Kookshow, Chapter 6: Trucker

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

After my second conversation with Kookshow Baby, what I had learned from the transplanted, southern belle was still eclipsed by questions about her broader interests, day-to-day lifestyle, and career direction. I had not even gotten a straight answer about her living situation. Was she in a mobile home on the DuFoe property? If so, was she cohabitating with a love interest or roomie? Was she helping as a caretaker for the abandoned drive-in, when not on the air? I had originally guessed that speaking to her directly would clear up these mysteries. Yet now, I felt even more puzzled than ever.

 

Only one solution seemed to fit my needs. I needed to visit her in person.

 

A visit to the Mapquest website revealed that we were approximately 2,390 miles apart. A trip that they estimated would take just over 33 hours. A challenging adventure for any younger, more agile individual, but with my own age and physical condition, likely to be overwhelming. Traveling via an airline, or commercial rail, were two options that a sane mind might choose to accomplish such a task. Yet for myself, crawling along on a household budget of disability funds and book royalties, neither could be termed as easily affordable.

 

I needed a third option. Some method of transportation that could be had for free.

 

While drinking on my porch, later in the week, I pondered this perplexing situation. I had become more and more infatuated with the radio personality as days and months passed, to the point of replaying all her saved shows on the Internet Archive site. Dreams about meeting her expanded in scope and size. I could feel her pigtailed hair bouncing as we embraced, and taste her wet lips, in between rants about Green Acres episodes, and Hee Haw reruns. We watched old movies and TV shows while feasting on fried okra and bottles of Ski, the lemon-orange delight originally from Tennessee. We snuggled on a vintage waterbed in her Schult doublewide, a trailer probably even older than her mother, or myself. She would tease me with tidbits about Country Music history, and whisper related trivia questions in my ears. All delivered with a rural twang of cornbread culture. It was an odd sort of relationship that somehow seemed alluring and desirable. But as a fantasy while I slumbered, it worked.

 

This yearning for her companionship had me so restless, that satisfying sleep was out of the question. But as I teetered on my wooden bench outside, the roar of a diesel rig blew away clouds of mental fog in my head. Suddenly, I was fixated by the massive roadliner, and its capacity to haul freight from coast to coast.

 

Carter Polk III had been running a route between Cleveland, Chicago, and more western cities, for several years. As a park resident, he was virtually anonymous. Being on the road for long periods of time kept him out of the local stream of consciousness. But at Evergreen Estates, that meant a sort of peace and tranquility not afforded to others. He was blunt, covered with tattoos, and very direct in social situations. A privilege afforded by his general absence from the crowd. He did not frequent bonfires held over the summer. Few seemed to know much about his life, family, or personal routine.

 

While watching his smokestack behemoth roll past the driveway, I heard a tune beginning to play on my cell phone, through the Spotify app. Specifically, a recording by the Rolling Stones that had been a childhood favorite. A song interpreted many times over, by various artists and performers.

 

“Now if you, ever plan to motor west

Just take my way, that’s the highway that’s the best

Get your kicks on Route 66

Well it winds from Chicago to L.A.

More than 2000 miles all the way

Get your kicks on Route 66

Well it goes from St. Louie, down to Missouri

Oklahoma City looks oh so pretty

You’ll see Amarillo and Gallup, New Mexico

Flagstaff, Arizona, don’t forget Winona

Kingman, Barstow, San Bernadino

Would you get hip to this kindly tip

And go take that California trip

Get your kicks on Route 66...”

 

Enlightenment struck me like Newton’s apple. I realized that my truck-hustling neighbor might be someone who could provide transportation across the country, at a minimal cost. This made me slosh brew excitedly, while cheering.

 

“DAMMIT MISS KOOKSHOW, I MIGHT GET TO SEE YOUR PRETTY FACE AFTER ALL!”

 

I must have waved with a sort of insistence not usually communicated. As he returned, going in the opposite direction, the professional driver stopped in front of my yard.

 

“Hey there, neighbor! Ya look sunburned from sittin’ on that damn porch all day. What the eff, dude? Don’t ya ever go inside?”

 

We rarely engaged in conversation. So, his greeting was unexpected.

 

“This is my entertainment, you might say. I write and drink coffee in the morning. Maybe do some household chores if I’m feeling motivated. Then I start to get thirsty. It’s like watching a parade out here, the park never stays quiet. Dogs barking, people up and down the street arguing and getting drunk, others making noise with their ratty cars...”

