Kookshow, Chapter 15: Departure

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

On Sunday night, Kookshow Baby and I revisited our improv routine of bourbon, VHS tapes, and shared interests. This time, she invited me to join her in bed, which was yet another unexpected development. But upon waking in the morning, I was back on her davenport, under the saddle blanket. Apparently, my own inner gyroscope had stayed true to a course away from entanglements and temptations. Even though, while contemplating her natural beauty through a haze of high-proof liquor, I had been very much inclined to cross that boundary, with gusto.

 

A younger man would certainly have been overwhelmed with the prospect of snuggling next to such a fiery and fierce female, in close quarters. But upon looking in the mirror over her bathroom sink, I saw a ghastly, gray apparition instead of that youthful opportunist from yonder days. Stooped over with arthritic limbs, and appearing out-of-focus, due to failing eyesight and flagging stamina.

 

I had no right to take advantage of someone so lovely and unspoiled.

 

My free-spirited host was again at her stove, when I moved to the dining table. She had an 8-track cartridge of Slim Whitman yodeling from its under-cabinet perch. Her pigtails bounced gently, as she stirred a skillet of sausage gravy.

 

“Monday mornin’ was when yer buddy with the big-rig said he’d be back here at the abandoned drive-in, is that right?”

 

I cupped my hands around a fresh mug of coffee.

 

“That’s right. He didn’t give a specific time. Just said to be ready...”

 

Kookshow wiped a splash of flour from the end of her pointed nose.

 

“Well, I’ll just say this to that, Rawd. Y’all don’t have to leave to soon. I figure if ya want, we could all join forces here at Cult Radio A-Go-Go headquarters. Now, I don’t speak fer the DuFoes of course, but I’d lay money on there bein’ a place where ya would fit. I like the cut of yer jib, as my granny used to say!”

 

I hadn’t heard that expression used in many years.

 

“I appreciate your offer, most sincerely. But there’s a lot going on at home right now. As I said, plenty of loose ends left to be handled. Family issues, friend issues, I won’t bore you with details. Suffice it to say that lately, everyone I know seems to be in a hospital or a skilled-care facility. I am somehow in better shape than the rest, which might not be saying much, stumbling around with two disability canes. The irony of it is amusing though, in a dark way...”

 

The southern belle sighed loudly. She wiped a tear from her eye.

 

“Tiffany was right, Rawd. Yer one of us. I hate to think of ya bein’ stuck at that dump back in Ohio. I’ve lived in some hell-hole locales myself, when mama was strugglin’ to make ends meet. I know the drill. Life is a whole lot easier to take when y’all have somebody to share the ride. And to be honest, I haven’t trusted a man fer a long, long spell. But yer a different breed. I can feel it in my heart. Just like I knew that out there somewhere was a daddy that hoped I’d show up at his door, to say hello fer the first time!”

 

My jowls drooped a little. Yet I continued to sip coffee, and think.

 

“You feel something right now, maybe. In a week, or a month, or even a year, will it be the same? I have no clue. We definitely created a bond here, and I’m grateful for your hospitality. Count on me staying in touch. I’ll keep turning up, like a bad penny. Guaranteed...”

 

The scream queen giggled and stood up high, on her toes.

 

“Count on me! Gawdammit, men always say sappy shit like that. But y’all know how it usually turns out! Boots blazin’ and they’re outta Dodge!”

 

I reached across the space between us, with my right hand. The gesture made her pause, and go silent. My plea was given in earnest.

 

“Not this time. I swear on CRAGG the gargoyle. Not this time...”

 

Before she could respond, a rude sound of twin truck horns blasted through the trailer walls. My cargo carrier, Carter Polk III, had arrived on schedule.

 

Kookshow grabbed me with the forceful embrace of a lover bidding farewell to her soulmate.

 

“Ya handsome son-of-a-bitch! I’ve enjoyed these last couple of days. Like Jed Clampett used to say, ‘Ya’ll come back now, hear?’ Be strange if ya want, but don’t be a stranger!”

 

I had already stuffed my Army surplus rucksack with clothes and trinkets. But wished that there was more time for a hearty breakfast. Still, it made sense to travel light. A long journey across the continent awaited.

 

“Thank you, Ms. K! Say a prayer for the road, and its travelers...”

 

On the route back to Ohio, my professional associate did not have much to contribute. Perhaps that was due to the fatigue leftover from his work duties. Or maybe it was because I had stopped listening, miles before. In my head, a tune by the German group Yello kept repeating as if on an endless loop. I heard it over and over as we made our juggernaut over I-40, headed east.

 

“I told you lady

Take me for one day

Please don’t ask any questions

You know I can’t stay

 

I wish the wind was cold

I wanna hold you baby hold

Only in your arms I’m lost

Don’t look at me...

 

I know this is crazy

Let’s have a last drink

Don’t ask where I come from

And don’t ask what I think

I leave you, lady

Full of desire to stay

 

I wish the wind was cold

I wanna hold you baby hold

Only in your arms I’m lost

Don’t look at me...”

