Don't Work What It Is

So, there are several regulars at the library, people who come in every single day

Among them is Doris*, a tiny woman who always comes over and greets me, either before or after her visit, expressing joy to either see me here or to be at the library in general.  She is an entirely positive person, with one small caveat.

She always says one of two things to me.**  The first, and most awful is, "Don't work too hard!"  The first two or seven times she said it to me, I'd try to come up with a clever response, like, "Who, me?  Never!" or "I'm way ahead of you!" or "If I do, it'll be the first time!"  But after ten or a dozen or so times, I just couldn't come up with a cutesy response.  I even started to say, "I barely even work soft" or "No harder than you would," but I'm just not talented enough to keep up a witty repartee with a partner that only knows three lines.

It got to the point where I used to dread seeing her come in, because I knew those four words would follow.  Isn't that neurotic?  But one day I said, "I never know what to say when you tell me that, so I wish you wouldn't say it."  And she stopped.  Not 100%, but mostly.

The other thing she says, which isn't nearly as bad, but means a whole hell of a lot less (so it's worse) is, "It is what it is."  It is her go-to answer for virtually anything.  "How's your day been, Doris?"  "Oh, it is what it is."  "Looks like it might rain out there, Doris."  "Well, it is what it is."  "We've got a wedding reception tonight, looks like they have a DJ."  "I guess it is what it is."  "You feeling any better?"  "A little, but it is what it is."  "Dang Doris, all those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain."  "Yep, time to die.  It is what it is."***

I don't mean to be uncharitable, but "It is what it is" is one of the stupidest sayings we have in the English language.  Oh, I know what you think it means.  To me, it's just a made-up saying, a politicians' saying, so that young fellas like yourself can wear and suit and a tie and have a job.  It's nearly as empty as "Thoughts and prayers" and almost as useless as "Choose happy."  

I guess I just wanted to complain.  There are worse things in the world than vampires or people who tell me not to overwork myself. And when I run into one of them, I'll blog about it.

Rish (Is What He Is) Outfield

*Not her real name.  I realized recently that I probably shouldn't be calling people that work with me by their real names, in case someone takes exception with phrases like, "My boss says he's not as sympathetic to drug addicts as he used to be," or "Terence actually believes that the Democrats will steal his children to change their genders," or "Foxy Ellen breaks every single librarian stereotype except that she absolutely will not smile," or "Homeless Hector's body stink usually ensures he has a section of the library to himself," or "Karoline with a K has no idea how much her mere existence brightens my workday."

**There are other things she says, such as "It's so good to see you" or "Have a great day," but those aren't weird, so I'm not mentioning them here.

***Originally, this last one was going to be me saying, " "Your mother's in here, Doris.  Would you like to leave a message?"  But it seemed unkind somehow--especially so soon after Mother's Day.

I interrupted this post to tell a guy on crutches how to get to the ballroom--he had been starting up the stairs and I ran over to tell him where the elevator was and how to get to the larger elevator that goes to the third floor.  But I saw on the monitors that, as soon as he got to the second floor, he hobbled up the stairs to the third floor as though I had never spoken to him.

No More Reason To Watch CBS

I'm a Letterman guy.  I was just the right age, when Dave had his NBC show, to get what he was doing--to see him as a sort of rebel, spitting in the face of the suits, the corporations, the network, tradition, and the idea of what was "cool."  "Late Night" was appointment television for young people in the Eighties.

But, it turned out, that what Dave really wanted was to be seen as worthy to fill the shoes of his own idol, Johnny Carson, and when that didn't happen (I mean, he had bitten the hand that fed him for a decade by that point), he left in a huff and went to CBS, which rolled out a red carpet for him, buying and refurbishing the Ed Sullivan Theater so he could have his own, more respectable show, airing opposite "The Tonight Show," now hosted by Jay Leno, a man Dave had come up with in the industry, who he had called a friend, but now considered an enemy.

