GRACELAND CEMETERY: A GREAT PLACE TO VISIT, BUT YOU PROBABLY WON'T BE BURIED THERE

[NOTE: I'm fairly certain that no one has ever done a review of a cemetery, so I hope this is the first of a new . . . subgenre, I guess? If anyone has heard of someone reviewing a boneyard, let me know. So far, I only have two of these pieces. Enjoy!]



It’s an unusual place for a cemetery. In fact, driving by, you wouldn’t believe that there’s a boneyard at the corner of Irving Park and Clark. The walls are high, so unless you’re in an SUV, you won’t be able to see any of the towering graves within.

But Graceland Cemetery is there, and it is the grandest graveyard you are ever likely to see. The people who are buried here have no interest in plain stones, and they would never settle for a mere plaque in the ground. No, these are probably the richest corpses you will have ever heard of.



Grecian pillars reach for the sky. Gray pyramids stand as the opening to mausoleums. Some graves are so elaborate that they have benches for weary wanders to rest upon. Life-sized statues, some who look suspiciously like Caesar, rest in positions of thought as grave markers. There are even crypts leading down into the ground. It’s easy to think you’ve entered another world upon driving through the gates to this place. In fact, if you stand on the island with the mausoleum on it and peer out over the pond, you can see what looks like ancient Greek ruins poking out from between the strands of a willow tree.

It isn’t hard to see why so many horror stories have come from this place. There are rumors of a green-eyed monster who stalks the graveyard on full-mooned nights. There is the requisite lady in white, in addition to a large grim-reaper-type statue; the rumor is, if you stare into his face under the hood, you will see how you’re supposed to die.



The most well-known story, though, is about the statue over the grave of a little girl. On rainy nights, the statue has been known to move around the graveyard of its own free will. It became such a common occurrence that the caretaker took it upon himself to put a glass case over the statue in the hopes that it would wander no longer. This plan did not work, and it is still common to find the glass case empty on wet evenings.

Who is buried here? The richest people in Chicago, of course. Some of the pioneers who helped found the city. Notably, Allan Pinkerton, the very first private detective in history. He died of an infection he received when he stubbed his toe on the way to his outhouse one morning. His grave now resides in Graceland, a triangular testament to his life.

Other “residents” of this graveyard include Augustus Dickens (brother of Charles), controversial boxing champ Jack Johnson, George Pullman (the inventor of the Pullman Car), Phillip Armour (of Armour Hot Dog fame), Edith Rockefeller McCormick (daughter of John D.), Charles Wacker (you’ve probably driven on the street named after him), John Jones (the first African American to hold an elected office—County Commissioner), and John Kinzie (the first permanent white settler of what would come to be known as the city of Chicago).



If you’re free for an afternoon and don’t mind a trip into the city, you might want to consider wandering the grounds of this cemetery. Death has never looked quite so beautiful, and you will while away the hours in the presence of gravestones that were meant to be more than just a place to mark where a corpse resides.

They were meant to be art, and nothing less.

A STRANGE AND SAVAGE JOURNEY INTO THE HEART OF WISCONSIN

[NOTE: Once again, I have cannibalized my MySpace blog. I hope you enjoy my fear and loathing on the trail to Wisconsin and Camp Blood . . . .]



It has been a while since I've gone camping in Wisconsin. In fact, I think I was a child the last time I did this. As an adult, I've noticed a few interesting things while on the road, and I thought I would share my observations with you.

First of all, why would anyone use I-90 if they didn't have a choice? Do you know how much I had to surrender to the toll booths before I mercifully found my way to Wisconsin? Three dollars. Isn't that insane? For I-Pass users, it's way less. I think it's a bit unfair to those of us who are willing to pay cold, hard cash. But fuck the tollways. I find that the only time I use them is whenever I'm going camping.

I was relieved to finally be off I-90 (which, by the way, is under construction and won't be done until sometime in 2009, so I paid $3.00 to drive on a SHITTY road), and one of the first things I saw beyond the wooden, circa 1970's Welcome to Wisconsin sign was a state cop giving some guy a ticket. I marvelled at the design of their state cruiser. Here in Illinois, we like our cars sleek with yellow lines going down the sides. In Wisconsin, their cruisers may have been purchased in the mid-nineties, and their cars are painted entirely blue except for their old school logos on the doors.

Oddly enough, his was the last cop car I saw for a long time on that stretch of road, so I felt safe letting my speed creep up into the 80's until I was almost upon 90 mph. At this point I should tell you that before I left on this horrible trek, I stopped by the liquor store to get some Wild Turkey 101 and Flying Dog Classic Pale Ale. Lo! and behold! They had a wine tasting thing, and it was only $10. Why not? I'm going to be on the road for a while, so it would be nice to relax myself a bit. So I downed a bunch of wine and hit the road. Hell, I thought I'd left early. The trip was supposed to take 2 hours and 41 minutes. I was ahead of schedule even after the wine tasting interlude.