 

I must have been nodding to an unheard rhythm, because my partner at the steering wheel suddenly glanced sideways, and raised one eyebrow.

 

“What’s playin’ in there, dude? I can see that head boppin’ like there’s a song on tha iPod. Hah ha hahhhh! You’s an odd duck, but it’s all good!”

 

I shrugged without offering an answer. No explanation would have been descriptive enough to portray the conflicted emotions that were churning in the pit of my belly.

 

When we crossed the Colorado River, heartache took hold. I began to regret my decision. Yet I knew that my art was hanging in the balance. There were more stories to write, more tales to tell. That was still my mission.

 

Anything else was beside the point.

 

 

 

Kookshow, Chapter 14: Cleanup

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

After a hearty, traditional breakfast, my stomach felt full and satisfied. But when I got up to help my host clear her dining table and clean up the trailer kitchen, she squawked and pointed toward the chair where I had been sitting.

 

“Naw, naw, y’all just sit there and talk to me. I ain’t used to havin’ company, that’s a privilege, I reckon. Rest yer ass fer a minute!”

 

I shifted to a polite mode of deference by habit.

 

“Ma’am, I’m used to handling household chores on my own, after fifteen years of living alone...”

 

Her face flushed a bright shade of crimson. She nearly threw the dishcloth in my face.

 

“WHAT’D YA CALL ME? MA’AM? WELL LORDY BE, THAT’S A WORD FER GRANNIES, LITTLE KIDS, AND PREACHERS, Y’ALL DON’T GOTTA BE FORMAL WITH ME, RAWD! WE’RE BUDDIES NOW, OKAY?”

 

I slouched in the seat, with my head drooping.

 

“Umm... sorry. Despite my life experiences, I grew up with Appalachian traditions...”

 

Kookshow giggled and splashed foam in my direction.

 

“Look, I got all that teachin’ in my head too. But y’all can relax, this ain’t a Sunday School class. It’s a damn pleasure to have a man in my crib. Maybe folks think that I get to see all sorts of famous people, and rub elbows with celebrities. But actually, it’s kinda dull here a lot of the time. Work, work, work, ya know? Terry and Tiffany don’t charge me any lot rent to stay at the abandoned drive-in, so I help out whenever I can. That’s how mama and my granny raised me. Fair is fair!”

 

I nodded in agreement, while sipping the last of my coffee.

 

“Of course...”

 

My host wiggled her curvaceous hindquarters, unselfconsciously, while doing the dishes.

 

“So, what I’ve been a-wonderin’ is, have y’all ever thought about gettin’ out of Ohio? I mean, the DuFoe family headed west, out of Illinois. I came here from the southern states. A lot of us in California are from somewhere else. It’s given us a better way of livin’ than we had before. I hear ya talkin’ about lonely days in that mobile home of yers, by Lake Erie. And I know that y’all must wanna get into the fast lane sometimes. Them neighbors ya talk about ain’t disposed to understandin’ how ya think. Or what ya write. Y’all are an alien in that run-down park, I know it without ever settin’ foot in the Midwest!”

 

Her words resonated deeply. I had to sigh heavily, before answering.

 

“Yes, yes I am...”

 

Kookshow gestured with a yellow, rubber glove, and a soap sponge.

 

“Now I’m not tryin’ to hit on yer ass, don’t take it the wrong way, but I figure y’all could stay here until we find a second trailer bungalow for this property. I bet ya’d fit right in here, with the cats and collections, and visitors showin’ up for a taste of Cult Radio publicity!”

 

I had to hold my breath while listening. Her invitation wasn’t something I expected to hear.

 

“Well, I don’t know what to say, honestly...”

 

Suddenly, she fell into my lap. Her sweet, ruby-red lips pressed against mine. I started to tremble as if a heart attack was imminent.

 

“Say yes, Rawd. Say yes!”

 

For a moment, temptation erased all of my inhibitions. It reverberated in my temples. It pounded like a doorknocker, on the inside of my skull. I fantasized romantically about this new associate, in her crop top and denim shorts, legs akimbo, messy hair flying in the breeze of a summer day. With all her feminine charms tumbling over me as I sat in a field, playing guitar. The luscious purr of her voice tickled my ears. I was on the crest of an emotional cascade, falling into a foolish, impulsive, flight of fancy that would swallow me with waves of need, want, and desire. A luxury that I didn’t deserve, and could not justify taking for myself, as an old, disabled hermit, who had been temporarily liberated from his cage on wheels.  

 

I could see that her suggestion was spoken with honesty. It came without conditions or pretenses. But I knew that too many issues remained with my own, humble existence in the Buckeye State. I could not yet commit a jailbreak from that familiar paradigm. The environment I loathed, however dark and dank, and disgusting, had shaped my art. It had given me prowess at the keyboard never before distilled from any other experience. It made my work vital, and immediate. It caused my pulse to quicken with the lure of every unfilled page, waiting to be made useful. It forced me into a corral of discipline and intensity that lazy days of silent angst never witnessed.