I'm getting somewhere with this little history lesson.  That was 1993--a whole lifetime ago--when "The Late Show" began.  And it was shinier, more corporate, more professional, than "Late Night" had been.  David Letterman had grown up.*  

But when his CBS show was at its best, it reminded you of what you so loved about Letterman's first show, only with a (slightly) more respectable veneer.  Age does that to a person, I suppose.  By the time Dave went off the air in 2015, he was the old guard, Seth Meyers was running his old show (now produced by Lorne Michaels), Jay Leno had given way to Conan O'Brien, then took "The Tonight Show" back, and had since passed it to Jimmy Fallon.  And Kimmel had been doing a live show on ABC since 2003.

And after Dave came Stephen Colbert, who, despite being a hundred times more straight-laced, traditional, and respectable as Letterman, made a powerful enemy in one Donald Trump (who he invited as a guest on his show in 2016, and when asked why--when he was so negative toward him--said, "I wanted to be able to say I'd had the (very) last president of the United States on my show."), and after calling out the payout CBS gave the Trump administration when it would've been easily winnable in court as the bribe ("big fat bribe" were his words) that it was, his show suddenly became too expensive to produce (despite being the most-watched late night talk show) and was announced to be ending in May of 2026.  

Well, that day has come (and probably gone by the time I finish this post), and Colbert had some great guests in the days before his finale, from Steven Spielberg to Barack Obama, from John Stewart to his fellow late night hosts Jimmy Kimmel, Seth Meyers, John Oliver, and Jimmy Fallon.  And, of course, he just had Letterman on, to throw things off the roof of the Sullivan Theater in an episode that would have thrilled the eleven year old me to the core.**

And then, Colbert too was out of there.  The show is gone, as there's not a host coming after him.  And that, like I said that the start, is that--the only reason left to watch CBS, walking out the door.  Please lock it behind you, would you?

*At least as much as he was capable.  Conan O'Brien took over "Late Night," and was really Dave's successor, bringing his own dorky outsider perspective, only with less cynicism, an earnest wish to be liked that Dave had (whether feigned or not) had never aspired to.  Eventually, he too would be screwed by the network, though none of the folks that slighted Dave were still in power there, just going to show that there's only one bitch out there, a bitch with many faces.

**Colbert claimed CBS/Paramount had given him a big wedding cake in honor of the show, with "The Late Show 1993-2026" written on it, which he tossed off the roof and the camera watched explode on the pavement below in ultra slow-motion.  And the years melted off me.

Rish Outcast 329: In Security 10 (Call The Police, There's A Madman Around)

It's our tenth episode hecktacular! Still waiting on the new bathroom lock, by the way.

Rish talks about a patron making accusations on the night the police were called twice.  And an outtake that made Rish cry before recording it.

If you wish to download the episode, Right-Click HERE.

If you wish to support me on Patreon, click HERE.

Logo by Gino "X" Moretto.

The Writing's On The . . . Note

I'm often bewailing how I never have/make time to write, and when I do, I can't think of any ideas . . . but here's one.  I was doing my closing rounds at the library tonight, and on one of the desks on the second floor, I saw a little note sitting there, perhaps forgotten, perhaps intentionally there.  

I looked it over, and it was a quote from Mother Teresa.

The actual note

Nothing wrong with that, right?  But something only I would notice (or you, if you've known me for decades) is that the handwriting on that paper . . . it's mine.

I'm not really kidding.  That's totally my handwriting.  It's even in all-caps like I often write (but not online--only a Brachiosaurus-sized arsehole would type in All-Caps on a Tweet or text or Truth Social post), and if this had been a note I found in my car, in my backpack, or in the underwear drawer of that girl that used to be in the Disney Channel show, I'd have accepted it as a note I once wrote without even thinking about it.

