This Moth Not Found in a Tranvestite's Basement

I'm starting the alicespooks blog with an entry about the Mothman, despite the fact that I'm not so into the monster side of paranormal stuff. This is merely because my dad recently had an incredible, and hilarious (because it's my dad) experience in Point Pleasant, and it's probably good to pose some background. First brief intro: Mothman. Big, winged creature with red, glowing eyes (and that phrase gets really boring to type), seen in Point Pleasant, West Virginia. And . . . go!

Of course, researching anything within the paranormal on the internet means going to at least one, if not several, shiteous websites maintained via mom's basement or the prison library. I can't lie - my research could be more thorough, but I can usually only slog through the horrible graphics of one of these sites. In terms of myth and folklore, usually it's all you need anyway. And I'm not writing a thesis; it's a fucking blog, and a fucking blog about nerd things, for Christ's sakes.

I started my search with the trusty Google (search: "mothman;" Yeah, I'm not kidding when I say I don't fuck around). One of the first clicks was for the domain MothmanLives.com. Strangely, when you actually start to surf around, the domain shifts to MothmanMuseum.com. I realize that in the 'net world, it's not uncommon to snatch up any random domain name having to do with your cause in order to completely dominate, but I hadn't realized nerds were so competitive. At the end of the day, it really doesn't matter anyway, considering the website is horrible.

Upon clicking on the "history" section, I am greeted by a text box merely quoting blurbs about John Keel's The Mothman Prophecies. (After the movie came out, I tried to read it, but it was weird. I mean, the subject was weird of course, but I expected that; the writing seemed to be trying to prove that Keel himself was touched in a bad way by the Mothman.) One of the blurbs said that Keel is a "famed journalist," so I head over to Wiki and realize that, with his work centering entirely around paranormal activity, "famed" was an astute choice in lieu of "acclaimed" or even "infamous." Rather than reporting on Indian economics in the aftermath of Nehru's leadership, for example, Keel's research into a country rich with culture and history is to report on fakirs or as I like to call them, The David Blaines of India's Past.

Clicking past the initial page, I am met with even more heinous lay-out to sift through. Or shall I say . . .

I found myself . . . faced . . . with so much text . . .

that was separated for no apparent reason . . . by both breaks and ellipses . . .

and sometimes ended statements . . . like this.

See it for yourself.

Uggghhh.

Naturally, the information itself comes in exciting, fun varieties. The first thing I noticed was that in one statement, they place the word "partying" in quotes, as in

"Parking" and "partying" became the norm at the T.N.T. plant.

This furthers my belief, and reaffirms the point of this blog, that people involved in paranormal research have no sense of humor or social lives whatsoever. Isn't it funny how we place in quotes words we find foreign to our own existence? As if it were some term an other-worldly creature uses to refer to a concept so beyond our comprehension that even to use it in normal conversational words is far from our capabilities? No, paranormal nerds do not get laid. Nope.

Anyways, so I sifted through all of the horrific emphases on random words in order to find some coherence for the three people who read this blog, and here's what you need to know about the Mothman. ("The T.N.T. Plant" is just that, some place they stored T.N.T. in Point Pleasant, where all the "partying" went on, and where the Mothman has been seen the most.)

• On November 14th, 1966, a lady was watching TV when the set went all crazy and had a “herringbone pattern” appear on it (few are aware of Mothman’s penchant for simulating beautiful patterns in nature, earning him a guest spot on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.) Long story short, there were red, glowing eyes (Trademark Mothman, 1966, renewed 1997), and her dog disappeared after chasing after them. Ewww.

• The next night, two couples go to the TNT area, presumably to swing, and see a giant creature with bat-wings and those red, glowing eyes. When they ran away, the thing could keep up with their car going 100 mph.

• When the Associated Press caught wind of the story and christened the creature with the name “Mothman,” media descended on the town and the TNT area, which suddenly started losing its dogs. (Ewww, again.)

• The infamous Silver Bridge collapse, as depicted as the climax for “The Mothman Prophecies,” seems actually to have absolutely fucking nothing to do with Mothman, except that when shitty things happen, he gets blamed. Though they cite that some people say it protected them. Or something. Whatever. As we'll see in Part 2 of this series, West Virginians seem to be a bit clueless about whether they like the hideous, red-eyed, winged creature harassing them and eating their dogs, or whether they actually think he might be okay.