 

I wanted to match her purity with a sample of my own. Yet took a less courageous course toward gentle diplomacy. In effect, I lied convincingly. Either she didn’t notice, or perhaps, the true intent of my deception was enough, for the moment.

 

“It’s a brilliant offer. Hard to refuse, for certain. But I’ve got many loose ends left untied. Leaving would be a process, not just an event...”

 

Kookshow hissed through her teeth, while grinning.

 

“Horsepoop! Y’all are a gawdamm chicken, Rawd! If Terry had been like that, he’d never have gotten all the way to SoCal and the life he leads, right now! He’s king of a little empire, and that woulda never happened at WLUV, the radio station in a cornfield! Sometines, ya gotta think big! Get it? Y’all have to gamble a little bit, or fold yer cards. I don’t think ya look like the type to rest on yer haunches, and stay stuck on one spot. Especially when there’s a chance to fly free! Whatever the case though, just remember. There’s a way out, if y’all want it. Ya kin put yer boots under my bed, anytime!”

 

My face was burning like hot coals in a Weber, kettle grill. Everything came back from memory, as I pondered. Both divorces, my career collapse, social alienation, poverty, disability, and finally, a tumble into the pit of agony that eventually spat me out as someone stronger, smarter, and more complete as a creative wordsmith.

 

“In the words of Elvis, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much...’”

 

 

Kookshow, Chapter 13: Breakfast

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

Sleeping on the couch was something I used to do occasionally as a child, when visiting relatives with limited bedroom capacity. Or later, during periods of marital discord, when my presence at home was not celebrated. After a forced retirement from regular work shattered my life routine, I sometimes landed in the living room out of sheer convenience. But in recent years, I had not engaged in this practice. Still, there was a measure of comfort in getting to embark on a vacation of sorts, and reviving such impulsive habits for fun.

 

On Sunday morning, I awakened to the aroma of fresh coffee, a sizzling of eggs and bacon in the skillet, and a warm glow of biscuits baking in the oven. Upon opening my eyes, it took a minute to get mentally focused. I was in California, at the abandoned drive-in, with a female host who knew much about southern traditions that had shaped my own childhood. As a son of Appalachia, I still sometimes yearned for church dinners, and the fellowship of like-minded neighbors, gathered to celebrate their unity. Though my own anti-social progression had put me far away from those pleasures. Yet the tasty tickling in my nose was invigorating. I sat up against an arm of the vintage sofa, scratched my shaggy facial hair, and yawned loudly.

 

“How long did we sort through your VHS stash, last night? I lost track of things after the first cycle chase in Outlaw Riders...”

 

Kookshow turned from her spot at the stove, and gestured with a metal spatula while grinning.

 

“Y’all are a damn candyass, Rawd! I coulda watched a couple more shows. But that’s alright, I reckon it was late enough to hit the hay. I covered yer beer belly with a saddle blanket. It seemed to keep ya comfy. I must say that it’s a privilege to have a gentleman in this trailer. I didn’t hear a peep out of y’all after we finished our TV party! Men like that don’t get born much, anymore! Not out here, anyway!”

 

I was still slightly disoriented.

 

“Gentleman? Well, yes. Thank you...”

 

The radio belle returned to her culinary projects, while chattering about chores on the property.

 

“I been up fer a spell, already. The cats needed fed over at Terry and Tiffany’s house. Not sure when they’ll be back. Then I took care of the strays outside, there are a few that hang around. I did some waterin’ too, they got flowers around the main building. Y’all might say I’m kinda the caretaker here, besides doin’ production tasks and maybe a program of my own, now and then, on the air.”

 

My face was burning as the blood flow returned.

 

“Wow, that sounds like a busy schedule! It’s good to stay in motion though. I try to maintain a similar routine, at home in Ohio. Being at Evergreen Estates is like residing in a junkyard. As if I pitched a tent in a pool of motor oil, in between stacks of wood pallets. The only way to maintain my sanity is to stay preoccupied with other things. If I linger on thoughts of my real-world plight, a thirst for alcohol and oblivion becomes overwhelming...”

 

While cooking, my host switched on a Radio Shack, 8-track player that had been installed under a cabinet by her kitchen window. She twisted the volume knob, and began to hum along with Johnny Cash.

 

“Well, I woke up Sunday morning

With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt

And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad

So I had one more for dessert

 

Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes

And found my cleanest dirty shirt

And I shaved my face and combed my hair

And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day

 

I’d smoked my brain the night before on

Cigarettes and songs that we were pickin’

But I lit my first and watched a small kid

Cussin’ at a can that he was kicking

 

Then I crossed the empty street

And caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin’ chicken

And it took me back to somethin’

That I’d lost somehow, somewhere along the way

 

On the Sunday morning sidewalks

Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned

‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday

Makes a body feel alone

 

And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’

Half as lonesome as the sound

On the sleepin’ city sidewalks

Sunday mornin’ comin’ down...”

 

I had to wipe a tear from my cheek.

 

“Yeah, that has always been a personal favorite. I sometimes play it on my phone while sitting outside with a mug of java, on the weekend. The version by Johnny Paycheck is my favorite, for whatever reason. Kris Kristofferson wrote it though...”