The same note written by me

I don't know if I'll turn it into a story or not, but there are certainly possibilities.  I mean, what if there was a date on it, and it's NEXT Tuesday?  What if the note wasn't a Mother Teresa quote, but something more ominous, like a warning about what's going to happen later today?  What if it was something personal, a threat, or a secret?  Or if it said something like "Don't do it.  It's not too late to change your mind."?

Or, worst of all, what if at the bottom of the note, it says "DO NOT TURN THIS NOTE OVER!" it your own handwriting?  Who would have the power not to do it, to just follow its front-side instructions?  Wouldn't you be curious as to why?  As to what was written on the other side?  

Something to think about.

Blanket, Pardon?

Boy, I must be really hard up for content on here.  I mean, how many times have I woken up over the years and seen a sinister figure standing at the foot of the bed or in the doorway, only to realize it was something benign like a hanging jacket or a microphone stand or a bookshelf or Pop superstar Michael Jackson?  And I've never blogged about that, have I?

But here I am with an even lamer story.  You're welcome, I suppose.

I don't get up to go to the bathroom every night, but I often do--and when I do, it's usually right around the time the sun is starting to rise (yes, exactly the time you are starting your day).  This was one of those times.  

What I saw.

I stepped into the hall, glancing across to the living room . . . and I saw what appeared to be--only for a moment, but hey, a moment's enough--a shroud-wrapped person peering at me from the couch.  I froze in my tracks, wondering if maybe my sister had fallen asleep there . . . or if that woman I left for dead on the side of the road back in Tuscaloosa had finally found me.*

I switched on the hall light, and oh, okay, it was just a blanket, nothing more.  I could barely even make out how my brain could've seen a human shape there.

With the light on.

But then I went to my room to get my camera, hoping to be able to recapture what I saw . . . to no avail.  It's hard to recreate something that was never really there to begin with (though it might be fun to try to write a story about it).

What I saw, in that instant before coming fully alert, reminded me of an illustration from 1904 that accompanied "Oh Whistle and I'll Come To You My Lad" by M.R. James (in his book "Ghost Stories of an Antiquary"), that has always stayed with me.  Okay, "always" as in, for the six or seven years since I discovered it.

So, it was nothing.  I recognize that.  But before I went back to bed, I grabbed my phone and took the above two pictures, hoping that they'd convey what a thousand words wouldn't.  I guess I was wrong. 

*Yes, I know I should've checked on her, at least checked for breath on a mirror or something, but I was already late for Big Head Todd and didn't want to miss Broken Hearted Savior.

Podcast That Dares 69: The Cold Equations

Rish presents one of the most famous Science Fiction stories of the 20th Century, 1954's "The Cold Equations" by Tom Godwin.

Afterward, Rish talks about the story at length. How big a shock is the reveal of the stowaway, and what does that say about the reader? What was the hardest part of performing it? If Rish were editing the story now, how much would he cut out?

Note: This is one of the longest episodes I've produced. If you stick around long enough, you'll hear my impression of a YouTuber playing Minecraft. Was it worth it?

If you wish to download the episode, Right-Click HERE.

If you wish to support me on Patreon, click HERE.

Podcast logo by Gino "The Mold Equations" Moretto.

I Saw Him Standing There

I have a bank of cameras in front of me most of the time at work--even now, when I'm typing this, there are twenty-five screens going on the monitor to my left--and usually, if I see quick movement (a car going too fast, someone running in or out of the building, the length of a smile from Emily the Librarian), it will draw my eye.  This case was the opposite, though.

I glanced at the downstairs hallway and saw someone in black standing right in front of the doors.  I paid it no mind, but the next time I glanced at it, there he still was.  Often, that means the connection from the camera feed has been broken and I need to reconnect it.  

But that wasn't the situation here.  I hit Refresh, and the image didn't change.  The guy was just standing there, not moving.  For, like, a full minute.  Was he looking at his phone?  Did he have  a book he was reading?  Was he another pesky ghost?*  Maybe he was soiling himself--which yeah, sometimes happens.

Regardless of the answer, the second I caught a screengrab of the dude in the downstairs hall, he started moving again.  As if he knew.