Back to me speeding down I-90 in Wisconsin. Did you know that you can get a $500 fine for littering on the road? There are signs stating this everywhere, and guess what: it actually works! I was absolutely shocked to discover that there wasn't so much as a discarded Coke can by the side of the road. I kept my eyes open, looking for the slightest sign of a McDonald's bag, but there was nothing. Wisconsin really is clean!

Except for one thing. For a state so concerned with keeping its roads clean, they certainly like to leave roadkill lying around. And this wasn't new roadkill, either. I cannot tell you how many dessicated deer corpses I saw by the side of the road. They were flattened mummies, they were that bad.



Despite the bodies, the Wisconsin landscape is really quite beautiful. There are a lot of photo opportunities to those who are inclined to that sort of thing. Crumbling farmhouses, fields of perfectly aligned cornstalks, strange-looking trees; the state is a photography major's wet dream.

It was this beautiful foliage that disguised the state cop car on the median of the road. I looked down at my speedometer to see that I was going at the pants-shittingly fast rate of 88 mph. I stomped on the brake to slow down to the socially acceptable 65 mph, but I knew the cop had seen me. In my rear view mirror, the car pulled out and started following me so closely it probably qualified as tailgating. But the lights didn't go on. I started thinking, "Oh please, run my plates. I'm not a criminal on paper. You'll see. Then, let me go. Please. I'm only five miles away from the end of my journey."

That's exactly what must have happened, because after a harrowing three minutes of staring at my speedometer, the cop went around me and busted someone else. I swear, I'm the luckiest driver ever. Remember that wine tasting thing? I probably would have blown more than .08.

So I finally got to the exit for US-12, and the first thing I did was get gas. I'd burned nearly an entire tank getting out there, and I drive a Ford Focus. Then I went to McDonald's for some Coke and a couple of double cheeseburgers. Here in Illinois, if you go to a McDonald's, the double cheeseburgers cost the same as a regular cheeseburger: $1.00. [NOTE: THIS IS NO LONGER TRUE. Oh yes, and FUCK THE MCDOUBLE!] Up there, it costs $1.89. I did not expect this. I also did not expect an all-Swedish staff. Around where I live, McDonald's employees are quite multicultural. Wisconsin might well be the actualization of Hitler's wildest dreams.



After feeding myself and my car, it was time to find the campground. Here's the problem: according to the directions my friend, Jeremy, gave me, the name of the campground was Lake Delton. However, as I learned when I got onto US-12, it is actually the name of the TOWN. I stopped at a gas station to ask if there was a Lake Delton campground, and I was told there was. "Just head down 12 and turn right on Alexander Street and follow the signs."

I looked for Alexander, and I soon found myself lost in farmland looking at every side street for a sign. Another Wisconsin problem: they don't label a lot of their streets, not even the major ones with stop lights and everything.

Well, I didn't find Alexander, so I stopped at another gas station. The attendant told me he didn't think there was a place called Lake Delton campground, but he checked the map and the phone book, just in case. There are about fifty different campgrounds, maybe more, but none called Lake Delton. I remember thinking, "Why the hell doesn't someone build on Wisconsin? Their lack of anti-environmentalism is making this trek extremely difficult for me!"

I decided to call Jeremy from a pay phone (I still have no cell phone), but he wasn't answering. I noticed that he'd reserved site 400, and that sounds like a lot, so I decided to start going around to various campgrounds and asking them if my friend had checked into site 400. If they don't have 400 sites or more, I thought I'd ask if they knew of any campground that might accomodate this number.

I stopped a few places before trying Jeremy again. Still, no response. I went around to a few more places. I stopped at Jellystone not because I thought he'd be there (it's mostly a kids place), but because I recognized the name from my youth, and I knew they'd been in business for a while. If anyone would know, it would have to be them.

I got in line behind a middle-aged lady and her incredibly annoying 8-year-old. She was jumping around, trying to climb the ranger building, saying things like, "Ask the man why they have Christmas decorations up!" And then she turned her attention on me.

"Where are you from?"

"Illinois," I said.

"Grandma! Do we have an Illinois license plate in our collection?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she said, "Why does it say Modern Drunkard Magazine on your shirt?"



"Because I'm a drunkard." Hoping that would get Grandma to usher her over-active, Prozac-starved child away from me. She kept talking with the guy in the booth.

"My daddy's an alcoholic. He drinks, like two beers a night. I wish he'd stop."

"That's not an alcoholic," I said. "That's a social drinker."

She lost interest in me and started running out into the road. A pick-up drove by, and the driver's arm was hanging out, a cigarette poking out of his hand. "Hey!" she shouted. "No smoking in the campground!"