 

Kookshow reacted with surprise over my comment.

 

“Y’all are a Paycheck fan? I figured ya more for bein’ a Rock & Roll kinda dude. I mean, because of yer friendship with Davie Allan, and all that. I guess yer a little bit hillbilly at heart!”

 

I laughed and moved to a chair at her dinner table, thumping along with my cane.

 

“Something clicked years ago. I’ve always liked his melodies and vocal inflections, which reminded me of George Jones. I later discovered that they performed together as younger men. I have a solid collection of vinyl records from Mr. Lytle’s career. Even early LPs on the Little Darlin’ label. When I lived in New York, friends were amused that I listened to that kind of music. They considered it to be rather lowbrow and dirty...”

 

My pigtailed compadre stomped her foot and swore.

 

“THE HELL THEY DID! WELL THOSE KINDA FOLKS WITH THEIR NOSES IN THE AIR KIN KISS MY BUBBLE BUTT, TWO TIMES! CHEEK TO CHEEK!”

 

She poured a round of hot brew in my cup, and then fiddled with the outdated stereo, again.

 

“I inherited all of granny’s tapes when she passed. That woman drove a Chevy Suburban with bald tires, a gasoline leak, and a cracked windshield. But by God, it got us to Sunday services at the Pentecostal meetin’ house, and to school, and wherever else we needed to go. Every time I hear that chunk-chunk sound of an 8-track goin’ in the slot, I think of her! Yes, yes, yes I do! Amen, Rosa Dee!”

 

 

Kookshow, Chapter 12: Inebriation

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

I had not consumed hard liquor in several years. So, when Kookshow Baby began to raid her cabinets, for those kinds of strong libations, the sight of crystal bottles and drink glasses made me slightly uneasy. After retirement, I had continued to enjoy the taste of a brew on my front porch, during the afternoon and evening. But otherwise, limited my recreational refreshments in the interest of staying vertical. A fall in my living room had required an EMT crew to help get me off of the carpet. Something that was both embarrassing, and chastening, at the same time. A pledge of semi-temperance kept me grounded in good practices.

 

I did not want to slide back into dependency.

 

For a moment, I wondered about her intentions. But this mood of uncertainty passed quickly as she also began to sort through her collection of VHS tapes. In each stack, I saw titles that were familiar. Yet many of her movies and shows were so rare as to be completely unknown.

 

“Y’all kin help me go through these things, I’ll pick one and then it’s yer turn. We’ll trade off all night. How’s that sound, Rawd?”

 

I was intrigued by her suggestion.

 

“Yeah... okay... yeah! That’ll do it! I’m down for a good kettle of popcorn!”

 

Her first selection was ‘The Alligator People’ from 1959, a movie directed by Roy Del Ruth. I recalled seeing it once via my Roku, on some oddball channel. Starring were Beverly Garland, Bruce Bennett, and Lon Chaney, Jr. My new associate howled and whistled throughout the replay.

 

“This one always gets my skin crawling, it’s cheesy as heck, but mighty fun to watch! Those gator heads freaked me out as a little girl!”

 

When the time came for me to make a selection, I noticed that she had a comp of ‘Dangerous Assignment’ episodes with Brian Donlevy. A series directed by Bill Karn, that had begun on radio, and transferred to television as the medium grew in popularity. Having originally aired in 1951-52, they were primitive by modern standards, but full of vintage appeal. I could not help gushing praise while we watched.

 

“I used to see these on a channel called ‘24/7 Retro.’ They ran lots of early productions, like ‘The Public Defender’ with Reed Hadley, and ‘Lock-Up’ with Macdonald Carey. Even Beverly Garland whom we just saw, as an undercover cop in ‘Decoy’ from 1957-58. I really liked that one, it was unusual at the time to see a woman in such a role...”

 

Kookshow was wide-eyed and spellbound.

 

“Damnnnn, I never got around to seein’ that show. I’ll have to pick up a copy somewhere!”

 

Her next choice was ‘Frankenstein Meets the Space Monster’ from 1965, directed by Robert Gaffney. Featuring James Karen, Marilyn Hanold, Robert Reilly, and Lou Cutell. A trashy bit of cinematic abandon that I had seen as a young kid. My host howled with laughter despite the chaos being depicted.

 

“Everybody gets blowed up in the end, doggone it! What a mess! I think the android is kinda handsome though, even with only half of his face!”

 

Sorting through her video treasures, I discovered another compilation of early television gems.  Specifically, a retrospective of Boston Blackie, the Ziv series with Kent Taylor, Lois Collier, and Frank Orth. Because it ran from 1951-53, the production had been largely forgotten by the time I was born. Yet as with other favorites, I had managed to view reruns on my Roku.

 

“The dog’s name was Whitey. I got a chuckle out of that. But the formal introduction stayed in my mind, ever after. It was delivered by a dude at a newspaper stand. ‘Danger! Excitement! Adventure! Boston Blackie – Enemy to those who make him an enemy. Friend to those who have no friends. That’s Boston Blackie, and he’s quite a guy!”

