The Hardy Fall Festival of Fun Day of Fun, Part Four

After beating a hasty retreat from Stuckey's Bridge, we quickly hightailed it to Meridian. The haints had given us the hungries, so we stopped at Cracker Barrell--where we'd begin eating only an hour after we arrived there. The place was as busy as I've ever seen it, and we had to wait thirty minutes in the gift shop trying to keep Georgia from breaking anything too expensive. After we sat down, Foot Foot and I decided to see how patient our children could be, so we ordered the slowest-cooking, longest-wait-time item on the menu: bigthick steaks--well done. Forty minutes later--after Foot Foot and I laughed ourselves silly watching Georgia throw licked-wet sugar and Sweet & Low packets at the foreheads of the patrons in all the surrounding tables and Nicholas unearth every nugget o' gold in every orivice and crevice, our food arrived; we ate it all in five minutes flat (I timed it), with Foot Foot finishing first.

After the gorge, we drove to nearby Marion to visit the Haunted Trail. In someone's front yard, we saw a wrecker, orange light flashing a warning and invitation to brave backroads travelers. The beacon worked as warning for us, as Foot Foot deemed it as a demarcation of a crime scene, and did I want to partake in that? Yes, I did, for I had my trusty Avengers membership card that would grant me security clearance, but my wife thought that though, yes, I did indeed have justifiable jurisdiction and was surely experienced and adept enough--as an Avenger--to handle the case, the children just might be put in harm's way, and that was not acceptable.

So, we turned around and headed back, deflated and defeated, but--hey! What's that? A spook in the front yard? No cop cars? Well, ah-hah, there we have it, and a' haunting we will go! I pulled into the yard and right by the port-a-john (in case the quicky-digested steak worked its way through Foot Foot's digestive system before it was time to, uh, go). Since Georgia was asleep, Foot Foot decided to stay in the Jeep to hold watch, while Nicholas and I disembarked. Walking over to the ticket table, I asked my son if he was too scared to go, and that it was alright if he was, that we could just go back home. He stopped in his tracks and told me to look in his face. I did so, and he laughed in my face, telling me then that he was going to laugh in the face of fear just like he had just done in mine--and he was going to hold my arm the whole way, too, just to make sure I wouldn't run away screaming. He'd be there for me, he told me.
We approached the ticket table, paid our admittance, and the young lady taking our money asked us how brave we were. I told her, "Not very," but Nicholas told the woman not to listen to that freak hippie, and that we were so brave that we'd go it alone, no need for the comfort of strangers. The girl peered deeply into his eyes and furrowed her brows, but Nicholas was blue steel, and the ticket taker started to sweat. She averted her eyes, beaten by the redhead, and she signaled her compatriots on her CB that Fat Man and Little Boy were on their way, for them--her peers--to drop the bomb on us, to hold nothing back. Nicholas gave her a wink and an upward nod of the head, and we walked through the entrance.

The first object I noticed was a tombstone that read, "Barry D. Live." A skeletal hand was reaching out from the earf, and I closed my eyes at the terror--and didn't open them for the remainder of the three-hour tour through the seven levels of Hell. Growls, wails, screams for our souls, cries for skin and blood and brain, deep-throated declarations of imminent injury, torturous moans of pain promised and received: all these sounds reverberating through my eardrums and calling forth evil imagery of Boschian and Dorian depravity. Throughout our wanderings, Nicholas held steadfast in resolve as I held tightly to his arm (so tightly that I left deep bruises), and my son never uttered a peep of cowardice, never any evidence of fear. I, o the other hand, never opened my eyes until we--his Virgil to my Dante--emerged unscathed on the other side; thus, I have no pictures to proffer, other than the one (pre-entrance) above and the one (with Mr. Tree) below, and in both cases, I have masked evidence of how frightened I was.

After leaving The Haunted Trail, we stopped at a convenience store to gas up and grab some strong cups of coffee. When I finished filling the tank, I stepped into the Jeep and noticed that Nicholas was sitting up straight with a blank expression on his face. I asked him if anything was wrong, but he didn't respond. Foot Foot shrugged her shoulders, and I drove away. Before we left Marion's city limits, Nicholas started moaning. Foot Foot and I looked back,

and Nicholas reached out his arm to grab Foot Foot! She dodged his initial reach, but he was quick and prepared, and when she leaned left, he grabbed her head with his other hand. He moaned louder and louder, and Foot Foot tried to break free, bumping into me, making me lose momentary control of the vehicle. The Jeep swirved and skuttered and skittered, and Foot Foot's camera (for the only time it is free of her hand is when I pry it away from her at bedtime) started taking pictures, the flash popping brightly in all directions, and I was blinded.

I saw an open field just before the last flash blinded my eyes, and I pulled over, jumping a curb in the process, jarring Nicholas (and Foot Foot) in the process. I stopped the Jeep, and I asked Foot Foot if she was okay. She groaned and complained and nagged about my driving, so I knew she was just fine. I looked back to tend to Nicholas, and he was rubbing his head. "Son," I asked him, "Son, are you alright?" He rubbed his head some more, and he moaned...but this time his moan was more normal, less gutteral and low pitched.

