach wouldn't hurt so often if you'd let me paint the front door."
 I suppose the bewilderment and incomprehension was somewhat apparent in my expression because she went on; "We've needed to paint it for a while now. We haven't even thought about the Feng Shui of this place since we moved in. I'm sure the Chi isn't what it should be and we need to start putting things right and the entry way is the place to start."
Nodding like a Bobble-Head doll, I just uttered a long drawn out "Because?"
"Because, if we want a balanced flow and harmony throughout, then the entry has to be complimentary to the essence of this house's situation, and right now it isn't. Our door is south facing and it's white. Southern exposures need warm colors, fire colors actually, to attract and channel positive Chi  into and through the house. Get it?"
Puzzled, I mumbled, "My stomach hurts cause there's jacked-up Chi in the place? I thought it's because I eat and drink too much."

Getting the can opener ready...

Her voice dripping with exasperation, Goose replied, "Something like that. And as long as you're at it you need to replace that molding around the door where the previous owner's dog chewed it up."
Now Painting a door is one thing, but removing and replacing things like molding in a one hundred and thirty year old house is just asking for trouble. And while it is true that some nasty little dog had seriously mangled the molding flanking the right side of the door, actually doing something about it was just going to open a can of worms and I told her so.

The Can of Worms  rears it's ugly head

Not that it did any good, so I dutifully took the door off it's hinges and started prying off the old molding.
"Goose, there's a can of worms in here." And sure as hell, there was. For starters, either the door or the jamb was completely warped and out of square, so the last guy to work on it had kind of custom cut the casing to hide the fact that the door was tilting inward by about ten degrees and could only actually stay closed when the lock was really only catching the edge of the dog chewed molding. Then much of the molding we weren't going to replace turned out to be dry rotted and crumbling, the whole thing pretty much held together with thick white coats of paint.


Now the door is original to the house, or at least old enough that the pane of glass in it is wavy cause it dates back to a time before they could make very good sheet glass, so we don't want to replace it. The point is, it took a lot of cutting and fitting to make it look right

Getting down to basics

Meantime, I had the door out on the front porch resting on sawhorses. There was a century's worth of paint, (at least five coats) with the original apparently a nice Confederate Gray. I was busy sanding away, removing lumps and bumps,smoothing and shining and making the door better than it had been in years when out of the corner of my eye I saw the Goose approaching. Wanting to impress her with my diligence and hard work, I bent into my sanding raising a bigger cloud of dust than ever.
Suddenly, I felt a stunning blow as the sander was pulled from my hands and whomped up against the side of my head...
"Dickhead!" shouted the Goose " That door is covered with lead paint and you're standing there breathing it all in. You're going to become a drooling idiot  and it's going to serve you right." 
Now Goose doesn't usually compare me to a giant choad unless she's really put out, so I thought about it for a moment before I replied, "Me no think lead smell bad."
Well at least that made her laugh, and we ended the day with my wearing a respirator while she dabbed here and there with her mighty Dyson, clearing the air as we progressed.

Balance and Harmony are revealed

In the end, I custom cut replacements for the rotted molding and Goose's unerring eye for color resulted in a pretty good looking entry, as you can see in the pictures.

The right sort of Chi clustering at the entry

"So now that the Feng Shui has been adjusted and the Chi is flowing better, how's your stomach?" asked Goose.
"Not bad, but it could be better"
"What you need is a nice cup of Chi"
"Chi for two, huh? You don't think a Martini might be better?"




Live Long and Prosper,
Fish

The Big Calamari (Cocktail sauce on the side, please)

The original state. Not bad for 130, but maybe a little 'work' is in order.

Lots of pictures and few words in this post. We had the house painted, you see.
Sure, I know there was lots of talk about us painting the place ourselves, but after standing out in the hot sun for fifteen minutes deciding where and how to start, the Goose and I decided to have a quick Gin and Tonic to revitalize ourselves and the next thing you know, there's a painter standing in the living room making golden promises about how his work will 'rejuvenate our home'. The details about how we reached that point are still somewhat hazy, but rest assured we soon had a contract and were due to start work by the first of the week.