 

The southern belle snickered at my dramatic interpretation.

 

“Y’all shoulda been on the air like Terry DuFoe. I like the sound of yer voice, Rawd!”

 

Next, we watched a black-and-white print of ‘Alphaville’ from 1965, which was directed by Jean-Luc Godard and starred Eddie Constantine. I had seen it once because of my Channel 13 co-host Manic McManus, who was a member of the Cornell University Film Club. It was stark and somewhat shocking for those of us who were more familiar with traditional works of science fiction. Yet debate over its merits has lasted for generations.

 

Kookshow wrinkled her nose while watching.

 

“I never have figured it out, y’all. Was he makin’ a damn joke, or what? Was it supposed to be a spoof of regular stuff? It’s a mystery to me, boy!”

 

I reflected on getting my friend Janis to sit through a showing of ‘Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!’

 

“That was how my erstwhile friend in Ohio reacted to seeing Tura Satana and her gang on the big screen. She sat in silence throughout the movie. Then exclaimed defiantly, after it had concluded, ‘That sucked!’ Her reaction made me chortle and grin. It did not resonate with her at all...”

 

By that point in our session, it was long after dark, and the wash of bourbon had sapped my endurance. I fell backward on her sofa, and began to snore lightly. She however, was still perky and motivated. The contrast between us caused friction that I did not welcome. Yet I was fading quickly. She tapped her long, red nails on the wooden, console TV.

 

“Alrighty, old man. I get it, y’all don’t have the juice to keep on keepin’ on. Just one more tape, and then I’ll hit the hay. Is that a deal?”

 

My eyelids were dropping. I had no energy left to argue.

 

“Yeah, okay...”

 

She had reached the bottom of a pile leaning against her white-brick, faux fireplace, when a colorful package appeared with the illustration of motorcycle gangs in combat. The title of ‘Outlaw Riders’ blazed in a red script.

 

“I’ve never played this one, Rawd! It says the thing was directed by Tony Huston and stars Bryan West, Darlene Duralia, and William Bonner. Who the hell are they?”

 

Her question was out of my league. But I remembered that my friend Paul Race in New York had been a fan of the soundtrack, even without ever seeing the movie.

 

“I’ve got that album on vinyl... it’s a killer document of Hard Rock music, despite being so obscure. I think it came out in 1971...”

 

Both of us fell asleep as the VHS cartridge worked its magic. I entered oblivion with traces of whiskey still lingering in my beard. Morning would bring a new day, and a discussion about what to do when my scheduled departure was at hand.

 

For the first time, I actually considered ditching my return trip to the Buckeye State.

 

Kookshow, Chapter 11: Music

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

Discussing movies and television programs with Kookshow Baby was definitely something that I expected. Through the magic of Cult Radio A-Go-Go streams, I had gained much insight into the world of filmmaking and script writing. But after the first round of our discussion had reached a natural conclusion, she changed direction by posing a query about my tastes in popular music.

 

“Okay Rawd, I saw on yer social media pages that ya collect old records. What kind of stuff tickles yer fancy? What d’ya really like?”

 

Her question was one that could not be answered in narrow terms.

 

“I umm... grew up in a family of songbirds, to be quite honest. There were amateur performers on both sides. My father played various instruments, and had a diverse library of vinyl platters, from genres of Folk, Blues, Country & Western, Gospel, Classical, Jazz, even early Rock & Roll. I listened to all of that as a child...”

 

She brightened at my open-minded perspective.

 

“Yeah, I mostly like the old-timey, hillbilly tunes, or stars of the Grand Ole opry, ya know? It’s part of how I grew up. My momma was a big fan of Hank Williams Sr., Porter Wagoner, George Jones, Loretta and Dolly and Tammy Wynette. All them down-home pickers and singers!”

 

I smiled broadly in response.

 

“The modern evolution of Country Music leaves me cold. It is barely rural, and definitely not very creative. There are a few artists I like out of the mainstream though, Redneck G. Reece and Junior Brown. My second wife was a fan of that poppy stuff, as are my neighbors back in Ohio. I take the stance that a blue-collar ethos built the artistic timeline. Subjects of hard work, drinking, divorce, and going to jail still resonate. That’s what I want to hear when I drop the needle on a record that supposedly comes from earthy, backwoods people!”

 

Kookshow grinned and giggled at this strong, cultural opinion.

 

“Y’all are a purist, it sounds like. I can go with that way of thinkin’! So, what about the other kinds of music? Tiffany said yer a friend and a fan of Davie Allan, the biker movie guitarist?”

 

I nodded proudly.

 

“That’s right. We connected accidentally, when I ordered CDs by mail from his website. I included a brief thought about what his soundtrack LPs had meant to me as a teenager, and he responded with a personal letter! I was shocked of course. It never occurred to me that he would be processing orders, himself. Later, I wrote liner notes for one of his releases, Fuzz for the Holidays, Volume 2. He has sent me all sorts of releases and promotional items, over the years. Posters, T-shirts, and other tchotchkes...”

