Yup, bridges!

That’s me. 😅

I was struck down with gephyrophobia when I was about 18 years old.

Maybe you have it too? There are lots of us out here.

It’s time us gephyrophobics to stand up and say, “No! This is a bridge too far! I will NOT cross that bridge when I come to it.”

… and then let our significant others drive us over the bridge.

If you start sweating, get heart palpitations and feel faint when you cross a bridge, you probably have bridge-a-phobia.

I wish I was one of you lucky people who can just… drive over a bridge without getting the vapors. Man, that must be nice.

I “caught” gephyrophobia from my mother who is also a sufferer. It’s either a learned behavior or genetic. Probably learned.

But bridges?

Really?

Come on, life.

Why?

Once I was in an airplane looking down at a bridge and said, “Wow. That is one high bridge. I’m never driving over that bridge.”

Irrational.

Like all phobias.

The biggest problem with this phobia is that:

THERE ARE GAD DANG BRIDGES EVERYWHERE!

You DO have to cross that bridge when you come to it.

Just try not to faint.

Like I have.

🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉

Duluth, MN

I’ve lived in some cities with some really, really tall and scary bridges.

Duluth, MN. This is where I first really noticed my fear of bridges. I was in my early twenties when I lived here.

There are two enormous bridges in Duluth that cross the Duluth-Superior Harbor. They were built high enough for sea-going vessels to pass under.

Those bridges are HIGH BRIDGES.

The worst is The Blatnik Bridge. The high-high bridge. 👇

Come to think of it, I should say I have a fear of high bridges. The bridges that have their own hills built into them.

In Duluth, MN, I often had to go across the harbor to Superior, Wisconsin. Right across the bay.

Luckily, I knew of a secret bridge on the far south side of town called, The Oliver Bridge. It is a strange old bridge. It is rickety and has a railroad that goes over the top of it.

Once when I was going over The Oliver Bridge, a taconite pellet fell off a train and cracked my windshield.

I didn’t mind the Oliver Bridge, but lots of people who claim they aren’t scared of bridges WON’T drive over The Oliver Bridge.

Wimps!

Minneapolis, MN

Fast-forward about five years. I was living in Minneapolis, MN.

Again, bridges everywhere! By then I was considering moving to the middle of a cornfield in Iowa.

Luckily, in Minneapolis the bridges were pretty flat. They crossed the Mississippi from point to point. No problem! I could drive over those bridges.

Way better than Duluth, I thought.

I decided that I needed to get hold of this whole gephyrophobia thing, so I called a psychotherapist and made an appointment.

I did the work. I did exposure therapy. I was getting better. Bridges didn’t bother me so much anymore.

This was in 2007.

Some of you might know where this is heading.

The I-35 Bridge Collapse

On August 1, 2007, my wife was driving home from work on the north side of Minneapolis. We were talking over our cell phones. I looked at the traffic map and told her to come down the 280 instead of I-35, thank god.

Our phones cut out. A system overload.

About ten minutes later I learned that the I-35 bridge had collapsed.

WTF??

Was I hearing that right?

I was actually in therapy due to my fear of bridges. The therapist who was constantly telling me that my fear of bridges was “unjustified” must’ve said, “God damn it,” to herself.

The I-35 bridge was a major bridge, albeit a “lower” bridge. I’d just driven over it the day before.

(everybody in Minneapolis at the time has a story about how they or somebody they knew were almost on the I-35 bridge that evening)

The next few days were utter chaos. We lived right up the road from the I-35 bridge. We crossed it all the time.

They closed the other bridges around us. It was death and destruction.

This was major news!

Peter Jennings and Brian Williams even flew into town to cover the tragedy.

Let’s just say I needed a few more years of therapy after that incident.

🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉🌉

Over the years, my fear of bridges has come and gone. It’s way better now. I can usually drive over normal-sized bridges. The taller bridges are left for

K.L. Rockwell

to drive. She has no problem.

I have *ridden* over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge on my way to Delaware. Why was I going to Delaware? You’d have to ask my parents.

The Chesapeake Bay Bridge is so dang high there’s a company called The Kent Island Express: Chesapeake Bay Bridge Drive Over Service. They’ll drive you over it for $40. That’s money well spent for people like us!

A year and a half ago we moved to Newport, Oregon. It has a high bridge to beat all high bridges.

The Yaquina Bay Bridge.

The bridge is high. It is skinny. On windy days a special “Caution: High Winds” sign starts blinking (honestly, I don’t know what you’re supposed to do but drive through the wind).

A few years ago a semi-truck blew over, but not off, the bridge.

The Yaquina Bay Bridge connects Newport to South Beach, Oregon. Not Florida, that would be really long.

I can drive over this bridge… but I don’t drive over it. I can ride over it without fainting.

Luckily, it’s a pretty short bridge.

The moral of the story? I don’t know.

I’ll probably always have at least some glimmer of this bridge phobia.

I’m sure there are other people who have this weird phobia.

If you’re one of us, welcome.

You’re not alone.

We should start a club.

EELS! 🐍

Full title: EELS!: This Tsunami Bites.

EELS! is a eco-disaster/horror/survival thriller that takes place in my current hometown of Newport, Oregon.

Here is my EELS! elevator pitch: When “The Big One” hits the Oregon Coast, the tsunami leaves more than water behind. Bioluminescent man-eating eels are everywhere. And they’re hungry.

The book is in final-final production. I’ll keep everybody updated as to publication date. There were delays (researching eels). 🤔

This Week In Writing & Living

I’ve been writing.

And outlining.

A lot.

I started my next book immediately after EELS! was complete. It’s important to get on the literary horse and ride it like a lunatic until the next mental breakdown.

In sad news, the ‘Shift+N’ stopped working on my laptop. It’s amazing how many capital Ns a person needs when writing a book. Now I have to caplock+N instead of shift+N to get a capital “N.” Life can be rough.

In Rockwell Family News: We went out to eat at a great restaurant Local Ocean last Sunday to celebrate a birthday that wasn’t mine. It’s important to the birthday-person in question NOT to tell anybody at the restaurant/work/public that it’s his/her birthday. So I didn’t. If a group of waitrons had come over to sing at the table for his/her birthday I would have been murdered. 🔪

Below was the view from our table. Off in the distance you can see the Yaquina Bay Bridge. It’s very high and I get dizzy driving over it. So I don’t.

I Am Not Crossing That Bridge When I Come To It

The bridge has a prominent role in my upcoming book:

EELS!

(Have I mentioned EELS!??)

In Fluffles News

Here’s Fluffles being cranky about something.

A Quick Note On My “Name Change”.

I changed my name on Substack from “Adam Rockwell” to “Adam Lutzi Rockwell.” I have too many second cousins in Salt Lake City named Adam Rockwell muddying up the internet.

So now I’m: Adam Lutzi Rockwell!

It has a literary ring to it even though I’m decidedly not literary.

“Lutzi” was my grandfather’s middle name: “Norman Lutzi Rockwell” (the well-known over-the-road truck driver, not the famous painter). His actual name was “Norman Lutzy Rockwell” but changed it (himself, not legally) to “Lutzi”. Therefore, I was apparently named after a mispelling.

Very on-point for me 😹🛸

See you next week! I think. We’ll see if my computer holds on or if I’ll be doing all of my writing on the typewriter.

Fun Fact: It rains twice as much on the Oregon Coast as the Willamette Valley.

The Oregon Coast can become a bit claustrophobic in the winter. As an introvert, that’s not usually a problem for me, but even I like to get out and touch the non-salt-covered grass occasionally.

Eugene was relatively uneventful. The Show was unremarkable and the food was adequate. Just what you expect on a trip to Eugene.

But this isn’t about Eugene and its small town charm. No. This is about the drive home from Eugene.

The drive from Eugene back to the coast is a windy, sickening drive. Unpleasant, but, I’m told, quite scenic. I sit in the back seat through the windy areas because I’m convinced sitting in the backseat gives me a lower chance of vomiting by the side of Highway 126.

The drive west on State Highway 126 proved uneventful for the majority of the trip. The rain held off until the Knowles Creek Tunnel. Only once did I make K.L. pull over so I could un-dizzy myself.

Just after Mapleton, yeah, there’s a city called Mapleton, the highway suddenly stops winding and S-curving. It’s around Mapleton where the road begins hugging the Siuslaw River what is called a tidal estuary.