So Mike the Painter set to work on the place,

scraping and scrubbing and caulking,

no nook or cranny too small to escape the notice of his assistants.

While Mike himself attends the details.

Progress...

And more progress

And Behold!

The Old Place in all it's new-found glory!

I can't complain. The paint work is good, but it's just not what I envisioned. You can't really see it in these pictures, but there are still lots of lumps and bumps even after days and days of scraping. However after talking to many people, it appears that lumps and bumps are all part of the old house experience. Evidently actually stripping and smoothing and getting down to original wood is more than just a paint job, it's something akin to the painting process for the Golden Gate Bridge, and only slightly less expensive.
And I have to say, the place looks really good from the street. The painters used plenty of caulk and replaced a few odd pieces of siding and the quality of the paintwork itself seems top notch, so I think the old place is good for another ten years. 

'But what' you may ask 'does this have to do with an appetizer popular in many Italian restaurants'?
Well, I'm gonna' tell you. 
The other day I was perusing the news of the weird and I noticed a blurb about fishermen and a Giant Squid. 
You know what they say about 'inquiring minds', so I linked on over to it and behold, it was the coolest video ever of sharks snacking on cool white chunks of fresh calamari, straight  from the fisherman's net. In fact I think I'll link to it here so you can see it in all it's splendor:

Now again you'll ask, what's all that have to do with anything? Well, since we sold the old house I'm beginning t feel like that squid in the video. I swear to God, every time I turn around someone wants a bite of me. The painters took lots of my dough, but that's nothing compared to the vampiric real estate agents. I could have painted this house twice for what those blood suckers charge. (Need to throw in a quick edit here. If I could have given the whole real estate commission to the incomparable Madonna Moody, Realtor extraordinaire, it would have been money extremely well spent. But Oh No! The commission has to be split between a couple of useless brokers and the swine that represented the buyers.)   Then there's the escrow and title companies,  in league with everyone from the loan servicers down to the overnight couriers. There's insurance companies, and even termite inspectors. Not to mention the city wants ninety-two bucks for a permit so I can put up my workshop. The death of a thousand cuts I tell you, or at least nibbled to death by the Sharks and their pals the Lampreys.

So that's what Calamaris have to do with this house. I'm just a Giant Squid and everyone wants a bite of my cool white flesh. 

But this is all giving me pause, and reminding me that there's nothing in the house for dinner. I think I'll grab the Goose and pedal on down to Rocky's. They have real good beer there and I can get a plate of Calamari with cocktail sauce on the side.

Live Long and Prosper,

Fish

The Cat With The Gin Soaked Tail

I think there're spooks in this place.
I know I said this blog was going to be about fixing up an old Victorian place, with lots of "how to" and "how I did it" kinds of posts, but spooks are something you can't just ignore.
So to the point. Coming in from a visit to Home Depot, Goose made an alarming "Oh oh" sound. Now I'm pretty much in a perpetual fog anymore so it required her grabbing me by the nape of my neck and rubbing my face in it before I glimmered onto the piles of feathers scattered about the house. First thought of course was that one of the cats got the parakeet, but even I noticed that the feathers were black while the "Keet" is yellow. Closer inspection also revealed drops and small spatters of blood on the floors and even some walls. Obviously there'd been a slaughter here!

