It has been some time since my last post.  Indeed, it has been some time since any post was offered from the Bad Karma Ink site.  That is no fault of anyone or anything except the normal everyday rigors of reality.  The real world, the one beyond the website, full of real life things such as jobs, bills and family life is to blame for my absence.   An absence I mean to rectify.

Normally, I would be speaking in a musical sense here.   After all, my blog is entitled Harmonic Vicissitude and was based on the idea of musical variations.  However, harmonic vicissitude can also be a term for finding balance through changing phases in life and it is this definition that I am working with today.   Also, Bad Karma Ink celebrates the art of story telling.   So, rather than talk about music, allow me to tell you a story.  It is just as good of a way to get back into the swing of things as any.

And we will start with a question.

As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

The answer for me always changed the older I became.

The first answer, the oldest one that I can remember for that particular question, is probably one that most boys give.   I wanted to be just like my father.  I wanted to be strong like him.   I wanted to be able to do the same things he could do, be that fixing cars or building or whatever.  I looked up to him as a role model….not just because he was my father, but because he was larger than life.   He fought fires and melted steel.  He would smell of sweat, grease and hard work.   His fingernails would always have a dark ring of grime that the soap would never quite clean up.  He was hard when he had to be and loving always.   I knew this.  Even at a young age, I knew this.   I may not have understood completely at the time, but I believe that I still knew.  It made perfect sense.   I wanted the same qualities that I saw in my father.

Of course, things change.    Things always change.  As I grew, so did my wishes.  In middle school, I wanted to write comics.   My friend Mark Taylor was a terrific artist and it seemed a perfect fit.  In high school, I wanted to be in a band.  I couldn’t play guitar and didn’t know how to play the drums, but it didn’t matter.  I was a pretty decent singer, so I figured I could pull it off.   I played trombone, but that wouldn’t fly so well in a rock band.   I, however, could play piano a bit, and with a MIDI keyboard I knew I could create music that  I wanted, even with the little piano skill I had.   I was always told I had musical talents, and so I thought that would see me through.  In college, I discovered I had a knack for writing, and so my interests shifted towards that.

However, one thing that I didn’t have was a terribly long attention span.  It is apparent now, as I looked back, but then, I never thought of it as such.   I always blamed outside sources.   “Real life got in the way” is what I would say, just as I did in the beginning of this post, but in actuality it was simply a matter of losing interest.   I always did what I felt was the ‘responsible’ thing to do, putting aside my interests to do what was expected of me.   I sacrificed playing up to my strengths, using the creativity that was a part of me, to do what I had to do.  I would indulge a little when I had time to do what I wanted, such as write for this blog, but when it came down to freeing up time to do what was deemed necessary, the ‘hobbies’ went…including writing for myself.

Then, I had my son.   And, at first, it was a similar issue.   I did what I had to and cut out what I could so I could take care of my family.  But, then I realized something.

I became my father.

My childhood wish was true.  All the good qualities I saw in my father have made it into my own personality.   The sense of duty was there.   The strength, as well, though it was not the physical side that I saw so easily when I was young.   No, the strength of character was there, the internal determination that was always there.  The desire to do what is right was there.  The love that I have for my family…I understood now exactly how similar I was to my father, and I was grateful for the lesson.

It made me realize that I am still growing up, and that I can still be anything I want to be.

So, now, when I grow up, I want to be a storyteller.  I want to write.   I want to explore the creativity that is within me.   I want be silly.  I want to dress up in matching costumes with my son for Halloween or for any occasion.  I want to sing.  I want to create music.  I want to draw.  I want to build sand castles with working drawbridges and moats.  I want to make my mark in this world.

But, most of all, I want to be the best father I can possibly be for Donovan.   I want him to be whatever he wants to be and help him do whatever he wants to do.   Regardless of whatever else I do, I know that my greatest challenge and my greatest joy will be him.

Thank you for letting me indulge in this little side trip.   I promise that I will write more, and that future offerings will be a bit more light-hearted.

See ya around, Internet.

A Poet’s Dream II

The warmth of the fire lit my desire
To stay out longer that night
Little did I know that the devil would bestow
Unto me a night full of fright

I happened an upward glance and saw demons dance
Up in the midnight sky
They begged me to follow, but much to their sorrow
I offered a negative reply

The moon turned to blood, my emotions flood
Throughout my mind, body, and soul
The devil did smile, and all the whole while
His evil deeds took their toll

Life or death, suffocation or breath
It didn’t matter anymore
Creatures of the night that once gave fright
Were no longer fictitious lore

Blood hung from each fang, they were hungry again
And I was their next meal
I begged for an end, either they did not comprehend
Or they did not approve my appeal

Presently I awoke, my sheets sweat soaked
However; I was safe in my bed
I looked out the window, there hung a black widow
And the moon appeared to be red

After I got up off the floor, I asked Kat to go get us some beer and I went back to work with guys, taking the back seat so that I didn’t have to hear anyone else bitch about it.  We were more or less done when Carl came back with Lisette in tow.

As much as I didn’t want to, I felt the need to apologize.  I had every right not to though.  After all, I seem to have been doing all the hard fucking work with this job, while Carl got to stand around and bitch and try boss us around.

And we still didn’t know about Lisette.  All of my fucking intel about her could be written with a thick magic marker on the back of a fucking playing card (I’ll leave it up to you which card I was thinking of).