"Dad?" he asked.

"Yes, son?"

"Dad...." His quizzical countenance morphed into a sly grin. "Do you wanna see something really scary?"

The Hardy Fall Festival Fun Day of Fun, Part Three

The Hardy Fall Festival Fun Day of Fun continued as we four rolled through Chunky, onto Meridian, back to Enterprise, back the other way to Hickory, and finally (after two hours of confused driving, lost as could be) to our destination: Stuckey's Bridge.
Stuckey's Bridge--overlooking the Chunky River on Stuckey's Bridge Road in Chunky--got it's name from the fellow who operated an inn on the banks of the Chunky River during the Civil War era. After the War was over, Stuckey's profits--for the obvious reasons--plummeted, and the proprietor resorted to murdering his few guests for their coin and dumping the bodies at night 'neath the nearby bridge. The townfolk eventually caught wind of Stuckey's misdeeds, and they took to torch and pitchfork and snatched the man from his house, took him to the bridge, and hanged him by the neck until dead. Since, rumors have abounded with sightings of ghostly manifestations of lights, nooses, and free-floating bodies on or near that bridge (which, by the way, is on the National Register of Historic Places).
When I first told Nicholas this story, he grew excited and eager, but when we arrived, parked, and walked toward the bridge, Nicholas stayed behind in the Jeep, reluctant and uneasy. As we approached the first plank, I looked back and asked Nicholas if he realized he was by himself. He looked around, and then ran our way. On the bridge stood a comfortably-dressed couple, the Daphigments, who told us that they rented canoes for use on the Chunky River, and that they lived in a nearby cabin, and that--especially in October--they were deputized to patrol the bridge and ward off youngsters who tended to vandalize on weekends or on week nights. They talked for a bit more, told us more about their personal lives, and they let us take their picture (below, they're in-between Nicholas and me--wait...there's no one between Nicholas and me in that picture? What gives?)

They even allowed us to drive over the bridge! A sign was posted a half-mile back on Stuckey's Bridge Road stating the bridge was closed for thru-traffic, but the Daphigments told us they posted that sign to keep out the nearby college kids, that the bridge was safe. Foot Foot looked a little wary, but the kids wanted to ride over, so we compromised. Foot Foot and Nicholas crossed over to the other side of the bridge, while Georgia and I returned to the Jeep. I strapped Georgia in her car-seat, and I glanced across the bridge to see that Foot Foot, Nicholas, and the Daphigments were safely on the other side; Foot Foot and Nicholas were, but the Daphigments weren't there. Oh, well. Maybe they went back home.
I hopped in the Jeep and started driving across. Foot Foot took the picture above, and then she and Nicholas walked down to a lower embankment to get a picture of the bridge from a different point of view. After crossing the bridge--whose iron girders cried and whined from about the half-way point on, scaring the fool out of me--I parked it on the other side, got Georgia out, and saw Foot Foot and Nicholas walking up from the embankment. Foot Foot asked me to walk down there, look at the bridge, and see if I notice anything unusual. I followed orders, and I returned, noting that I had not seen anything out of the ordinary. Why? Had she? She had not, but Nicholas had. I asked my son what he'd thought he'd seen, and after hitting me for doubting him, he told me he'd seen a noose hanging from the bridge. I asked him if he was trying to scare us, but he reassured me (by hitting me again) that he wasn't. I walked down the embankment again, but I saw no rope anywhere on the bridge. I asked Foot Foot to show me the picture she took, and we looked at it, and good googly-moogly--Nicholas was right!

Foot Foot looked at me and told me it was time to go; I agreed. I told her and Nicholas to quickly get in the Jeep, but she refused, and she took Georgia from my hand and picked her up, and she told Nicholas to hurry and run with them across the bridge. I asked her to wait, to get in the Jeep, but she'd have none of it; they were already scooting back across the bridge. I hopped in the Jeep, backed it up, and crossed the bridge, but I was unable to make it completely to the other side, for Foot Foot was standing at the foot, in the center, taking my picture, not letting me cross. I felt like Washington Irving's schoolteacher, coming so close to crossing the bridge, with certain doom behind me. I honked and yelled, yet she kept taking my picture. Feeling the urgent need to cross the threshhold, I put the Jeep in neurtal and revved it hard, and that sent Penny running backwards. Thank goodness. I jerked the Jeep back to drive and finally made it back to solid earf.

Foot Foot and the children got in, and we hightailed it out of there. I asked my wife why she wouldn't let me cross, why she took so many pictures right then, and she told me that when the Jeep started crossing the bridge, she heard the iron singing, and she was sure the bridge would collapse. So why didn't she hurry and get out of the way so I could cross? She said that she was so sure I wouldn't, that she wanted to have some pictures of me to show to the children in case they ever forgot what I looked like. Why so many pictures, though, of the same shot? She said she didn't like the lighting in the first one, the focus in the second one, my hair was too disheveled in the third, etc....Willfully ignoring my wife's stated preference of the art of photography over the life of her husband, I asked her whatever happened to the Daphigments. She said that she was going to ask me the same thing, that the last she saw of them was when Georgia and I left to go get in the Jeep to drive it across the bridge, that the older couple walked with us. I told her that I saw them walking with her and Nicholas. We shared a suspicious look, and she checked the picture she took of the Daphigments with the kids and me, and--you saw it above--the Daphigments were gone!