The next page of this history lesson on the mothmanlives.com site is just a few close encounters in a bit more detailed, though nonetheless visually painful to read, anecdotes. There is, however, one highlight.

As a final postscript, New Haven farmer Ernest Adkins reported something very odd indeed in April of 1969. He found his eleven-week-old beagle lying dead in his front yard. "There was no evidence the dog died in a fight," Adkins said. What made it strange was the fact that the dog's chest was chewed open, and its heart was lying outside.

Oh, absolutely. No evidence at all . . except that his chest was chewed open. I mean, I’m no expert on canine fighting techniques, but I’m willing to bet that any wild animal worth its salt would at least attempt to eat whatever it killed. That’s sort of the point, isn’t it? Though the heart just laying there is a bit weird.

In addition, the site also lists things that have happened to people who have seen the Mothman. AND THEY PUT IT IN A CAPITALIZED BULLETED LIST, most likely in order to make things like divorce, the death of old people, and conjunctivitis seem more dramatic than they actually are. And yes, seeing the Mothman is believed to cause pink eye in its victims. So not only does it kill your dog, but it throws its poop in your eyes? That sucks.

That's all I can bear for now. Next up are some "conclusions" (besides the glaring conclusion that, "You know, for people who can sit around and listen to EVPs all day, you sure have little patience for web design") . . . with neat pictures!

We're going spooky!

When I say "we," I mean "me," but no matter. alice-kvetch is now a full-time ghostly blog, dealing with all that is creepy, with a lot of snark thrown in. I had a few fun, fabulous things occur that brought me to this conclusion. More than "happenings," they were ideas I had for various types of blog entries, and I thought it would be ridiculous NOT to do them, as well as to fill an entire blog with them without there being a cohesive them.

Or something.

Type A weeps

I'm like my dad in the sense that when I'm really busy, I'm miserable, and when I have nothing to do, I'm miserable. This leads to a life of constant searching for a balance between the two. So I have the day off of work today and was really looking forward to it, but already am totally bored and it's only 12:30. "Home Improvement" is on the telly, and Dr. Phil isn't on till 3, so I have some time on my hands. Part of that will be actually dressing and cleaning my ass off. My ability to make my apartment picture-perfect and the let it spiral into a storage locker in a week should really be studied. I don't really know how I do it, but every weekend, when I'd only just cleaned the last one, I find myself sitting on my couch in a small gap between books, plastic bags from random stores, and empty Pepsi cans. Not ready to clean yet, so here's something in the mean time.

Jodie Dee wanted to be a country star
But she just didn’t have the voice
She’d sing all around her teeny tiny town
And her listeners didn’t have much of a choice

They’d hear that screech and scratch everywhere
They’d plug their ears and moan
But still they’d hear little Jodie Dee
Singing all the way home

You see, Jodie Dee was never a small-town girl
She lived for the cities and noise
Jodie Dee tried to join the local pickin’ band
But her mama said “Stay away from those boys!”

Jodie Dee thought some music would add to her voice
So she learned a couple notes on the kazoo
Pretty soon she found out that it sure is hard
To sing with your mouth all full

What’s the point, Jodie Dee?
Her friends would all ask
There’s nothing to be done
Your voice is too low
Your kazoo is too high
And you wouldn’t even make it
Outside of the Bag ‘n Buy

But Jodie Dee kept at it
She knew she was destined somehow
To sing underneath those bright shiny lights
And to hear the crowds cheer as she took all her bows

One day a man came lookin’ for a brand new sound
“No need to sound pretty,” he told Jodie Dee,
“Just somethin’ different is what folks want now”

So Jodie wailed at the mic for that big suit
Getting’ out all of her hurts and pains
That man couldn’t have found anything down South to beat her
No more bluegrass with big pipes for lil’ Jodie Dee
It ended up not being her in her favor
But y’all that new sound called rock ‘n roll?
Well it sure made her sound sweeter

Dork-Creature Feature

Cheesy scary-show quote of the night:

"You can't run very fast when you're tripping over your own entrails." - Scariest Places on Earth

*cymbals*

I've been thinking lately about all of the stereotypes of high school: jock, cheerleader, slut, teachers' pet, nerd. I am a nerd, though I prefer the term "dorky." Dorky is like "dweeb" and "quirky" combined, which I think is fitting. However, the standard association of High School Dorkdom with being bookish and wearing glasses, while applicable to me, begin to lack in accuracy as we age. Ah, yes, my friends, the definition of "nerd," "dork," "dweeb," and what have you ranges in color, tone, and favorite "Star Wars" installment. Tonight, I begin to compile a list of my own personal blend of Dork. I challenge nerds everywhere to define their Dorkdom and wave their dweeb flag with pride. Stay tune for future installments.

