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...”