Haneyville, PA—We Discordians have congregated at an annual party for about twenty years now.  No one knows exactly why; it’s best not to question these things.  Every June, like those Capistrano swallows, we migrate to a remote Pennsylvanian cabin deep in the Black Forest region of Sproul State Forest (thankfully not to spawn).  The last party got a little strange…and not in the usual, bean fight, tree duct-tapping, naked fire dancing kind of strange.  I’m talking real strange…

You see, my daughter wanted to look up Skinwalkers the other night.  Her classmates constantly talk about old legends of Kokopelli, witch doctors, Chupacabra and the like.  So after searching Skinwalkers to dispel her silly childish fears (I may not sleep for a week), she noticed a large black bird on the page.  We clicked on this other site to find Thunderbirds.  Of course, they’re said to be from, er…the Black Forest region of Sproul State Forest, but that’s just a strange coincidence. While it’s true that most Thunderbird sightings have occurred in north central PA—usually between keg four and keg five for my crowd—I’ve never seen anything unusually large in those woods (except my friend Jim Blob).  In fact, Mark Twain actually saw a monstrous black bird in nearby Ravensburg State Park in Jersey Shore, PA…a place where Alley and I spent many a sunny day messing with Saskwatch.      

Another click and we saw a picture of a giant owl, walking upright.  I shuddered.  You see, Alley and I went out to that old cabin in search of some thing, or some things, that I encountered in those woods.  But first, let me splain.  Circa June 2007 about seventy people were partying in those rolling Pennsylvania hills.  After the band left, around 3:00 AM, some of us heard strange creatures in the distance.  We mimicked and taunted the things, which is always a good idea when dealing with legendary liminal totem creatures sacred to the Hopi (Hint: Discordians aren’t horribly bright). 

The next morning people talked about what they had heard over eggs and coffee (who am I kidding? we were still drinking).  Pokey McDooris, Dave Atsals, and Pearce Winslow were all there.  The Ghetto Shaman was supposed to come, but he apparently didn’t get let out of the drunk tank in time.  Of the seventy some-odd folks, all but a dozen remained for the second night—when things got really weird, and not in the usual pagan ritual, naked conga-line kind of weird.

Several of us heard the beasties’ encore that night, but this time they were closer—much closer.  Over the course of the next several hours these things actually assailed our camp.  I listened for hours but I’ll be damned if I could describe them.  They sounded like several fairly large, ground dwelling creatures.  The sounds were indescribable, otherworldly, and freaky (like my friend Shag).

These things were pissed and raising an awful racket.  I remember walking my friend Shag out to his tent just before dawn (don’t look too deeply into this).  He set his tent up way off in the woods and now he couldn’t find it.  He didn’t want to get eaten by the whatever-the-hell-they-were-trying-to-find, so he asked me to tag along.  I remember finding his tent an unsettling amount of time later to this cacophony of strange hoot, grunt, and howls.  The walk back to camp, alone, was a memorable one (if I’m remembering correctly). 

The next morning everyone reported having heard these things this time.  Half the group thought it was a pack of barn owls, while the other half thought it was a pack of coyotes. 

I knew they were neither—at least not of the usual variety. 

No one had ever heard anything like it.  So Alley and I drove out there the next night and tried to record something for posterity.  But, on that trip, we were driven mad by a monstrous tentacled beast that dragged us to the nether realms and devoured us.  Hail Yig!  

Back to reality…so this website we’re purusing describes these three-to-five foot tall owls that walk on the ground and, of course, feed on human flesh.  Cryptomundo.com has a picture of Ornimegalonyx oteroi (a giant Cuban owl—illegal to smoke in the states).  Remains of this approximately three-foot tall owl circa 8,000 years ago (shown below) were recently unearthed.  Some say they’re still alive today.  Bighoot sightings have occurred in the southwest where witnesses claim they make a coyote hum/owl hoot screech. 

Maybe there is a rational explanation.  Maybe they were just large ground-dwelling evil pack owls… Or maybe there was something in the Ghetto Shaman’s acid that shouldn’t have been.

Does anyone else hear X-Files music?

But leave it to me to live in Thunderbird country for a decade and run into Bighoot.  Now that I’ve moved to Bighoot country, I’m sure I’ll run into a Thunderbird. 

Prior to this year’s Thanksgiving feast, my sister sent me out into the wilds of Phoenix to retrieve something called a gravy separator. She typically chooses a “special job” that matches my talents (aka: a job that even I can’t screw up).  There is long history here of bringing back the wrong cooking sherry, the wrong cranberry sauce, or the wrong homeless person that I met at the bar on the way over.  She obviously decided to throw care into the wind this year by sending me to a large kitchen store.  This was clearly above my pay grade. It was not some recent increase in confidence, mind you, for the ‘just pick up some ice’ fiasco was still fresh on her mind (ice also has a drug slang connotation).   