Once again, this was not really worth blogging about, but I got the image, and rather than making it go to waste, I figured . . .  See, now you've got me second-guessing myself.  Thanks a lot.

*My last shift, there was a manager who was staying overnight, but who thought she heard a man shouting in the building (I'm pretty sure I know who it was--maybe I'll do a recording about it, if I remember to), so I went through both floors of the library, watching and listening.  When I explained that there was nobody, she told me to go on home.  I said, "Are you sure?  You gonna be alright here by yourself?" and she immediately said, "You mean with the ghosts?  I don't know that I believe those stories."  That wasn't what I had been referring to--I would think that a woman alone would be more afraid of running into a man in the dark than a ghost . . . or a bear, if you get my reference.

The Way Of Pain(Quil)

I didn't quite remember the quote from FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING, to start out this little post (I knew it was something like, "So, you have chosen the way of pain," when it was actually, "I gave you the chance of aiding me willingly, but you have elected the way of pain"), but every once in a while, I see or hear something that amuses me and want to do a post about it.*

A few months ago, I was walking through the Health & Beauty section of Walmart when I saw a display that had new, fun flavors of NyQuil, the medicine you take to make you sleep when you're sick.**  And one of them struck me as extremely funny--instead of just NyQuil and DayQuil, there was a new red bottle marked PainQuil.

It also comes in purple, for the sleepy kind.

Now, I fully imagine you don't find the name "PainQuil" to be funny (if you did, we'd be closer than we are by quite a bit).  But I find it inexplicably amusing.  PainQuil, a brand name that is uncomfortably close to the word "painful."  Or maybe it's not, maybe it's just me.

Hey, I can't explain why I laughed when I saw it, and brought it up nigh unto incessantly when my cousin and I would go to Walmart.

And then, one day, the PainQuil was gone from the display, never to be brought up again . . . and I regretted never having tried it.  I've never tried a lot of things.***

But hey, the other day, I was walking through the department, minding my business (mankind is my business, the common welfare is my business.  Charity, mercy, forbearance, benevolence, all are my business), when I passed by the Procter & Gamble-sponsored display . . . and it was back. A whole rack of PainQuil, in all its red-bottled glory.  Oh happy day!

Did I buy any?  What do you think?

No.  No, I didn't.

And then, around the time I thought of making this blogpost, I took my mother to Walmart for grocery shopping and I said, "Ma, if we see a PainQuil display, will you take a picture of me holding a bottle of it?"  She said she would, but assured me that it wouldn't be the least bit funny . . . and I was disappointed to discover that the display had already been taken down.  Or maybe they had just sold so many bottles of delicious pain-sapping elixir (it's ten percent alcohol, by the way!) that they had to replace it with Q-Tips or rubbing alcohol or adult diapers.

But then, last night, my sister complained that the lightbulbs in her refrigerator went out, so I volunteered to get her replacements, and in the Walmart in her town . . . they had PainQuil--it turns out it comes in Cherry flavor and also Honey.  So, I got my picture.

Was I right?  Or was it my mother as usual?

*See also "Don't follow me, creepy creeper."

**As a child, the ad went, "The nighttime coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, so you can rest medicine."

***A buddy of mine in Los Angeles had a child and handed out cigars to everybody at work.  I had never smoked, but I told myself, "Well, if I ever do, at least I'll have this fancy cigar at my disposal."  But alas, when a certain hygiene product in my apartment complex started breaking into my place when I was gone (douche--I was calling him a douche there), besides my DVDs, X-box, self-inflating love doll, and coin collection (also in a ceramic container in the shape of a love doll), one of the things he stole was that cigar Kevin had given me.  Sigh.

Rish Outcast 328: My Friend of Misery 2

In the second section of "My Friend of Misery," little brother Brent has a new friend, and Brielle Montrose is starting to suspect it's not a great idea to spend time with the boogeyman.