 

Carter opened his door, and stood teetering on a steel footplate, used for access to the multi-wheeled beast, from ground level. He was very tall and burly, with a greasy crop of gray hair cut short on the sides, but longer in the back. A classic Mullet style that I hadn’t seen in years.

 

“See, I don’t know about that shit. Don’t wanna know, either. I’m movin’ damn near every day of the week. When I get home, all I do is sleep!”

 

I was well-lubricated by many rounds of brew, and felt emboldened enough to seize on that small observation.

 

“Moving, yes, I get it, my brother used to drive like that. He worked for Marten Trucking at one point. Anyway, here’s a question – how far does your work take you? Iowa? Nebraska? Colorado? Arizona? New Mexico? Maybe even California?”

 

He pondered my query for a moment. Then snorted and laughed.

 

“Yeah, all of them places. I run right to the Pacific Ocean sometimes, whatever pays the best. We call it bein’ an owner-operator. Straight-up, I’m a privateer! Money keeps the wheels turnin’! Pay me and I’ll do tha job!”

 

I gulped a mouthful of cold beer, wiped my face, and then leaned forward on the bench.

 

“Well then, here’s a proposition for you. How about taking on a passenger, for a trip to the west coast and back? I want to see someone who lives in the area of Los Angeles. A woman I’ve never met, and couldn’t identify if I saw her, face-to-face. Call her a mystery date. I need someone to cut me a deal. I can’t walk right, can barely see, and my wallet is empty. I don’t drive any farther than the corner store, for snacks and refreshments, or maybe to see a doctor about pills. Otherwise, I’m a hermit and a loner. But I’d be obliged to accept a favor from a friend. How does that sound for an offer?”

 

Polk frowned, went blank, then started chortling from the pit of his belly. His pockmarked,  leathery face contorted into a wide grin.

 

“Yeah, okay! I like yer honesty, man! No bullshit, that’s the way to roll! Let’s do it!”

 

 

 

Kookshow, Chapter 5: Reconnecting

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

After the video call from Kookshow Baby, I was stunned for several days. Though Tiffany DuFoe had promised to give her my contact information, the thought of having an actual, long-distance meeting had been difficult to imagine. So, when it actually transpired, I found myself dazed by our chat. After being somewhat reluctant to trust me as a newfound friend, her quick change to a mood of uninhibited candor came as a surprise. When she talked about her origin story, it overloaded my senses. It was too much information to process easily.

 

Still reeling from that point of revelation, I guessed that she might never be so bold again.

 

Yet the truth proved to be more complex in nature. About a week later, the Messenger app on my cell phone defiantly chirped with that familiar sound. I had just taken a seat on my front porch, with a chilled 12-pack of brew. The temperature had moderated a bit, from our temporary flare-up of 90-degree days. I still had a sharp edge of sobriety to fortify myself, when answering. But felt ornery in the moment.

 

“Hello? You have reached the Swindle Shack! Press one for English...”

 

A burst of giggling filled my ear. The rebellious, southern filly snorted and sputtered with amusement.

 

“Oh hell naw, Rawd! Don’t y’all give me a damn menu of options, I want the real Mr. Swindle!”

 

I took a swig of refreshment before continuing.

 

“Kookshow, it seemed like maybe your last call was a one-off deal. I really didn’t expect to hear from you again. I figured on getting a text from CRAGG central at some point, you know, an explanation and maybe some expression of regrets...”

 

The scream queen was slightly insulted.

 

“Whaaat, is that how I sound? Like a damn airhead out playin’ tricks on old men?”

 

 I had to mentally regroup after her question. But stammered weakly, like a child caught stealing cookies.

 

“No, no, I just figured that... well... perhaps... we hadn’t really made a strong connection. I’m a writer, not a promoter. I never do well trying to sell my work, or myself. Age has made me more reclusive than ever.”

 

Now, she was laughing with a throaty guffaw that made my wireless device buzz.

 

“Okay old feller, never mind making excuses. I don’t need ‘em! See, after we chewed the fat, I sat here in my trailer, thinkin’ and wonderin’ about yer connection to Cult Radio. I know they’ve got millions of listeners all around the world, but there are just a few who’ve gotten close. People who earn that place have to be special, right? So, at first, I had a little fun reachin’ out. But then I started to think that if my daddy and half-sister brought y’all to their inner circle, then by goodness, maybe I ought to do the same!”

 

Her admission of the genetic bond with CRAGG still made me breathless.