But no, I couldn’t leave it be.  Carl was my friend, one of my closest, along with Gus and Evans, and maybe Wes, and as much as you hated your buddy’s girlfriend, you had to still be respectful to her face.

And I didn’t do that.

“Hey,” I started, “uh, look, I’m… I’m sorry about earlier.  This whole episode has everyone stressed, me included, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

She stood there and looked at me.  I think she was trying to decide if I was sincere or not, but, again, I had problems reading her.  Her face seemed impassive, but there was something behind her eyes that made me think of mischief.

Finally Gus broke the silence.

“You know, Lisette, this is like the third time I’ve ever seen CT apologize for anything in the entire time that I’ve known him.  I think you should accept it.”

She stood there for a second longer before she finally said, “I accept your apology.”

“See,” said Gus, “that didn’t hurt, though CT could probably use a beer.”

“Someone say beer?” said Kat coming in the door, Lone Star in hand.

I lit a smoke, my third in a row I think.  I was just trying to keep my head down at this point.  I wasn’t sure what to do, but this whole thing wasn’t going well.

And I couldn’t look at Carl.  I didn’t want to to see what was in his eyes.  After all the shit that we had been through together growing up (good and bad, smart and stupid, watergun fights and near death from guns, knives, cars, and just being fucking stupid. After all of it) we were so close that I didn’t want to see the pain that I had caused.

And I’m an asshole.  I know it, everyone knows it.  After you get done looking up Gus in Webster’s, you could turn to the page with ‘asshole’ on it and see a full half page pic of yours truly flipping you the bird.

Habits like chronic assholiness should make those around you expect certain things.  Your clothes, your looks, your mom, everything is a fucking target for ridicule.  It’s all fair game, except your girl.  That’s like leaning on another guys car, or eating his fries without asking, and Carl had every right to want to kick my ass at this moment.

But I couldn’t face it.  I had let him down.  Hell, that was why I was in that position in the first place: I couldn’t let Carl get into this kind of trouble alone.

Someone put a beer in my hand.  I looked up to see gray eyes.

“You okay,” she whispered.

I just nodded and popped the top on the beer.  I put the can to my lips and drank deeply for several swallows.  When I looked down, I noticed that everyone else had found places to sit and were drinking and bullshitting.  Except Evans of course; he was bitching about people calling him bro.

That was something I didn’t understand about Evans at the time.  He wasn’t affectionate, except for the traditional surrogate cock-measurement insults that happen between guys.  I mean, he always wiggled and squirmed and fought to get away whenever anyone gave him a hug, even if it was his mom.

On top of that, he only had an emotional spectrum with two colors, which were mildly amused and fucking annoyed.  That was it.  No anger, no love, no hate, just this bemused drifting through life.

At least that’s what it was at the time.  He eventually grew out of it and actually married a really nice woman who fits him like a glove and, out of all of us, ended up the happiest.  Go figure.

But at the time he was busy trading insults with the guys, alternately annoyed and amused.

“Want another beer?” Kat asked from beside me.

“Yeah.” That was the first thing I had said since the apology.

The next beer turned into two, the four, and continued to grow exponentially till I was sloppy fucking drunk.  Everyone had left after two or three beers, but I kept going, doing enough damage to the inventory to make up for he loss of the other four people.

I wanted to drink myself into oblivion.  I was afraid that I had done irreparable damage to our little tribe.  Drinking myself blind sounded like a good idea at the time, even if Kat didn’t seem to think so.

But I couldn’t deal with it.  I didn’t think that I would be able to function without them.  They were as much my family as Remmy was. Maybe more.  These guys, these brothers, were there when my life was really rough, when my dad had left and my mom went off the deep end after working two jobs to support us.

To tell you the truth, with the exception of the guys and maybe Wes, I really didn’t have any friends.  Sure I new folks and was friendly with people and got invited to parties, etc, but the all seemed more acquaintances than anything else.

You know the what I mean:  The “passing by” friends.  The ones that you know and hang out with for a couple of years, but shortly thereafter your orbits diverge and you drift apart.  You may see them occasionally at the theater or bar, but you don’t count them in your circle any more.

Then there are the friends, the true Friends, the ones that you can count on no matter what.  You’ve heard that old gag “Friends help you more, real Friends help you move bodies.”  Well these guys were those kind of friends.

But there is another old adage, this one from Oscar Wilde, that goes “Real friends stab you in the front.”  That’s what I did to Carl, I verbally drove a dagger made of anger and vitriol into his heart.

And I did it to his face.

That night found Kat and I driving around in her Dad’s old pickup, wandering about looking for the perfect car.  Kat seemed more excited about it than I was.  That anarchistic streak of hers runs fucking deep.

Anyways, we cruised around town, looking for likely candidates, of which there were plenty.  The problem was finding one where we felt the surroundings where safe enough to get away with it.

We eventually settled on one on a street near my place.  It was a cul-de-sac, so there wasn’t any through traffic and there wasn’t much in the name of street lights.  Perfect conditions if you ask me.

The car was a 78 or 79 Malibu.  While scoping it out, I “lost” my pack of smokes out the window and “had to go back for them”.  Thankfully they actually bounced under the front of the car, so when I retrieved them I could check out the engine.

“How’s it look?” Kat asked when I got back in the truck.

“Pretty good.  It’s got a 350 in it, a little greasy around the oil pan but not too bad.  It looks like it’s in decent shape.”

“What about an alarm?”

“I didn’t see one of those blinking lights.  Sides, who’d put an alarm on that?”