I usually love this part of the drive. The river widens, there are various seabirds, and the whole scenery changes back into coastal loveliness. Not Coastal Range stomach-churning chaos.

But, that Sunday was not to be a chill ride. Oh no, it was not indeed.

The river was lovely, but we noticed it was also quite high. Being a tidal estuary, this is common. The river goes up and down with the tide. I, however, forgot that it was the last day of THE KING TIDES.

The King Tides are quite the event here on the Oregon Coast. People come here all the way from Eugene and Corvallis to see them. Before we moved to Newport, I had never heard of these so-called King Tides. I only knew about normal non-King tide tides.

As I understand, due to the positioning of the moon being closer to the earth than usual and lined up just right with the sun, the tides become much higher than usual. Throw in a storm out to sea, and you get some crazy high waves and tides.

As we approached the hamlet of Cushman, just four miles from Highway 101, we noticed the river was overtopping the banks to our left.

Houses were underwater.

Cars were underwater.

But, the traffic was still moving. Who were we to question the vagaries of traffic movement.

And then? The Cushman Rail Bridge underpass. Water seemed to be pooling under the bridge. The cars and pickups were still barreling through it and so did we. The south side of the highway was completely underwater under that bridge, but we were able to make it through without an issue.

We drive a Honda CRV Hybrid. Fancy, I know, but I do worry about high water zapping the electrical part of the engine. I assume it’s a valid concern, but have never actually opened the hood.

When we crested the little hill that emerged from the underpass, we were a little shocked. The river seemed to be flowing over the road ahead of us.

I looked behind us. The water was rushing in and filling the underpass quickly.

Oops.

Maybe we shouldn’t have taken 126.

In front of us the river was flowing over the road like it was trying to cut a new channel through the new pavement.

We were stuck between moist and getting pretty wet.

We were in the westbound lane where the water was a little shallower. Still deep enough that we should not have been there, but what do we know, we’re from Newport, not Cushman!

In front of us and behind us, cars were turning around. People were panicking. I was panicking. We all were panicking!

The first thing that went through my mind was: we are going to be on TV, or even worse, Facebook Local Group, as an example of what NOT to do in a flood. I could already envision the comments: “That’s what you get when you drive through high water you stupid moron” x1000.

But, we were surrounded by water and it kept coming over the banks, so we did the only thing we could.

We went THROUGH it, and as everybody knows… sometimes the only way out is through. That works here, right?

I don’t know how high the water was, probably around two feet or three feet. Lyni gunned it, Finny filmed it, and I was freaking out, yelling “Go, go, go!” Who wouldn’t freak out? I freak out in mild turbulence on a 747. This was actually dangerous.

I checked behind us. The water from the river really was flowing, like a river that it was, behind us over the road. The Siuslaw River was trying to KILL us!

K.L. is a great driver. Luckily, the water was clear and we could see the white edge line on our side of the road. I couldn’t see it on the other lane’s line, but people were still dumping through it anyhow.

I had no idea if the whole river was going to suddenly pour across and wash us away like one of the non-Noah’s from the time of Noah. The King Tides and rain in the mountains had created pure chaos along that little stretch of highway.

After unintentionally fording the Siuslaw River one last time… we somehow made it free from the waters. We could see the bright lights of Florence, Oregon.

We got to high ground and made it to town. I don’t know what happened to the hundreds of cars behind us, but I assume they had a long day being stuck in floodwaters.

We sat by the side of the road hyperventilating. My heart rate was probably 200 bpm. That was as close to a watery grave as I’ve ever experienced.. There was only one thing that we could think of that would calm us all down:

Shopping.

Thankfully, we found a Garden Shoppe just up 101. We parked, and all three of us went in shaking.

The Garden Shoppe

It might seem strange that a Garden Shoppe would be the best thing for us after a near-death experience, but I didn’t have any valium and didn’t know any dealers (AKA Anxiety Doctors) in Florence, Oregon. The best thing to calm dopamine, according to science, is to buy stuff you can’t afford. KL Rockwell is the best at this.

My beautiful wife and son had found what they wanted: A big crystal table light. Just what every house needs, right? Here’s a pic:

I thought to myself, this thing is probably super expensive and we’re running out of room on my Discover Card. But, to my delight, the big crystal lamp only cost $15.00. The pricetag said so right on its base.

I said: “Perfect! Let’s get it!” We don’t usually get out of a Garden Center for less than $100.

Both Lyni and Fineas were shocked. SHOCKED! That I would just… buy something like that. So I went to the counter and plunked it down. “I’ll take one of these.”

“Perfect,” said the cashier. She looked over the crystalish-style lamp and said: “That will be $85.00.”

What?

$85 I pointed to the base of the lamp that said: $15. She pointed to the crystal part and there was a hidden tag that read: $65.

After some haggling, we agreed I’d pay $65.00… and we left with the crystal light in hand.

Now, the crystal, known only as “The Drowning Stone,” sits in our living room, reminding us of the time we almost died in the King Tide Floods of 2026.

PS: After we got home, I looked up this stretch of road and flooding. Apparently, it happens so frequently, the locals only drive through here at low tide.

PPS: Note to self and others: Carry a tidal chart if you’re ever driving near a tidal estuary.

Growing up in rural Wisconsin, we were required to play baseball. Not by law, mind you, but by our fathers and peer pressure.

This was just for the boys. I can’t speak for the girls who were likely forced to play softball, which actually looked much more violent than baseball. Have you seen these ladies pitch?

As a child and as an adult I do not believe in baseball. By that, I mean I do not believe in ME playing baseball.

But, I played nonetheless.

Unlike Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams, I played catch with my father. Lots and lots of catch. Probably too much catch. He sometimes became a bit OCD with all the back and forth.

I don’t think he ever played baseball himself, so it’s a mystery where his love of baseball derived. Probably Field of Dreams. The movie, not the book. He didn’t believe in reading fiction.

I played so much catch with my father I’ve considered writing a novel centering around me buying a baseball field in Iowa that I plow under and grow corn above. I’d sit out there on my porch, watching the corn grow and knowing I didn’t have to play any god-damned baseball. (No offense if you’re into that kind of thing.)

All this baseball stuff began when I was relatively young in a version called tee-ball. I must have been around six years old when I began this tee-ball madness.

To the uninitiated, tee-ball is where you place a baseball on a stationary baseball holder and then whack it off the stand.

Tee-ball was rather enjoyable. Low stakes and not a lot of rabid dads who would chew you out if you missed a catch. Sure, there were a couple of them, but nothing like little league fast pitch.

I have no idea how it happened, but one day tee-ball was over and I was in little league.

The Colonial Square Realty team.

And I was scared for my life.

Rightfully so.

By the time I was in the little league big leagues, my eyes had deteriorated so much that a fast moving ball was a bit much for me. Too much Mario Brothers on the Nintendo, just as my mother had warned.

Regardless, I soldiered on and was assigned the position nobody with incredible myopia should be allowed to inhabit:

Right field.

I’m thinking I was around eleven years old at the time. I can’t remember because it’s been four decades.

It was absolutely the most horrific position a jittery, near-sighted, underweight, anxiety-prone little leaguer could be assigned. More than half the damn hits were pop-ups to right field.

My eyes had even become quite sensitive to light, but apparently sunglasses had not been invented yet in the mid-80s. Or at least I was not aware of their existence.

So, there I stood, heart palpitating, holding my breath, praying to the Lord Jesus below that the ball would not be hit to me.

But it always was.

Thankfully, after all the catch training with my father, I was actually quite good at catching all those pop flies, but I sure as hell didn’t like it. It was like searching for a white ball in a bright white sky and hoping it didn’t hit you in the face.

I don’t know how many years baseball went on for me. It seemed interminable. Every summer until I was 30 years old? No, that’s just how it felt.

Often, people will put their kids into baseball because it is considered a “safe sport.” Not like tackle football and hockey the tough kids would play.

But that said, I would contend that baseball is anything but a safe sport. This is just from my own personal experience.

One day we were down at Field 6 in Wakanda Park in Menomonie, Wisconsin. That’s in my hometown. Yes, Menomonie’s main park is named Wakanda Park, but alas, not sponsored by Marvel.

Mr. Peterson, our coach and social studies teacher, had me playing the catcher position in practice so that the star pitcher, Steve Schmidt, could get some ‘arm time’ in. That’s what they called it. “Arm-Time.”