Finally, Grandma finished conducting her business and dragged the girl away. I then stepped up to the booth and stated my problem. The guy responded in perfect English, but with what I thought was a Russian accent. I looked at the tag on his shirt and saw that his name was Ivan. He looked nothing like a Russian stereotype, but I thought it was pretty damned cool that I was talking to a Russian named Ivan.




But he wasn't able to help me. He said there was another campground down the road where they might have 400 sites, but he didn't know. He gave me directions to Mirror Lake, I think it was. I pulled in, and it looked very professional and promising, but when I talked to the clerk, she said they didn't have anywhere near 400 sites. She said Devil's Lake had about 500, though, so I followed her directions. By now it was starting to get dark, and I really hoped this would be the one.

The sun wasn't quite down yet when I finally got out to Devil's Lake. I couldn't see it, but the sky was still tinted a reddish-orange. When I pulled into the drive for Devil's Lake, I found myself in complete darkness. The trees were so thick and plentiful that they blotted out the sky. I switched on my headlights and hunched over the driver's wheel, peering into the darkness.

I got out of the car and went toward the registration building, and as soon as I was inside, I saw a huge taxidermied wild turkey over the desk, and I knew I was in the right place. (Also, the name "Devil's Lake" was a good sign. How can my friends NOT be at a place called Devil's Lake?) I looked around and saw so many stuffed birds that if Norman Bates were there, he'd be in need of a new pair of pants. There was also a taxidermied baby bear, which was kind of creepy. I'm a complete asshole, but I don't know if I'd kill and stuff a baby bear.



Anyway, I looked at the map behind the desk and saw with glee that there were 500 sites. But when I got up to the clerk, she said that they didn't have a site numbered 400. They apparently skip each hundredth number, for whatever sadistic reasons. I then asked to use their phone. If I couldn't get Jeremy this time, I'd give up and go home.

This time, the phone picked up, and Jeremy's relieved voice said, "Bruni! Thank God you called again!" Apparently, his phone was on silent, and Monika and Kristina had been bothering him all day to check his messages to make sure I hadn't called, but he didn't think it was necessary. When he finally checked, he got my messages. Believe it or not, this was a mere ten minutes before my final call.

He gave me the name of the place and directions. I sped back the way I'd come until I finally found the right road (only by the Motel 6 on the corner; this street was, of course, not labeled) and turned down into Red Oak Campground. I registered my car and got a map. Who knows why? But there are not actually 400 sites there. There were maybe 20, it was just the way they chose to number their sites.

I noticed that 400 was all the way in the back, and it was a hell of a dark place. The path was heavily lined with trees so only one car at any given time can drive on this road. If you encounter another car, you have to put yours in reverse, and good luck in not hitting any trees.

I made it through, and when I got there, I noticed a super-creepy path that led away from our campsite, presumably to another site. More on this later.

I got out of the car, and after greeting Monika and Kristina, they helped me put my tent together. Their flashlights were very useful in achieving this goal. Jeremy came over and helped put the finishing touches on my tent. He then proceeded to apologize so profusely that I actually started feeling sorry for him.

But never mind that. They quickly moved on to introduce me to the people I didn't know, and we started drinking heavily. Well, they'd all gotten a head start on me, and I did my best to catch up, but since I'd gotten there so late I was only able to drink half the bottle of Wild Turkey and a few bottles of Flying Dog.



It was a good time once I'd finally gotten there. Plenty of booze was passed around with almost as many that's-not-a-sausage-that's-a-dick jokes making the rounds. It got a little weird when we headed out to the campfire, like there was a strange vibe in the area. (Again, more on that later.) Then, one by one we started dropping off, and I was left in charge of making sure the fire doesn't get out of control and kill anyone. (Yeah, I was elected as the responsible one. Go figure.) With the sounds of snoring, hiccuping, and fornication all around us, it was just Monika and me left. We started talking about how creepy the woods were, and how it looked like there was someone sitting in one of the abandoned chairs. The image was so distorted by the darkness that I thought the fellow might have had skeleton legs, and it really was quite creepy. It was even worse when I stepped into the brush to take a leak. The woods were completely quiet, which didn't sound right. There should have been some animal sounds, right? I didn't have a flashlight, and it was so incredibly dark that I couldn't see anything but the treetops. The moon was out, but the foliage was so thick that I couldn't see very well. I had to take a guess as to whether or not I was far enough out and hope that I wasn't about to piss on someone's tent.

After burying potatoes in the dying embers (potatoes she found the next day to be inedible), Monika helped get me back to my tent with the aid of her cell phone. Normally, whenever I go camping I sleep terribly, but I felt so drained I slept like a baby and woke up without any pain whatsoever. (My ribs usually ache after I sleep on the ground.)