“Good point.  When do you want to hit it?”

“Round two or three.  There shouldn’t be a lot of folks up at that point.”

“Well, it’s eleven now.”  She switched to southern belle. “Whatever shall we do till then?”

“My place is about three blocks from here.”

She looked dubious.

“I have air conditioning.”

“I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

—-

After spending some quality time naked in the air conditioning, Kat and I headed back out to the target.  I did the heavy lifting, as I wasn’t too inclined to have my new girlfriend put in jail, women’s prison fantasies aside.

Turns out I didn’t need tool number one, the wire coat hanger, as the soon to be ex-owner was thoughtful enough to leave it unlocked for me.  After all, who’d steal an almost 20 year old Chevy in a quiet neighborhood?

The second and third tool in my kit was a cheap chisel and a hammer.

When you see someone steal a car in the movies or on TV, they are always crawling under the dash, cutting wires and all that.  Problem is, while you can get a car started that way, there is this small problem of the steering lock.

You know how in most cars, you can’t turn the steering wheel without turning the ignition?  Well that’s your steering lock.  I’m most of your older cars, the ignition lock is doing double duty as your steering lock, and the Malibu is no exception.

I figured the easiest way around this was to pound the chisel into the ignition until it’s wedged in there good and tight.  Then take a pair of vise-grips and lock them on to the chisel at a 90 degree angle and take a length of metal pipe and stick it on the end of one of the handles.  This gives you a lot more leverage.

Then all you need to do is pull up on your pipe hard enough to break the lock.  With any luck you’ll just pop the lock and not knock the cylinder loose from the wheel.  If you do that, your fucked, cause that takes some time to fix, the kind of time you don’t have when stealing a car.

The other thing about this particular method is, if you pop the lock and not the cylinder, then the car will start at the same time.

That’s the theory anyways.  Practice is something different.  I had to learn from experience on the fly as the first time I tried it I put the pipe on the wrong handle and sent the vise-grips flying.  The second time was the charm though.  I pulled up on the handle then pop, crack, vroom, the engine was running.

As per the plan, I drove the car and Kat followed in the truck.  Didn’t try back roads or anything like that.  Just normal surface driving at just over the speed limit so as not to draw attention.

We made it back to the garage without incident.  We parked both the truck and the Malibu in the bay, just in case someone caught the license plates.

Then it came down to making sure the Malibu was in good enough condition to survive the job.

Automotive engineering must run in her family, as Kat is a more than capable mechnic.  We divied up the chores for the car and turned on the radio nice and loud. Kat checked out the engine and adjusted the timing (it seemed off when I was driving it) while I changed out the tires.  Whoever the owner of this car was, maintenance was not his strong suit.

Way I had it figured, the latest owner had bought this car from someone who knew what he was doing, since it wasn’t in terrible shape.  It just didn’t seen to be to well cared for for the past year or two.

Case in point, the tires were more fucking bald that Captian Picard.  Thankfully, all the garage inventory was still there, including a set of tires that fit the Malibu’s rims.  Said rims, however, were in decent shape, so there wasn’t anything to worry about there.

The music seemed to make the work a lot more tolerable.  At the time KTSR was still a rock and roll station, and a good one at that.  I’ve never found another station with such a good mix of music as KTSR had in the nineties.  They played ZZ Top and Metallica, SRV and Megadeath, they even played Primus on occasion.  Hell, they played Zeplin’s “Heatbreaker” correctly, meaning it was followed directly by “Living Loving Maid”.

Unfortunately Clear Channel finally decided that it didn’t sound like everything else and changed the format, but that was years later.  At the time, I was in love with the track list.

They were playing Pink Floyd’s “Have a Cigar” when we got done with the maintenance and started in on the modifications.  About the time that the sun was coming up we were just about finished.  I was sitting in the back seat, half out the passenger side door, tapeing wires to the headliner when Kat ran at me and pushed me down into the back seat.

“It’s pretty roomy back here,” she said from on top of me.

“Yeah, it is,” I said, looking into those gray eyes.

“You ever had sex in the back of a car.”

“Nope.”

We started kissing and groping.  I had a hand under her shirt when she suddenly stopped and sniffed the air.

“Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

“That.” she said taking another sniff.

I took a sniff.  There aren’t many things that you can mistake for the smell of vomit, so I was pretty sure what it was.

“Good lord,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I hope that smell comes out.  Wanna get out of here?”

“Hell yes,” she said.  ”Let’s head upstairs.  We need showers anyways.”

—-

“You have got to be kidding me.”

That was Carl.  After it got to hot to sleep again, we showered, dressed, called the guys and ordered pizza, which Evans picked up on the way.  Within the hour the guys, plus Lisette, plus pizza had arrived at the garage.  Needless to say, they were less than impressed.

“What?”

“You expect me to drive this piece of shit?”

“I told you something like this was going to happen,” said Evans.

Gus continued to bitch. “Maybe we should have had Lisette steal the car.  She would have at least gotten us a nice one.”

“I do not steal cars,” she stated.

“What the fuck guys?  What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s this?” asked Carl.

“We needed a car so I got us a car.”

“We,” said Kat.

“Yeah, we got us a car,” I amended.

“Where the fuck did you get this piece of shit?” asked Gus.

“Like I said, don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“I have seen worse,” said Lisette.

“Yeah,” started Carl, “but this is America, sweetie.  We expect better things here.”