Later tonight, the actual finarle of our trip!

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #254

#254: "The Boogie Monster" (2006) - Gnarls Barkley

Today marks the end of Halloween Week on the charts (and the end of theme weeks themselves for, oh, at least a month), and the culminating song is the most blatantly spooky-sounding song on my charts. It's adorned with all the trappings of the stereotypical spook-house song (the evil laugh, the creature-name dropping, the whispering, the creaking sound effects, etc...), but those elements--while definately part of the appeal and lure of the song) are just masks used to disguise the real horror: the self.

"The Boogie Monster" works well on two levels. First, it's a fun little ditty that works well with kids in the backseat who don't play close attention to the lyrics--or, if they do, then the complexity will wash right over them (well, it does with my children, at least): the chorus is catchy, Danger Mouse adds the obligatory bells and whistles, and the structure is simple. It's a great, Halloween, trick-or-treat, "Monster Mash" type of song, and Cee-Lo keeps with the spirit of the season by singing in his deep lower register during the chorus and stage whispering during the verses. It's an easy song to like.

Cee-Lo adds a deeper verbal level, though, and it's this secondary meaning that places the song a notch (or two) above traditional spooky fare. "The monster is me," Cee-Lo sings, his voice quivering, as he stares into the mirror. "It waits till the midnight hour to come/To torture me for the wrong I've done." We are the abyss--is there more frightening a concept? Self-actualization as punishment--to know thyself is to know Hell. We are the enemy. Literally. We are the living dead. We are zombie. We create our own hell, and we face it every night. Cher once noted that we all sleep alone, and she's right, but what happens when we can't sleep? Brrr.

Of course, there's the matter of the dirty little couplet at the song's fade, but after the realization of the song's horrific scenario, then we all need a little levity, a little, uh, treat...to follow the trick (or vice versa).

Happy Halloween, kiddies!

The Hardy Fall Festival Fun Day of Fun, Part Two

I looked around, yet I saw no one. I stood silent for a moment more, and then I resumed looking for Georgia. I turned the corner, and lo and behold there she stood, all five feet of her. "Daddy!" she exclaimed, and she came running to me. When she hugged me, we both toppled over, so unexpected I was for the impact of her newfound girth. "Daddy, wish toll me go up or she make me stan in a cuhnah!" she said. I asked her where this witch was, and she pointed to the end of the path. "Daddy!" she said again, and hugged me again, just as I was rising, only to lose my balance with her atop and fall again. "I wanna go punkin pash. Go punkin pash, Daddy!" I told her that we would, but asked her if anyone else was with the witch. She nodded. I asked her who, and she said, "E walks bind woahs. I scayahed, Daddy." With that, I got up and took her hand and ran back towards the exit, where we saw Foot Foot and Nicholas, waiting just outside the maze.

"Georgia!" Foot Foot shouted.

"Mommy!" Georgia resonded, and she tackled her mother just as she tackled me. Nicholas stood nearby, jaw unhinged and eyes agape, and Foot Foot started to cry, asking me what happened. Georgia told her the same thing she told me, and Foot Foot, fully weeping by now, asked me what we should do. I told her that the first thing needed to be to get a picture. Foot Foot jumped up and shouted, "Me! Me! I wanna take the picture! I wanna take it! We sat Nicholas next to her for contrast, and Penny snapped. The first result is below:

She took another shot immediately after, and then a third, a fourth, a fifth, up until I lost count because I couldn't take my eyes from Georgia's resultant transformation with each snapshot, losing two-or-so inches with each photograph (each of which, mysteriously, never turned out). "Andy," Foot Foot asked, "are you seeing this? Is she...."

"Daddy!" Georgia cried, "I don' wanna go up gain. Wish is mean!" She hugged me, and I told her to just forget about it, that it was time to see the pumpkin patch, and this seemed to pacify her. Nicholas kept trying to ask me questions--and I knew exactly what type of questions he wanted to ask--but I kept shushing him, for I didn't want to think about what had just happened...not just yet. I just wanted to enjoy the rest of the time we had there.

We ran to the top of the hill and walked inside the waiting area inside the main barn, and soon the four of us loaded up the truck and moved to Beverl...uh...well, you know.