The following day, I went down the abandoned, super-creepy path that I mentioned earlier in order to take a leak. It was now completely bright out. The sun was shining. There were very few shadows. And the path was still super-creepy. Nothing moved back here, no animals or birds made sound. The path was overgrown with weeds, and there were spiderwebs everywhere. The only thing that seemed plentiful were mosquitos. As I pissed on a bush, I had to keep blowing on my penis to make sure they stayed away from it.

Check out was at eleven o'clock, which is terrible for a group of drunkards like us, but we all packed up and, dripping sweat, we abandoned the campground. On the way back, I filled up my tank (again), pleased with the $3.88 per gallon price. (In Elmhurst, it's closer to $4.17.) Then, I got back on I-90, and when I returned to the retched tollway in Illinois, I found that construction had slowed traffic down so much that we were crawling along at an ant's pace. Traffic crept like a rapist in an alley. I spent about an hour on that horrible, 11-mile stretch of road. When I finally got home, I noticed that the front of my car was covered with dead bugs.

Every weekday, I make the trek from Elmhurst to Schaumburg on I-290, and I have never killed so much as a single bug with my car. When I went to Wisconsin, my windshield was a roadmap of bug guts. So, I took it to the car wash, and when I got home, I felt so drained I had to take a nap. When I woke up a while later, I was still exhausted. It wasn't until this morning when I finally found myself energized again.

(For those of you wondering, I finished the rest of the Flying Dog before we left the campground, and the remainder of the Wild Turkey went down my gullet last night as I ate a Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust pizza and watched MAJOR LEAGUE.)



When I came in to work today, Monika started talking about the weird shit that happened out in those woods, including the failure of her cell phone, mp3 player, and a brand new flashlight. She mentioned the haunted chair and said that there were orbs in the pictures she'd taken. Considering how drained we were the following day, and how electrical devices had a habit of not working, we decided that whatever was sitting there was sucking all of our energy away. We theorized about the super-creepy path, because she'd noticed a lot of the same things I had. We came to the conclusion that the path actually leads to a campsite that Red Oak never lets anyone use anymore, probably because there was a murder back there.

So Red Oak is now considered Camp Blood. We have no evidence to back up this theory, but you've got to admit, it sounds like an appetizing thought. If any of you have heard anything about Red Oak in the Baraboo, WI area, let me know.

MODERN DRUNKARD: A MAGAZINE THAT UNDERSTANDS

It isn’t often that a new issue of MODERN DRUNKARD MAGAZINE comes out, but when it does, it is a grand occasion. No one knows the joys of hooching better than the editor and contributing writers of this august publication. Believe it or not, these guys have been around for 55 issues. They wouldn’t have been able to pull this off if there wasn’t a market for it.

Granted, just about every single advertisement inside is for a local bar in Colorado, but the ranks of readers run the gamut across the country, as is evidenced by their yearly drunkard convention, so this is no drop in the bucket. No sir, MDM is here to stay.

Why is that? Perhaps it is because it’s not a celebration of fall-down dangerous alcoholism. No, save that for the AA meetings. This magazine has always been about connoisseurs of the state of drunkenness. Those who can handle their liquor. Those who can function well after drinking copious amounts of booze. It is a celebration of the power of alcohol when applied in the right situations, whether it be the creative process, enjoying a sport, fighting a war, or simply unwinding after an unforgiving day of work.

The world is a stressful place, and sometimes one needs to experience life from a different perspective. Take, for example, their most recent feature, “Welcome to BoozeTown,” a historical look at Mel Johnson’s drunkard utopia that was never meant to be. It was to be a city inhabited by boozehounds, where there were no cars but motorized sidewalks, where the bars never closed, and where the police were there to help you get home and to even tuck you into bed.

Or perhaps you would like to consider their feature on Rome’s Fifth Legion, “Blood and Wine,” which tells of “the heroic and bloody adventures of the Roman Empire’s hardest-drinking legion.” If you ever thought booze has no place in war, you need to read this article. Drunkards get things done.

This is to say nothing of their regular columns, like “Wino Wisdom” (quotes from famous philosophical drunkards) and “Booze News” (up-to-date information that boozers must be aware of in their world) and “Drunkard of the Issue” (which this time is a blast from the past, Mojo Nixon). And don’t forget the usual editorial from the head drunkard himself, Frank Kelly Rich; in this issue, he suggests a stimulus package that every good drinker could appreciate.

In a society where you’re supposed to do what you're told, when you’re supposed to color within the lines at all times, MODERN DRUNKARD is like that first whiff of an opened bottle of Wild Turkey 101: sharp and cleansing. Check them out at www.drunkard.com, where most of their articles have been archived for your perusal. Then, show your support for such an incredible publication by subscribing.