 

“There’s an old saying, ‘game recognizes game.’ I’ve put a lifetime into pursuing the craft of creative writing. But more than that, in the newspaper business, I learned to observe things carefully. Details matter. Competence matters. Now, a lot of people apply that to business, or politics, or whatever chosen field they enter. But being a fan of literature and pop culture, I see that discipline in odd places. I saw it in the music of Davie Allan, the Rock guitarist. Who is the reason I discovered the DuFoe family, originally. I recognized it in Marilyn Mayson, who used to do plus-size modeling, but eventually revealed herself to be an adult video creator. I also found it while researching recipes for a weekly column written here in the Cleveland area. One source I encountered online turned out to be a humorist, spoofing rural culture and cuisine, while also advocating for the LGBT community. She is Jolene Sugarbaker, the trailer park queen. A queen as in drag queen, if you understand. I’ve rubbed elbows with all sorts of people that probably wouldn’t speak to each other if they were in a room together. That has always kept things interesting...”

 

Kookshow sighed and tapped her phone with what sounded like long, painted fingernails.

 

“Well, that’s a story-and-a-half there, Rawd!”

 

I wallowed in shyness, yet forced myself to keep participating, vocally.

 

“In journalism, it’s about getting the story, not being the story. I’m boring on my own. But those around me have always been decidedly interesting. That’s the vibe I got, listening to your appearances on Cult Radio. You sounded like someone with a fascinating story to tell...”

 

She breathed heavily while pondering. I must have touched a nerve, somehow.

 

“Rawd, when y’all grow up like I did, life takes on angles ya might not expect. Mama Harlequina was a dancer back in the day, which really pissed off her churchy fam. But when she got pregnant, that changed everything. She made sacrifices. That woman waited tables at truck stops, and cleaned motel rooms, anything that would keep us fed. She never asked fer a damn penny of help! And that’s where I got my backbone. That’s why I know how ta fight fer a livin’ and handle big-talkin’ bruisers. I ain’t scared of nothin’ in this world! But I reckon there was always a hole in my heart. I never had a man around, to love his little girl. I never knew about what happened with my ma, or anybody. At least, not until I figured out how to track down my real papa! Even then, I’ve still been wanderin’ so to speak. But every now and then, somebody comes along who I can feel is on the same wavelength. Y’all get it? Somebody who is, as Tiffany says sometimes, ‘one of us.’ Like in the Freaks movie, and the Ramones song. ‘We accept you, we accept you, one of us!’ That’s what I’ve-a-been lookin’ fer I guess. More members of the circus troupe that raised me from a little, barnyard chick!”

 

I could feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Once again, I had elicited a tone of naked honesty from my new contact in California, that was unexpected.

 

“I umm... don’t know what to say. The neighborhood where I live in Ohio often feels like a circus. It’s a show that never ends, as Emerson, Lake & Palmer described...”

 

There was a whisper of amusement on the line. Then, the show host brightened with certainty.

 

“I’m gonna call again, real soon, Rawd. Yer a funny old dude! I like listenin’ to yer voice. Take care, buddy! Y’all be good, and if ya can’t be good, at least be good at it!”

 

 

Kookshow, Chapter 4: Ringtone

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

By the end of June, I had drifted deeper into a personal funk between writing projects. Nothing seemed to hold my interest while enduring long, pointless days of household chores and sitting on my porch, with alcoholic refreshments. Each session at the desk was frustrating and fearful. I began to contemplate never again connecting with my wordsmithing muse. Something that rattled my brain. I felt sick and sorrowful, like an empty vessel, abandoned after its brief lifespan of purposeful existence had been served. When neighbors attempted to visit, I was cranky and overheated. Not just by the rising temperatures, but with friction created by opposite forces of desire and futility in eternal combat.

 

I managed to scribble out one poem, on a piece of notebook paper. That was my entire output for the week.

 

But while sitting outside, with a dollar-store fan blowing warm air, and a pair of cold cans in the holding box attached to my wooden bench, suddenly an odd bit of background noise was perceptible. A synthetic pinging that I did not immediately recognize. It repeated over and over, as if attempting to communicate some sort of important code that I needed to receive. I tried to concentrate on this ambient sound, but lingered in a haze of brewed hops and grains. My capacity to think and identify anything specific was muted by drink. Loud, diesel trucks were circling my village of mobile homes. A din of Pop Country tunes warbled from next door. Shouts of marital discord and parental discipline echoed freely. I could barely perceive the random element which had been introduced into this cacophony of blue-collar expression.