I thought “hey, I’m going to learn something today about the alchemical mysteries behind separating gravy from gravy fat.  Maybe they’ll even have a demonstration!”

I also thought to myself, five bucks and about fifteen minutes later, I’d be back talking turkey. 

I thought wrong…

Amidst my endless quest for this bizarre kitchen aid, I half expected Rod Serling to step out from behind the food processors and say something like, “A man on his way to Thanksgiving dinner is now on the menu in one of the darker corners of The Kitchen Zone.”  But, there was a no smoking policy, so they would have probably kicked him out.  Anyway, a half an hour of browsing and fifteen dollars later, I had this unholy thing in my hand—a contraption that allegedly separates gravy from gravy fat.  

Do you realize how many Breckenridge Oatmeal Stouts I could have picked up for fifteen bucks?  Next time, I get the beer and take my chances with the turkey fat.  I will also never get back that awful thirty-minutes wandering aimlessly around this store with utensils literally reaching to the top of their twenty-foot ceiling. 

“No, no, sir, I want the ladle to the right.  Six rows up.”  

“What do you mean, you have to get the forklift?  I want the ladle not the fork!”

I just wanted the cheapest gravy separator, but they only carried one type.  As I came to find out later, it’s the only gravy separator in the Valley of the Sun.  So you mean the only gravy separator in the greater Phoenix area is a fifteen dollar version, which just happens to be ergonomically correct?  It has a rubberized and user-friendly shaped-handle that aids the lifter, protecting their delicate wrists from the unnecessary wear and tear of the lifting process.  What!?!  Are you friggin kidding me?!  If you use a gravy separator enough times to need it to be ergonomically correct, carpal tunnel is the least of your problems! 

Then I studied this thing that I’m about to purchase for the low, low price of 12 Breckenridge Oatmeal Stouts over at the beer distributor (I’m really trying to put this in perspective for some of you folks).  OK…so I’m reading more about this thing.  The kitchen gods have peaked my curiosity.  It is simply a device that has a spout at the bottom, instead of the top, so the lighter fat will not come out until last.  It’s not stopping the fat from coming out, mind you, it’s just taking one year off the cardiac life of the last unlucky soul to use this thing. 

Sooooo, it’s really not separating anything.  Separating is this: girls in the west dorm and boys in the east dorm and there are vigilant nuns, teachers, or security guards between the two (usually armed to the teeth).  I managed anyway.

So the person going back for thirds, the person with the most fragile arteries, is the one being put at the most risk by this thing?  No batteries, no bells and no whistles? For fifteen-dollars a damn siren should go off when you reach a certain predetermined fat-to-gravy index.  But no, nothing…hey, but my wrists feel great!  

So I left Bed, Bath & Beyond Bull Shit and I returned to my holiday feast victorious.  My sister was impressed with my work and she hardly complained about the short, malodorous person I invited on the way over.  I toasted this new fangled gadget with my new found friend and chugged that gravy fat like a Valhalla Viking on ‘roids and, yes, I had picked up the extra beer anyway…just to show ‘em.  You see, beer cuts cholesterol better than any bottom-spouted, ergonomically correct, kitchen-aid bullshit thingy any day.

Happy Holidays!  Now, if you will excuse me, I’m having chest pains…

This short lived mobile meat phenomenon brought new meaning to the phrase Las Vegas Strip.  The article in today’s Las Vegas Review Journal ‘Mobile Strippers Derailed’ has me both gladdened and sadden.  It is nice to see Sin City has its limits, but on the other hand Live Mobile Strippers!  Damn, I’m sorry to see them go-go.  As a Las Vegas cabbie, I can tell you, the last few weeks the meter wasn’t the only thing going up.  These mobile pleasure palaces brought myself—as well as other cab drivers, pedestrians, tourists, and everyone else in Vegas for that matter—to near Nirvana and to near death experiences.

No matter where the fare wanted to go, I seemed to aimlessly follow the pole dancing darlings (PDDs)—sometimes to the delight of passengers, sometimes to their chagrin.  It was exceptionally awkward when there was a group of nuns in town for an ethics convention.

“Forgive me sister for I have wood.  My thoughts are impure and I…just get the fuck out of the cab!”

Then there was that time “hey we’re late for our flight, where are you going, dude?  Oh…Never mind…follow those girls.”

More than once I heard, “Hey cabbie!  Both hands on the wheel!”

“Sorry, Sister.”

It helps to remind people there are always flights out of Vegas and I usually add, “Where you’re from probably sucks anyway.”