He probably selected me to catch because, as I stated above, I was a stellar ball catcher. So there I crouched, waiting for the ball to come into my hands. I even wore the specialized catcher’s mitt.

Thankfully, my permanent teeth had not totally come in yet. You might see where this is going.

Just as Steve wound up his pitch, some asshole, probably playing a “prank” (aka a crime) YELLED my name.

I looked to my right.

That’s all I remember for about a minute.

The ball, being pitched at what must have been at least 150 miles per hour slammed into my upper jaw and two of my teeth were no longer present.

I had think I had swallowed them.

The thing about being hit in the mouth by a baseball in the mid 80s? Nobody really cared. Heck, I didn’t even tell my parents. I was eleven. A little man. Sure, I was missing two teeth, but they had to go anyhow.

Win-win?

Luckily, by the time I was around thirteen years old, I was allowed to quit baseball. My father didn’t actually care to go to the games, so he was probably relieved. I mean, who wants to sit on those flat benches in 100 degree heat?

The Intramural Church Softball League Incident of 1992

A few years later when I was but a child of 16, I joined the Church Softball League Of The Greater Menomonie Area. Somebody remembered that I used to play baseball, and being of unsound mind, I said, “Sure, that sounds like fun!”

I actually thought it might be a good time. Which it was.

Until it wasn’t.

One hot, July evening, The Christ Lutheran Cross-Bearers (my team) were playing The St. Joseph’s Demon Slayers. And boy, these people were competitive. Like, really. Seriously. Competitive.

I thought I’d just go and play some nice late evening softball under the tangerine Wisconsin summer skies.

Nope.

This was slow pitch softball, and in Menomonie that was man eat man. And by that I mean woman eat man, because the women on the teams were ruthless, and probably also played fast pitch softball.

After most games of intramural church league softball, I needed to come home and have a shot. Of Ativan. It was nerve wracking.

And then, on one terribly hot evening in mid-July, I was knocked out cold. By a softball! And trust me when I say it, these balls are anything but soft.

Somehow, I had made contact with a ball when I was up to hit and got to second base with a good swing. Magic does happen. I don’t remember a whole lot after that.

The next batter was up.

The pitcher lobbed the slow-ball pitch high up into the setting sun.

CRACK!

(Or more likely… thwap!)

Contact.

The ball was a fast ground ball right to the second basewoman.

I decided to take off for third base.

I should’ve stayed put.

Melissa threw the big fat softball, at what I can only believe was at an incredibly high velocity, to the third baseman.

I was mid-way between bases when she made the throw.

And then nothing.

Blackness.

A darkness enveloped me.

The softball (once again, not so soft) hit me on the back of the head. We hadn’t been wearing helmets.

My consciousness transcended time and space. I floated above the field, looking down, cursing myself for getting killed playing intramural church-league softball.

As I floated there I considered my life choices up to that point. I could have been home playing Nintendo, but NOOOO… I needed to “get out there into nature.”

A great white light surrounded me. And suddenly, I opened my eyes.

My mouth was full of dirt and I lay face down on the field.

The back of my head throbbed. When I got up, everybody LAUGHED! In the early 90s, people thought head injuries were a real laugh riot. I laughed along, pretending that it was all good.

But it wasn’t.

While I was circling death above the field, I had made certain promises to various deities if they let me return to the earth.

The Buddha appeared, said something in Pali, and I made a vow to him:

I would never play baseball, or even “soft”ball, again.

And I didn’t!

The End

This post was originally published over on my olde school WordPress Blog: AdamRockwell.com!

If you bought the first edition, that is now a RARE first edition!! Hold onto it and one day it will be worth at least $15.99 (and thank you for your support!).

Here is a pic of the second edition:

You can get a copy anywhere, but I think Bookshop.org is great.

https://bookshop.org/a/115687/9798231461165 (this is an affiliate link to my own book LOL)

In other Unexpected Exorcist news, if you are a Kindle Unlimited (KU) member at Amazon, you can read it FREE until Oct. 20.

Here’s a link to the Kindle Unlimited edition:

The Unexpected Exorcist - A Kindle Unlimited Digital
Book (Until October 20th 🎃)

This is that story.

Read the whole thing over at my blog: Are We Poor Now, Papa?

Bonus, here’s one of his cartoons! 👇👁️

There, I said it.

Now you know my deep dark secret.

But I never tried to become a ghostwriter, per se. In fact, I didn’t even know I was a ghostwriter until about a year ago.

Why?

Because the definition of what a ghostwriter is has changed. Bigtime.

You might be thinking: “Wait, YOU’RE the guy behind all those steamy Harlequin Romance novels written under mysterious pen names?”

I wish!

But alas, no.

Even if I had that sweet, sweet gig writing for the Harlequin Romance Division of Harper Collins (or wherever), you would never know it because a ghostwriter never, never, reveals who their clients are. Unless the client says it’s okay. Or you’re just a jerk.

My spooktacular ghostwriting origin story

WAYYY back in 2006, I consciously uncoupled from my low-paying job at a major US bank. I worked there as a fraud investigator. It sounds way cooler than it was. It was just a cubicle and a computer from 1985.

So why did I up and quit this very mid job? Management decided to start charging for coffee.

The truth of the matter is that in 2006, KL Rockwell and I had a baby boy. Well, she did most of the work. I just stood around hyperventilating during the whole “birthing process.”

A few months before Fineas was born, I had a horrible realization: 89% of my entire paycheck would go to daycare. I would be working 40 hours a week in a beige hellscape for the privilege of signing over my paycheck to “That’s A Lotta’ Tots Daycare.”

No thanks.

I became a stay-at-home dad.

Being a stay-at-home dad suited me well because I’m quite cheap and my career ambitions are very, very low.

I’m the exact opposite of my wife-partner, KL. Rockwell. Less than a month after giving birth to the mammoth-headed Fineas, she was back on the job—also known as work from work.

I found myself in our little bungalow in South Minneapolis with a baby and no money. Babies are, as we found, quite expensive. The formula alone almost bankrupted us.

While being a stay-at-home father was trying in a metaphysical sense, it was also trying in a I have no money sense. So, I decided to try something that was new at the time:

I would work from home.

In 2006, working from home wasn’t exactly a thing.

So, I scoured the internet looking for “Work From Home Scams.” Yeah, most of them were scams.

And then, while searching an early version of Amazon like an over-caffeinated chimp trying to keep a baby happy, I came upon a book called: The Well-Fed Writer, by Peter Bowerman.

This book claimed I could just sit at home, write articles for businesses, and they’d pay me.

It sounded like a scam, but I was hooked.

I wanted to be a well-fed writer too! But mostly I wanted to buy PS2 games.

So there I went off on another get-rich-quick scheme. Or, as KL Rockwell likes to call them, one of my “schemes.” It just so happened, this scheme panned out.

I spent a couple months “researching” how to become a “well-fed writer.” I decided on a course of action:

I was going to become a copywriter.

At the time, I barely understood what a copywriter was. Would I be copying other writers? No. Would I have to go back to law school and become a copyright attorney? Also no. In fact, I wasn’t even going to be making copies FOR other writers!

Copywriting is actually quite simple. It’s sales writing.

As in: ABC: Always Be Closing.

Direct response copywriting and sales is just a fancy way of saying: “After reading this thing, click here and buy now! BUY NOW I SAID!!

I read a book called “The Copywriter’s Handbook” by Bob Bly and learned really everything I really needed to know to become a copywriter. Thanks, Bob Bly, whoever you are!

A few months later, I thought… let’s put up a website and get some cash in the door writing sales letters or whatever for whomever might want it.

So I put up my website while the baby was crying.

In the year 2000, I took a one-year program at Lake Superior College on becoming a “Web Designer.” This was very, very, in-demand at the time. Luckily I was able to finally use my knowledge of HTML to create the first iteration of Adam Rockwell, Copywriter to the Stars!

A few days later, my website was born. I was so proud.

And then I waited for clients.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

But no customers magically arrived like the book said they would. (Just kidding, the book doesn’t say that. You actually have to advertise and stuff).

I decided to use a new-fangled method of advertising: I used Google Ads to advertise my “business.” I use the term “business” lightly because my business was just me, a $300 laptop and a baby who was more demanding than a roofer with a copywriting retainer.