 

My southern host was impressed. She stroked her pigtails while thinking.

 

“Gawdamm, Rawd! That sounds like one hell of a collection. Y’all should go over to the main house, Terry and Tiffany have a boatload of artifacts from their career. More collectible junk than I’ve ever seen before, anywhere!”

 

I agreed with her suggestion.

 

“Tiff sent another text message in the last hour. She is staying in Los Angeles for the night. Terry had to be admitted to the hospital, so they could do some kind of procedure...”

 

Kookshow frowned and curled her bottom lip.

 

“Well thunderation! That’s a bite in the ass. I was hopin’ we could all spend some time together while yer here. I owe her a ton, she’s been the best surprise sister anybody coulda wanted! I think Terry’s head is still spinnin’ about havin’ found an extra daughter. But they’re both busy with CRAGG, ya know. It’s a full-time job runnin’ all those networks and puttin’ together shows! Speakin’ of which, she told me that y’all once did yer own TV program, in New York?”

 

I felt incredibly shy, but forced myself to reminisce for her benefit.

 

“Yeah, my family moved to the Finger Lakes Region in 1978. I got an opportunity to join an apprenticeship program through Cornell University. It was for the purpose of learning about how broadcasts were made and distributed. But being a young kid at the time, I took that opportunity to express angst and rebellion in front of a live audience. It shocked and horrified my parents, particularly my father, because he was a Christian pastor. Older volunteers who had graduated already loved my stream-of-consciousness performances. But we attracted police attention at the studio, and also at my home...”

 

The scream queen chortled and cheered. She pumped her right fist in the air.

 

“Hahaha, there y’all go! Stick it to ‘em, boy! Let the po-lice go kick rocks! I bet that was a good damn time!”

 

I remembered the chaos and creativity we evoked, coming in equal measures.

 

“My show had an audience on hand that grew larger with every week. Eventually, it became necessary to think about security. But of course, I didn’t believe it was a genuine concern. During one episode, a student reveler stepped forward, handed me a liquor bottle, and invited me to partake on the air. I tiled it upward and took a swallow, handed it back to him, and kept going like Chuck Barris on the Gong Show. That got us sanctioned because there were rules about showing alcohol during a broadcast, apparently. And, I was underage at the time...”

 

Kookshow busted out with a belly laugh that made her whole body tremble.

 

“HAW HAW HAW, THAT’S A HOOT, RAWD!”

 

My head dipped while pondering the recollections. I reflected on being emotionally exhausted when the project ended.

 

“I hosted for 13 months. January of 1979 through February of 1980. We did everything. Every idea, no matter how insane, was translated into a live skit. We even brought our channel coordinator’s VW Beetle into the studio. That took some effort, as it was a confined space. At the conclusion, I was spent. Fighting with city officials, Channel 13 management, and my family at home, took a toll on me. Afterward, I spent years trying to process what happened...”

 

She whistled with disbelief.

 

“So, what did happen? What’d y’all make of it as an adult?”

 

I sighed heavily, and closed my eyes.

 

“It ended up being the most important thing I ever did, to date. It redirected the course of my life. If not for that explosion of dark energy, I might’ve followed my father on his spiritual journey. That course correction hurt our relationship for years to come...”

 

Kookshow looked somewhat sad. She had not expected my tale to end on a sour note.

 

“And that was it? Y’all never made up, again?”

 

I shook my head and groaned.

 

“It took time, but we had one connection that was never cut. I picked up the craft of writing from his example. Ultimately, that soothed the discord between us. He appreciated that I was carrying on at least part of his legacy...”

 

Unexpectedly, my temporary benefactor turned to her kitchen cabinets, and produced a bottle of bourbon, and shot glasses. She had an ornery look of defiance in her eyes.

 

“Okay man, we’ve chewed the fat fer long enough. Since you’n me both have roots in Appalachia, I think it’s about time we put on a real hootenanny! I’m gonna fire up the stereo, and we’ll have a 45 rpm, American Hot Wax, listenin’ party! Whatta ya think of that?”

Kookshow, Chapter 10: Movies

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

Kookshow Baby lived in a 1971 Schult mobile home, with a glorious bay window at the front end. Though I had seen similar trailers at Evergreen Estates, they were not in such pristine condition. The prevailing weather patterns in Ohio, along with a constant turnover of park residents, meant that older dwellings such as hers were generally trashed in my own neighborhood. So, I had to take pictures with my cell phone, while walking the perimeter of her makeshift lot, as a keepsake. On her front deck, I noticed a vintage thermometer hanging next to a small window by the entrance. It was one I had often wanted to find at a local flea market, thrift store, or yard sale. Called ‘The Original Jumbo Dial’ it carried a roadrunner design that made me think of watching Warner Brothers cartoons as a kid, with Wile E. Coyote. But despite being manufactured by the Ohio Thermometer Company, I had never managed to find one in my home state.