Afterward, Rish talks about who Brielle is, killing off parents in a story like this, and a ton about child actors.

To download the episode, Right-Click HERE.

To support my daft efforts on Patreon, click HERE.

Logo by Gino "My Fiend of Misery" Moretto.

My Voice on "Fallen Angel" by Campfire Radio Theater

I have been known to complain when a particular podcast makes its (according to me) irritatingly unreasonable demands on me, but one podcast I've never been unhappy to work on is Campfire Radio Theater.  John Ballentine's audio dramas are, no exaggeration, the highest-quality productions I get to be a part of.*

When an online investigative journalist is approached about a mysterious object being kept under wraps by the government, she is surprised to find something truly otherworldly, not to mention dangerous.  For her.

I voice General Randall (Character Voice 2 in my list of three), but maybe one day, I'll get to be the lead in one of these again.  Vegas odds say no, though.

Check it out HERE.

*Perhaps that's why they never come to me anymore.  There may be folks out there who can do a dozen voices and accents, instead of my usual three.

Delusions of Grandeur 107: The New Galaxy's Edge

Hey, the Delusions of Grandeur show is back!

Rish makes Marshal watch the new promos for Disneyland, featuring fake-Han Solo and faux-Princess Leia, briefly calls Big Anklevich a baby, and tries to counter the many, many complaints about this new change.  Does anybody remember the Galactic Starcruiser?  Don't people have a way to tap into their inner child?  Wanna hear the story again about the first Spider-man movie?  And how is Anaheim, California like Berlin, Germany?

Check it out HERE!

Rish Outcast 327: My Friend of Misery 1

After a very long introduction, Rish presents the first section of his novella "My Friend of Misery." Teenager Brielle Montrose hears a voice coming from her little brother Brent's room in the middle of the night. And it sure ain't Bluey.

Afterward, Rish tells (in excruciating detail) the inspiration for this story, wonders about the genders of the characters, and proposes an assignment for a Writing class.

Download the file directly by Right-Clicking HERE.

Support me on Patreon HERE!

Logo by Gino "My Fiend" Moretto.

A Case of Silver Screen Syndrome

One of the podcast anthologies that asks me to do narrations for them--the last one being the unfortunately-located "The Cat That Went To Uranus"--is Cast of Wonders.

Recently, they had me narrate "Silver Screen Syndrome" by Mia Xuan.  The father of the narrator is suffering from an uncommon mental (or physical?) disorder wherein he only comes alive and alert when cameras are on him, to increasingly diminishing results.

It's one of those Science Fiction stories that is clearly about Something Else, but cloaked in the fantastic so as to make the subject more palatable to a 1950s audience.  Having to be around someone you love when their mind is deteriorating has got to be difficult, and I can imagine the writer of this story dealing with that by creating a malady that's distant from reality, yet just as baffling and/or frustrating as the real thing.

The story is extremely short, and yet it had half a dozen words in it I did not know how to pronounce, which is pretty rare nowadays.  I did the best I could with it*, but whether my performance is affective (or affecting) or not really depends on the listener.  Find out for yourself HERE.

*And that ain't nothin.  But still.

Creepy Creeper

A while ago, I observed an exchange that, while thoroughly uninteresting for the rest of you, I keep replaying in my head.*

A typical college girl--not a beauty, but not particularly unattractive--was walking into the library, right in front of my desk, and a typical dorky guy--scrawny and inexperienced due to fate and religious upbringing--followed her through the entrance (which is narrow enough our blind patron hits into it two or three times a week--at least), and I suppose he got too close to this paragon of womanhood, because she stopped, glared at him, and said, "Don't follow me, creepy creeper."

The guy gave out a stammering apology, which you would, and stood there while the girl continued on her way.

And that was it--the whole exchange.  I wrote it down in February (02-02-26--the day my buddy Marshal turned forty), and I still think of it, enough to someday want to write a post about it.