I realized the trick was to get the fare to think it was their idea.  Starting off with a “Wow, would you look at that!” and then guide the conversation and the taxi toward the semi-clad mobile hooters, swinging around poles on the back of a plexiglass enclosed flatbed truck.

For a few great weeks, while it lasted, it was all tits, tips, and traffic—all the while on the books.  Longer fares and longer…er, other things.  The only downside was my tips were being directed towards the PDDs.  Fortunately the childproof locks on the rear cab doors and the sealed Plexiglas around the lovelies kept the tips where they belonged–with me.  No matter your view on stripping, you have to be impressed with women who can dance in heels and bikinis on the back of those trucks amidst LV traffic. It impresses even a cabbie like myself…in more ways than one. As it turns out, the PDDs are legal passengers, so they had to wear seatbelts, which may have saved lives but they sucked as stripper tools (much too restrictive, unless you’re promoting a bondage club).

Oh, and they even had microphones, so you would hear things like “follow us to the strip club” and “tell your friends” and, “Hey, cabbie, both hands on the wheel.  Freak!”

In the end, the stripper mobile went bust (sorry).  With mounting pressure from county commissioners, the strip club finally stopped the mobile flesh parade. Wasn’t that a Doors album?  It was a sad, sad day in Sin City when the axe came down.  The neon does not seem to glow as brightly as it once did, the Bellagio fountains seem not to soar as high, and the Mirage Volcano seems to spew less lava (and several other bad Las Vegas impotency metaphors).

But for a few uplifting weeks, the Las Vegas Strip really was the Las Vegas strip.

Thank you for visiting Fabulous Las Vegas.

This yarn is embellished approximately one-to-five percent due to age-related cognitive-decline, also known in certain Discord circles as Dave Atsals’ Syndrome (DAS).  This tale is going to sound fictitious, like many of my stories, but I can assure you that those who knew me in the eighties and nineties would understand.  You see, I settled down in the twenty-first century, when Dean Moriarty somehow morphed quietly into Ward Cleaver. Anyway, back in the Bruce Springsteenesque glory days, the night was dark and stormy.  OK, the moon was very full, which may or may not have inspired me to dress like Lon Cheney’s version of the Wolfman.  You know, old school.  This was before American Werewolf in London, before Underworld, or even before Old School, for that matter.  Back in those days we only had Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, and Warren Zevon to frighten us.  If that didn’t work, my GPA usually did the trick.  

After my transformation, I headed down to the Zeta sorority house with my then girlfriend, Whatshername.  Note to self: it’s never a good idea to take a date to a sorority house party.  It marked the beginning of the end of our relationship. As the party waned, I exited stage left, minus my girlfriend or any of the Zeta sisters.  As I stumbled back to my dorm, I couldn’t help but notice how the soccer field net looked like a massive, yet at the same time, very inviting hammock.  As it turned out, in a pinch, soccer nets can sufficiently fulfill the role of a hammock.  The only problem being, police and or other law enforcement officials do not feel that soccer nets should be used in such a capacity in the wee hours of the morning by drunken lycanthropic college students. Suddenly, two large high beams silhouetted me and my hammock-antics against a rocky outcropping on the far side of the field.  I raised my cup in salute to my hammocked-self and may well have attempted shadow puppets, before the significance of the light show sunk in.

When the situation became apparent, I shifted into character by hissing and growling at the intrusion and then I leapt down from the soccer net.  Attempting this today, would mark the end of my tale—unless I did something funny at the police station, which has been known to happen. But, not at all amused, the coppers exited their vehicle and slammed shut the car doors.  Still in character, I sprinted across the field.  Once to the wood line, to my shock and amazement, the two officers were right behind me with bobbing flashlights.  I snarled at the pursuers and made for the woods at the corner of the field and then scrambled up a fairly steep embankment.  Again to my dismay, the bobbing lights followed.  Now picture this if you will: still growling and hissing with atmospheric bobbing head lights in hot pursuit, I made my way up that mountain.  The whole time I was thinking, “this is way too cool!”

Some mist on the ground would have been perfect!  I stopped to take a leak, which wasn’t exactly dry ice, but it couldn’t hurt.

When I reached the crest of the hill, I came upon a small clearing at the summit.  The lights of my pursuers finally faded as the woods grew still.  In the moonlight, my eyes focused on a hodgepodge of very old and decrepit tombstones.  A whirring and flapping of membranous wings split the night as the sound of a distant arcane church bell gonged thrice with an unearthly resonance across the ancient necropolis (OK, this sentence is just a Lovecraft tribute. They happen from time to time.  I’m trying to get help, honest).