All this bitching had pissed me the fuck off.  ”Look you ungrateful fucks, this is the perfect car for the fucking job.  It’s on the large side of mid-sized, so it has plenty of mass.  It’s got a 350 small block V8 that cranks to 165 horsepower, so it’s plenty fast.  And it’s a four door with big ass doors and a huge back seat and it’s pretty fucking inconspicuous.  If you wanted to do the job in a fucking Caddy, I suggest you steal your own fucking car.

“Now where’s the fucking pizza?”

Evans pointed to the table at the back of the garage.  I walked over and tore into one of them.

“Why is he so mad?” asked Lisette.

“He gets cranky if he doesn’t get his breakfast,” Kat answered.

“How’s it run?” asked Carl.  I just glared at him.  The fucking ingrates.  I get them the guns, which wasn’t even my fucking job, and then they have the nerve to bitch about the fucking car.

“Hey, CT,” said Gus.  ”Don’t get all defensive man.  We’re all concerned here.  Our safety is on the line.”

“He’s got a point,” said Kat.

“Yeah, ok,” I finished the slice, grabbed another, and headed to the Malibu.  ”Kat and I worked on it last night.  The engine is tuned up…” I sat down behind the wheel and flipped the ignition.  The engine roared to life. “…and it purrs like a kitten.  We put on new tires, and I made some modifications.”

“What kind of modifications?” Gus asked.

I stood and motioned for Gus to take my place, stuffing more pizza in my face in the mean time.  Once he was settled, I started in again.

“OK, see those three switches?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I broke the ignition lock getting the car.  The switch on the left turns the car on and off.  Push it up all the way to start it then let it go.  To turn it off, just flip it to the off position.”

“Ok, got it.  What’s the other two?”

“Oil slick and smoke screen.”

“Really?”

“No.  The first one turns off the license plate light.”

“What good is that?” asked Evans from behind me.

I turned to address the room.  I felt like I was giving a class.  Like “Automotives for Thieves 101″.  ”Well, it’s so that it’s harder to read the plate at night.”

“So?”

“So,” started Carl, “we are hitting the joint just after it closes Saturday night.”

“Oh,” he said.

“And the last one?”  Apparently Gus was the man with the questions today.

“That one cuts all of the lights, including the dash and the radio.  That way, we can sit with the car running without giving off any light.”

“It turns off the radio?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t figure out a good way to kill the light without killing the radio so I said ‘Fuck it, we don’t need the radio anyway.’”

“All right,” said Carl. “It’ll have to do.  Now we need to clean it.  Were you guys wearing gloves when you were working on it.”

“Yep,” I said, which wasn’t exactly a lie since I didn’t remember if I had them on the entire time or not.

“Ok, everyone put on gloves and let’s wipe it down.  From here on out we don’t want to leave any prints.”

—-

“God damn, man,” said Evans from the back seat. “It smells like puke in here.”

“Hey, CT,” yelled Gus. “Did you check the trunk to make sure nothing died in there?”

Evans shook his head. “I’d rather not think about that.”

Carl and Lisette walked back in through the open garage door, allowing us to catch the end of whatever saccharine “I love you more than beer” bullshit conversation the were having.

“… my Superman?” said Lisette.

“You know it babe.”  As they passed, Carl addressed us.  ”Make sure you don’t miss and spots.  And CT, don’t forget the dash.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I started, then I had a realization.  ”Wait a minute.  Why the fuck am I even cleaning.  I’m the one that got the car, remember?  If anything, your ass should be the one in here cleaning this shit.”

“Someone has to supervise.”

I stood and threw my rag at Carl.  ”My left nut!  It’s your turn to be the bitch, asshole.”

Carl grabbed a pair of gloves and picked up the rag.  ”Fine,” he said reluctantly.

I leaned against the fender and lit a smoke.

“Hey boss,” said Gus. “What are you doing in here with us blue collar boys.  Someone knock you off your pedestal?”

“Shut it, Gus.”

“Why don’t you get in the back?”

“Dude, I’m not getting in the back, OK?  Just shut up and clean.”

“Hey,” said Evans. “I don’t want to touch some of the shit back here.”

“Look guys, we’re all going to be riding in this thing.  Do you want it to ride around in a car that smells like puke?”

“Good point,” said Evans turning back to the task at hand.  ”You know, Carl, I’m kinda surprised that you’re OK with CT bringing Kat into this after the shit he gave you about Lisette.”

“Damn-it Evans,” I head Gus mumble.

“Yeah,” said Carl climbing back out of the car and turning towards me, “what the fuck CT?”

“What?”

“Kat, you dick.”

“What about my dick,” said Kat from the back of the garage.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said to her before turning back to Carl. “What about her?”

“Why didn’t you talk to us about it?”

I noticed that everyone had stopped what they were doing to watch us. “Oh, so you think you’ve turned the tables huh?”

“Yeah, asshole.”

“Well, fuck you, you dick.  There’s a difference between the two.”

“What, cause you’re in love with Kat?  How the fuck does that make anything different?”

“Two reasons.  One, she’s not getting a share, unlike Lisette who hasn’t done a goddamn thing that I’ve seen.

“And two, we all know Kat.  We don’t have to question her motives.  We don’t have to worry about if she’s going to stab us in the fucking back.  Unlike Lisette, Carl, Kat’s not a fucking thief.”

It looked like Carl was about to hit me, but Lisette ran between us and out the door, crying the entire way.

“Motherfucker,” he said to me.  Then he turned to follow her.