Things that Make I, Alice, a Dork

1. The Smooth, Sweet Sounds of Phylicia Rashad
   
   
   "The Cosby Show" has never failed me. Never failed to cheer me, move me, turn me into a person who can mentally log Cliff Huxtable's abominable sweaters. I don't know what it is, if it's the typical envy of The Perfect Family and its bemused embrace of their children's individuality, or the delight I take in reliving favorite TV shows of my childhood. However, neither of these seems likely, as I grew up with a pretty incredible family myself and my actual favorite TV shows as a child were "Sally Jessy Raphael" and the various soap operas my baby-sitter watched.
   
   No, I think it has to do with the tantalizing vocalizations of one Phylicia Rashad. If I flip on an episode and know Claire's going to sing (and when didn't she?) I cannot resist, no matter how late, how tired, how inebriated. Well, more so when inebriated. Inebriated, there may be tears.
   
   Have you ever really listened to the tone of that voice? Hey kids, did you smash the car into the kitchen again? Well, Danny Tanner might give a shout, but nothing conveys both the motherly comfort and strictness than Claire's, "You better march on up to that room and hope that I don't see you till your 18th birthday!" At one point, she calls Vanessa, who snuck out to a party without permission, "a little wench." Ah yes, but Claire can get away with this. My dream is for a website featuring Phylicia Rashad giving infamous dirty lines from famous movies. Let's hear Claire say things like, "Have you ever fucked on coke?" and "There are motherfuckin' snakes on this motherfuckin' plane!" and marvel in the ability for even those salty words to put us right to sleep.
   
   
2. I Have an Indiana Jones Tattoo
   
   No, that's not me. And if that was me, and I called myself Alice, being dorky would be the least interesting of the things I could talk about. Ah, but I am one with this gentlemen (ew, not like that). We both know the obsession, the fanaticism, surrounding the world's most intelligent, adventurous and dare I say, SEXIEST mother-fucking archaeologist in all the land. That's right, I'm talking about YOU, Dr. Scott Caroll! Don't forget the whip at the next AADS meeting!
   
   Nah. We all know who I mean. That one who can take a Nazi and kick his ass while lecturing on the importance of the maintenance of antiquities. Indiana Jones has the ability to both transport you to the absolutely coolest fantasy world ever, and you don't even have to deal with robots or Will Smith. Many people consider an obsession with these films to be nerdy. I'm not sure why, perhaps because of the main theme being archeology, or the campiness of the second installment (actually a prequel, and Indy had to work his way up to Nazis somehow, so all is forgiven in my opinion).
   
   Regardless of whether you think these cinematic adventures are amazing or evidence of the downfall of an art form (go back to Tisch, prick), the fact of the matter is, a permanent drawing placed on someone's body in dedication to something as "mundane" as a movie seems a bit much for most people. However, rarely do you see a nerd that does not have at least some kind of an unhealthy obsession. It has to do with our fascination with the Internet, having information at the touch of a button, and taking prime advantage of this to soak up any and all information on our respective interests. So why not permanently pay homage to said obsessions?
   
   My tattoo is not of a whip, a hat, Scary-Man-with-Red-Painted-Forehead, or Karen Allen. But without giving too much away in case any potential boy-toys are reading this (and I'd hate to ruin a surprise), it's a prop featured in the third movie, placed sexily on my right side. And when I say sexy, I damn well mean it. The truth of the matter is, it may be dorky to have a tattoo featuring a prop from an adventure film of the 80s, but if done well, you can rule the Nerd Kingdom with ease.
   

That's it for the first installment of Things That Make Me Dorky. I hope I shed some light on some unsavory topics. And if you didn't glimpse a little of yourself in anything I said, well . . . You probably should just return those items from Abercrombie & Fitch that don't show of enough of your midriff.

Perverse Ghosts and the Birth of a Blog

I have had blogs on and off during my "formative" years, and they usually centered around Hanson fan fiction and general teen angst, with frequent overlap occurring between both those categories.