But I had, quite unwittingly, entered some old cemetery—dressed as wolf, on Halloween night; chased there by the bobbing lights of the authorities (do you begin to understand why my date bolted?).  For a short time I relished the moonlit atmosphere.  Then I did what any good werewolf should; I bayed at the moon until my throat grew raw.  Upon heading back down the hill, I feasted on the flesh of the Zeta girls in a carnal and cannibalistic frenzy.  OK, that part didn’t happen either…at least I’m reasonably sure.   I wasn’t horribly fond of the Zeta sisters, so maybe…

Happy Halloween!

My wife and I have spent considerable amounts of time and money in downtown New Hope, Pennsylvania.  For those of you unfamiliar with this cozy little playhouse town, it’s well worth the stop.  One weekend, while vacationing there, I even proposed to my wife (along with several other women who happened to pass at the time).  We always try to hit New Hope whenever we’re within a hundred miles of the joint.  Speaking of joints, John & Peter’s Place is a must.  It’s a bar on Main Street that boasts 37 years of live music.  There’s a wooden sliding door to the backroom where many a good band can be heard.  But John & Peter have no shame, apparently.  Neither do their friends over at Woody & Johnson’s just down the street (members only).  New Hope has plenty of good eateries and a few good bars, but the town could use a brewpub, a better beer bar, a humidor, a Belgian bistro, and a few more women who will accept my advances, or at least not involve the authorities.  But I’m not complaining, the hell I’m not.  Get cracking on that, peeps!

Our trip started out typically enough.  My wife and I took the New Hope ghost tour by lantern light, John’s Peter Place for a brew, and then caught a play.  Ah, I remember it well.  I was dressed as Gomez and my wife was dressed as Morticia Adams (or was it the other way around?).  It wasn’t Halloween; we’re just not horribly well is the thing.  The next day, our travels took a sinister twist, however.  We decided to take an alternate route out of town.  The road less traveled, as it were. It’s the kind of decision that prompts Rod Serling to step out from behind some bushes and say something like, “A traveling couple opt for some changes in their itinerary.  Unbeknownst to them, their new destination now lies in one of the dangerously undercooked loins of The Twilight Zone.” 

On our way northward and homeward, we agreed to do some exploring along the Delaware River.  After some sightseeing, we hoped to arrive at the Ship Inn, just over the Jersey border, at or around suppertime. The Ship Inn is a great brewpub, by the way, that serves a mean brown ale.  But what happened to the drunken clam appetizer, huh?  But I’m not complaining, the hell I’m not.  Get cracking on that, peeps!

We never arrived at that infamous drinkery. Mwahahhahahah…

OK, that’s not the scary part, except for those few beer connoisseurs amongst you.  We did end up at the Witches’ Brew in Easton, where I managed to set my laptop on fire.  The strange part, OK, the strange part for the purpose of this post, happened just north of New Hope, where we found ourselves on this tiny strip of land between the Delaware River and this old canal.  The area was secluded, atmospheric, and thick with old oak trees.  The place was daunting and had a heavy feel to it, not unlike my friend Jim Blob.

At some point during our northward jaunt, we became lost in a rather desolate section of those Buck’s County badlands.  The road we got stuck on was called Upper Black Eddy Road, just off of River Road.  We had just driven passed a large structure on the right and Rod Serling puffing on a cigarette to the left, when I decided to take a moment to enjoy this strange and compelling parcel of woodland, and, of course, pop open another can of Big Jug Extra Malt Liquor.  OK, not really. I just wanted to get out the map.  Women typically can’t navigate, you see, and my wife is no exception.  We were driving around in circles for about a half hour and my mascara was running.  I only had one girlfriend who could ever use a map properly.  Lola, I think her name was.  Anyway, we pulled over and I decided to get out of the car.  The area was strangely quiet, too quiet.  After only a few seconds, I stepped back into the car, grabbed the map, and started the engine.

“What’s wrong?” my wife asked. 

“This place gives me the creeps,” I said, and then immediately became rather adamant about finding my old girlfriend, Lola, and a new map (something not refolded ad infinitum by some origami sadist).  Besides, I wanted some drunken clams, some brown ale, and some women to propose to during those few blissful moments when my wife is in the can.

An uneasy feeling crept into the core of my being.  I had only felt something like that a few other times, most involving my ex, Lola, or undercooked pork products.  Seriously, my wife can’t cook pork.  She’s not Jewish, she’s just profoundly pork impaired (PPI).

In retrospect, she said it’s the only time I ever seemed spooked (I will leave the eve before my wedding out of this).  Since adulthood, I only remember three similar spook-related-experiences (SREs). Two occurred in the presence of a guy named Shag, and the last took place in the heart of the Superstition Mountains with a guy named Pokey.  Don’t read too deeply into this.  A guy named Shag and Pokey; I know what you’re thinking, but we’re all straight.  Well, Shag is iffy, but the rest of us are dead butch.  Oh, how fondly I recall those summers up at PokeShag Mountain. 

