Well folks, it's happened. The one whose name must not be mentioned, we all know who he is, has gotten Rockman Canyon Press to release a book of short stories. What the title means is anyone's guess. Plot Smith tried to explain it to me and I thought I understood at the time, but you know how that goes. I kind of like the cover, though, and Vera Blue Raven Studios has some great stuff over on their web site. Her latest is amazing, still in work, but I saw it the other day and, wow.
Check out the book. It's available for free right now. Use the coupon number displayed on the book's blog (link nearby) to get a copy. Paperback edition coming soon. I scanned it and didn't see anything too scandalous but I guess that depends on who you are. I hope everyone can keep an open mind, this time.
Sierra Fangoso Fantasia
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Morgan Freight Company?
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Cousin
Lydia found this photo in the Historical Society Archives. She wonders if
it might be an early picture of the Morgan Freight Company, the early Mudgap
business that used to run the only store in town back in the wild west
days. She thinks one of the drivers is probably St. George Goodspeed, who
was apparently a local character. She says she doubts it because
Goodspeed evidently favored mules and these look like horses.
Anyone
have an opinion? Lydia thinks it was taken at the bottom of what is now
called Hobo Hill, heading out of town. But what are they carrying?
Not gold, certainly.
Monday, November 12, 2012
The Panic of 1837-Willie Porter
Hi Everyone. Me again. The Historical Society just announced an exhibition of
Mudgap’s own local storyteller, Willie Porter. We don’t have recordings of Willie himself but several old
timers from Camp Rockman remember Willie’s tales about his Uncle Nap and bring them
alive for our microphones. To publicize
the exhibit we’re posting one of Willie’s shorter performances, first published
by the Lodestone Chronicle on President Martin Van Buren’s birthday in
1966. Herewith, “The Panic of ’37,”
by Willie Porter.
The
Baldwin Mogul locomotive rattled over Hobo Hill and shrilled to a stop beside a
red lettered sign: “Excursion Train Owned by Lownde Salvage Yard.” From within the Independence Day crowd
a fanfare of flamboyant whiskers spotted the engineer dismounting the cab. “William Cody Porter?”
Swirling vapors billowed away. “I’m Willie Porter.”
“I’m
President Martin Van Buren and I have a bone to pick with you.”
Willie’s
gesture was interrogative.
“
You Porters are named for famous people, right? George Washington Porter, Andrew Jackson Porter, Napoleon
Bonaparte Porter, your son, Teddy Roosevelt Porter, and your grandfather,
Martin Van Buren Porter. Don’t
deny it.”
Willie
wobbled his feet as if standing uncertain ground. He was certain of the year,
1965. “Are you a ghost?”
“
A ghost? Here’s what I am.” Van Buren moved closer. “You tell frontier stories about your
Uncle Nap, right? “
“From
my Grandpa Marty,” Willie nodded.
“One
about the Grand Canyon?”
Willie
flapped his elbows up and down like a pumping bumbershoot. “Where Uncle Nap rides down on his old
mule, Gracie, and hollers, ‘Here we come!’ and hears the echo four days later,
coming back up? “
Presidential muttonchops fluttered. “That’s me, Porter, an echo.”
Willie
knew that didn’t make sense.
“Echoes repeat what’s already been. You never rode a train to Mudgap, New Mexico nor talked to
me before.”
“Ah! Words!” Van Buren shivered his
sideburns in the dry mountain air.
“It’s the spirit that echoes, not your paltry creature snatchings.”
Willie
shifted one steel-toed shoe a few inches.
“Your
Grandpa Marty was named after me.
Right? And you joke about it.
Right?”
“Well.”
“You
say, ‘Not the best Porter naming because Van Buren was called Martin Van Ruin
after the panic of ‘37.’ “
Willie
rose onto his toes and scrunched his shoulders. “That’s the way Grandpa Marty told it.”
“Are
you sure it was him?”
Willie
shrugged his guilt. “Maybe it was
Grandma Harriet.”
“I
knew it. An educated woman,” Van
Buren accused, expanding with supernatural pliability. “And did she mention me organizing the
Democratic Party to counterweight the slavery question?”
“LBJ’s
party? Claims to be the most
hopeful sign since Christ?”
“Well,
he’s a Texan. I never wanted them
in the Union anyway. And this New
Mexico, Polk’s work.”
“She
said you were against Lincoln.”
“Did
she tell you I formed the Free Soil Party to settle slavery without a war?”
Willie
flared his right elbow out to get perspective on this idea and sidled his feet
a little. “Sounds like someone’s
shining up his history.”
Van
Buren’s muttonchops disheveled as he grabbed Porter’s shoulder. “Porter! I’m trying to help you! Truth only matters to the living. We exanimate can’t escape it.”
“Well,
I…” The moment swerved.
Willie’s
son Teddy rushed onto the platform with the whole family. “Dad! How was the run from Las Cruces?” The Salvage Yard’s clamoring tribe
blundered behind him, a manifold of peculiarities including Willie’s old boss,
Ruel Lownde, plus relatives and workers.
“Dad,
who were you talking to?” Teddy asked.
“President Van Buren,” Willie asserted.
“That’s
who I thought it was!” cried Ruel’s eccentric cousin.
Teddy
laughed. “I don’t think we have time
for one of your stories today, Dad.”
He led the crowd to the Fourth of July celebrations at Arrieros Park.
Ruel
Lownde whispered to his old friend. “What’d Van Buren want?”
“Something
about truth.”
“Truth,”
Ruel nodded. “It’s fragile but
enduring.”
Willie
sneaked a glance visioning splendid side-whiskers in a sun-glared coach. Teddy was right. There wasn’t time for
one of his stories today.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
As long as I'm in the mood to catch up on things I just got an email from the Bear Hill Players asking me to mention the upcoming, annual production of their operatic adaptation of Lewis Carroll's Hunting of the Snark. It will be indoors this year, at the Montana Opera House, where else. Judging by the poster it contains some new twists this year but will be substantially the same as always.
Several people have pointed out to me that our own little team's inspirational icon is headed for the world series this year if they can get past the Giants. Wouldn't that be a perfect complement to our own two victories this year, albeit at great cost as two of our players were fined for unsportsmanlike conduct. Anyway, no need to dwell on that. Good luck to the Cardinals and hooraw for the Miners. Next year, with our catcher no longer under house arrest, we may do even better.
And, let's hope Hal can get the election debate stuff restored before election day.
And, let's hope Hal can get the election debate stuff restored before election day.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Shell House
Just a quick note under news of the odd. Came across this posting of a shell house.
Can anyone tell me where it's located?Shell House.
Can anyone tell me where it's located?Shell House.
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