I don't have many interests, but I have a few, and have at various times debated creating a specific blog for one of them. But then I realize that I possess the type of focus that led me to get a type of theater degree, so I figure a little bit of everything keeps it spicy. I can snark with the best of them, so why narrow my options?

First things first: Spooky things. I love spooky things. I don't love them, I lurve them, I luff them. Oh, to be in first grade again, going to our Library Hour once a week and carefully choosing one of the three "Haunted Places" books in their dirty old covers and yellowed pages. Some people love the smell of old books - it makes me want to vomit. And I'm a bibliophile, through and through. But I like them new and shiny and MINE. I want the first turn of every page to be mine, and every word first glanced at by me, me, me. I am a freak about my books, and I lend them out only rarely. When people lend me their books, they can kiss them goodbye if I like them. I'll even buy them another copy, and keep the one they lent me. Because, well, the first time I experienced that book was in THAT copy. You may create your own de-virginizing metaphor here.

Anyway, I don't like old books. Too sad. But perhaps in the case of the spooky things, the oldness added to the effect. I didn't like this "book," not the words, in the literal sense, so the subject matter was in turn a bit forbidden. However, I would guess that it mainly had to do with loving being scared shitless.

A long story short, or shorter, leads me to here, at the age of 22, with full-time job and, more importantly, health insurance (making you proud, Mom!), still sort of wishing I could say "fuck it all" and be a nerdy ghost hunter listening to EVPs all day and sensitively coaxing spirits to the Other Side. I'm not sure what I would say to them, though. "I know you butchered your wife and now spend your days blowing in the ears of female house guests and knocking over planters, but I promise the next life will be better." What the fuck do I know? Maybe the ghost just moves on to haunt a solar-home on some distant planet, where orb-people marvel at their rooftop landing dock retracting into the roof on its own, without their having to touch a tentacle-print to the control panel. The more technology there is, the less easy it'll be to freak people out. Any weird little thing nowadays can be attributed to electrical glitches or radiation. bo-ring.

Due to the length of my obsession with all things opaque, I have seen and read quite a few odd things. Of course you have your lifetime movie with Jane Seymour being, um, pleasured in her sleep. Then you've got your haunted objects, like dolls (AHHH!) and mirrors (more AHHH!). And then you have my favorite: EVPs.

EVPs, for those not quite nerdy or naive enough, are Electronic Voice Phenomena. How it usually goes is the lame-o one of the group, or the female due to their apparently innate sensitivity, walks around a supposedly haunted site asking questions. The hope is that even if a response isn't heard at the time, it will be recorded. Of course, the lazier members of the group will just walk around and go, "Speak into this little red light here, if there is a ghost present." I have yet to hear an EVP go, "Shove it up your ass."

I love EVPs. I adore them. Like in other aspects of life, the quality of it can be judged by how much I squeal. As I said, I've been reading about this shit for a long time, and little creeps me out anymore. But a disembodied voice calling, "Help me"? I bow down to the worlds of which we know nothing. I don't care if it's real or not, as evidenced by my immense enjoyment of The Coffee Pot Ghost.

And whether real or not, the latest episode of Ghost Hunters. If you don't know the GH crew, they look like this:



They usually have those types of looks on their faces for most of the show. These are looks that say, "I'm SOOOOO skeptical." It's used to get all the other skeptics to watch and scoff too - and then get irritated because they'll do their manly shrug at the end with a concluding, "Who knows, might be haunted." *gruff* Then they go out and drink beers and bitch about their wives. Well, I don't know if that part is true, but I bet it's true.

Anyway, they went to some haunted place tonight, somewhere. And they did their little shimmy of spending what always appears to be a half hour actually recording shit,d espite the fact that twice as much footage is dedicated to their setting up and taking down their oodles of fancy equipment they've purchased just to, you know, show that they really don't care about any of this stuff.

There are always EVPs, and tonight's was right up there with the fantastic. The place was a fort, I think. Whatever. And one EVP, as they listened to it over and over, I came to a strange conclusion of what it could be saying. And then it was confirmed when one of our surly lads finally said:

It sounds like it's saying, "The boss wants it deeper."

YESSS!! Finally! An EVP of perverse connotation! I have been waiting for this forever. I mean, "Help me" is classic, but a bit overdone. But a ghost who may have been involved in a little sexy time before death, destined to relive it over and over for hundreds of years? Priceless. Unique. One for the ages (literally, for the ghost).