After much fear and loathing, we did eventually find our way out of that foul and terrible place and, once we arrived home, I pulled out a proper map and found the very spot where we had stopped.  I looked online only to discover the piece of real estate we were poking about was known as the Devil’s Half-Acre.  The Devil had originally wanted an entire acre, or so the story goes, but something about a really good fiddle player, Daniel Webster, and one bitch of a real estate agent and, well, have some sympathy for the devil, will ya?

A tavern is the only structure standing in the middle of Salem’s lot.  It was built in the 1800s (by drunken demons I suppose) and was frequented by the workers who dredged out the nearby canal.  The original owner was a questionable sort (not unlike our own Ghetto Shaman) and he was often in trouble with the authorities (not unlike our own Dave Atsals). Legend has it that the whole place is overrun by the spirits of the dead canal workers who died at the tavern during many-a-wild bar brawl (tragically just before happy hour).  The losers of these fights were said to be buried somewhere on the grounds by the owner of the place.  Apparently, there are all kinds of critters buried behind Farmer Vincent’s shitters.  The Devil’s Half Acre is actually part of Solebury Township and how many souls are buried behind that dark and terrible place remains unclear.  Mwaahahahah.  Taverns don’t usually bother me, but taverns that no longer serve beer apparently scare the shit of me.  If you’re really quiet in those accursed woods, you can almost here those spirits saying: Is it still happy hour?  Are there free wings by chance?  And, who the hell just broke that bottle over my head?

If you ever find yourself driving along that windy lonesome river road, dressed like Morticia Adams, go with someone who knows how to navigate, like Lola, and pop open some Big Jug Extra Malt Liquor for those thirsty tragic spirits of yore.

One hundred and fifty miles northwest of Las Vegas, amidst the barren wasteland of Central Nevada, sits one of the most controversial areas in our country (besides Michael Vick’s Animal Shelter).  I’m talking, of course, about Rachel, Nevada, a one mailbox town so devoid of life it didn’t even appear on my GPS (and it really only has one mailbox, which also did not appear on my GPS).  The nearest real town to Rachel is sixty miles to the south.  There is no cell phone service and no gas station in or around Rachel.  The town motto is ‘Don’t Run Out of Gas in Rachel.’   They’re not kidding.  To accentuate that point, there is a sign next to the town motto that says, ‘We’re Not Kidding!’

In order to get to Rachel, Frank from CA, Greg from MD, and the Great Bald One himself trekked along the Extra Terrestrial Highway (speed limit warp 3).  It’s really named that.  Along with legalized gambling and prostitution, the state of Nevada apparently has a sense of humor.  It is so desolate on State Route 375 (ET Hwy), we drove 45 minutes without seeing another vehicle (at least on the ground).  The skies above were littered with strange discs, saucers, and mallowmar shaped spacecrafts (damn shame we never looked up).  In the middle of town sits a tow truck towing a UFO.  This oddity is the stuff of legend, or, as the Rachelinians like to call it, bullshit. 

The only commercial building in Rachel is the A’Le’Inn, where I and my weary traveling companion feasted on the house special, the Alien Burger, with secret Alien sauce (possibly Heinz 51).  It was the best burger for miles…speaking of gas.  The A’Le’Inn has one television, forever tuned to the Sci-fi channel.  While waiting for the replicator to prepare our Borg-ers, we scoured the adjacent gift shop, and perused the memorabilia-filled walls covered with newspaper clippings and interesting photographs of Men in Black, stealth fighters, and other military spooks.  Similar to other alien close encounters, we seemed to have lost several hours at the A’Le’Inn—after we consumed a few too many Martian Mojitos.  The anal probes arrived courtesy of Cleetus the tow truck driver and his rocketeering roofies.  OK, that never happened.  We hope.  After the grub and grog our intrepid explorers meandered, Mojito meandered, towards the elusive Area 51. 

As most of you know, Area 51 is located literally in the middle of nowhere.  But, until you drive out there in the dead of night, it’s really tough to appreciate just how smack dab in the middle of nowhere this place is.   From the A’Le’Inn it was 25 minutes of twists and turns on gravel and dirt roads with no signage to speak of.  It was so dark, at one point we decided to turn off all the car lights, and we could not see our hand in front of our face.  Of course, I never lifted mine, where’s the fun in that?  I took Frank and Greg’s word for it.  As we rounded a small bend our headlights lit up two Men in Black.  They were in a dark SUV parked at the top of the nearest rise.  The SUV may not have been black (it was possibly grey) and the men may have only been in denim, but it was a dark, menacing denim.  The men spied at us warily as we spied at them warily in some sort of warily staring stare off.  A laser fight ensued…well, in the LucasFilm version of this article anyway.