Google Ads in 2006 was called Google Adwords. It’s just like it is now, the little ads that you see before the search results you ACTUALLY are looking for.

I don’t remember exactly how I advertised my “services” such as they were, having never done any copywriting or advertising before, but I imagine my ad read something like:

“Need a copywriter? You’ve come to the right place! Click here to hire me!”

That’s what you call ad writing chops.

The nice thing about Google Adwords in 2006? It cost about one cent per click to get somebody to your website. For real. Even I could afford that. Now, it’s something like three dollars per click for the same thing.

Through my horrible early Adwords Ads, I got some of my first clients in the door. The first guy was hawking some six-pack abs exercise program. Nice guy. Paid on time, and I wrote all of his website copy. Side benefit? Now I KNOW how to get six-pack abs. Do I? A gentleman never tells.

In the early days, I had lots of different clients come through the doors. Everything from real estate agents to weight loss doctors to real estate agents.

They all needed copywriters!

It only took me about a month to begin using the phrase “Sales Writer” instead of copywriter. Then, people would stop asking me to review their copyright issue with Amazon.

The one nice thing about becoming a “Sales Writer” was that most people are not great writers, so anything I gave them? Gold.

This is different from today when anybody can say: “Hey ChatGPT, write me a listing for this house on 55 Sycamore Lane.” BAM! Done. Everybody with a laptop is a copywriter these days.

But back then, I wrote the listing for 55 Sycamore Lane. And the listings didn’t sound like my brain was a liquified mess.

I wrote a LOT of different stuff for a lot of different people.

I wrote sales letters for mortgage origination hawks.

I wrote blog posts for a dating site (that got to be a massive website).

And a full website for an interior designer in Mexico.

And, on and on and on.

As a copywriter, people often asked me to write other things, such as their speeches to the Association for Bored Human Resource Pros. Or an email. Or a fundraising letter. Or their entire website. Or their social media posts. I loved this type of work, and soon it made up more than half of my work.

Little did I know, this is considered ghostwriting.

What?

Yup. If I’m writing your email for you, I’m your “ghostwriter.”

I always thought that ghostwriting meant writing a book. Or a Harlequin Romance Novel. Or James Patterson needed another Alex Cross novel, and fast.

A traditional ghostwriter DOES write books. Memoirs. Whatever.

But ghostwriting an email is also ghostwriting.

And speech writing.

And mortgage origination sales letters with your name on it.

It turns out that from 2006 until now, I had been ghostwriting the entire time.

I just didn’t know it. I also thought ghostwriting referred only to book writers.

Now, twenty years later, I have had over 1000 clients, worked for over 1000 publications, and ghostwritten god knows how many resumes, and sales letters, and emails. BTW, I have no idea how many people I’ve worked for or publications I’ve written for. Those are just rough estimates.

There, now you know my deep dark secret.

The End

Back To The Lavender Farm 🚜

Last weekend was The Great Lavender Festival of 2025 in Newberg, Oregon. Or so my wife-partner, K.L. Rockwell told me.

She decided, we were going to Newberg.

Back to the Wayward Winds Lavender Farm.

Last year, I wrote an essay about this place entitled: The U-Pick Lavender Farm Experience. This year, we did it all over again, and it was more or less the same. 🪻

We brought our now 19-year-old son along. Was this a mistake? Perhaps. He is currently preparing for college but he decided to come with us anyway.

(What he’s doing to prep for college? Nobody knows.)

Here on the Oregon Coast, the weather is ALWAYS 62-65° in the summer. Even when it’s 105° in the Willamette Valley, where the Valley People dwell, it’s still 62° here.

On Saturday morning, my annoying Echo device informed me in a nasty voice: “Today, it will be 98° degrees in Newberg.”

Like, what?

98°.

JHCOAPS!

I told K.L. and said, “Maybe we should just put it off.”

“But the Lavender Festival is this weekend!” she exclaimed in a lavender sweat.

We were going.

It’s a whole thing going to the valley for us. A two-hour drive these days might as well be twelve. I can’t take it anymore!

Some people around here just “pop over to Costco” in Albany. What are these insane lunatics doing??

I pack a bag of snacks like we’re preparing to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. Crossing the Coastal Range in weekender traffic is actually probably more annoying than hiking 1200 miles on the Pacific Rim.

When we got to Wayward Winds Lavender Farm, just outside Newburgh, it had already hit 86°. I nervously kept my eye on the temperature. It was climbing.

K.L. and Finny were off! They didn’t care about the sun. The heat. The bees. The lack of toilets.

I got out my lawn chair and proceeded to do controlled breathing. The lavender was in full bloom, and I could feel my allergies percolating. The bees were buzzing and I was about 50% of the way to a panic attack.

As I said last year, there are only three types of people at a U-Pik Lavender Farm: Pickers. Holders, and Watchers.

I am the watcher.

K.L. the picker.

Fineas, the holder.

Listen, I’m not about to spend any time in the sun exposing my day walking ginger skin to sunlight. OR expose my allergies to allergens. It’s just not done. So, there I sat and watched the pickers and holders.

I noticed something interesting while watching the festival from the shade: most people were there to take Instagram photos, not U-Pik. These Instagramming psychopaths would buy a $5.00 handful bouquet and take off.

They weren’t there for the flowers. They were clout-chasing Wayward Wind’s lavender!! I just learned the phrase clout-chasing, bear with me.

But the poses they struck! Wow. Out there amongst the bees and sun. Some of them wore all white like they were going to a Baptist River Baptism (is there any other type of Baptism??). They wore sun hats. It was all quite performative. Like me, pretending I didn’t love the lavender.

K.L. Rockwell didn’t drive two hours across the Coastal Range to get a $5.00 bouquet.

No, siree.

This year her lavender kill was more or less a BALE of lavender. She must’ve picked ten pounds worth.

So now, our house smells of lavender. Pungent, smelly, lavender.

Luckily, lavender is supposed to calm you down, which I needed after being at the 2025 Lavender Festival Extravaganza of Lavender!

🐈‍⬛ Cat Corner

BabyCat, our senior cat, is sadly declining in health. He has been doing this whole “declining health thing” for the last three years. He is almost twenty-one years old or so. We got him twenty years ago (!) in St. Paul, Minnesota, and he was already 8-12 months old.

A year ago, the vet told us that “BabyCat is dying.” I thought that meant he would be dead soon. But that was a year ago. He’s still holding on and begging for food.

Fluffles has been Fluffling.

She is now almost one year old this August. Fluffier than ever and big.

We have been told she is called a “Rag doll” varietal of cat.

Fluffles refuses to eat any wet food. Ever. She’s quite the little snob. I can hold out a piece of ham and she will turn her nose up at it. I have never witnessed this type of cat behavior before, and I’ve had over 134 cats in the course of my life.

Thanks for reading.

Stay foggy.

—Adam Rockwell

Hello Exorcism Enthusiasts!

Just a quick and grateful update:

My book The Unexpected Exorcist has officially entered the Top 100 for Horror Comedy on Amazon!
As of this morning, it's ranked:

📈 #92 in Horror Comedy
💥 #94,013 in the entire Kindle Store

Without all of you buying and sharing the book I never could have done it.

Thank you!

The exorcists—and Beelzebub—thank you as well. 😈

Grab a copy at:

• Amazon

• or

• Barnes & Noble

Also: huge thanks to The Fussy Librarian for giving the book its first real push in their promo newsletter. The rest of the growth has come from Substack Notes, your word of mouth, and probably a demonic and/or angelic entity whispering “Buy now” into people’s minds.

If you haven’t grabbed a copy, now’s the perfect time to join our dark little army.

Thanks again for helping me turn my weird little serialized Substack project into a Top 100 monster. 😈🥳

—Adam

PS: I will have an update on The Unexpected Exorcist Book II in the near future!!

Preface & Warning

Below is a story of survival.

And sea lions.

It is not for the faint of heart.

But take comfort in the fact that I lived and no sea lions were harmed in the making of this article.

The only thing you really need to know is that:

The Ocean Wants Me DEAD!

But yet I still live. For now.

Sometimes I forget that the Pacific Ocean is just an underwater jungle that wants to kill me.

It wants me dead! 🌊
It wants my wife dead! 😭
It wants my cats dead! 😿

You NEVER know what’s going on under the waves out there. Even great white sharks are apparently swimming around. Those are Jaws-level sharks.