Artists recreation of the Hideous Evil Crow

However, try as we might there was no sign of the slaughterer or the slaughtered. No carcass. No bloody entrails, and most alarmingly, no cats. While I kept hunting around for either victims or perps, Goose started cleaning up and made a most surprising discovery. The drops of blood were actually purple and had little pieces of 'stuff' mixed in. Just as she realized there was more than met the eye here, I found myself face to face with the prime suspect.. A hideous evil crow sitting on a shelf in the laundry room...
Where did it come from (besides Hell)? How did it get in? And where were the cats? Questions with no obvious or rational answers.
But pieces of the puzzle were coming together. With an eye trained for color, Goose noted that the purple splatters around the house were distinctly similar to an abundance of berries blossoming in the backyard and the pieces of 'stuff' could easily pass for berry seeds. Crow shit? Splattered around the house? Piles of feathers and a crow in the laundry room? Far from slaughter, this spoke of an epic battle, Feline vs Avian, careening from room to room, bold cats defending their home from this hellish intruder. But what to do with the crow? We opened the laundry room window but the malevolent creature refused to leave. Finally gathering my manhood I backed the feathered demon into a corner and grabbed it with my bare hands. After a bout of fierce staring at each other, I flung the crow out the open window and Goose and I both felt the weight of pure evil lift from our shoulders.
Just then we heard a faint 'croaking' sound which is what passes for a 'meow' from Kitty and she and Bert the Cat both emerged from under the bed where they had been cowering.
Still, the question of where the crow came from remained unanswered. Did it come in through the cat door with evil intentions? Did Mewbert stun it outdoors and drag it in only to have it recover while she laid there in self satisfied smugness?
Or was it something else? There are odd corners in this house. Strange geometries that serve only to baffle and confuse. Do these arcane and labyrinthine corridors lead to eldritch Lovecraftian landscapes? Passageways for evil incarnate in the form of a crow to enter? Will we ever know?
We did put a cafe table in the pop-out window area of the dining room so that I could enjoy a frosty martini overlooking Mill Creek at the end of the day and that's exactly what I was doing when the next incident occurred. You'll note the foreshadowing here: Gin soaked cats and martinis. Yes, something is afoot, and I don't think it's natural.
But anyway, Goose and I were indeed relaxing at the end of the day. Dinner was over and I was basking in a mild alcohol glow induced by one of her fabulous dry martinis ( Dolin Vermouth and New Amsterdam Gin mixed in secret, well guarded proportions). I was about to reply to a question about the day when a crash from the front room made us sit up and stare at each other. No one else was in the house, but sure enough a quick run into the front room found the lid to the cocktail shaker rolling around on the floor in front of the bar.
Now this in itself is not enough to indicate the presence of spooks. Things do occasionally  fall to the floor of their own accord and there are perfectly natural explanations, or so argued Goose the rationalist. Me, I'm not so sure, but read on and see what you think.
Settling back down, we started on a spirited discussion about spirits and multi-dimensional beings and our varying encounters with either. I'd had some trying experiences back in the 60's-70's and was busy recollecting those days when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something odd. Our cat Kitty, normally mild mannered and for the most part fearful of just about everything, was perched about four feet away on the back of the sofa staring in our general direction with a mindless sort of catlike intent. Without warning, she leapt at the table, crashing into my martini glass sending gin and glass shards everywhere. Just as she hurled herself, the stereo which had been humming along with our favorite Pandora mix fell into awesome silence.
Alright. We jumped. We squawked. We stared in amazement as kitty, who would never ever jump across four feet of space slunk off, her tail dripping with gin.

Kitty recreates the martini incident

Now you can rationalize this as the Goose did (even though she spent the rest of the night on the couch with the TV on). You can say that Kitty is upset and bothered by her new surroundings, that she needed our attention to comfort her right at that moment when the receiver mysteriously switched inputs, silencing itself for no reason. Laugh it off if you want to. But I've seen this before. I've watched Paranormal Activity and the Blair Witch Project and a dozen other movies just like them. Yes, it always starts with something trivial and a little silly. It always starts with the rational explanations and the laughter and belittling the more sensitive character. But sure as shit, it always ends with one of the principals being dragged off into a black, soulless inter-dimensional hell while the other lies face down on the floor, the camcorder grinding on recording his blank, staring, dead face.
So there you have it. Is Goose right? Is it all just nonsense? Time will tell, my friends. If there are future posts, then all is well and good. But if there are no others after this... Well, you decide for yourself what happened.

Live Long and Prosper,
Fish