Alas, the pumpkin patch had been pretty much picked over by the time we arrived; indeed, half of the remaining gourds had been stepped on, dropped, or collapsed from rot.
We were able to find three imperfect ones, though, and the kiddies were pleased, and so Foot Foot and I were, too. We drove back to the waiting barn, Foot Foot bought the kiddies--and herself--a snack or two, and I hauled all three pumpkins three miles up the hills to the Jeep.
Whilst I was truding up that hill, Foot Foot took the kiddies to the Pre-Glue Petting Zoo on the Lazy Acres grounds, where Georgia quickly became captivated with a goat. She especially liked the goat's hooves. She laughed at them, saying "Foot! Foot!" followed by giggles upon giggles. When I returned--this time I drove down the hill and parked in a (now) nearby empty area--Georgia saw me and came running. She hugge me and pointed towards the Pre-Glue Petting Zoo, shouting, "Foot Foot, Daddy, Foot Foot!" My came to us and explained to me what "Foot Foot" meant, and almost as soon as she said, Foot Foot, Georgia held her nose and said, "Daddy, Foot Foot stink!" She laughed, and so did the rest of us.
I asked my wife Foot Foot (her new nickname as of post-Lazy Acres trip) if she was ready to go, and she said yes, but first I had to take Nicholas on the mini-hay bale "Don't Take a Left" maze, where the object is to complete the maze without, uh, taking a left. Foot Foot and Georgia walked over to a (completely out of place) Renaissance Fair tent on the grounds and bought some King Richard Raspberry Jam and some Magna Carta Cranberry Jam from an older couple dressed in period attire, and Nicholas and I completed the maze--without ever taking a left--two times within sixty seconds. While waiting on Foot Foot and Georgia to pay their farthings, Nicholas and I watched another father/son team challenge the maze and complete it successfully by jumping over the bales when they encountered the first left-turn-or lose endgame.
Foot Foot and Georgia walked over, Foot Foot handed me the Medieval Jam, and we walked towards the Jeep. I just had to look back, and what I saw struck me with awe: two separate groups of people--with ears of corn adorning their clothes--conducting two separate dances, chanting, "Vos operor ignoro Latin quod nos operor," over and over. Penny asked what was that singing she heard, but I shouted for her and the children not to look back no matter what, lest they turn to salt. Nicholas replied, "Dad, that's stupid. You know we're not gymnasts."

Tomorrow: Part Three, the Finarle.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #255

#255: "Psychotic Girl" (2008) - The Black Keys

Misogynistic much? Well, yeah! Maybe. It's a blues song, so it's got that for an excuse. Except it doesn't sound like a blues song; it's much too clean and crisp for that...if you don't count, uh, like one of the most popular blues songs, B.B. King's "The Thrill Is Gone." The thrill isn't gone from this one, though, as producer Danger Mouse (we'll hear more from him Friday)--hired by the Keys to produce their seventh album (in as many years)--smoothes out the jagged edges of this dynamic duo (from Akron, Ohio) while adding additional (redundant, much?) instruments (for the first time ever on a Keys' record, all of which have been superb) to give the band a fuller sound...not that the band needed it--as they didn't--but possibly to garner them some mainstream airplay (which didn't happen). Danger Mouse's work here takes the Keys' song of a dangerous femme fatale (redundacies are fun, admit it) and gives it not just a sense of menace, but also a sense--what with that opening Deliverance-allusion of a banjo; and the spare, piano plinking; and--most of all--the haunted house harrowing of choral voices singing "ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo" like a creeping gaggle of ghosts that mean business because of your own personal rotten business in which they're coming to wrap you until you scream and smother--of something untoward, a pre-primal (is there such a thing? sometimes, when I'm alone, I get the feeling that their just might be--don't you? A Lovecraftian type of feeling? Maybe that's just here in the Deep South, where there still exist some places where technology and moderninity have not only not gained a foothold, but where they have been deliberately booted--or excised) feeling, that not only is this girl bat-snit crazy, but there's also subliminally something supernatural or subnatural about her--she's a witchy woman; she's a devil woman; she's a black magic woman; she's Marie Marie LaVoodooVeau; she's Baba Yaga on a bad day; she's Christina Ricci and Barbara Steele and Ingrid Pitt and Bette Davis and Margaret Hamilton; she's the woman in the tub in the Overlook Hotel and Sadako climbing out of the television and Bradbury's Dust Witch and the unseen Blair Witch; she's Lillith and Carmilla and Vampira and Elvira, but she's no blithe spirit. Nope. She's a kind-hearted woman--she studies evil all the time. I won't be a part of her world no more. Except this one more time. Because she's calling me. And I can't resist.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #256

#256: "Kiss the Devil" (2004) - Eagles of Death Metal

Considering the title of the song and the name of the group, this record sounds positively antiquated—and it’s supposed to. First, the Eagles of Death Metal aren’t really a death-metal outfit; the name’s just a moniker meant to (jokingly—I think) conjure up aural images (what an oxymoron I am) of the Eagles playing death metal. And—that’s—not quite the sound here (though it’s some sort of nearby approximation). To be more accurate, the music is basically bluegrass filtered through distorted guitar, propelled by hell-bent-for-leather, march-step speed drumming.

This particular record seems like merely a joke, a one-off, a sonic riff on let’s throw this-and-that together and see what sticks—and it is all that, sure: the duo Jesse Hughes (vocals, guitar) and Josh Homme (drums, and also a guitarist/vocalist for Queens of the Stone Age) seem to be having fun, and the lyrics are deliberately (and jokingly) satanic; however, those satanic verses are balanced by a mixture of Carter-Family style bluegrass singing and a vocal style of what’s called Sacred Harp singing. This type of singing is no longer prominent anywhere, anymore (though there are Sacred Harp singers still out there--I know of one group in particular out of Alabama--they aren't prominent anymore), but it used to be how some mountaineers and southerners (again: some, but certainly not all) sang sacred material;. Sacred Harp singing consists of vocal harmonies not built on what many of us think of as traditional harmony, but in a harmony in which, traditionally, all the tenors would sing the same note, all the altos the same note, etc…. In other words, it sounds weird (and if you want to know more, then either check out Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music and its hefty--but well worth it--price tag, or rent the movie Cold Mountain, which—though not as fulfilling as the Smith recordings—gives an accurate depiction of this type of singing).