On top of all the murderous animals, the water is like 33° at all times.

For The Love Of Sea Lions 🦭

But all is not lost. Luckily, the Pacific also brings sea lions.

I LOVE sea lions. Sea lions are the absolute best type lions. They’ve got personality through the roof, are always joking around and are always hungry.

They’re just like me.

And the sea lions are everywhere. That is unless you want to actually see one of them. Then the sea lions mysteriously disappear, like the yeti.

Sometimes at night we can hear the dulcet calls of the sea lions here at The Sea Hag Luxury Apartments in Newport.

The local sea lions live down at the port about two miles away, but we can still hear them. I feel for people who’ve decided to live next to the port. How they sleep with those things barking all night is a mystery. I wouldn’t sleep at all.

🦭 The Dog That Wasn’t A Dog 🐶

Last winter we were down at Heceta Head chilling out on the mostly tourist-free beach. In Midsommer you need to walk two miles in stifling 63° heat to get to the beach. But in the winter? Forget about it. Front row parking spots just in front of Cape Cove.

That nice winter day, my son and I had wandered down to the ocean under the Heceta Head Lighthouse and we saw what we thought was a dog paddling madly in the surf.

We were worried the dog was drowning.

So we cheered on the dog, “Come on boy! You can make it!! You need to live! Don’t let the Pacific get you too!”

The “dog” got closer and closer. He was gonna’ live!

You could only see his head and whiskers. I looked around for the owner but couldn’t see anybody who fit the description of a dog owner who lets their precious run wild on a beach. You know the type.

And then, to our horror, the dog emerged from the water onto the beach.

But it was not a dog.

It was a tiny little sea lion!

I didn’t even know they made little sea lions that small. I’m used to the 800 pounders begging for crab scraps from the shrimp chute at Pacific Seafoods.

The small sea lion looked exactly like a dog with its head poking out of the surf. I hadn’t even considered the fact that it might be a sea lion that wanted to kill me.

The little sea lion CHASED us off the beach. We hurried back, away from the sea lion, to safety.

But I did film it. <see video below>

For a brief moment, I thought the lion would come after us… and kill us. But luckily it just sat up on the beach screaming at us.

I understand that this little creature probably just wanted the bag of McDonald’s fries we were eating, but who knows—it had come from the murderous depths of the Pacific.

Sea Lion Viewing Etiquette 🍽️

Back in the day (the day being the 1980s) I would visit my grandmother in California. There was only one thing I wanted to do when I visited: go feed the sea lions at the Santa Cruz Wharf.

FEED THE SEA LIONS.

Apparently, this favorite activity of mine has fallen out of favor with naturalists. But I vividly remember buying minnows from vendors on the wharf and throwing them to the sea lions below.

It was an absolute blast.

When we moved to Newport, Oregon, here on the Central Oregon Coast, I was gutted, like a salmon, to learn that I couldn’t feed the sea lions down at The Sea Lion Docks.

Apparently, you are just supposed to stand there and watch them.

Boring.

I don’t know much about sea lions other than the fact that they are endlessly entertaining even when you’re not throwing small fish to them.

The first day we lived here we visited The Sea Lion Docks and I dared to laugh while watching the sea lions. You, apparently, DO NOT LAUGH while viewing sea lions. Even if you laugh WITH the sea lions, not AT the sea lions.

Respect the sea lions.

There are only two rules of Sea Lion Docks

Rule #1: Do NOT feed the sea lions even if they’re hungry.
Rule #2: Do not laugh at or with sea lions.

Follow these rules and the people around you will be happy. Break these rules and the sea lions will be happy, but the people won’t.

I can’t tell you what to regarding sea lions other than follow your heart.

Say what you will about sea lions, but I’m just going to go ahead and say it:

Sea Lions might be the best animal ever invented.

If they don’t murder you.

The End

Henry Powell stood in the electronics aisle of Donation Depot: Gently Used Goods To Support Street Urchins. He needed a new-used phone. He wasn’t about to pay retail prices for a landline that he only used for work.

Henry loved Donation Depot, The Superstore Of Thrifting. He was, after all, an inherently thrifty man. Some might have even called him cheap, but he didn’t see what was so wrong with saving a little money.

His wife, Kari, wasn’t a Donation Depot fan. She claimed that their cat, Chester, had caught fleas from a used scratching post Henry had dragged home from Donation Depot. Henry insisted that the fleas had come in through their three-season porch. She scoffed at that idea.

Henry’s home office phone had died the day before. He didn’t know why it had broken, but when he put the handset up to his ear there was nothing on the line. Just dead air.

Henry needed a phone due to the fact that he worked from home, plus his place of work paid for the line. That said, he was responsible for the phone itself, which he always thought was unfair.

Henry had a personal smartphone, of course, but he was suspicious of the phone. His friend, Eli, had told him that carrying those things around in your pocket would give you low sperm count. Henry had all the kids he wanted, one, Jaxon–with an x, but he still didn’t like the idea of irradiating his sperm.

He had searched Amazon for a phone but he didn’t want to spend $20 on a low-end, no-name phone. Donation Depot was just a mile down the road and it would be sure to have a landline phone for five bucks or less. That said, he had considered the four-pay option on Amazon. Just five dollars a month, but he put the idea out of his head.

He stood in the electronics section, such as it was, staring at a mass of cords and phones and old dial-up modems. Henry picked up the phones, one by one, and each cost $6.00. A little more than he had budgeted.

Donation Depot held an ongoing “Tag Sale.” It was simple: if the price tag was blue (that month), the item was half off. Unfortunately for Henry, it was the end of the month. That meant most of the blue tag items had already been picked over. The smart thrifters got there the first of every month to take advantage of the “Tag Sale,” but this was more spur of the moment.

He was frustrated and took a deep, centering breath. His therapist the year earlier had taught him how to take a deep centering breath, but he questioned the validity of the practice and decided to take another normal centering breath which worked.

Henry dug to the bottom of the tech stack. There was layer upon layer of phones and cords.

And then, when he least expected it, he reached the bottom of the bin and he spotted it:

A bright blue tag on an large white phone with oversized buttons.

Henry pulled it up through the mass of cords. The phone wasn’t a typical phone. The phone had oversized numbers. It was most likely for elderly folks who couldn’t see well. Henry was almost 49 years old, but his eyes were already going. His optometrist, Dr. Fielding, had informed him that he needed reading glasses. When he saw the phone with the oversized numbers, he thought, why not? Maybe he could put off reading glasses for another year with the phone.

He held up the phone and examined it. It seemed sturdy. The price was listed at six dollars, but the blue tag meant three dollars. He had his phone.

Henry had to be on an end-of-day Zoom call at 4 p.m., so he hurried to the front counter and paid for the phone, three dollars in quarters. The checkout clerk rolled his eyes at him and said, “Would you like to donate a dollar to further help the street urchins we help?”

He hated being asked this question, and the sales professionals asked it every time. He already worked at a nonprofit so he reasoned that no, he did not need to further help the street urchins and told him such. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to care.

Henry went to his car and sat the phone on his passenger seat gingerly. He examined the phone. It had a mute button and an emergency button. But that’s all it had, besides the oversized buttons. Good enough, thought Henry. He didn’t need anything else and he had voicemail through his phone company.

On his way home, Henry wondered if the 4 PM Zoom calls were to make sure the work from home home workers were really working from home and not out at the driving range. Henry would rather have been at home working than at the driving range, so he never really understood the folks that tried to get away with that kind of thing.

He turned his white Toyota Corolla onto his cul-de-sac: Juniper Loop.

Juniper Loop was Henry’s retreat at the end of a concrete semi-circle. He pushed the garage door button and sailed into his parking spot without even having to reposition the Corolla once.

The next morning, Henry’s son, Jaxon–with an ‘x,’ was off to school and he was off to work. His wife, Kari, usually left for her law office by seven in the morning. He always felt sorry for her, but she said that she liked listening to audiobooks on the way in on I-94.

Henry remembered that he had forgotten to plug in his new-used phone. The Zoom meeting had gone until 5:15 PM the night before and Kari had gotten home early so they had sat out on the three-season porch drinking Tom Collinses until the sun set. It was a relaxing late summer evening.

Henry did not enjoy the 9 AM Zoom meetings. He almost hated them as much as the 4 PM Zoom meeting.