 

The inside furnishings and accessories were in keeping with what I expected. It appeared that the southern belle had left her living space much as it must have been, when occupied by previous members of the family. Wood paneling covered the walls. An oversized, console television sat in between floor lamps with vintage shades. The couch and loveseat were upholstered with fabric dyed in western colors. A suspended wagon wheel hung over the kitchen table, with festive lights all around. There were vinyl records, books and magazines everywhere. But more than anything, I noted a collection of VHS tapes, old videodiscs, and DVDs that seemed to have outgrown its original spot. They were strewn randomly around the living space, as if my host was constantly reviewing movies and television shows, for hire.

 

Kookshow giggled at my curiosity about her stash. She crossed her long legs, sitting on the sofa, and quizzed me about my tastes in entertainment.

 

“Alrighty, Rawd, what kind of things d’ya like to watch? If yer a Cult Radio fan, that’s got to mean y’all like all kinds of stuff off-the-beaten-path!”

 

I cleared my throat, and sat up straight in her recliner.

 

“Umm... well... I’m less of a film connoisseur than you might believe. Most people probably watch more of everything than I do... there are a few that stick in my mind though, for example, Psychomania, the British motorcycle thriller directed by Don Sharp. What I believe was the final appearance by George Sanders, he committed suicide after filming was completed. Nicky Henson plays the main character. And it has a killer soundtrack by John Cameron. It’s a cheesy flop of a cinematic statement, yet I pull it out every year on Halloween. I discovered it on a late broadcast from a New York City station, while I lived in the Finger Lakes...”

 

She snorted and wheezed with amusement.

 

“That one where the bike riders kill themselves and come back from the dead? Haw haw, what a hoot that was! Silly stuff! At least y’all must have a sense of humor!”

 

I nodded with agreement.

 

“Seeing the gang on their Limey two-wheelers resonated with me, as I grew up hearing stories about such motors from my father. He had a Norton Dominator twin and also a BSA Lightning. In addition to various Harley-Davidsons, Indians, and even an early Honda CB77, the Super Hawk...”

 

Kookshow chewed her lip, and raised an eyebrow.

 

“So, what else tickles yer innards?”

 

I had to ponder a bit to think of something she might find interesting.

 

“Another couple of movies discovered late at night were the Trinity westerns, with Bud Spencer and Terrence Hill. They Call Me Trinity, and Trinity Is Still My Name. Those are spaghetti classics. Lots of physical comedy, and fun music from the period...”

 

The scream queen tilted her head to one side, and frowned.

 

“What about TV? Ain’t y’all a fan of the small screen?”

 

I felt like a novice attempting to compete with a seasoned member of the press.

 

“I still watch pro wrestling, a habit picked up from one of my uncles who lived in West Virginia, and worked as a professional baker. The circus fakery, boasting promos, and acrobatics keep me paying attention. But just the other day, someone mentioned Quark with Richard Benjamin in a Facebook post. I actually loved that program, as a high school student. It spoofed the Star Trek paradigms, I thought... created by Buck Henry, who helped write Get Smart...”

 

My confession had her breathless. She grinned and whistled as I turned pale.

 

“Wrasslin’? Y’all really watch wrasslin’? My goodness, that’s fer kids, Rawd! A bunch of beefy dudes throwin’ their weight around in the ring! Each one tryin’ to sound tougher than the others, and all of ‘em lookin’ like goobers, for sure!”

 

I shrugged and lowered my head in contemplation.

 

“My favorite part is watching... umm... the femme fatales in spandex make their jumps and flips and such. As a matter of fact, I connected with Jeanne Basone thanks to a CRAGG episode, she was Hollywood on the old GLOW series, the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling...”

 

Kookshow nearly spilled her sweet tea on the shag carpeting.

 

“Gawdamm, yer still a little boy at heart! Haw haw haw!”

 

“I’ve been living alone for 15 years, maybe that has contributed to my fascination with the genre, not sure. Not having the drama of a relationship has been fantastic, however...”

 

My benefactor narrowed her eyes, and gestured toward a stack of tapes on the floor, waiting to be reviewed.

 

“I help Terry and Tiffany go through the pile every week. We get a dang poopload of movies here, from little studios hawkin’ their work, and collectors sharing favorites. So, there’s bound to be something y’all would like to see. Hang around here long enough, and yer gonna soak up some interesting atmospherical craziness. It comes with the dang territory!”

 

I was intrigued by her invitation. For a moment, I actually forgot that my trucker associate would be ready to leave again, on Monday morning.

 

“I’ve got plenty of insane influencers back in Ohio. But the kind you describe sound a lot more appealing!”

 

 

 

Kookshow, Chapter 9: Arrival

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

After traversing the entire continental United States, being dropped off at the abandoned drive-in where Cult Radio was located overwhelmed my senses. I stood in front of the main compound, a hillside fortress, still teetering on twin disability canes. The horizon beyond was literally stunning to contemplate. I blinked several times to be certain that what lay before my eyes had not sprung from a haze of alcoholic abandon. Then, I made my approach with slow and deliberate steps. I breathed heavily and deeply, while knocking. The California sun bathed me in a warm glow of golden light. An undeniable feeling of accomplishment settled on my shoulders. I had done what only days ago, seemed generally impossible.