ADVENTURES IN THE WAITING ROOM

[NOTE: This is yet another reprint from the ol' MySpace blog, so this all happened a while ago. Maybe two years.]



I used to work as a parts driver for the City of Elmhurst, so I am pretty familiar with dealerships and their waiting rooms. Back then, though, I didn’t have to wait for very long, and I usually sat on a stool at the parts counter, far away from the others who came in to get their cars fixed.

Today I finally got the tires on my Ford Focus replaced. Yes, I’m driving a safe vehicle now, except for the air filter, which is stuck in place with rusty bolts. I am told I should just replace the casing, which costs $340. Since my bill was already going to be $540, I understandably declined.

But getting everything else fixed (including the oil change) took three hours, and I had to sit in the waiting room. I figured it would take a while, so I came prepared with today’s new comics (if you’re not reading Ed Brubaker’s CRIMINAL, you should have your head examined), Simon Clark’s VAMPYRRHIC RITES (which is nowhere nearly as good as VAMPYRRHIC), and a couple of double cheeseburgers, so I thought I’d have plenty to keep me occupied.

Guess what was on the television. Go ahead, guess. Never mind, it was MAURY. People who were ugly as teenagers and had become sexy as adults were confronting people who wouldn’t give them the time of day back in high school. Since I didn’t want to get mustard on my new comic books, I ate my burgers while watching this tripe. I don’t know, but it seemed a bit creepy to me. It left me with the impression that these people got plastic surgery just so they could have a better chance when they resumed stalking their "high school sweethearts."



The burgers went fast, so I was able to quickly lose myself in books. The first hour passed, and before I knew it, Maury was replaced by Steve, formerly of the Jerry Springer show. Every other phrase out of his mouth was, "as a cop," as if we needed any further reminder that he used to be a police officer. This one was about child molesters trying to beat lie detectors, and immediately I decided the whole thing was the daytime equivalent of WWE. This one made absolutely no sense to me. Scumbags go on TV just so they can be ridiculed and shamed in front of the world? No one would do that.

God help me, I kept peering over the top of my book so I could watch this insipid display with . . . *gulp!* . . . interest. My IQ was dropping like JFK, Jr.’s plane, and I found myself getting ready to praise the screen as Steve got into a child fucker’s face and started yelling at him.



"Holy fuck, what am I doing?" I wrenched my eyes away from the TV and forced them to go over Simon Clark’s words instead. I feared that if my car wasn’t ready soon, I’d turn into Castle Freak, drooling and screaming..

Incidentally, have you ever noticed that daytime commercials are vastly different from those run at night? I was shocked at all the rabid and vile people I saw screaming catch-phrases and phone numbers like epileptics being tasered. I nearly shat myself upon seeing the grim visage of William Shatner doing a commercial for lawyers who are concerned about my rights. He is, beyond a doubt, history’s most prolific sell-out. He transcends the very concept of selling out. Is there anything this guy won’t do for a buck? I wonder if I can get him for a TABARD INN ad . . . .



A new show pulled me out of the frying pan of daytime TV and tossed me into the fire of sit-coms. As I settled in to continue reading, I noticed a middle-aged woman was staring at me from across the room. "No," I thought, "she’s probably looking at something behind me." Except I was up against the wall. I looked around to see if there was an intersting poster next to me only to find nothing. She was definitely eyeballing me.



I considered starting up a conversation with her, as this was what I usually did in such circumstances, but she wasn’t even blinking (which is never a good sign), so I tried to hide behind my book.

I thought I’d succeeded in securing myself, but she said, "You have a fascinating beard. You look Eye-talian, but your beard looks Greek to me."

"Um, thanks." (For the record, I am part Italian, part Greek, part Irish, and part everything else, so her guess was correct.)

"It’s good to see a young man like yourself with a beard. I don’t trust these youths running around without hair. They don’t know what it’s like to be a man."

I decided not to mention that I was going to get a shave and haircut tomorrow.

"Do you have a hairy chest?" she asked.

I have no shame whatsoever. At this time, I’d like to remind everyone that I have done many crazy things, up to and including publishing a picture of my penis (Mr. Happy, the mascot of TABARD INN) in issue two of my magazine. What did I do in this situation?

That’s right. I hooked a finger in the neck of my t-shirt and pulled it down, revealing exactly how hirsute I am.



"That’s good," she said, giving my chest a cursory exam. "I don’t trust guys who shave their chests."

I wondered how she’d respond if I told her that I shaved my crotch on a regular basis. Would I then be only slightly trustworthy in her eyes? A parts guy was looking at us, so I decided to stay my tongue.

I thought that was the end of our conversation, so I went back to my book. My neck tingled, which usually means someone is looking at me. When I glanced up, she was still watching me. When she licked her lips, I stabbed my face at the book and did my absolute best to ignore her.