At the gate we took many pictures of the signs and places that clearly warned about any such photography.  Try as we might, we could not find one sign that read: permission to use deadly force.  We waved causally at the Men in Dark Denim (click, click).  They ignored the pleasant gesture.  We did not see any UFOs on our journey, but we did see the strangest small red lights swerving around our chests every time the Men in Denim were about.

Just as the realization hit this old gate was about all she wrote, nature called.  One too many Martian Mojitos, I suppose.  As soon as the sound of unzipping commenced, my friend called over in a hushed whisper, “Hold it.  At least until we’re out of sight of those MIBs.”  The thought of men with night vision goggles and high powered rifles allowed me to contain the contents of my bladder for a few more miles (until a suitable bush could be found).

The funny thing is; we were never really anywhere near Area 51.  The actual base is 12 miles from the barbed wire gates.  One thing is for sure, this place is more guarded than Bernie Madoff’s ATM card.  If we couldn’t get in with our combined expertise, no one can.  After slowly and carefully finding our way back to a paved road, we headed back to Sin City, with just enough gas to breakout of the grasp of that gasless desert trap, Rachel, Nevada.

Word to the wise: stay away from the secret alien sauce…and Cleetus and his rocketeering roofies, of course.

The Monte Vista is the centerpiece of downtown Flagstaff, AZ.  The hotel is also believed by locals to be quite haunted.  Built in 1926, the old structure stands as a testament to the ingenuity of the new world’s frontier pioneers, the people of the land, the common clay of the great American west…you know, morons.   The hotel is complete with a Phantom Bellboy who reportedly—and I’m not making this up—knocks at random doors and in a muffled voice says “room service”.   Talk about an unimaginative afterlife. 

All over the hotel, I reenacted the Phantom Bellboy’s antics in true SNL fashion and for effect added, “candy gram” and eventually “land shark” to the mix without incident (paranormal incident, that is—I was asked to leave).  John Wayne is believed to have seen this bellboy ghost while staying in the Bing Crosby suite (the John Wayne suite was apparently occupied by Rip Taylor).  Mr. Wayne’s encounter was a friendly one, and the bellhop appreciated the generous tip. 

“I’m not gonna tip ya, I’m not gonna tip ya…like hell I’m not.” 

Well, I’m sure the exchange went something like that.

Ghost sightings include a meat man, a bank robber, and a dancing couple—thankfully not at the same time. Most disturbing of all, the persistent sounds of a baby crying can often be heard from the basement.  Apparently, this haunting sound has sent many hotel employees scrambling upstairs for more formula. 

Jon Bon Jovi is said to haunt room 305, despite the fact he is reportedly alive and well and living in Middletown, NJ.  I realize that sounds made up…alive and well in New Jersey?  Once the Bon Jovi Suite was depicted on an Unsolved Mysteries episode and is allegedly the most actively haunted room in the hotel.  Strange poltergeist activity is reported in the suite and an old ghost rocks in a chair by the window—perhaps driven mad by the endless Bon Jovi tunes.  What a way to go…  Down the hall is the Air Supply room, which I found surprisingly stuffy.  From the suite, tenants report hearing the haunting sounds of “whoa, we’re half way there, whoa, livin’ on a prayer.”  The vast majority of these guests describe the haunting sounds as “deeply disturbing”, but most are just thankful it wasn’t In and Out of Love. Unfortunately, the image below does not have the actual picture of Bon Jovi on the door as this reporter copped the image moments before snapping the shot. Drat! Next time snap first, steal second, snap first, steal second. It’s as easy to get these things right, you know.

My original enthusiasm for covering this story involved the only truly compelling paranormal experience ever directly experienced by a Discord staffer.  My sister Deana, a Discord Business Consultant, awoke in the middle of the night after being flicked in the center of her forehead by an unknown entity.  This is a true story, hopelessly wedged in an otherwise typical Zano article.

Her husband adamantly denies any part in this unexplained occurrence.  When she awoke, she reported a red welt in the center of her forehead.  Here is the freaky part: other guests have reported being flicked in the night at the Monte Vista…by my sister’s husband!  Damn you, MJ!

During the night in question, the couple stayed in the Gary Cooper suite, which is cattycorner to the Bon Jovi Suite. You are welcome to stay there, if you feel lucky…well, do ya?  Oh, wait, that’s Clint Eastwood. 

My sister is a true skeptic and remains so to this day.  In fact, she questions her own testimony and is pressuring herself to submit to a lie detector test.