 

Then, an epiphany of sorts struck me between the eyes. What I was hearing turned out to be a ringtone delivered through the Messenger app on my cellular device. I recalled, slowly, that when my friend Janis had been unable to pay her phone bill, she could still use certain functions via social media platforms, to keep in touch. I would get video calls throughout the day and night, when she was stoned and bored at her ramshackle hovel by Lake Erie. A home that was over 100 years old, and looked to have been neglected since her grandmother passed away.

 

When I opened the application, there was a notice that someone wanted to talk in real time. After clicking on the icon, my screen lit up with the image of a youngish woman, bearing freckles, big eyes, and dyed, blonde pigtails. In my alcoholic stupor, I fumbled with the plastic wafer, almost dropping it on the floorboards.

 

“Hello? Hello? Janis? Did you get a makeover at your nursing home in Ashtabula?”

 

A giggle of disbelief crackled from the speaker.

 

“Y’all must be blitzed, Rawd! This ain’t yer chick from the funny farm, it’s me, Kookshow Baby! I got a hookup link from Tiffany DuFoe! How ‘bout that? She’s a good friend!”

 

I was stunned into silence. It took a moment to behold her pale skin, painted lips, and swelling, female curves.

 

“Umm, Kookshow? Really? This is totally unexpected...”

 

She spoke in breathy tones that tickled my ears.

 

“Y’all are silly as heck, Rawd! Of course it’s me! Didja think Tiff would forget? She said there’s an old dude out in Ohio, who was askin’ about you... not to be impolite there, cowboy, I hope y’all understand... and I thought, well, I might as well give ya a damn call!”

 

My pulse had spiked. I could feel blood pressure pounding in my temples.

 

“Okay, here’s my confession. I, umm... heard some of your Cult Radio A-Go-Go appearances, and went hunting for clues on the internet about your career. But there was nothing available. Nothing! No biography, nothing on the IMDb, or any radio website, not a single reference to your timeline. That intrigued me even more. And while searching, I happened to think that the sound of your voice, on-air, was... umm... quite appealing!”

 

More giggling came over the wireless connection.

 

“Why thank y’all, Rawd! That’s very charming to say. Yer a gentleman I think. I don’t meet enough men like that, these days!”

 

I was impulsive in letting my curiosity take over, despite trying to avoid moving too quickly.

 

“I’ve been wondering about your connection to Terry and Tiffany. Like, are you a tenant on their property? Do you have a trailer somewhere at the abandoned drive-in theater?”

 

A wordless pause elapsed before she responded. I must have accidentally breached her limit of polite banter between strangers.

 

“Y’all sure have a lot of questions in mind, Rawd...”

 

I put one hand over my mouth, feeling defensive and regretful.

 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry... I’m a retired journalist. My real job was in the newspaper business. I guess that makes me inquisitive. But those escapades are long gone. I’ve been unemployed for almost nine years. Book royalties and retirement money keeps me going. Otherwise, I write and drink, and sleep. That’s my whole routine.”

 

This burst of honesty seemed to register with the California immigrant.

 

“Alrighty then, I reckon yer okay. Tiffany said she and her dad have known y’all fer several years. I like to keep my privacy, ya know? That’s how a lady lives, if she’s smart. And by God, I’m a damn sharp operator...”

 

I nodded and reached for a beer while listening.

 

“Of course! Of course! My intention wasn’t to pry into details. I’ve just wondered about the connection. I know the CRAGG hosts came from Illinois, originally. But you’re a southern belle, so to speak. How did that happen? I’ve never heard them mention anything about being below the Mason-Dixon line.”

 

Another, more dramatic pause marked the need for careful introspection. Finally, a hum of contemplation resounded. And a deep breath to steady nerves that had begun to fray.

 

“Rawd, I figure Tiff has never told y’all much about my life, or our relationship as kids. Is that right? It’s nobody’s business, after all...”

 

I was embarrassed to the point of wishing we had never engaged in conversation.

 

“No, no, no! Of course not. Not a word about anything. As you say, it is nobody’s concern.”

 

Kookshow lowered her tone to the level of a whisper.

 

“Terry DuFoe was quite a feller in his younger days. He went on a jaunt through states like Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama, and Florida, talkin’ about Elvis at conventions and concerts. You know, gettin’ material fer that radio station in a cornfield, WLUV. He must’ve met dozens and dozens of women along the way. But one of those femme fatales was my mother, Harlequina Nash. She had the looks of a plantation princess, in the old south. At least that’s how I’ve heard her described by other people who weren’t so lucky to get a taste of her favor. Mom raised me on her own, but once I got old enough, I started a-lookin’ for my daddy! Even though he never knew I was born! It was one hell of a job at first, but the interweb thingy made it easier. I hunted his ass like a backwoods scout! I tracked him to the Midwest and then California, and then... bingo! I met him here at the drive-in, and realized that I had a gen-u-ine sister, for real!”