The Eagles of Death Metal mix their version of Sacred Harp singing (and they do it very well) with seemingly sacrilegious lyrics about kissing and loving the devil. I say seemingly because one could easily twist their lyrics only the slightest and you’d have authentic Sacred Harp music—well, authentic except for the distorted guitar, the drums, and the tambourine (playing off beat). The lyrics, though, help make this song stranger than it would be otherwise (and it’d be plenty strange no matter what was sung), and they add to the aura of sin this record seems to emanate. The result is chilling and exciting, and one could easily imagine Ol’ Scratch himself, cloven hooves and all, dancing around a fire, while the purported witches of Salem disrobed around him, getting all hot, sweaty, and funky, like something out of the old Swedish documentary Haxan. Man. If I’m not going to Hell for writing this, I’m sure ‘nough damned to dream of it.

The Hardy Fall Festival Fun Day of Fun, Part One

Weekend before last, my family and I decided to trek around East-Central Mississippi for the Hardy Fall Festival Fun Day of Fun. We began our tour by traveling to Union to see the CCHS Maroon Band perform. We arrived just in time--or so we thought. As we made our way to the bleachers, an attendant roped off the section, informing us that the band was on the field--they weren't, not quite yet--and that no one was allowed admittance or movement until the band was finished. My wife Foot Foot--who was holding my two-year-old daughter Georgia--pinched Georgia's behind, and Georgia started bawling. Foot Foot then told the attendant that our two-year old had woken up at four that morning to make the four-hour trip up from our recently-devestated home on the Gulf Coast just to watch her cousin Lil' Tia wave a flag. Foot Foot pinched Georgia again, and she bawled again, and the attendant let us through.

We enjoyed the program immensely (we discovered the next Monday that they received all superiors), and once Georgia stopped crying, she enjoyed it, too, sitting still for the entire fifteen minutes. We four gave the band a standing ovation, and we left the stadium to see if we could wave to the band on their way out, and who did we see but Lila Willis and friends standing at the gate. Lila--who was wearing a Chantay Frazier mask because she said her mama wouldn't let her dress up for Halloween this year because she stole all her nieces and nephews candy last year--was standing at the outside gate with Jukebox Jermaine and some other dude. They told us that they'd jogged all the way from Jermaine's crib in suburbian Dixon to catch the show, but they were refused admittance because they didn't bring any money for tickets. Jukebox Jermaine told us that he'd told the people at the gate that he'd breakdance for them--he even brought his own piece of cardboard--if they'd just let them in, but the gatekeepers refused. Lila & co. were rather upset, and they seemed exhausted, as they were still panting and sweating. Lila asked us if we could give them a ride back to Dixon, but I had to refuse them because I knew that their horrendous body smell would stink up the Jeep. So, we left to go home, eat some homemade chil-lay, and refresh ourselves before the second leg of our trip.

Our next stop was the Lazy Acres Pumpkin Patch, Christmas Tree Farm, and Glue Factory located near Chunky. We arrived shortly after three, and the place was packed. In the picture below, see those long rows of small green objects in the left background, the ones that look like Christmas trees? Well, those aren't Christmas trees, folks; they're long rows of small, gas-effecient cars. See? Even here in backwoods Mississippi, everybody's going green.

After walking three miles from our parking spot to Lazy Acres proper, we dragged tired bodies over to the outdoor ampitheatre to see the second of the day's three pig races. Oh, but what an exciting event to watch! The entire race was neck and neck, but around the stretch, the leader--Elvis (he's the one on the inside with the black mark on his back)--started to pull away, and he won by a snout.

In lieu of a trophy, he was awarded a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich, and he gobbled it right up. Though Nicholas groaned--at eight, he's already too mature for such juvenile entertainment--Georgia was thrilled, shouting, "Wanna ride Elvis pig! Go cowboy-girl, go! Yee-hah!" as she took my cap from my head, waving it around. Next, Georgia wanted to stand next to the scarecrow and the bird, so I asked Nicholas to go join her (and Foot Foot) in the picture, but he at first refused, stating that he didn't want people to think he was only five years old. Boy--eight going on eighteen already.

By the way, take a close look at that picture above again, and notice Nicholas's height compared to Georgia's. Of course, he's a foot-and-a-half taller, right? Right. Just want to make sure you notice that, because that little bit of information will prove important later on in this story. Trust me.

Georgia wanted to go immediately to the pumpkin patch, but Foot Foot and I persuaded her to try the corn maze first because we--meaning I--sure didn't want to carry around two or three pumpkins through that maze. After a wee bit of coaxing, she acquiesced, and off we went, following the maize straw road to, you guessed it, May's Maize Maze. Before we entered, Foot Foot wanted us to pose for a picture, and so we did, just the three of us--Georgia, Nicholas, and I. Let me repeat: only three of us posed for a picture. Only three of us stood by the entrance when Foot Foot took our picture. Three of us. No one else. Look at the picture below.