She stood and began to approach me when one of the service guys came in and said, "[Expletive deleted], your car is ready."

She turned away from me without another word and followed him out to the shop. The parts guy behind me laughed, and I wondered what it would be like to be him, watching people in the waiting room all day. I’m sure it’s a great way to develop characters.

An hour later, the service guy freed me from waiting room hell and gave me my car keys. As soon as I was paid up and on the road, I thought, "So this is what it’s like to drive a car that has tires with treads on them." I no longer have to fear wet roads. No more fear of flat tires. No more fear of equipment failure.

Just so long as my air filter holds out . . . .

SHOUT AT THE DEVIL!

We’ve all been there. After a long, hard night of drinking and “doing terrible things,” the next morning is bound to be a tough one. However, Ig Perrish, the protagonist of Joe Hill’s new novel, HORNS, is about to go places where the rest of us cannot possibly imagine.

You see, Ig’s hangover is just the tip of the iceberg. Overnight, he has grown horns about the size of fingers out of his temples, and he has the sudden ability to touch people and know their deepest, darkest secrets. That’s not all: when in his presence, people confess their darkest immediate urges to him.

Not a bad power to have, provided that one is not a person of interest in a sex-murder case, like Ig just happens to be. He was accused (but not charged) with the rape and murder of his beloved high-school sweetheart, Merrin Williams. After the evidence gets destroyed in a lab fire, the authorities have no choice but to let him go. But everyone in town still believes he did it, although he remembers being passed out in his car in the parking lot of a Dunkin Donuts at the time.

Thanks to his new powers, everyone he runs across, even his own parents, confess to him that they think he did it. Ig is inundated with some of the darkest, heinous shit people believe about him, and it is absolutely heartbreaking. Because here’s the thing: he didn’t really do it. And early on in the book, he is gutted when someone close to him has something to admit to him . . . .

Human beings have a lot of vicious things in them, and HORNS showcases this grim reality in a rather horrifying way. As Ig, who is generally a good guy, hears more and more of the secrets those around him would rather keep secret, he grows more and more demoniac, twisted by the grotesque things he is told until he comes down to a decision: should he give in to the devil within? As the cover copy says, “Being good and praying for the best got him nowhere. It’s time for a little revenge . . . it’s time the devil had his due.”

There are no real weaknesses to this book; there are only strengths. This darkly comedic look at God versus the devil (and whether or not God even exists) is not content with this mere theological quandary. Also at stake are the nature of relationships, boyfriend-girlfriend, brother-brother, friend-friend, and even fuckbuddy-fuckbuddy. Not to be overlooked are the peeks into the past, where we get to see the characters as children. Hill is one of the few people who have not forgotten what it was REALLY like to be a kid. There were magical moments, but most of it was, well, criminal. Who among us, when we were finally out of view from our parents, did not commit questionable acts? Illicit fireworks, maybe a little thievery, and death-defying dares, things that would have made our parents age prematurely had they known we were doing them.

It’s all here. One of the funniest scenes is when a teenaged Ig is talking with his best friend about pornography. Ig finally admits to having some, and his hiding place is in an old Candyland box. When his friend sees the quality of this “porn,” he can’t help but laugh: the VANITY FAIR with a pregnant Demi Moore on the cover, a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, those kinds of things. Nothing a true connoisseur could get off on. Kid’s stuff.

For such a thoughtful treatise on the nature of good and evil, it is a very visceral book. From Ig’s reaction to the real killer’s identity to the scene where Merrin is dumping Ig, mere hours before she is murdered, the raw human emotion is splattered all over the page, captured by Hill and carefully disseminated to his readers.

Hill has a metric-ton of talent, and he’s only getting better. 20TH CENTURY GHOSTS was an impressive beginning, showing off his talent with short stories, and HEART-SHAPED BOX only turned up the heat. His semi-regular comic book series, LOCKE AND KEY is an absolute masterpiece, and now we have HORNS, one of the best horror novels to come out in a long time.

Joe Hill’s going to be around for a long time, and the best news is this: he keeps getting better. Keep your eyes out for him, folks, and you won’t be disappointed.

(P.S. On the inside of the front cover, you will find a Morse code message. It would behoove you to translate it. You’ll get three words in before you realize what it is, and you’ll at least get a chuckle out of it.)

HORNS by Joe Hill
Publisher: William Morrow
370 pages
$25.99

FIRST TANGO WITH FLEISCHMANN'S

[NOTE: This first appeared on my MySpace blog a couple of years ago, brought back by popular demand. Mostly, though, you have Fitz to thank for this.]




Holy fucking Cthulhu, Fitz, what have you done to me? I've been a jabbering fool for days, all because of that bottle of cheap whiskey you got for me. Have any of you ever heard of Fleischmann's? I hadn't either, not until Friday night. It says on the label that it's been an American tradition since 1870, but they might just be delusional.