 

I was so shocked that foam dribbled from my shaggy beard. My arms hung limply, over both sides of the bench.

 

“And that’s how you ended up on the west coast? A southern kitty, who strayed far from home?”

 

She giggled until her mouth turned numb.

 

“Like ol’ Bill Murray once said in a movie, ‘That’s the fact, Jack!’”

Kookshow, Chapter 3: Contact

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

Pondering a face-to-face rendezvous with Kookshow Baby kept me on edge, while engaging in a daily ritual of imbibing alcoholic refreshments on the front porch. I rocked on my wooden bench with anticipation inspiring a sense of restlessness. Would it be logical to make a trek across the continent, by air? Or perhaps, to enjoy a more leisurely ride aboard an Amtrak train? These options popped into my head almost immediately, when pondering that the abandoned drive-in theater where Terry and Tiffany DuFoe lived was many hours away. Yet a nagging hint of sobriety diluted the effects of my libation. I remembered that household funds had already been sacrificed to pay bills for the month. With the remainder spent buying food and drink. Royalties from my book sales were automatically put back into the business, so that I could afford promotional copies to be sent out for the purpose of garnering interest from potential partners. Every penny had already been earmarked for some special use. So, the thought of traveling by commercial means did not seem possible.

 

Predictably, this heat of frustration only intensified the temperature outside of my trailer. It was 96 degrees when I opened my first Genesee brew.

 

While I was not particularly tech savvy by any means, it did appear that I could make contact with the media belle, via cyberspace, if some relevant information could be obtained. I guessed that her own mobile home might be located somewhere on the property used as a staging ground for Cult Radio A-Go-Go. Perhaps this longbox refuge might even have its own studio, in some minimalist form, constructed to make her broadcasting adventures easier to accomplish. Once again, I searched throughout the databases available in real-time. Yet found nothing. There were no Whitepages entries, no school records, no personal histories. I was completely stumped.

 

Yarl Trite, a New York associate with better skills as a computer operator, offered to help with my quest. But he too came up empty, after wading in the virtual ocean. I guessed that he must have spent several hours trying to prove his competence. Something I never doubted for a moment.

 

“You’re sure this lady exists, right? I mean, she must be using a stage name on the airwaves. Though you’d think there ought to be something out there, a website, an e-mail address, even an old-fashioned post office box, like yours. But I don’t have a clue about where she is... I get nothing for results. And I’m really, really good at this!”

 

I felt a knot forming in my stomach. Sweat soaked my longish hair, and shaggy beard.

 

“Yeah, I understand. There are show segments in an archive. All were originally on the CRAGG platform. That’s it though. She’s a mystery to me!”

 

My Empire State pal cleared his throat, and made a matter-of-fact observation.

 

“Look, if she did her work for your friends in California, why don’t you ask them how to get in touch? Wouldn’t that make more sense than wasting time and being disappointed?”

 

My face reddened with supreme embarrassment. He had hit the bullseye.

 

“You’re right, you’re right. Dad and daughter DuFoe would be able to hook me up, I reckon. Umm... maybe that just felt too much like being intellectually lazy. I handle things on my own, you know?”

 

Yarl laughed out loud. He was amused by this defensive proclamation.

 

“Quit being an ass, Rodman! Call them up! Or do whatever it takes. Do it tonight!”

 

After our brief conversation ended, I slouched in my seat. The heat index in Ohio was now well over 100 degrees. But I had turned numb while quenching my thirst. Crushed cans sat in an empty box, on top of my Weber grill. I had lost count of their number, and gone past a personal point-of-no-return with regard to comprehension. Still, the suggestion of my distant friend continued to reverberate. I knew his analysis was correct.

 

Though the hour had grown late in my part of the country, I realized that on the west coast, it would be early enough for an attempt at making civilized contact. With care and determination, I fumbled through the steps necessary to open Facebook Messenger on my cell phone. Then, sent a yellow emoji, with a single verse of Beatles lyrics, below.

 

“Help me if you can, I’m feeling down!”

 

Despite my fear about pleading for an intervention, it did not take long for Tiffany to respond, vocally. She sent a series of question marks, and a shrug emoji. Then offered to ease my woeful mood by calling directly.

 

“What’s wrong, Mr. Swindle? We don’t have another live show scheduled until Saturday. Did you think of an idea we might use, on the air?”

 

I babbled with the nervous energy of a schoolboy.