I looked at the rest of the guys, but I couldn’t read their faces.  They wouldn’t even make eye contact with me.  Kat looked concerned though.

“Fuck!” I yelled and kicked the nearest thing to me, which happened to be one of the old tires.  They have plenty of give, but it tends to spring back at you.  In this case it knocked me off balance and I fell to the floor.

“Y’all are stupid,” I heard Evans say.

“Dude,” started Gus, “that kind of shit is all you ever say.  I know you have more than a six word vocabulary.

“Being around you guys that’s all I need.”

I arrived Friday afternoon, ready for fun. It had been a long week of mid-terms at college, and everyone but myself had been sick at my house for the previous two weeks. I felt empty, and used up. I was ready for a weekend…any weekend.

Other American Gods were gathering already, taking in the new visitor center. The new gods held little power over the whole complex, and people, myself included, gazed in consternation at their cell phones, wondering why they couldn’t seem to get a message to anyone, anywhere.

Through the magic ritual of waving my phone around like a spastic Harry Potter impersonator while murmuring pleas to the higher powers of 3G, I was eventually able to check into Foursquare. Thus knowing I was in the vicinity my compatriots located me, and we made small talk while waiting for all to begin.

As we talked, darkness began to fall. When the shadows had just begun to lengthen, I checked to ensure the tent doors (for a tent was where Neil would be speaking) had not yet been opened. We continued talking, and walked out perhaps 45 minutes later to find that more than one hundred people had arrived and formed a line to enter the tent, all under the cover of darkness. Or they simply teleported in from wherever they were. There’s no knowing, but they were suddenly there, and all ahead of us.

Once the doors were opened and we all filed in, it made no difference. The seats were excellent, and the great mass of us made small talk while we sat. As is my habit, I jumped into any conversation I happened to overhear a snippet of which interested me. In this manner I happened to meet Chuck Lawton of Wired’s Geekdad, which was a pleasure. Not only did Chuck deal with my eavesdropping and conversational intrusions with aplomb, he agreed that my decision to have my Kindle signed was “cool.” As I had been agonizing over the decision (what if he won’t sign it? what if the sharpie wears right off? what if it breaks next week?) it was nice to hear from someone else that it was a neat idea to have Neil sign all my books in one grand stroke.

Neil did not keep us waiting long, and his arrival was greeted with great cheers and applause.

Then, Neil read to us.

I’ve always loved listening to Neil read his pieces, and have all the albums wherein he does so. This, though, was my first time hearing him read something live. There, next to the House on the Rock, which I knew as an old friend before American Gods was published, Neil wove a spell. The tent we were in wooshed in and out, as if it were drawing in great breaths and holding them, the better to hear him speak. His words, telling again the story of Shadow and Mr. Wednesday making their way from Illinois to the great carousel, rolled and skittered amongst us until they filled the place. Finally, as Shadow stepped on the carousel and his world changed shape, the tent let out its breath, and the world spun wildly around me. I looked about, and realized that as Shadow was seeing the American Gods, so was I, all around me.

The fans of Neil Gaiman are a curious bunch. They cross the boundaries of fandom, coming from all walks. The single thing I think they have in common is a yearning for the other place…the place past this world that we seem to touch on every once in a while. As I sat in that tent, with Neil looking out at us, we all touched it together, just for a moment. We were the gathering of American Gods.

Neil smiled, and we all breathed again, and the applause was thunderous. He had stated that he couldn’t imagine reading anything else, at that place and that time. His decision was certainly right.

Neil then answered some of the questions that had been emailed in. His thoughts on Joseph Campbell were enlightening, and his quote of the night (“Twitter is to blogging like crack cocaine is to a nice glass of red wine.”) regarding his accessibility to fans was phenomenal. Also, he informed us that there’s a super-tentative-maybe-probably-not-but-it-could-happen chance that American Gods will be a television series.

Neil then read us a few more things, including a poem entitled “My Last Landlady” which captured the Hallowe’en vibe quite well. He finished with a reading of a short story about Saint Oran and Saint Columba and the island of Iona, a tale I knew before, but which was beautifully executed.

We filed out of the tent shortly after, many of us headed for another line, as we had tickets to have Neil sign things for us. I was certainly tired, as it was ten o’clock, and I’d been up since five, but I felt refreshed by the nights events. After a quick stop at the loo, I got in the (now enormous) line, and prepared to meet the man. My compatriots were quite a ways ahead of me, as they apparently have bladders of steel, or the ability to weasel through lines like greased ferrets. Mayhaps both.

I must stop here, and inform you that this was not the first time I’d met Neil. I’d seen him once before, in passing, in Madison, when I recognized him on the street, a long time ago (’94? ’95? I’d have to check my journals to be sure.) I awkwardly greeted him by mispronouncing his last name. He seemed genuinely surprised, gave me a quick handshake, and went off to wherever he was headed. I had no idea that he was living in the Midwest then, and still imagined him as a London writer. I hadn’t seen much of America yet, and in some ways his visions of American places had colored mine, as well. In some ways, they still do, making places I only visit on occasion just a bit brighter than they might otherwise be.

After two hours in line, during which I got to know some delightful Illini in line ahead of me and torture them with my attempts at humor, I arrived at Neil. I greeted him with a “Hullo, Neil,” and he smiled and said “Hello” back. Although obviously tired, he was definitely not weary, and was kind enough to let me stumblingly inform him that “Your dreams sometimes let my dreams speak to me more clearly. Thank you for sharing your dreams with us, Neil,” while he signed my Kindle. He then smiled warmly, and looked into my eyes, and shook my hand. I always feel like a blazing idiot when I meet famous people, but Neil made me feel unselfconscious about it. Thank you, Mr. Gaiman.