I am no stranger to cheap whiskey. Cheap whiskey has helped me through many lonely nights and long stretches when I haven't been able to get the good stuff. But Fleischmann's brought me to a whole different level of madness.

I remember showing up at Fitz's place. I remember a bunch of us having a conversation about the women who have fucked us over. Then Konz and a couple others showed up, and the mists of drunkenness started overcoming me. I remember vaguely some kind of card game, and holy shit! They were playing with Al-cocksucking-Swearengin from HBO's DEADWOOD. Was he really there? I don't think so. I recall them having a framed picture of the man on their wall, so I think they were just using that. The game was spades, but one of them was waving a knife around, and I think he might have shanked one of the losing players. Did they just kill a guy in front of me? Shit, what have I gotten myself into?

I do not recall going to the bar. Presumably, we did, but I don't recall doing so. I hereby apologize for any savage bullshit I might have pulled. Judging from my sore throat the following day, I think I did a lot of screaming, which is par for the course when I'm blacked out.

Anyway, the entire evening was lost in a haze of booze, and when I came back to myself, it was to a loud voice saying, "Hey, are you taking a piss?"

"Fuck no!" I screamed indignantly, but after a moment of careful consideration, I realized I actually WAS urinating. In one hand, I held the bottle of Fleischmann's, and in the other, my cold-shriveled dick. The sound of pattering fluid against metal was a pretty definite sign of what I was doing. I looked around, trying to figure out where I was, and I was still at Fitz's apartment complex, but I was outside, pissing against a Dumpster.

"You're really fuckin' wasted, man," the voice told me.

Who the hell was talking to me? Was I hearing voices? Was God finally speaking to me? And if it was Him, would He then ask me to kill?

"Where are you?" I asked.

"In the Dumpster. Where else?"

I peered over the top of the Dumpster, and sure enough, there was a guy in there, knee-deep in trash. He was kind of a short fellow, and it looked like he was ripping open garbage bags.



"What the fuck are you doing?" I asked.

"Looking for Marlboro Miles. You smoke Marlboros?"

"Sorry," I said. I looked down to see a yellow puddle at my feet, freezing over. Now that I was done, I flipped myself back into my pants and zipped up.

"I'm gonna' get me one of those sweet-ass jackets," the man in the Dumpster told me. "I'm almost there, too. It's gonna be fuckin' awesome."

I nodded. "Hey, do you see any Coke points in there?"

"Sure," he said. "A few. Trade 'em for a couple a' pulls on that bottle ya' got there."

I shrugged. "Sure."

He moved around for a bit, and I heard him spinning the tops off of several bottles. When he handed them over, I had about ten of them. I then gave him the bottle, and he tried taking a swallow.

"What the fuck?" he muttered. When he examined the top, he swore again. "I hate these fucking things. Sure, it makes pouring easier, but what about us guys who like drinking from the bottle?" He took another drink, then gave me the bottle back.

I took a swig, myself. Anyone else would have probably worried about whether or not this guy had something, but for those of you who have forgotten high school science class, alcohol kills germs.

"You live here?" I asked.

"Fuck no. I just come here for the Marlboro Miles. There's a few more Dumpsters, too, so I gotta' go."

"Me, too. Good to meet you."

I put the cap back on the bottle and started looking around, trying to get my bearings. It took me a little bit, but I finally realized where I was (and I must have been wandering around a long time before I came back to myself), and I started the trek back toward Fitz's place across some of the most treacherous ice and slush I've ever encountered. It didn't help that I was still tipsy. After a while, I realized I was staggering around like a lunatic, and I was holding the bottle the whole time. Things would not have gone so well if a cop just happened to come along. There was no way a bottle this big was going to fit in my pocket, so I held it inside my trench coat as I made my way through what could have been the movie set for John Carpenter's THE THING.



When I got back to where I must have started, I began looking around for my car, and I was not very successful. It was nowhere to be seen. As I stumbled blindly around, I kept pushing the button on my key ring that would make the lights flash. Nothing.

After a half an hour of wandering, I finally saw the bumper sticker (WHAT IS TABARD INN? GO TO: TALESOFQUESTIONABLETASTE.COM), and I made my way home. The next day, I came to feeling queasy, and I wasn't able to stand up without having the world spin around me. When I finally gained the courage, I looked at the bottle and realized I'd drunk between half and three-quarters of its contents. Horrified, I wondered if I should get my stomach pumped.

Later that night, I sat down to watch THE OX-BOW INCIDENT, and I brought my friend/arch-nemesis, Fleischmann's, to watch it with me. In the opening scene, Henry Fonda starts downing shot after shot of whiskey, and I decided to keep up with him. At the fifteen-minute-mark, I realized I'd had about six shots.