See that boy to the right? The one in black? He wasn't there when Foot Foot took this picture. You know who I think he is? Oh, I bet you can guess. Remember The Blair Witch Project? Remember the last shot? Yup. I think some bedevilment was afoot that day, and soon I'll show you further proof of why.

Not knowing that anything was amiss, we walked into the corn maze. At first it was fun and mysterious, but not scary: it was daytime, and other mazers' voices drifted through the stalks, laughing and shouting with glee. About fifteen minutes into the maze, those voices started fading, and soon...well, both Georgia and Nicholas had grown tired of walking at this point, and they began to complain; they were ready to leave. Foot Foot was, too. I asked her to stop and listen to see if she heard anything. She did, and she told me she didn't. I looked at her for a few seconds, and it then dawned on her that we should be hearing other people, and we heard nothing. She then said she was ready to go--right then, just plow straight through the corn, ignoring the paths. I told her that I didn't think that was a good idea, for Georgia would surely get whipped by the stalks, and that we didn't want to put our children through any undue pain just because the two of us had grown paranoid and skittish. She reluctantly agreed.

We decided not to backtrack, for we knew we'd traveled for almost twenty minutes down the paths, and we didn't want to take another twenty returning to the entrance; so, we trudged on, the path ever-winding and ever-twisting and ever-turning. Ten minutes later, I saw an opening. I yelled to Foot Foot to follow quickly, and she did, Nicholas right behind her, but Georgia had stayed one turn behind, Foot Foot told me, and would I please run and go pick her up. I agreed, and I told her and Nicholas just to walk right on ahead, that I'd be right there.

I walked quickly back the way I had just walked, and I made the turn, but Georgia wasn't there. I called for her, and I called again. Silence. I raised my voice, calling a third time. Silence. I gathered my breath to shout, when I heard a voice gliding on the corn-flapped wind whisper, "Malachi."

Tomorrow, Part Two of the Hardy Fall Festival Fun Day of Fun.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #257

#257: "The Devil" (2007) - PJ Harvey

Playing an instrument she barely knew how to play when she began writing/recording her most asture album (2007's White Chalk), British rocker, chanteause, and innovator PJ Harvey created sixty minute's worth of pop chamber music with a distinctively Victorian feel; it's the aural equivalent of an Edith Wharton ghost story with Charlotte Bronte's dark passions lurking somewhere deep within. Harvey's always had the Bronte part down, but this is the first time that she tones everything back, singing in falsetto, her usually powerful voice barely ekeing out, strained this time, deliberately so, her admitted fears and her repressed desires the product of the protagonist's nature and nurture, and it's all unsettling, as we expect her and the music to just escape from its tiny box and blast away, but it never truly does.

Except for one brief moment near the end--and she never fully lets loose then--Harvey keeps it all contained; it's her most disciplined performance, and it's that discipline that unnerves, as pop songs almost always succeed on depth of conveyed emotion, and in "The Devil," Harvey--on the surface--conveys little. We expect a shout, and we get a whisper. We're kept dangling on the precipace the entire song, and we need release, and we don't get it, and therein lies the power to this song. It's the subtlety and the implied reason(s) for the veiled emotion that eventually start to sink in, and then we're creeped out even further. It was fine at first when we didn't know, but now that we know Harvey is haunted and why, then we know that her devil* is waiting just around the corner, and soon he may get us.

*Note: The titular devil here is metaphorical, of course, but even the knowledge of that fact didn't stop my wife from stopping me playing it the vehicle. "I don't care," she said. "It's just too...I don't know. It gives me the...uh...I mean, uh, it might scare the kids.

Fifth Down, Week Eight

My fantasy team got crushed, I got my keys locked in my vehicle, I ran out of gas on the way to work this morning, I had to bail my eight-year-old son out of jail Saturday night, and the Colts lost again. Oy vey.

Ravens 20, Raiders 9 - Win. JaMarcus Russell grew up a little today after Baltimore took him out to the woodshed. Actual score: Ravens 29, Raiders 10

Panthers 27, Cardinals 17 - Win. Carolina didn't limit Kurt Warner much, but they caused turnovers, and this, tripled with running the ball well and stopping Arizona's running game, gave them the close victory. Actual score: Panthers 27, Cardinals 23

Buccaneers 24, Cowboys 13 - Loss. Marion Barber didn't have to run it forty times, but he did run in twenty-five, and the Cowboys defense played inspired football, making the Bucs pass much more than they wanted to. Good game, this one was. Actual score: Cowboys 13, Bucs 9

Redskins 31, Lions 14 - Win. Portis didn't double the 120 as I predicted, but he did meet it, and the 'skins ground game help them keep the Lions at bay long enough for Washington to overcome their early miscues. Detroit is still winless. Actual score: Redskins 25, Lions 17

Bills 17, Dolphins 10 - Loss. Chad Pennington played the best game he's played in three years, and the Dolphin D came up huge in the fourth quarter (a safety and three turnovers)...Actual score: Dolphins 25, Bills 19