I am writing this creepy caper from the hotel itself…actually from the Rendezvous, a martini/coffee bar just off the hotel’s main lobby.  Do you want to hear something really scary?  A bone chilling occurrence just happened while writing this very piece.  While doing a web search for Bon Jovi on my laptop—a necessary research evil—I inadvertently stumbled upon a site that started playing a Bon Jovi song, loudly! …in the middle of the martini bar! 

I am still shivering.

“Whoa, we’re half way there, whoa, livin’ on a prayer.”  

Shudder.

On the way out, I cut through the lobby and questioned the woman at the front desk.  The young lady, known only as “stop asking me questions, creep,” said she didn’t know of any recent occurrences in the hotel. 

For those traveling to Flag, there’s also a wonderfully seedy bar in the back corner of the Monte Vista, as well as a Thai restaurant on the far corner.  And, if that’s not good enough, there’s a Thai restaurant across the street, a third is down the street a couple of blocks, as well as two more on the way home.  Arizonians are apparently Thai fanatics, perhaps driven to foreign foods by the incessant sounds of Bon Jovi’s disembodied crooning.  If Bon Jovi doesn’t haunt this town, he is very likely to do so someday.  This is simply a theory but, after all, isn’t he the one who implores us to Never Say Goodbye?

The para-abnormal research team consisted of Ranger Rick, who both led the investigation and set the pace (three pints an hour), Pierce Winslow, our tech-guru (who wrote the whole thing off as a business expense), Pokey McDooris, philosopher and sideshow attraction, Timmo O’Frynn, driver and camera man, Bob Krazmoski, treasurer and straight man, and, yours truly, Mick Zano, addiction counselor/beer enthusiast.

Our story begins in 1778 in the General Lafayette Inn when only two brews flowed in the tap room: Yankee Brewdle Dandy and Loyalist Lager (which was poisoned).  Back then the locals knew the Inn as the Three Tuns Tavern—famous for both its alliteration as well as its happy hour Jagerbombs.  During the Revolutionary War, General Lafayette, a Frenchman who fought for the Americans, found himself cornered at the Inn by British troops.  Realizing, to his horror, that jagerbomb hour had ended, Lafayette planned his escape.  He challenged the opposing generals to snooker and darts and then snuck out the backdoor while the British were ordering drinks.  This account, incidentally, is fellow Discordian Dave Atsals’ interpretation of events.  I personally believe that Lafayette stayed for the beer and then snuck out before it was his turn to buy.

After the sun goes down at the Lafayette Inn the staff has reported strange occurrences—aside from the owner’s infatuation with finger puppets.  The corridors are haunted by the ghost of an old woman, bitching about the shoddy service and the lack of clean towels. There are lots of unexplained noises (other than Krazmoski’s less than pleasant reaction to onions…and finger puppets.)

Our para-abnormal investigation started with an intense two hour vigil in the bar area, which, after some pub grub, moved into the small, and quite haunted, pool room.  It is said that ghosts of patrons past often prop up the left corner in an effort to level the damn table.  In the wee hours, the hotel staff has reported strange wraith-like specters endlessly scratching at the ball return in their futile search for quarters.

For the next six hours we thoroughly interviewed several waitresses as well as one of Ranger Rick’s ex-girlfriends who, by all accounts, had a nice set of pookageists.  We took a series of pictures (mostly of those luscious pookageists) and used state of the art recording devices for our EVPs (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) to discover if the waitresses dug us.  One waitress seemed amused by our antics, but this—as is often the case—wore thin about halfway through her shift.  (This is a metaphor for the vast majority of my relationships.)

One waitress ended her workday only to return some time later in a more social capacity.  She was shocked to find us right where she had left us—in a drunken stupor, flittering with the next shift.

By then our investigation had moved from the stout and porter to the cask-conditioned IPA, which by all accounts was hauntingly yummy. As we dug deeper into this spooky site, several mysterious happenings unfolded.  These occurrences can not easily be dismissed or explained.  Despite hours of patronage, Bob never did try the well-crafted, hand-pumped porter.  More compelling still, Timmo ordered the French fries, yet never touched them, and, perhaps most queer, Pokey…

At one point I snuck up into the banquet room, but I couldn’t find any doors leading the lodging area.  Apparently, the only lodging on the premises involved a guest house around back.  No one sleeps in the main structure anymore, with the notable exception of Timmo who passed out for a short time in the men’s room.  The staff we interviewed knew of the ghost stories, but none had any recent experiences.  At around 2AM, however, something truly blood-curdling occurred.  The bartender stopped serving us alcohol and asked us to leave.

We asked if we could hold a séance after last call, but our pleas were met with only consternation.  It wasn’t like we were asking them to serve us drinks after hours—well, we did ask that…but it’s a reasonable request, right?  After all, to be in tune with the spirits, one must imbibe them, right?  Our impromptu séance by the restrooms availed us nothing, but we did manage to wake Timmo.