The next day, I awoke to find myself feeling old. I know I AM old in some ways, but at age thirty-three should I feel hung over just for staying up till two AM? I prepared myself for the day with Angry Bull Testicle Juice and pastry, and headed off to the House on the Rock once more.

Arriving at 10:30, I figured I would make the second panel with Patrick Rothfuss quite easily. However, 15 minutes later, I found that I had neglected to actually read my welcome packet thoroughly, because those panels were taking place at the House on the Rock Resort. Being a Spring Green resident for the last four years, I knew this was down Highway C, near the American Players Theater. Being a Spring Green resident of humble means and a current college student, I didn’t know exactly where, as I can’t afford either. So, I set off to find it.

I arrived a few minutes late, to find that Patrick Rothfuss is a guy I would absolutely love to sit down and have a few drinks with and talk about damned near anything. The panel was a delight, and I sincerely hope that Neil’s WebGoblin can get them up somewhere for everyone who wasn’t there or able to see them streaming live. A few (loose) quotes from the panelists:

“When communications change, the story changes. When the story changes, mythology changes.”

“In ancient times, there was no one true story. With the rise of the internet, we can have open source Gods back.”

“We don’t love our Gods for how we feel about them. We love them for how they make us feel about ourselves.”

“You used to count bodies on your altar. Now you count pageviews.”

Good stuff! All the panels were fabulous during the day, but this one stood out for me. It was very dynamic. I wish I hadn’t missed the first few minutes.

After that panel I again met up with my compatriots, and we moved from panel to panel. We saw people speak on the nature of fear, and the mythological melting pot of the Midwest. I asked a few questions that may have possibly even made me sound like I wasn’t the quintessential idiot. We had lunch, and we talked about the ideas these panels had gently freed in our heads and left rolling around. We even saw a panel on teaching using the works of Gaiman! I know I would certainly take such a class.

The day wore on, and I felt more and more tired. My sense of alienation was rising. I felt like I didn’t belong at something this great. I didn’t have a costume planned, because I didn’t have the time or energy while focusing on school to get something together beforehand. Also, I secretly hate dressing up, because it draws attention to me. Put me in a room with more than 10 people and I mostly want to hide in a corner. However, one of my compatriots had pushed at me enough that I attempted to throw something together when I headed home for a quick dinner.

So it was that I found myself in a large green robe a few hours later, a small work hammer in my hand and a glowing blue mason jar tied to my waist with a rope belt. Twenty minutes of digging around the house had made me Goibhniu, Celtic craft god and lord of the forge. He always appears in drawings dressed in green, and is known to brew the draught of immortality from the rays of the moon. If it weren’t for the fact that I naturally look like an idiot, it might even have been an okay costume.

I arrived to find the costume contest beginning, with the line of participants stretching far into the night. Not wanting too many people to have to see me, I ducked in the side door to watch the proceedings.

Sadly, no stage was erected for the participants of the contest. With half the tent taken over by the slow moving line, and many of the contestants unable to sit down, the costume contest was a few hours of attempting to see what everyone was talking about. I did get to see all the contestants and their wondrous costumes, usually a few minutes after they were introduced, as they left the holding area and moved past me. I was a bit tired, and restless, and not really feeling very much like going to a party by the time the contest was ending. I also felt rather self conscious in my costume attempt.

So it was that I moved with everyone else to the Welcome Center, where drinks were had, and mingling transpired. My compatriots took off into the night, mischief on their minds. I grabbed an excellent manhattan, and headed into the House on the Rock.

The House is possibly the strangest place for a party to happen, ever. I’ve been there many times, but had never seen it like this. The mystery of the place is incredible after dark. Shadows move and sway as you walk throughout, and colors and lights take on an otherworldly clarity, as if they’ve become hyper-real. Laughing couples rushed past while others slow danced in the corner, swaying in time to the slightly off key strains of the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies while unmanned instruments moved behind them. I think that night may have been the closest I’ve ever come to how my grandmother used to describe Underhill. Still, in the midst of all this wonder, I felt apart.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so, if I hadn’t been alone. I don’t know. My wife was at home, and another dear friend couldn’t make it but desperately wanted to be there with me. I looked at everyone having a grand time, and knew that I didn’t belong there that night. I was trying too hard.

A beautiful young woman who obviously had imbibed too much already fell into me, and I held her up. We chatted for a few minutes, and she invited me back to her room. The desperation in her eyes seemed wild, and I felt as if she could somehow sense that I was the outsider, and wished to take me away from there. I politely turned her down, taking care to be gentle, and maneuvered her to a party of nearby revelers who were taking in the show of a street magician. I watched as the delight reentered her eyes, and knew she was back in the dream.

I wandered on.

I headed into the carousel room just in time to see Neil climb aboard. I was a ways off, as the crowd was large, but I watched him go around, the look of joy so naked on his face that I nearly cried. I waved as he took pictures of the crowd, and cheered as some of the other contest winners climbed aboard. For a moment, it was as if the joy of the whole thing was too much. Then the eyes of the mannequin angels above gazed down on me, and the weariness set in once more.