"Creepy creeper."  That's what the girl said.  It's such an odd thing to say, almost musical in its rhythm.  But it's also insanely uncreative and trite, almost the sort of thing a pre-K child would say.  So, perhaps it's from a show, something like Spongebob or Paw Patrol or Velma.

But it was also so shamelessly rude**, and spoken loud enough that a middle-aged stranger could hear it, that I can't help but wonder if maybe the two of them were friends (or at least "friends") and this was a term of endearment.  And if I lived in a different community, I could even speculate that they are in a relationship, and this was part of a game they play, where she is the dominant one, always keeping her submissive pet in check, and had simply left the leash and ballgag home that night.

But what if it they didn't know each other, what if it was just what it appeared to be, a brief interaction between strangers, one of whom called the other a creepy creeper?

How does being accused of, um, inappropriate intimacy or stalking not make you feel bad, make you even more socially inhibited than before?  Is this guy going to go walking into an ocean or swimming pool, or worse, to the nearest guns and ammo store (which this town has three)?

I fully realize that it was probably not something I should have given a second thought to.  I know we're not supposed to care, but... I still did.  I still do.

Creepy.

*Almost as though it had been said to me.  You know how when you have an argument with someone and months--even years--later, you keep thinking, "Why didn't I say this at the time?"  The French even have a word for that--l'esprit de l'escalier (meaning, the thought that comes to you once you've reached the stairs)--which, although I can't pronounce it, I can certainly understand it.

**The French have a word for that as well--Cuntish.

Rish Outcast 326: In Security 9 (The Thing Wrapped In The Blanket)

Rish tells a lengthy (interminable?) story about a patron with a wrapped-up object. "Incompetence is about to strike." Also, he encounters The Man In The Stall.

Note: I really ought to go back and retroactively retitle all these episodes with lurid titles like this one.

If you'd like to download the episode, Right-Click HERE.

Come support me on Patreon HERE.

Logo by Gino "Out, Security!" Moretto.

When I See You Smile

 My buddy Jonathan Wilson*, months ago, asked me for a couple of my readings of public domain stories that he could run on his YouTube channel, and he's put another one up.

"The Dead Smile" by F. Marion Crawford tells of the evil Hugh Ockram, who, despite being dead, still manages to ruin the lives of his son Gabriel and the woman he loves.  

I really ought to see if I can find another story by him--I spent an hour on Sunday reading a story by a much higher-profile author that ended so badly I just deleted the whole thing--but in the meantime, check it out HERE.

*Is that okay to say?  Is he my buddy?  Would he lend me ten dollars in a pinch?

Marshal and I Fly Through AIRPORT 1975 (1974)

Last year, Marshal and I watched AIRPORT (was it ever called ALEX HALEY'S AIRPORT?), and thought it was pretty good.  Now we're on to the second film in the series, the oddly-named AIRPORT 1975.*  It stars Chuck Heston, Karen Black, Efram Zimbalist Jr., Gloria Swanson, Susan Clark, Large Marge, Linda Blair, Erik Estrada, and of course, George Kennedy.  But is it any good?

Well, this happens:

I really enjoy doing these episodes with Marshal, so go check this one out HERE.  But first, for the love of Pete, fasten your safety belt.

*It came out in 1974. WTH?

Rish Outcast 325: The Realest Song That Ever Was

Guest-starring Big Anklevich, Rish airs his daddy issues and simultaneously proclaims his love for 4 Non Blondes' only hit song.

They chat about nostalgia, Van Halen, the title of this podcast, and of course, they talk Pixar. And does Big know any Smashmouth lyrics?

If you want to download the episode, Right-Click HERE.

If you want to support me on Patreon, click HERE.

Logo by Gino "The Realest Prong That Ever Was" Moretto.

"She was a crackhead, son, your dead mother."

I'm Not A Smart Man, But I Know What CHUD Is

On Saturday, at the third No Kings protest, there were many, many amusing signs.  My favorite of these was an image of Frodo Baggins grasping the One Ring, only with Donald Trump's face over his, along with the caption "I will take the ring to Sauron!"