 

Yet after standing at the front door, for several minutes, I realized that no one was home. Except perhaps, for Kookshow Baby.

 

At some point, a text message had been delivered to my cell phone. But I missed the ping of notification, while beholding my new environment. Upon reading the short apology, everything made sense. Though I clutched at my belly while experiencing pangs of uneasiness over having to meet the pigtailed, southern belle on my own.

 

“Rod – I left to take Terry to a doctor appointment in Los Angeles. It slipped my mind that he had a visit scheduled, right when you and your trucker wingman were arriving. But don’t fret about it, Ms. Kook is in her trailer by the old concession stand. You’ll see it past the rows of parking spaces and movie speakers. Don’t be shy, you didn’t need me to hold your hand anyway! I’ll see you in a couple of hours...”

 

I had begun to sweat profusely. The mobile home was easy to locate, sitting on a concrete slab that must have been previously used for one of the theater outbuildings. Yet I was trembling on the short trek toward that longbox dwelling. My knees felt stiff and weak. What if she thought I looked too old or maybe, too rough and sloppy for her liking? I felt certain that she had attracted many suitors since leaving her rural birthplace. I guessed that most were typical for such parts of the country, good with their hands, skilled at using firearms and primitive tools, or hunting and fishing. But I suspected that she must have developed a sort of sophistication while living in the atmosphere of DuFoe Entertainment. I needed to be more clever, more interesting, more unique to hold her attention. Otherwise, I might be banished with a wink of her eye. Like chaff flying in the wind, being sorted out from useful seeds and grains. I did not want her to think I was boring, or useless, by any measure.

 

I concluded that she would never, ever want to be bored.

 

In younger days, I might have walked to her trailer easily. Yet now, with arthritic limbs and joints, I struggled to span that distance with dignity. Once or twice, I nearly toppled over clumped weeds or cracks in the pavement. Eventually however, I found myself at her entryway, looking somewhat disheveled and dusty. I had neglected to bring her flowers or chocolates, or a gift of any kind. Though there was no need to inject a romantic gesture into our meeting. We were, I thought, kindred spirits. Both fans of pop culture and rebellious arts. That bond could make us friends forever, if nothing else. To dream of more was understandable, particularly for an old man , twice divorced and socially hobbled. But it was not necessary.

 

I hoped for some good conversation, and a sharing of interests. That alone would be enough.

 

The sound of my footsteps and cane thumps on her landing must have been clumsy and odd. Because before I could rap on the outside wall, she opened her door with a forceful tug. Our eyes met with a mutual moment of shock and surprise. Then, she shrieked and laughed at my ungroomed appearance.

 

“Gawdamm, Rawd! Y’all look like an extra on the set of Easy Rider! C’mon in, buddy! I got a pitcher of sweet tea chillin’ in the fridge!”

 

She exuded the humble charm of an old-time star on the Nashville stage. Her braids were long and tight, a compliment to her tanned, freckled face. She stood tall on long legs barely covered by Daisy Duke shorts. A minimal sheath of denim that let her toned physique shine brightly. She was busty and curvy, and had nails painted in red, like her budding lips. Her breath teased my nose, with a sweet aroma of summer refreshments. Though I suspected that somewhere in her cupboards, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s or Jim Beam was waiting to spice up her homemade brew.

 

I sat in a plaid, swivel rocker that looked as if it had once belonged to her grandmother.

 

“It’s a pleasure to finally see you in person, I have to say. Forgive me if I’m out of words at the moment, otherwise...”

 

The program host giggled and twisted her hair, playfully.

 

“Now I get it, y’all are the spittin’ image of Grizzly Adams! Well, almost. When’s the last time ya had a haircut, friend?”

 

I cringed slightly while trying to recall.

 

“Umm... probably right before the Covid lockdown in Ohio. What year was that?”

 

She chortled and spit.

 

“Hee hee hee, that’s about what I figured! No worries though, I like a dude who kin carry off that kinda style. Where I was raised, people don’t care too much about all these modern trends and things. Hell, a couple of my uncles still rock the Mullet! Them fellers are covered in tattoos. They don’t give a shit about what anybody thinks!”

 

I nodded and remembered my chauffer in the 18-wheeler.

 

“Yeah, the guy who brought me here looks something like that. Those people are still out there...”

 

Kookshow fiddled with dandelions arranged in a Mason jar of fresh water, on her kitchen windowsill.

 

“I like simple pleasures and old movies. And I guess, old souls. Y’all know what I mean? Folks that’ve seen a thing or two. Keepin’ up with the Joneses don’t mean squat where I come from. It’s all down home and middle-of-the-road. Flags flying every day, not just the Fourth of July! Country Music pickin’ and singin on Sunday, in church! And maybe a drink afterward, if granny ain’t lookin’! Yee haw!”

 

I got her vibe. But my own experience was somewhat different in character.

 

“I think we’re simpatico. At least I hope so...”

 

My new contact tweaked her pointy nose, and whistled.

 

“Well, we’re damn sure gonna find out, right?”