As a contract worker with a large nonprofit organization that raised money for other nonprofit organizations, he didn’t know why he had to constantly be in virtual meetings. He only ever communicated with Gregg, his supervisor.

Henry grabbed his oversized-number phone, peeled the half price blue price tag off and plugged it in. It was 9 and he jumped onto his Zoom call. Full crowd of little boxes of humanity.

The virtual meeting droned on for over a half an hour. Henry had a trick: every time he needed to yawn, he would turn off his camera. Around 9:45 AM the meeting seemed to be wrapping up.

Henry briefly turned off the camera on his computer to yawn when he looked out his big window at the cul-de-sac. He was surprised by what he saw.

Three police cars.

In Oakbury, Henry didn’t usually see three police cars at the same time. Something was going on. Juniper Loop was hopping with enforcers of suburban peace.

Henry set his Zoom to “Away” and pushed his face up against the window and attempted to ascertain what was happening. Perhaps one of his neighbors was having a heart attack? That did happen regularly on Juniper Loop and nearby Loops.

Recently, on Red Maple Loop somebody had a stroke. It had been in the local online newsletter. Henry hoped that if he ever had a stroke they would put it in the Oakbury Online News Source.

Just as Henry craned his head to the right, trying to peer into Elmore McClellan’s yard, there was a loud knock at his front door.

A louder than usual knock.

In fact, unless somebody from the local Church of Latter Day Saints was in the neighborhood, nobody but the mail carrier Stacie ever came up to the door. Ever. Well, unless you counted Elmore McClellan was there to complain about Henry mowing after six in the evening.

Another loud BANG at his front door.

“Police!” a voice shouted on the other side of the door. “Open up!”

Henry was confused. Why were the police at his door? Perhaps there was a gas leak which immediately had him worried. He quickly made his way to the front door.

More pounding.

Odd. If it was a gas leak, it was a serious gas leak. Henry’s stomach rumbled with IBS-laden fear.

Henry had never been in trouble with the police before. Well, once, but because he was going seven over in a school zone. Henry had protested because school was already out, but the officer pointed out that the fifteen miles per hour was enforced until four p.m. and it was only 3:45. That chapped his hide to that day, and it had been seven years earlier.

But that was neither here nor there, he thought.

Henry chained the front door with the thin brass door chain and opened it a crack.

Three of Oakbury’s finest stood on the other side of the door. The OPB. Two of them had the appearance of Marines, the third looked like somebody who had just finished having a full lunch at Krispy Kreme. The big butch guy had his gun out and up. This startled Henry.

“What can I help you with, officers?” asked Henry.

“Open the door, immediately! This is the Oakbury Police. We have probable cause to enter the premises!”

Henry enjoyed watching YouTube in his free time (which was sometimes during his work-from-home time) and he often watched videos on how to deal with police should the need arise. The only thing that came to mind was don’t talk to the police without a lawyer, but Kari was probably in her morning meeting..

“Just a moment,” he said, fumbling with the chain. As soon as the chain was off, the police burst in. The door just missed Henry by two inches. The audacity of these police was more audacity than Henry was used to.

“Detain that man!” the Sergeant ordered. Henry was wearing his indoor sweater and didn’t appear to be much of a threat.

“Right away sir!” said the oversized officer with a handlebar mustache. The obese man, stuffed into his uniform like an oversized sausage in an undersized casing, quickly had Henry’s hands behind his back and in handcuffs.

“Suspect is secure!” yelled the Sergeant. “Start searching the house immediately. The victim could be anywhere. K9 unit is en route.”

Henry was bemused. It felt like he was watching one of the police shows his wife, Kari, enjoyed.

“Please, officers,” said Henry, “What the heckfire is going on around here?”

“Calm down sir!” said the Sergeant.

“I’m perfectly calm,” said Henry, although he did have a metal allergy and wondered if there was nickel in the handcuffs. Nickel could cause a moderate eczema outbreak through direct contact. He didn’t even want to think about it.

“Search the house, boys,” said the Sergeant. “You, sit down,” he commanded Henry.

Henry sat on the couch and watched as the police began tearing through the house. The K9 Unit arrived. A German Shepherd. The K9 unit began searching the home as well. Henry worried about Chester, but the dog was muzzled.

The sergeant with the handlebar mustache pulled up a stool from the breakfast nook and sat in front of Henry.

“I need you to tell me what is going on here this morning? Immediately!” said the man.

Henry was flummoxed. He was often flummoxed, but the question flummoxed him so much he became bemused.

“I don’t know what’s going on! There’s no trouble here. I never even called the police.”

“What?” asked the policeman.

Henry was quite confused. “I said I never even called the police, I work from home, I was on a Zoom call when I saw your cars outside.”

“Listen, Mr. Powell, according to my information, you have called 911 at least 132 times in the last hour. You or somebody else. What are we going to find in the basement?”

“The basement?”

One of the other officers came back into the room. “We’ve searched the entire house–there’s nothing. Nobody here.”

“Dispatch said the call was coming from inside the house,” said the Sergeant. “The landline.”

“I only have the one landline for my work. I just got a new phone!” said Henry, realizing he was lying, it was a used-new phone.

“Show me,” said the Sergeant.

Henry had difficulty standing with his hands cuffed behind his back, so the Sergeant helped him to his feet.

The K9 unit left.

Henry led the Sergeant into his home office and motioned towards his new old phone with his nose. “Right there. I just got the phone. That’s the only phone in the house, besides my cellphone.”

Henry briefly considered that Jaxon was playing a prank on him, payback for not letting him go to the climbing wall the night before while Henry was drinking Tom Collinses.

In the silence of the room, the click of the phone and the distant sound of dialing could be heard.

“What the hell is that?” asked the officer.

“I don’t know, I’ve never heard that before.”

The sergeant picked up the handset and put it to his head. He heard on the other side, “Hello, this is 911, what’s your emergency?”

“Dangit,” said the sergeant, who unplugged the phone from the wall.

Henry was extremely confused. “Officer, what is going on?”

The policeman uncuffed Henry. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. Your emergency button is stuck in the call position.”

He handed the phone to Henry who looked closely at the phone.

Sure enough.

Donation Depot had sold him a phone that had an emergency button that was stuck in perpetual “Dial 911” mode.

“I… I… just got that phone. It’s brand new from Donation Depot!” said Henry.

“Well, you are going to have to get a different phone,” said the Officer Sergeant. “Come on boys.”

The police all left. They left the front door open.

Henry stood in the middle of his office holding his phone. His face was bright red.

The smartphone in Henry’s pocket rang.

Henry’s hands were shaking. He noticed a dull red line where the handcuffs had been. Great, there was nickel in the cuffs, he thought.

Henry pulled the iPhone out of his pocket and answered. “Hello, this is Henry Powell,” he said.

“Yes, I know who it is, Henry. This is Gregg Smith, your supervisor.”

“Oh, hello, Gregg, I’ve had quite the morning.”

“I see. That’s great, Henry. Listen, pal, we need to set a meeting to discuss your attendance at our required Zoom meetings. Alright, buddy? You know they’re required right? You can’t just log off whenever you like.”

“I know that, Gregg. I had something happen. We don’t need a meeting to discuss my meeting attendance. I tell you, I had quite the morn–”

Gregg cut Henry off, ignoring him. “Does two-thirty tomorrow afternoon work for you?”

“Sure,” said Henry.

“Great, I’ll send a Zoom link to your email. Talk to you tomorrow,” and he hung up.

Henry bent over and opened his calendar. He wrote: “Zoom Meeting w/Gregg 2:30 PM.”

In the margins he wrote: “Buy new phone at Best Buy.”

A bead of sweat had formed on Henry’s forehead.

He looked out the window and watched as the police cars disappeared up Juniper Loop.

The End

Last year, from June through October, I serialized my book, The Unexpected Exorcist, on Substack. It was an absolute blast. I met so many wonderful readers (you know who you are) and was floored by the support.

After it wrapped up, I decided to turn the whole 85,654-word saga into a real, hold-it-in-your-hands novel.

It took … way longer than expected. 😹

Turns out, writing a serialized novel and finishing a full-blown book are very different beasts. Between multiple rounds of edits, designing both the paperback and ebook, and dealing with the usual chaos, it’s been over six months since the last episode.

But, it's finally complete.