But while I was hanging out there, alone this time (my niece couldn't make it), I noticed a trio of teenaged girls, all with signs . . . and one of those signs had a familiar word on it.

A lot of the people at the protest were waving their signs around, but some only pointed them at passing cars (a lot of which would honk or wave their own signs back), but this girl kept hers where it was firmly unreadable from me.  Finally, I approached her, and said, "Hey there, does your sign say Donald Trump is one of the CHUDs?"

She turned her sign to me.  I laughed.  You see, there was a horror movie that came out in 1984 where the ad campaign absolutely captivated me, to the point where my friends and I would talk about CHUDs (Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers, mutated creatures that lurked in New York's sewers and subway tunnels) all the livelong day.  I finally saw the movie about three years later, and was wildly disappointed by it, finding it thoroughly mediocre.*

"A Chud is a--" the girl began, but I needed no mansplaining.  

"Oh, I know what a CHUD is," I said, and snapped this--admittedly imperfect--photo.

I went back to my place (next to an elderly lady with the profound and lyrical sign "It doesn't have to happen to you for you to care about it"), and eventually the crowd dispersed.  But as I was walking to my car (I had had to park four blocks away, despite getting a fairly good parking spot), it occurred to me that I should not have interrupted her.

I didn't know, at least in this context, what a Chud was.

Why didn't I let her explain it to me?  Then I'd have a blog post worth its low-sodium health warning.

But apparently, the word "chud" now means a repulsive or ignorant right-wing loudmouth, a reactionary troll, ie a basement-dweller, rather than the city sewer version.

And don't get me wrong, the word is still funny (I have always had a weakness for words that start with Ch-, such as chalupa, chunder, chingaso, Chima, the main character in CRANK--Chev Chelios, and the Argentine insult chanta.**  I find them inexplicably hysterical), but I wasn't sure if it applied to Donald Trump or not.

But then, I remembered: Donald Trump is from New York City . . . home of the CHUDs.  

*In fact, for the past twenty years, whenever anybody asks me what movie I would remake, if I had the chance, the answer is always C.H.U.D..  Always.

**I recently got out my Lara & The Witch novel and noticed that when Lara attends Miller's Fork High School . . . her English teacher is named Mrs. Chutt.  Hilarious.

All You Need Is A Miracle

Well, I've finally put out another installment in The Sidekick Chronicles.  When it came time to put a link to the other stories in the series (on the last page of the e-book), I discovered that there's only four others . . . and one of those ("Sins of a Sidekick") is not currently available (to you or me).

Even so, "A Sidekick To Miracles" is finally available for your scrolling pleasure. 

In 2018, I watched an episode of Rod Serling's "Night Gallery" that I hated so much I decided to podcast about it.  I bitched about its pointlessness and how there was a glimmer of a really good story in there but they chose to--and then, in mid-sentence, I came up with this story, "A Sidekick To Miracles."  I never used the podcast, for obvious reasons.

Ben Parks encounters a traveling snake oil salesman who tells him he's actually selling hope, and becomes his sidekick, however briefly.  Ben is young enough and naive enough to believe in miracles.

This is the image I liked back in 2024 enough to save it to one day use.

Is the story good, who knows?  Did I wrench every drop of potential out of that idea, probably not.  But was it worth doing?  Sure.  And is it better than the 1971 television episode that inspired it?  Yep.

I tried and tried to find an image I was happy with--
and poor Big created four or five of these for me--before I decided on this one.

But hey, don't take my word for it, check it out HERE.  

Rish Outcast 324: Writers Conference Report 2026 Part 2

Rish finishes talking about this year's conference. Look at me, Gino! It's all for you!

Rish talks about a writer who only managed to write one book in a year, about meeting a Disney director, about letting your subconscious work out plot details, tries to answer a couple of Marshal Latham questions, and what he has now decided is his favorite Disney animated film.