Patriots 20, Rams 17 - Win. Stephen Jackson didn't run for the Rams, but the Rams still ran, but New England's D stood tall in the fourth, as did QB Cassell, who overcame two early picks to lead the Pats to victory. He's no Brady yet, but he's developing much quicker than I thought he would. Actual score: Patriots 23, Rams 16

Chargers 31, Saints 30 - Loss. New Orleans--at least their offense--didn't lag at all, as Brees played phenomenally, going 31 of 40, for three touchdowns and over three hundred yards, and no picks. The man--if he keeps up some semblance of this pace--is a lock for MVP. I gotta ask, though...whatever happened to the Chargers D that played with such grit and enthusiasm last year? Actual score: Saints 37, Chargers 32

Jets 899, Chiefs 2 - Win. The Jets, as I mentioned in Sunday's post, have one of the best run defenses in the league, and the Chiefs worry too much about testing it; instead, they let third-string QB Tyler Thigpen throw the ball...thirty-six times! And the young man produced, putting up 280 yards threw the air, with two touchdowns and no picks. His counterpart, Mr. Farve--both wear #4--threw forty times, with two touchdowns, and three picks. And he won the game at the end, where Thigpen came up just a hair short. This was a fantastic dual, and Thigpen was something to see. I hated that his D let him down. Actual score: Jets 28, Chiefs 24

Eagles 28, Falcons 12 - Win. This one was much closer than the score indicated, as the Falcons were down late only twenty to twelve, when their punt returner apparently muffed one, and the Eagles went one to score and win. Turns out, the punt was not muffed; the Falcons, though, were out of time outs, and they couldn't challenge. Ouch. Actual score: Eagles 27, Falcons 14

Jaguars 12, Browns 9 - Loss. Shaun Rogers played the best individual defensive game I've seen all year. He notched nine solo tackles, and a forced fumble, but he disrupted nearly every down, as he hurried Garrard into making throws that didn't find their mark. Actual score: Browns 23, Jags 17

Bengals 14, Texans 13 - Loss. Pity the poor Bengals. I was wrong--bad wrong--on this one. I thought they had turned the corner. Fitzpatrick threw two picks, the offense failed to score a touchdown, and failed to score at all in the second half, while Matt Schaub played nearly perfect football, going 24 of 28 for 280 and three touchdowns (and no picks). Wow. And Andre Johnson: eleven catches for 143, which is about what he produced last weeekend. Wow. Actual score: Texans 35, Bengals 6

Giants 24, Steelers 20 - Win. Great game. Tough and defensive, with both offense spending quarters without producing. Fortunately for the Giants, they produced when they needed to. It's possible we could see these two again in the Super Bowl. Actual score: Giants 21, Steelers 14.

49ers 2, Seahawks 0 - Loss. San Fran didn't get up for their new coach Samurai Mike, but one did get out for him, as--and this is the first time I've ever seen this--Samurai Mike tossed his own player--TE Vernon Davis--out of the game, and pulled his starting QB for ineffectiveness. Now, I wonder, when he's going to give offensive coordinator Mike Martz the same treatment, 'cause the guy's getting the SF quarterbacks killed back there. I feel sorry for them, and I don't even like San Fran. Oh, and I deeply apologize to all Seattle fans, for their defense most assuredly did not suck (five sacks, four forced fumbles, and one interception). I was terribly wrong on this one. Actual score: Seahawks 34, 49ers 13.

Titans 27, Colts 20 - Win. Indy's defense tried, and performed well for three-and-a-half quarters, but the Titans fierce D discombobulated the man from Tennessee (the University of, that is). Actual score: Titans 31, Colts 21

Record this week: 8-6

Record this year: I'll check it later, folks.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #258

#258: "Wucan" (2008) - Black Mountain

Another week, another theme, though this time, I'm not going to declare what the theme is ('cause it should be easy enough to guess). We'll begin this week with the Vancouver stoner-rock band Black Mountain. This year, with their second LP In the Future, band leader Stephen McBean and friends abandon their (somewhat) softer, folksier, and poppier side and rocket into the psychedelic stratosphere, and their new record is a classic of sorts, as it works exceptionally well as an album, one where you can just sit back, let the thing run its entire course, and feel as one with whatever universe your mind may inhabit when it's not inhabiting this one. Next time I go to the dentist, I'm bringing along my iPod, and I'm playing this album while the novocaine works its wonders.

Even though the album is nearly a seamless segue of psychelica, one track makes the jump to hyperspace. "Wucan" (a witches' dance, the archaic term dating back to Anglo-Saxon times and the Venerable Bede) is a wonderful, trippy melange of Black Sabbath (the rhythm section), Blue Cheer (the fuzz guitars during the post-chorus), Iron Butterfly (the primitive-sounding Moog synthizer during the verses, who's earthy, lo-fi sound adds to the creepy skullduggery feel of the thing), and Pink Floyd (the keyboard solos and the space-y production). McBean's lyrics are just cryptic enough to be be creepy, especially if you catch the hint that--even though the vocal hook is "We can go together,"--the flower train won't be bringing you home this time. Man. You dig that?