In desperation, we tried convincing several waitresses that sometimes a phenomenon of this type manifests around a particular person and is not connected to the actual structure itself.  The only way to rule this out was to go home with them and conduct a thorough investigation.  But alas, we soon found ourselves in the parking lot, chickless, clueless, and ghostless.  Luckily we agreed upon a three day investigation. We decided to meet up the next day for lunch—you know, when what’s-her-name starts her shift.

The night was moist and clingy like a BBQ-sauce-smeared wet nap. A damp chill hung in the air like a BBQ-sauce-smeared wet nap. OK, I’m out of similes. I got nothing. As fate would have it, there were far too many eateries and drinkeries within walking distance of our hotel to do any justice to the ghosts of Gettysburg. In a spirits vs. spirits grudge-match in my world, the carboxyl group version trumps ectoplasm every time. Some people shake at the sight of spirits; I shake when I don’t get enough of the other kind.

In preparation for our Gettysburg ghost hunt, I asked my wife to pack the Ouija board. We had planned to hold a candlelight vigil—illegally at midnight—in Gettysburg battlefield (and throw in some of that chocolate body frosting for good measure, sweetie). For those appalled by the imagery, remember, this is a spooky article. If you really can’t handle it, just think of my wife.

As it turns out, we had not packed the Ouija board, but instead packed the kid’s Jumanji game (I can’t make this stuff up, people). Well, at least it wasn’t Monopoly—we own the Pokeman edition, which I am reasonably convinced would be an affront to all spirits lurking in the Gettysburg region. Jumanji is at least a scary movie, so the themed board game could potentially work to our favor. You see? Aside from my incessant negativity, I am the eternal optimist. Now, if I had only brought Pokey’s bongos.

Armed with only an umbrella, a board game, a semi-chewed wad of gum, and some small bits of string, we headed toward the Devil’s Den. Prior to the Civil War massacres, the American Indians had already deemed the place “heap spooky.” It did warm my heart to discover that the gazillion Americans, who had butchered each other there, did so to the back drop of some pretty groovy free-standing boulders. Apparently, a primeval snake, called the devil, inhabited the place while feeding on unsuspecting tourists throughout the eighties.

As we approached that dreaded domain, an exigent fear crept into our souls like an eldritch cloud of necrophagous shadows. Amidst a foul unearthly stretch of hillside, above the ghoulish din of the myriad of Gettysburg ghost tourers, we heard the whirring and flapping of huge membranous wings. A church bell tolled thrice in the distance before an Angus Young rift split the night (Sorry, Hells Bells is my ring tone).

“Ah, yeah Dave, I’m in the battlefield now—covering the story. You’re not coming? And you say ‘m’ abstains? Loser.”

As I hung-up on loser man, a smell beyond putridity escaped from the most unfathomable, ineffable depths of that ancient necropolis.

Note to self: never eat the chili dogs at Ernie’s Texas Lunch.

Just after dusk, we played Jumanji amidst the lichen-covered ruins of that dark and terrible place. The game was never finished…we lost the instructions.

Sadly, our investigation revealed very little. We never returned to Devil’s Den for our late night séance (we ran out of body frosting). Instead, we poked around a place known as the “the grove,” where the battle for East Cemetery Street once raged. Besides, it was closer to the pubs. We did get scared witless upon our return to town—the humidor had already closed and only the Lincoln Diner was still serving food. I did catch one green orb in the upper right hand corner of a picture taken in the basement of the Farnsworth Bed & Breakfast. However, our parabnormal research team is convinced the mysterious anomaly is simply the spirit of Kazoo. You know, when the Flintstones ‘jumped the shark’ by adding a Martian to their prehistoric antics.

All things considered, the most frightening place in and around Gettysburg remains Gettybrew, one of the lousiest brewpubs north or south of the Mason Dixon Line. A year earlier, myself and fellow Discordian Pokey McDooris ventured into this spooky joint and, much to our horror, we accidentally ordered two samplers of the beer (served in wine glasses—monstrous, unfinishibly-large wineglasses—for seven dollars a pop. For the love of god, Montrisoure!) Already fourteen dollars in the hole, we could not muster more than a sip from each of the foamlessly flat brews. Ultimately, negotiations from the headless brewer of creepy hollow broke down, when we less than tactfully explained, in American Indian, how the beer “sucked big wampum.”

Years later I can still taste the phantom foam, those haunted hops, and that narley barley of Getttybrew. I still recall the words of that old gypsy barmaid: “Even beer brewed well by day, can become skunked when the skunk bane grows, and the kegs are exposed to light.” Mwahahahaha.