As always, you can download the file by Right-Clicking HERE.

And of course, you can support my Patreon by clicking HERE.

Logo by Gino "Biter's Conference" Moretto.

Rish: 1, Ghosts: 0

I haven't had anything to write on my blog in a little while (yes, I have posted, but those have been posts from January or February that I hadn't yet put up).  But something I haven't gotten a lot of complaints about have been my reports about brushes with ghosts.*

A couple of the crappiest cameras we have here are the ones in the halls downstairs and in the building next to us.  While that has proved problematic when trying to identify patrons or suspicious individuals, it does wonders for would-be ghost sightings.

Take this image, for example.  I glanced at the monitor and there was a shape standing on the west stairs in a long white dress, the kind nobody wears anymore.  Of course, she had no face.

Well, I've seen this phenomenon before--and haven't we all awoken on a Monday morning forty minutes before our alarms are set to go off only to discover that we have no face?--so I watched the spectre in question.  Turns out it was just a young woman, posing for photos, and color me surprised, she was not thrilled to hear that I had mistaken her for a ghost.

Between you and me, if you came up to me sometime and said, "Holy cow, I totally thought you were a ghost," I would take it as a compliment.  Also, feel free to sub out "ghost" with "zombie," "devil-worshiper," "Child of the Corn," "serial killer," "wereoctopus," or "pervert."

Apropos of nothing, ghosts often tell Chuck Norris stories around campfires.

P.S.  You may be wondering what the title of this post is all about.  To be honest, I couldn't decide if the ghosts should have gotten a point, with me getting zero, or the other way around.  Ultimately, I decided that I needed a win, just this once.

*Of course, I haven't gotten any compliments about it either, but whatchoogondo?

The Toughest Man In The Afterlife

So, Chuck Norris passed away this week.  He was 86 years old, and was famous for movies such as THE WAY OF THE DRAGON, DELTA FORCE, MISSING IN ACTION, FIREWALKER, and THE EXPENDABLES 2.  Oh, and the very successful television series "Walker Texas Ranger."  Also, he actually died twenty years ago, but the Grim Reaper hadn't built up the courage to tell him.

In other words, beyond his career in action films, Norris had a second success in a series of entertaining jokes about how tough, cool, or bearded the man was ("When the Boogeyman goes to bed, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris."  "Chuck Norris CAN believe it's not butter.").  I first discovered it in 2004 or 2005, and found it endlessly amusing ("There's no such thing as evolution, only a list of species Chuck Norris has allowed to live." "Chuck Norris once played Russian Roulette with a fully-loaded gun . . . and won."), swapping them with friends in California ("Chuck Norris can divide by zero."  "If you have five dollars and Chuck Norris has five dollars . . . he has more money than you.").

About a decade before he died this week, a gas station was built in town, and to celebrate its opening, Chuck Norris came to cut the ribbon and take photos with fans.  I was not necessarily a fan*, but I went anyway with my nephews, who had absolutely no idea who Norris was.  

Would they have been impressed to know that his tears cure cancer . . . but he unfortunately has never cried?

I've not seen a lot of his movies.  They weren't really my thing.  But dang, did I love to swap "facts" about him.  Did you know that when he left home, he told his father "You're the man of the house now?"

Still, all evidence to the contrary (the man had unsavory politics, was quite a limited actor, and sued the publishers of a book collecting some of his famous "facts"), he seemed like a pretty nice guy on that Saturday afternoon.  And I'm glad to have gone down there and gotten a photo with a beard so hard, it could not be chiseled into Mount Rushmore.

Norris wears a hat to protect the sun from him.

By the way, Norris once threw a hand grenade and killed fifty people.  Then it exploded.

*I could like him a lot less--my buddy Jeff hates Norris so bad he will not watch any movie Chuck Norris is in (or has expressed fondness for).  I guess Norris was Jeff's Vin Diesel.