These dudes look like hippies, they make trippy-hippy music, and their vocals make 'em sound like hippies, but the lyrics...dude, that's pretty dark. Trust not the happy ones, for they can't help you. It looks great out there, but therein lies your doom. It's all illusion. They're all out to get you. They're the pod people, the Stepford community, the body snatchers--everything you know is wrong, everything is a lie, so don't go there, don't go into the light, 'cause once you're there baby, there's no way back, not no more, not ever. Just listen to me, baby, 'cause I'm the only friend you've got. I'll talk you through this, but you've got to listen to me, only me, and I'll bring you home, but don't trust anything else, 'cause it's all death, baby, it's all death.

All implications considered (as like Cher sang, we all sleep alone), the Mountain's message here is as far from retro-hippidom as it can get, and it's a prescient one, that's as frightening as it is reassuring. Listen--alone...with the headphones on--at your own risk.

Pigskin Prognostications, Week Eight

Hey! MSU won homecoming against a Divison I (AA) opponent! With MSU, people, that's not always a given. Plus, I'm pretty positive I'll win this week in fantasy football. I think I'll do well picking this week, too. Let's see:

Ravens 20, Raiders 9 - The Raiders seem to be improving, and they're bound to win another game this year, but not this week, as JaMarcus Russell hasn't shown that he's ready to put the team on his back like he'll have to against Baltimore, who's this season's (and last season's, too) best D against the run.

Panthers 27, Cardinals 17 - If the Panthers could stifle the Saints prolific offense, then I believe--especially since Arizona has to travel across the country--they'll do the same against the redbirds.

Buccaneers 24, Cowboys 13 - With Romo still sidelined, their top two corners out, and Joey Galloway returning for Tampa, the only way Dallas can win tomorrow is if they let Marion Barber tote the ball about forty times. He could do that, but he wouldn't be very effecient vs. the Tampa D, because, well, no one is.

Redskins 31, Lions 14 - Clinton Portis needs 120 yards to become only the second back in NFL history (the other being O.J. Simpson) to post 120-or-more yards rushing in five consecutive games twice in a career. There's a strong chance that Portis won't come close to reaching 120; no, there's a strong chance that he'll double it.

Bills 17, Dolphins 10 - If the Dolphins find a way to get up by ten or more in the first half, I believe they'll win this one. I don't think that'll happen, though, as Buffalo's D is stout, Trent Edwards is a winner, and Buffalo has great special teams (while Miami sports the worst special teams in the league).

Patriots 20, Rams 17 - This one should be close--if Stephen Jackson runs for the Rams; if he's out, then I don't think St. Louis has much of a chance, 'cause the strength of the Pats lies in their pass defense.

Chargers 31, Saints 30 - Both teams are coming off losses, both teams have had greatly disappointing seasons thus far, both are playing in unfamiliar territory (London), but the Saints recently lost Reggie Bush for a month, and just yesterday discovered that two of their players (McAllister & Smith) might soon be suspended for testing positive for steroids, and with all that extra baggage, I think New Orleans will be lagging on the field more than the bolts will.

Jets 899, Chiefs 2 - After the Jets lost to the Raiders last week, they'll be looking for some payback, and look who comes into town! The Chiefs are starting their third-string QB and their second-string RB, and the Jets have one of the best run defenses in the league. Turnover city, people.

Eagles 28, Falcons 12 - Philly's had a bye week to get Westbrook and Kevin Curtis healthier, but I don't think they'll need it, as I don't see them needing more than a couple of touchdowns against the Falcons. It's not that Atlanta's incapable of scoring--in fact, they've become quite the offensive powerhouse--it's just that rookie QB Matt Ryan--who's having a fantastic year for a rookie quarterback--will be facing Jim Johnson's defense for the first time. Ouch.

Jaguars 12, Browns 9 - Cleveland's defense has been getting tougher and tougher, and I don't foresee Jacksonville running roughshod over them as so many other forecaster's do; however, something's rotten in the state of Ohio (what with the Kellen Winslow staph stink), and it ain't just the Buckeyes' loss to Joe Pa yesterday.

Bengals 14, Texans 13 - The Bengals have improved lately, too; they've discovered their running game with Cedric Benson toting the rock, and Fitzpatrick is making much better decisions behind center. Their defense needs improving, and I think they'll find it versus Houston. Upset, this one. Smell it, I do. Clone Wars Commercials, I've seen.

Giants 24, Steelers 20 - Game of the day. Pittsburgh's deep-threat receiver Santonio Holmes was busted for pot a few days ago, and he's suspended for this game, and so are the Steelers' hope for winning, 'cause that's how you beat the Giants: loosen the coverage and run it up the gut. Only Cleveland--with Braylon Edwards stretching the Giants' D--has been able to do that to them this year.

49ers 2, Seahawks 0 - San Fran sports a new (interim) coach in Samurai Mike Singletary, and players almost always get up for a new coach in the middle of the season. Plus: Seattle stinks.

Titans 27, Colts 20 - Oh, my poor Colts; this looks like a potential blowout, 'cause Indy can't stop the run, and the Titans are the best running team in the NFL.