I left the carousel room, headed outside, thinking that perhaps just a bit of air would do me good. I wandered up the walkway to one of the unlit alcoves that show the tremendous view of the hillside leading down from the rock during the day, and found my jar of glowing immortality juice illuminating another couple who wished a “quiet moment.” I quickly looked away.

“Sorry. I took a wrong turn.”

“Oh. Were you looking for the exit?”

“No, no. I know where I’m headed.”

That was when I knew that the exit was where I needed to go. The party just wasn’t in me that night. I turned, and walked up the ramps to the parking lot. I looked back over my shoulder as I neared the car, and I smiled.

Although it wasn’t what I expected, it was a night I won’t forget. I might not have felt like I did, but I’d fit in as well as anyone. I will never forget the weekend where I was an American God.

Unfortunately, I have no idea where to start.

I mean, I could start with our arrival, the milling around awaiting the opening of the bar or the tent where Neil was to make his appearance or the cast of characters in attendance. Or maybe I could start with the air of anticipation and amazement that oozed from the crowd.

Ah, I know, I’ll start at the beginning.

I picked up American Gods more or less at random. I was probably just looking for something to read and chose it because it was written by Neil Gaiman, and, really, you can’t go wrong there.  Little did I know…

If you haven’t read it, you totally need to, especially since I’m going to drop some minor spoilers.

The book posits that the gods of the old world moved to the U.S. with the immigrants that once worshiped them, but as the belief fades, so does their power. Weakened, they are more reliant on places of power, places like the House on the Rock.

The scene in American Gods concerning the House wasn’t long, but it did play an important role. As such, Gaiman gave it the proper respect with a wonderful descritption of the House and the highlights of the fantastic collection of Alex Jordan.

Had I not seen the signs, I would not have believed it was a real place. After all, who would believe that the world largest carousel is in a backwater town in Wisconsin? Who would believe a madman built a 3 story whale diorama?

Well, the description, as seemingly impossible as it was, stuck with me. After all, I knew it was a real place and maybe, just maybe, it was as fantastic as it sounded.

Finally, years after finishing the book and purposely leaving it in Texas for my family to read, I got the opportunity to go to the House on the Rock, and let me tell you, Neil Gaiman’s description could not do it justice. The scope, the enormity, the complexity, the madness, it… It just can’t be put into words. Many have tried and few ever manage to convey the magic that is Alex Jordan’s madnness, but American Gods probably is the closest.

I love the place.  Hell, I’ve been there 3 times this year, and I have to tell you, it really is magical. That’s the only way to describe it: magical.  One of those trips was this summer with my family and the look of amazement on their faces was inspiring.

I saw that look on the faces of hundreds of people this past weekend.

Yes there was a reading/Q&A, yes there was autographs to be had, and yes there were many a talk and panel only interesting to myth and/or literary dorks like ourselves, but none of that could compare to Saturday night.

Imagine, if you will, a dark, strange, magical place of twisting corridors full of huge brass objects, vast collections of dolls, sculptures, miniatures, old clockwork curiosities, and self playing musical set pieces. Now, add in hundreds of like minded people that either love the House on the Rock or the dark literary rock star that is Neil Gaiman, all in costume, from a 15 foot tall Statue of Liberty to dozens of characters in the book, wandering from room to room, bar to bar, talking, eating, drinking, enjoying, and generally having a good time.

In a word, it was simply AWESOME.

People from all parts of the country flocked to the small town of Spring Green for two days of mystery, wonder and magic.  A thousand people, to be precise.

Every available room at every motel booked.   The parking lots of these motels filled with cars bearing out-of-state license plates…Michigan, Minnesota, New Jersey, New York.  Cars that were still cooling from the dozens of hours of driving.

What could have been the siren’s call to all these people?

Well, it might have something to do with one of the thousand.   You see, one visitor in particular wrote a book featuring a landmark that happens to be within 10 minutes of Spring Green.  A place that just so happens to be exactly 9 miles away from the front door of my apartment in the normally quiet little town.

That visitor is Neil Gaiman.  The book is American Gods.  The landmark is the House on the Rock.

You see, Neil discovered that the House on the Rock was a place of intrigue.  As Neil stated in his January 14th journal entry, the House is ‘a monument to kitsch and wonder and madness and uncertainty.’  It prompted him to feature it within his novel American Gods as a focal point of power for the forgotten gods of our past.  Without spoiling too much of the story, it becomes the gathering place of the old gods, meeting to discuss their own fate and the fate of the new gods that replaced them.  And it was in this same journal entry that started the cascade that would accumulate in the drawing of a thousand fans to the House.

Simply put, The House on the Rock wanted to throw a party.  On Halloween.  With Neil and a couple hundred of his fans.

The call was sent out.   And the masses responded.

In March, the idea became reality.  The official House on the Rock event blog confirmed that the gathering was on.  Event packages were offered and sold.  Space was filling up.  As expected, the fans were clamoring to have a chance to celebrate with Neil.

I wanted to, as well.   Despite the fact that I have been to the House on the Rock several times, due to my close proximity to it, I still wanted to go.  I wanted to have the chance to meet Neil, to possibly have him sign my copy of American Gods, to thank him in person for providing the escape from the mundane that we so desperately need.

But, I couldn’t.   Financial hardships at the time prevented me from purchasing tickets.   Then, later on, there was money available, but needed for other, more important things, like buying things for my future son.  Plus, with my wife being 37 weeks pregnant by the time of the key weekend, it would be better if I stayed home and took care of her.