Huge thanks to my wife-partner, , for the final proofread. Of course, she found a ton of “new” errors. 😂 After her round of edits, we hit “publish.” I must also thank my son, , and my mother, , for multiple proof-reads!

📚 The Unexpected Exorcist is now officially out and available on Amazon:

🖤 Amazon (print + ebook)

We also did a paperback! The paperback’s cover is a different version from the ebook, with a different ‘feather look.’ (I just invented that word) It came out great.

The paperback is now on Amazon and will roll out to other retailers soon.

Is this the end of Uziel Axe?

Perhaps?

Nah!

🔮 Season 2 is in the works. The slow works ⚙️. I’m currently outlining Book II and will keep you updated once there’s a release timeline.

🎧 The Unexpected Exorcist Podcast is also launching!
It’ll be a casual, Audible-style read-through of the book, with bonus ambiance from my cats in the background. First episode drops a week from next Friday.

💌 A Massive Thank You!

If you read the serialized version on Substack, THANK YOU. Whether you read all or just a bit, your support kept this ride going. It was so much fun.

If you want to support the book EVEN MORE, two things help more than anything:

1. Buy a copy (ebook or print):

   • Amazon

2. Leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads:

   • Amazon: click here

   • Goodreads: click here

I’ve been told this helps with something called: The Algorithm (which sounds vaguely demonic 😈) but I’ll go with it.

To sweeten the deal:
Leave a review and I’ll cast a free, trademarked “DemonAway™” protection spell over you. One review = one year demon-free. Guaranteed.*

*not guaranteed for demons originating in Northern Wisconsin.

Book Launch Sale!

As part of the launch, I’m offering 30% off all paid Substack subscriptions.
If you sign up for a monthly OR yearly plan, I’ll send you a signed paperback copy of the book. Yes, really. Anywhere in the world. Free shipping.

Thanks again, and I’ll see you on the flipside of the Astral Plane.

-Adam Rockwell

Get 30% off for 1 year

In 1985, I was eleven and lived in the small town of Menomonie, Wisconsin. Population: 12,000.

I was the neighborhood entrepreneur, as people often told me. The “little businessman.” It was true that I LOVED money, but only for the purposes of buying Star Wars guys, Transformers, Hot Wheels, and discount Atari games at Kmart.

My entrepreneurship mostly involved yard work. Yard work and shoveling snow. I was the de facto gardener in North Menomonie. Most jobs would cost you five to ten bucks.

We lived on the corner of Mathews and Maple.

Right across the street were Lyle Weber and Mrs. Weber. Kitty corner to us, in a very, modern flat-roofed home. It looked like a Usonian Home, but what the heck do I know?

Strangely, Mr. and Mrs. Weber had never engaged my gardening services.

That hot, early July day, everything was about to change.

In front of their house were some massive pine trees. The branches reached the ground. A real mess.

That day I was standing out in my yard, most likely staring at the sky (this was pre-internet), when Lyle Weber yelled my name and asked me to come over to him.

I did.

I immediately thought I was in trouble. That’s what we thought when an adult stated our name aloud.

But he asked me a simple question: “Would you trim my pine trees? Get the branches up off the ground? I see you working for the other folks in the neighborhood.”

Would I!? Heck yes I would mister! I figured I’d make at least $10 from a job that big. Another Transformer for the pile.

I had been to Kmart earlier in the day and had my eye on a cool tank transformer named Warpath. A tank that turned into a robot. Named Warpath. You don’t get any better than that.

I immediately went to work with a little saw I took from my father’s garage He didn’t care, but after he saw all the sap on it he did.

As I worked, sawing away at the branches, Lyle brought me out iced teas and I chugged them. I could’ve just as easily gone across the street to my own house and got a nice cold drink out of the hose, but he kept bringing me iced tea. I was only used to Sun Tea, my mother’s hippie specialty.

After three hours of hard, sweaty, sappy work, I was done.

It was time to get my pay.

Lyle stood in his front door, and he waved me over.

I’ve always hated asking for money and still do. It’s an Upper Midwestern thing. But I was there for the money, not exercise. So there I stood, hand out.

And then it happened: Lyle Weber was going to teach me a lesson about money.

Lyle was a good guy, but he drove a white Cadillac and had a golf cart that he’d drive around the neighborhood, over to the local public course. On the public streets.

Lyle asked me a simple question that wasn’t so simple: “So, how much money do you want?”

I had no clue. I was eleven. I usually took whatever was offered. It was the early days of: “Pay What You Like Pricing”.

I said, “Whatever you would like to pay is fine.”

He furrowed his brow and then explained the ways of the world to me: “Listen, young man. You’re an entrepreneur now. A little businessman. You need to know how money works. So, you must tell me exactly how much you want for the work you’ve done here. What is your work worth?” Then he just stared at me, unblinkingly.

I thought we probably should’ve come to an arrangement on pricing before I even started at that point.

I said, “I don’t know.”

He said, “Well, you have to give me a price, and I’ll pay you then.”

After a few minutes of thought on the matter, an idea had come into my mind. I was worth good money, I remembered that I was special, from Mr. Rogers.

I said, and have no idea why, “How about one hundred dollars?”

Lyle Weber’s color drained out of his face and the color of his skin turned whiter than his Cadillac.

He had asked for a price.

He got a price.

He stammered something, got out his wallet and paid me… one hundred dollars in twenty dollar bills.

It was the most money I had ever seen at one time. He might as well have opened a briefcase full of money.

I just said, “Thanks, Mister!” and took off

I wanted to show my father. He always told me to get as much money as you could.

All the things I could buy for $100 at Kmart flashed through my mind. I could even afford the remote controlled Formula 1 Car I had my eye on! ($49.99).

$100 might not sound like a lot these days (sadly, it still does to me), but in today's dollars that would be like $350. Not a bad day's work cutting pine branches!

I raced into my home to show my dad all the money I had just made! He was going to be so so proud.

My father was watching TV.

I stood in front of the television and pulled out the five twenty dollar bills and held them up in front of him. “Look how much money I made!” I said, the sap was all over the bills at that point.

My father stood up and looked at the cash and shook his head.

“How much money is that?!” he asked.

“A hundred dollars!” I said gleefully.

“Where’d you get that money from!” he demanded, probably thinking I’d broken into the Talking Coke Machine again. To be clear: we had never broken into the famous Talking Coke Machine. It was the Diet Coke machine, and it was my friend. I was just lookout.

Watch the video below to find all about the talking Coke Machine!

I didn’t know why his ire was up, but up it was definitely up. I briefly worried he wanted a cut of the proceeds. His rake, as it were.

“I got it from Lyle Weber for trimming his trees!” I said.

“One hundred dollars? For trimming trees?” He was not convinced.

“Yeah! Lyle asked me how much I wanted for the job, I said a hundred dollars, and he paid it.”

“You said a hundred dollars!?” My dad started laughing. I didn’t get it. “Well,” he said, “You get your ass back over to Lyle Weber and give him that money back.”

I didn’t know what to say. It was the most money I had ever made.

“But… but…”

“Go on! You are not taking a hundred dollars from Lyle for trimming his trees!” He sat back down and went back to watching the Twins baseball game.

I straggled back over the road to Lyle’s, dejected. I was embarrassed AND wouldn’t be getting that RC Car.

It was like winning the Lotto and then realizing you didn’t have the winning numbers.

I knocked on the door.

Lyle answered. “Yes?” he still seemed flustered.

I handed him all the money back, sap and all. “Here, my dad says I have to give the money back.” I think I almost cried.

“Oh, I see, well then.” Happiness crept back into his face. His color came back.

Lyle went into deep thought, holding the sappy money. Then, he peeled off a twenty, handed it to me, and said, “I think that’s fair.”

I said thank you, but didn’t apologize. He had asked me how much I wanted. And I had wanted 100 dollars.

Like a real little businessman.

I said thanks, got on my dirt bike, and headed over to Kmart.

The mini-transformers were on sale for $4.99.

I got two.

And I still have Warpath.

The Portable Toilet and Henry Powell 🌷

Henry Powell stood on his long, covered porch. His newly-sided, dark green home sat at the end of a highly coveted cul-de-sac in a desirable neighborhood. Henry’s award-winning tulips framed the yard. Minnesota State Fair award winning tulips.

The Powells were getting a solarium constructed on the back of their home. The company called it a “three-season porch,” but it was a solarium in Henry’s eyes. He could already dream of sitting back there, drinking a Tom Collins, watching the birds and flowers in the evening.