 

“I... umm... have been dreaming a lot recently. Of things that are quite weird, I must confess. These visions come in the dark of night, after I have passed out from long interludes on my beloved porch. Maybe it’s the effect of heat and drink, I’m not sure. Anyway, I receive the same visitor, nearly every night. Someone you know well, I think. She is brassy and bold, perhaps even bawdy at times. Yet the giddy inflections of her voice, with that rural twang, are damned infectious... I can’t get her out of my mind!”

 

For a moment, I thought that my west-coast benefactor had dropped her device. There were hushed words, whispers, and sounds of creaking furniture. Then, Tiffany snorted and whistled.

 

“Terry says you’ve been alone for too long! That kind of isolation isn’t healthy, to be honest.”

 

I reddened even more deeply than before.

 

“Yeah... my social circle has definitely diminished over the years. I get more accomplished that way. But in the wee hours past sunset, sometimes, I do feel haunted, and empty...”

 

The radio entrepreneur sighed heavily, before revealing that she could ease my heartache.

 

“If you want me to ask Kookshow about getting in touch, I’ll do it. But remember one thing Rod, the reality of a chase is rarely ever so satisfying when the run is over. Do you understand? That girl is headstrong. I don’t know of anyone who could tame her wild spirit. She’s young and free, and well... how old are you now?”

 

I had to clutch my belly. A bit temporary bout of nausea made me swoon.

 

“Old enough to know better, when I hear a siren’s call. Yet here I am, enchanted and under her spell!”

Kookshow, Chapter 2 – Obsession

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

After making my video confession about having a crush on Kookshow Baby, this episode faded quickly in memory. Because she was a character known only through broadcasts over the Cult Radio A-Go-Go platform, I did not linger on my impulsive confession. Like most of the videos recorded outside, while enjoying adult refreshments, it became simply a blip on the timeline. An odd detour from more important work. I went back to other writing projects, and even pondered composing new music. Something I had been wanting to do for several years, without the discipline to make this task bear fruit. Playing guitar was now a difficult chore, due to various forms of disability that had affected my life routine. In my head, melodies continued to appear. Yet translating those bursts of inspiration into recordable work was challenging. I found it easier to tap at the keyboard. Though the desire to sing and play remained strong.

 

I might have forgotten the radio belle completely, except for occasional dreams about meeting her in person. These flights of fantasy were strangely detailed and authentic. They permeated my consciousness, coming more and more frequently with the passage of weeks and months. Almost as if she were reaching out over the vast, psychic continuum to make contact. Each time that I beheld her curvy, long-legged profile, adorned in homespun, yet titillating garments, I flushed with shyness. Something that was impossible to explain, being long past an age of innocence. She had the quick wit and savvy of a feral feline, born into a world where women might be preyed upon, if not for their own resourcefulness. I liked that she was strong, but gentle. It made me think of frontier days, when family survival depended on vigilance, and determination.

 

Eventually, I remembered Tiffany DuFoe mentioning that appearances by this mysterious figure had been saved in a collection of shows, online. During a restless night in the summer, while fretting over heat and humidity, I sat at my desk and looked up the Internet Archive website. Strangely, being barely awake actually helped this process.

 

“Hold on to yer britches, y’all... cuz it’s pret-near time for... Trailer Trash A-Go-Go! That’s right y’all! I’m a-takin’ over! It’s time for Kookshow Baby’s Trailer Trash A Go-Go! Hey y’all, it’s your very own favorite little Kookshow Baby here! That’s right, it’s your favorite southern girl of the south, that’s here with the premiere episode of Trailer Trash A-Go-Go, for Cult TV A-Go-Go. One that I’m sure is gonna be the first of many here on this net-television station thingy... whatever they call it. Now, being a strong, independent woman as I am, and of course being a scream queen who is known for her brains and not just her, umm, other parts... if you do know what I mean, I have decided to decline the technical assistance that Terry and Tiffany from Cult Radio have offered to give me... but you know, I don’t think I have to worry about it, ‘cause y’all know that scream queens are immensely intelligent. I’m sure I can figure this whole interweb thing out...”

 

Still drifting through a fog of post-slumber, cranial incapacitation, I pecked weakly at the keys, while scrolling through search engines of all kinds. Kookshow? Kookshow Baby? Kookshow the Trailer Trash Queen? Kookshow, Friend of the DuFoes? Kookshow on the Radio? Kookshow A-Go-Go? Kookshow the Enchanting, Hayseed Hottie? Kookshow, the Undiscovered, Hee Haw Honey? None of these terms produced any results, other than what I had already discovered. I felt frustrated, and empty. My heart had begun to ache. A vibe not felt in many, many years.