So, I did.  I stayed home, though I did give my book to Ben in the vain hope that he might be able to have Neil sign it for me.  I stayed home, but not silently.  I warned my wife that she may want to ask to stop working for the rest of the season at the motel, for it was going to be completely full.  I kept telling her what will be happening.   I knew the schedule of events, courtesy of the event blog.  I was as much in the loop as one could be.  I just wasn’t able to actually attend.

Now, I know that I was not the only one that wanted to go and couldn’t.  I have seen the responses in Twitter and the posts on Facebook.  The thing that was the kicker for me is that I live at the epicenter of this convergence of like-minded people.  I couldn’t just turn off the computer and walk away to put it out of my mind.   It was literally all around me.   I talked about the Low Key Gathering so much that my wife forbade me to speak of it by October 29th, when the event was in full swing and I was receiving text and Twitter updates of the goings-on.

I brooded.  I pined.  I yearned.   About the only thing I couldn’t do was put it out of my mind.

Oh, I tried.   On Saturday morning, I helped a friend get a bed for her roommate from the closest thrift store available, which was about 30 to 40 minutes away.  When I came home, I took my wife out to eat at the local Culver’s.  I stayed off of my computer.  But, it did not matter.  There were reminders all around.   I didn’t need the cars in the Culver’s parking lot with the Michigan, New York and Tennessee license plates to tell me I was surrounded by fellow fantasy buffs.  I didn’t need the yellow sheets of paper clutched in hands to help me identify my own kind.   I didn’t even need the lanyards with the tell-tale laminated event pass to clue me in.

I just knew.

I could tell at a glance that the pair of women on the corner in front of the real estate office were Gatherees.  I knew standing at the counter of Culver’s that the guy in the black leather trench coat to the left was there for the Gathering, just as I knew the group of people sitting at the table to the right of my booth were all there for the House on the Rock.   It wasn’t because they were all dressed the same or because they were unfamiliar faces.   All of them, young and old, male and female, had the same sense of awe….the same excitement that I myself was feeling throughout the weekend.   If anything, it was magnified with them.  They were tapping the wellspring of wonderment directly, while I was standing outside, craning my neck to view through the dirty glass windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the magic within.

And you know something?  I was alright with that.

I realized that I was seeing reflections of myself, and I was content in that.   I knew that many of the people who came in for the Low Key Gathering were visiting the House on the Rock for the first time.  I could see the fascination in their eyes.   I knew exactly what they were experiencing.  I, too, have retraced the footsteps of forgotten gods as they strode towards the carousel.  I, too, have gazed upon the multitude of oddities within the walls of the House and learned to not to try to make sense of it, but merely to accept and revel in the fantastic eccentricity of it all.  I, too, have driven on the same roads as Shadow and seen the same sights.  I did not need to purchase a ticket to share in the adventure.  I felt a kinship with those who didn’t even know I existed, and that was enough.

I was not able to have my book signed.  That was okay.   I knew it was a long shot anyway and I was fine with it.  Ben was gracious enough to give me a copy of The Graveyard Book that he received in his event package, along with the t-shirt on Sunday.  The fact that he gave me a Neil Gaiman book on Halloween for All Hallow’s Read was not lost on me.  I found it rather thoughtful of him and I thanked him kindly.  I also told him that I considered both of us lucky.  Not only because of our close proximity to the majestic mystery that is the House on the Rock, but also because we were able to share that same sense of awe and excitement with others.  So what if I wasn’t able to attend the House this one time.   I have been there before and I certainly will be there again…and each time will be as enchanting as before.

Thank you, Alex Jordan, for having the vision, be it genious or madness, to create the baffling singularity that is the House on the Rock.   Thank you, Neil Gaiman, for feeling the power of that monument of madness and sharing it with the world.  Thank you for inspiring millions, myself included, to look beyond the realm of the banal to the realm of the fantastic and welcome what we find there.  Thank you to the House on the Rock staff itself for having the foresight and ambition to try something never done before.   And…thank you to the hundreds of Gatherees, for bringing your enthusiam and vitality.  It was a much-welcomed boost for me.  It helped me to appreciate how lucky I truly am to be able to call the Spring Green area home and how fortunate I am to be able to bring a child into the same world where the line between fantasy and reality blurs and the ordinary becomes the extraordinary.

If people are interested, there are pictures of the event located on Flickr groups The Low Key Gathering and Neil Gaiman HoTR Halloween American Gods .  Also, there are links to other blogs and comments about the event over at the Low Key Gathering Facebook page.  Feel free to take a look and see what others are saying about their experience.   Also, Ben and Pat, my bkI compatriots who were able to attend, stated that they will have their thoughts on the event up soon, so keep an eye out for that.

Many people who attended are saying that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and that you had to be there to feel the delight of the evening.  I respectfully disagree.  I have been to the House and felt its power.   I could just imagine the sheer unadulterated joy in riding the carousel for the first time ever…the excitement of the crowd knowing that they are all witnesses to history.

And, just between you and me, I have a pretty powerful imagination.

Unfortunately we’re not at 100%, so expect to see tweaks and changes as time goes by.

Now, the important stuff: Content is already coming down the feed with more to come, specifically we’ll catch-up with Brotherhood of the Hand and bkI will be at The House on the Rock this Halloweekend to celebrate Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, not to mention write up the cool things that are happening, take pics, watch Joanna try to seduce Neil, etc.

Stay Tuned!