So, what the hell? Why not continue?

By the time the movie was over, I'd probably had about twenty shots or so. When I looked at the bottle to see where I was now, I was shocked to discover that the line of booze was just about at the same place. Was I losing my mind? Was I already wasted? I just felt buzzed.

So I started attacking the bottle as if I hadn't had a drink in months. My guts churned with cheap booze, and once more I found my life overcome by the mists of drunkenness.

I have one memory of jabbering wildly at some asshole who had broken into my bathroom and was walking around naked. I took me a moment to realize that I was screaming at the mirror.

The next day, the bottle was still filled one-quarter of the way. I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. When I ventured forth from my house to hang out with Jesse, Jason, and Vince, the neighbors looked strangely at me. I wondered what else I had done last night, then decided I didn't want to know.

The drive home from Jesse's sucked. It was so cold the inside of my windows were frosted over, and no amount of scraping was able to banish it. The garage door was frozen shut. A river of ice threatened to break my ass several times on the way to my back door.

It was time to get acquainted with Fleischmann's again. Not too much. Just enough to help me get to sleep. At least, that's what I told myself as I started swilling it directly from the bottle.

I woke up this morning naked on the bathroom floor in a puddle of my own blood. Clearly, it had come from my nose, but my face was not bruised and it didn't hurt much at all. During cold weather, I'm prone to nosebleeds, so that's what I guessed happened.

When I pushed myself to my feet, I realized that I'd written something on the mirror in my own blood. What it was, I honestly can't say. It was unintelligible.

I wondered vaguely how much I'd had to drink. Stumbling to my bedroom, I sought the bottle, and can you guess how much was left?


A FUCKING QUARTER OF BOOZE REMAINED!



For now, I am sober. Tonight, when I get home, I might have to attack that bottle again. It's either Fleischmann's or me, and something tells me I'm going to lose once more.

Or maybe I've won. Maybe I've found a bottomless bottle of booze. Could Dionysus be so generous?

Don't be surprised if I come in tomorrow, and I'm no longer me. Fleischmann's may have stolen my body by then. If it's me, I'll wear a red carnation . . . .

Gunshots in Elmhurst?

Last night, I went out for a walk. I didn't do it with a destination in mind, I just did it for the exercise and the alone time, time to think. I wound up near the fountain just north of York and Vallette, and I sat down on the bench for a rest. I thought about the bar I'd just passed, Kacey's Pub. On the one hand, it's a bar within walking distance of me, but on the other, the clientele would burn someone like me at the stake if I dared wander across their threshold. They're not ready for degenerates in there; they're too religious and parental.

But at that point, I sure could have used a beer, yet I had no money.

It was then that I heard what sounded like shotgun blasts going off. At first, there were only a few explosions, but then they were joined by a cacophony of whistles and screams and pops and booms. Fireworks. Enough to make me think for a moment that I'd been teleported to Afghanistan. Soon, people were driving by at top speed, yelling and honking their horns. Ah, this was a celebration of some sort. But what could it be? Had we finally captured bin Laden? Or did Jesus come back? I tried to figure out what it is that normal people celebrate, but nothing made sense . . . until I remembered that the Blackhawks were playing for the Stanley Cup.

This was reinforced by a carload of drunken teenagers who drove by, screaming, "Blackhawks win! Blackhawks win!" A fifteen-year-old girl leaned out of her SUV and flashed her tits in celebration.

Practically everyone who drove by shouted the news at me. I wondered if they ever considered that someone who had gone out for a walk during such a pivotal play off game probably didn't give a shit about the Blackhawks.

A van drove by, and a ten-year-old girl leaned out, gave me the thumbs up, and said, "Blackhawks won!"

Just out of meanness, I thought I'd shout, "Go Philly!" But I didn't feel like ruining anyone's innocence at that moment.

Instead, the noise was getting to me, and it showed no sign of letting up. I got up and started walking home as the city of Elmhurst went crazy all around me. At a stop light, I heard more than one person in their cars saying, "This is the greatest day of my life!" Jesus, I thought, what a grim thing to say!

Then, I was passing Kacey's Pub, and I heard the celebration inside. Someone said, "Drinks are on me!"

I zipped in, a grin on my face, a cheer building up inside of me. "BLACKHAWKS WIN!" I shouted and took a seat at the bar.

"You're just in time, buddy," the bartender said as he flipped a coaster in front of me. "This guy over here just bought a round of drinks. What'll you have?"

"Really?" I asked. "Awesome. Make mine a Jim Beam on the rocks, easy on the rocks."

As I sipped at my free drink, I figured I could be a Blackhawks fan for a little bit. Then, I'd have to sneak out the back before someone expected me to reciprocate, but for that brief period of time, we'd all be happy.