 

Finally, I vocalized the agony that gripped my soul. Yowling with a tone of desperation that seemed to bubble up from the pit of my mortal self, like lava flowing over the rocky sides of an awakening volcano.

 

“WHO THE HELL IS KOOKSHOW BABYYYYYYYYYYY?”

 

Upon returning to the previous site where I had landed, more of the giggly, effusive charm that had caught my attention appeared. I hung on her every word. Her voice tickled my ears.

 

“Hey y’all, it’s me your little ol’ Kookshow Baby! I’ll bet y’all didn’t think you were gonna hear back from me this soon! Of course, y’all are loyal, Cult Radio A-Go-Go listeners. And if y’all have been listenin’ then you know I joined you just about, hmm, two months ago... I didn’t think that Terry and Tiffany from Cult Radio were gonna let me come back this soon. Oh, but guess what, apparently they decided that it was such good feedback... that maybe this little Kookshow is gonna get to come back more frequently...”

 

Dozing in my office chair, I slipped into a netherworld of wild images, floating in the ether. I remembered taking an airplane flight to Las Vegas, for my second honeymoon. Something that was wholly more satisfying than the actual marriage experience that followed. I saw visions of a deceased, great aunt who had lived in Apple Valley, California, where she was a hospital administrator. And a lost uncle, who had ditched the family brood over 25 years before. I knew he lived outside of San Francisco, and had often sent cards and letters to any address that seemed relevant, without getting a reply. But now, a new sense of immediacy had taken hold. I wanted to board a wide-winged, silver bird, and fly west. To the gold coast, and someone that I barely knew by any measure. A kindred spirit, who I reckoned was steeped in pop culture, movies, music, and art, like myself. A seeker of treasures, of tales, of unsolved riddles and forgotten fame. Someone who found observational humor in everyday experiences, like Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, or Jerry Seinfeld. But with the flair of Phyllis Diller, or the catty courage of Joan Rivers.

 

Mentally, my gray matter filled in blank pages left by fate. What I did not know about Kookshow Baby, I imagined from whole cloth. Like a redneck tailor, repurposing a T-shirt and denim trousers with a set of shears, until they framed the body of a budding, internet star. A woman gifted with grace of the sort found in blue-collar neighborhoods like my own. A village of mobile homes, in the northeast corner of Ohio. Where speaking freely was a gift not taken for granted. Where basic elements of living retained their worth. Where an outcast, disabled and alone, could flourish amid the social wreckage.

 

Meeting Kookshow, I guessed, would be like joining with my other half. A part of myself unknown until now. It was a gamble that saner minds might have found risky, and ill-advised.

 

But one that I was now prepared to take.

Kookshow, Chapter 1: Video

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

My name is Rodman Stockton Swindle. This is my story.

 

During my existence as a legitimate, human entity, I pursued life goals that were somewhat typical for a middle-class American, with a family background in education and literature. I worked dutifully as a business manager, to secure an income that would support my family. Though while doing so, I also pursued creative writing and music as areas of genuine interest. Eventually, I attempted to blend these efforts into a single, unified plan for achieving success. Yet my downfall was in stumbling upon chaotic relationships with naive regularity. Before the age of 50, I managed to rack up two painful divorces, lose both families, my home, career, and good name in the community. To cope with the darkness that followed, I turned to beverage alcohol. A strategy rooted in failure, but accessible and very familiar.

 

Like the subject of ‘There Stands the Glass’ which was first popularized by Country artist Webb Pierce, I knew the bottle well.

 

The lifestyle precipitated by this collapse was centered around living in a community of mobile homes known as Evergreen Estates. A place where the normal order of social progress had been upended by poverty, paranoia, and a crass sort of extreme patriotism. Symbols from our national history were displayed openly in this rural village, with different, modern-era meanings attached. Sometimes, it seemed that I had landed in a territory of the old south, a preserve still governed by platitudes of the Jefferson Davis Confederacy. But within the confines of my rustic, residence park, it was not General Robert E. Lee who held heroic status. Instead, it was a figure who sprang from the world of real estate, In New York, to become a Canon saint. One who later found popularity as a television personality.

 

Donald J. Trump was now and forever the king of my neighborhood.

 

I offer these truths not to instigate any sort of political or cultural debate, but simply for the purpose of orientation. This is how I live and where my life is centered emotionally. As an outcast by every definition, I have discovered that being present in the moment, or in a place such as my trailer enclave, is risky and dangerous. Sometimes, I vent the woes accrued over a long and meandering course with frightening honesty. When these outbursts happen, many who share my spot on the map are confused and befuddled. Their tendency to cling tightly like hornets in a hive only intensifies the frustration that I feel in sharing their space. When disturbed by contrarian views, they react with aggression. Their swarming causes a kind of uneasiness that drives me deeper into drink. Fortunately, over time, I have become known well enough that most of those who occupy surrounding plots of land simply keep their distance. I am left alone to imbibe liquor and brew, while wallowing in emptiness.

 

A few kindred souls remain in touch, to ease this willful isolation, though all are separated by great geographical distances. Oddly, the magic web of current technological advancement makes it possible to sit by myself, languishing in this black hole of sorts, while remaining fully connected. It is a conundrum that rules what is left of my mortal self. I use a cellular device to record brief episodes of porch wisdom, and then post these snippets to online sites such as YouTube or TikTok. The conflict between eschewing human contact, and embracing a potential audience of worldwide followers, is notable. It makes me ponder the instability of my intellectual plateau. A foundation not built upon solid rock.

 

In segments captured with my phone, I usually ruminate about elements of daily living. For example, the effects of aging on family members and friends, who have succumbed to various health issues in a way that is alarming and inescapable. Janis, David, and my younger brother are all in skilled-care facilities. My sister is in a Cleveland hospital, after cancer surgery. My brother-in-law is battling senile dementia, an affliction that plagued my mother before her passing some years ago. Though disabled by declining mobility, and a persistent madness that offends others, yet spurs creative projects, I have somehow been spared through the goodwill of a loving creator. I am independent and able to endure.

 

On one occasion, I even spoke about prayer. This venture into the subject of faith was not one undertaken casually. But I tried to opine with a broad view of spirituality not necessarily expressed within the guardrails of any official religious dogma. I wanted to give a testimony of what works for me, personally, without proselytizing.

 

All of these episodes were made possible by being emboldened with refreshments and solitude. Something very much in keeping with the habits of my junkyard oasis. The French philosopher Jean-Jaques Rousseau is often recognized for quipping that ‘a drunk mind speaks a sober heart.’ Which may not be truly accurate in terms of psychology, or the effect of chemical concoctions on the human mind. Yet for the purpose of sitting on my porch in Ohio, a few miles south of Lake Erie, this popular declaration serves a purpose. It explains why someone who is desperate to maintain anonymity would pierce that cocoon of safety, by raising an appeal to be heard.

 

In a blue-collar realm of longbox dwellings, pickup trucks, storage barns, and furniture made from discarded, wood pallets, this Gallic thinker might have tapped into the thought continuum like Nostradamus. Seeing what others could only imagine. Knowing what few could hope to perceive.

 

I was comfortable enough in having documented these flashes of inspiration for posterity. But on a recent night in June, something more complex resounded when I lifted my wireless wafer, and began to ramble, vocally. I confessed a secret affection for a character occasionally heard on Cult Radio A-Go-Go, a streaming platform with live shows featured. A product of Terry and Tiffany DuFoe, who do their work at an abandoned drive-in theater in California. The giggly, giddy voice of Kookshow Baby is one that has often resonated both in my brain, and heart. Her ability to host programs when the others were away struck me as marvelous and compelling. She projected an air of confidence unaffected by self-consciousness or hesitation. This belle of broadcasting quickly became a personal favorite. Yet I knew little about her professional work, or resume. A lyrical version of ‘Harper Valley P.T.A.’ was all that I had for evidence of her past glory.

 

Swooning a bit on my bench, outside, I parted the veil and confessed affinity for her folksy approach to radio theater. Then, in a moment of reckless honesty, I admitted having fantasized about embracing her gently, and tasting her ruddy, red lips with abandon. I reckoned they would be soft and sweet, like a comb of honey.

 

In the moment, having bared my soul did not seem so outrageous. But a day later, after coffee and toast in the morning, I replayed my impulsive video clip, and flushed with embarrassment. Regret shook my insides. I pondered deleting the segment to cover this interlude of unintended candor. But before doing so, I read a comment offered via Instagram by the CRAGG founders. One that soothed my fear of having overstepped boundaries, with a fool’s lack of good judgment.

 

“Sounds to us like you should write some Kookshow fan fiction! We talked to (her) and she said you have full permission to put out a Kookshow book...”

 

 

Libertarian No Kings Post 6-17-25

This is the best post regarding No Kings protests that I have seen so far.

- Editor