Henry nervously glanced at his watch. He worked from home and needed to get back at it.

The pounding of hammers and the whirring of a saw cut through his mind.

Mr. Miller, the foreman, had asked Henry to stand out on the porch and watch for the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet Company’s delivery truck.

Henry had not wanted a portable toilet at his home, but he also didn’t want workmen coming in and out of his house all day long. After two days of contractors using the downstairs bathroom, he had asked Mr. Miller about the possibility of getting a portable toilet. The foreman agreed, and it would only cost Henry seven-hundred and eighty dollars.

The construction would take another four to six weeks, which meant eight to ten weeks in contractor-speak.

The portable toilet was worth it, thought Henry.

Henry’s wife, Kari Powell, was a lawyer who worked downtown. His son, Jaxon—with an ‘x,’ was in middle school, and Henry typically only saw Jaxon for about twenty minutes per day.

Nobody in his little family understood what he had to endure each day.

Henry was considering exactly how much coffee the contractors were drinking to necessitate the use of his bathroom every thirty minutes when he heard the beeping of a truck.

It was the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet Company backing into Henry’s driveway. Henry despised speaking with contractors or other general laborers, but that seemed to be his lot in life that May.

There were four portable toilets on the back of the truck. All light blue and four feet by four feet. “Blue Bucket” with a picture of a toilet was imprinted on the sides.

When the truck came to a halt, Henry heard the liquid slosh inside the toilets and he shuddered.

He jogged out to greet the truck. One of the Blue Bucket Professionals jumped out the passenger side door.

“Hello, hello!” Henry said with a big smile on his face. He couldn’t wait to get these guys out of his driveway. “Looks like you found the right place!”

The Blue Bucket Company employee wore dark blue coveralls, yellow rubber gloves, and had a name patch that read, “Steve.”

Steve looked down at his clipboard. “You Henry Powell?”

“Why, yes, I am,” said Henry confidently, holding out his hand to shake.

The workman didn’t know what to do. “You probably don’t want to touch my hand, sir,” he said.

“Right, of course!”

“Well, where do you want it?” Steve asked.

“The portable toilet?”

“Yup.”

“I can choose where the toilet goes?” asked Henry.

“Sure, why not,” said Steve with a slight eye roll that Henry definitely noticed.

Henry hadn’t pre-thought the location of the portable toilet. At the end of the driveway? Closer to the house? He didn’t think he would be responsible for all those logistics. Usually Kari handled that sort of thing.

“Anywhere is fine,” said Henry.

“Alright, sign here,” said Steve, jutting the clipboard into Henry’s hands. He signed it without reading and thought about washing his hands.

Steve banged on the side of the truck, and a burly man with a full beard and hardhat climbed out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t say a word and adeptly moved up, onto the flatbed of the portable toilet delivery vehicle.

Henry wondered how they were going to get the little toilet off the truck. Perhaps there was a pneumatic lift?

The driver simply bear-hugged the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet, picked it up and handed it down to Steve.

Steve proceeded to drag it across Henry’s immaculate concrete driveway, which had just been power-washed, and he plopped it at the end of the driveway.

“Alright then,” said Steve. Both workmen got back in the truck and drove away without another word.

Henry noticed a few drops of blue toilet chemical on his driveway.

“Why’d you put it all the way at the end of the driveway?” a voice boomed. It was Mr. Miller standing in front of the garage.

Henry didn’t know what to say. “They … umm … just placed it there.”

“Alright then,” said Mr. Miller matter-of-factly, walking past Henry. He went right into the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet.

First customer.

Henry scratched his head and headed back inside.

Henry sat at his desk the next morning gazing out at his front lawn. It was a blue sky morning with dew on the grass. He let out a relaxed sigh and took a sip of coffee. No contractors in his house had been a boon to his productivity.

Unfortunately, he had a direct view of the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet through his office window.

His office was on the ground-floor, west side of the home. It was a large but efficient office. Henry’s diplomas hung behind his desk.

The bright blue portable toilet bothered him. It ruined the view of his tulips which were in rare form. Just before peak bloom. He shook it off, lazily staring out the window. He considered the grant proposal on his computer screen.

Henry spotted Margaret Troy and Millie Troy a block away. They were sisters and wore bright, fluorescent, track suits. The two lived together only a block away and never missed their morning power walks.

Henry always waved to them through his window and they always waved back as they curved around their cul-de-sac track.

Today, when they reached the end of the road, Henry waved at the two through the window and they waved back, but then they stopped. They examined the Blue Bucket Toilet and seemed to be discussing something intently.

Millie then proceeded to enter the portable toilet. She must have really had to go, Henry thought.

When Millie reemerged, Margaret went in.

Strange that they would both have to use a portable toilet just a block away from their own home.

Personally, Henry avoided portable toilets at all costs. He would rather let his bladder explode than use a portable toilet.

Then, Margaret was out and they waved at each other once again. The two sisters disappeared back up the road, speed walking away.

Henry didn’t think much of it and got back to his proposal.

About thirty minutes later, Henry was diligently filling out boxes in his grant proposal when a black car pulled into his driveway. It stopped. It was a late model Audi Q5. A large, fancy magnetic sign was stuck to the side of the car’s door which read: “Rick Peterson, High-End Realty.”

Realty? Henry couldn’t understand why a realtor would be at his home. He planned on living at the end of that cul-de-sac until the day he died.

A well-dressed man in his late forties jumped out of the car. He wore pressed khakis and a black polo shirt with his company emblem embroidered on it.

Rick Peterson scanned the area and when he thought the coast was clear, he rapidly opened the door to the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet and went in.

Henry’s brow furrowed.

A good five minutes later, Rick Peterson re-emerged from the Blue Bucket and he seemed nicely relieved. He went to the passenger side of his car, crouched down and checked his slicked-back hair in the rear-view mirror.

After fixing his hair, Rick jumped back into his car and disappeared up the road.

What was going on, wondered Henry?

Henry's mail was typically delivered at 11:45 am, on the dot, everyday.

The postal carrier's name was Stacie. Henry had never gotten her last name, but she was always friendly.

When the appointed hour arrived, the small woman with blonde hair and a Post Office uniform marched up to Henry’s house. He waved at her. She smiled big and waved back.

After dropping the mail, she headed back up the drive but stopped. She examined the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet. A moment later Stacie hefted the postal bag off her shoulder, set it to the side of the portable toilet, and went in.

A few minutes later, Stacie came back out, looking relieved.

She waved back at Henry, picked up her mail bag, slung it back over her shoulder, and continued back on her route.

Henry did not wave back. He was flummoxed.

Henry came to a stark realization:

His driveway had become the city’s most popular public toilet.

This epiphany brought no end of consternation to Henry.

All day long there was a constant stream of Blue Bucket Portable Toilet users: realtors, joggers, contractors from other construction sites, the FedEx guy, the UPS guy and the DHS lady. Even the delivery man from Woodbury Edible Bouquets popped in for a use. Henry made a mental note to avoid Woodbury Edible Bouquets in the future.

All week long, all manner of folks randomly parked on the cul-de-sac, or even in his driveway to use the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet.

This behavior of his fellow townsfolk went on even through the night.

On Wednesday night, Henry and Kari were awoken by a loud bang. A couple of drunk teenagers had pulled up into their driveway and were throwing up in the Blue Bucket. Henry could hear the sounds through the bedroom window.

Henry informed his wife that he had had enough. Honestly, he didn’t know how the portable toilet wasn’t overflowing with sewage by that point.

He knew he had to take action, but Henry didn’t want contractors back in his home using the downstairs bathroom.

The next morning, Henry was beat tired. He hadn't been able to enjoy his tulips, and they were at peak bloom that morning.

Millie and Margaret had just finished using the facilities when Henry blew his stack.

After careful consideration, Henry stormed out of his home as only Henry could storm.

Quietly.

There he stood, in front of the Blue Bucket Portable Toilet. He examined it closely. It was a simple structure. Plastic, about seven feet tall. The door had a latch on it.

Why a filthy plastic box with a toilet in it attracted so many users was a conundrum. He scratched his head.

A car pulled up to the curb behind Henry. It was Rick Peterson. Rick jumped out of his car and ran past Henry, straight into the Blue Bucket.

After more careful consideration, Henry had determined that he had indeed had enough.

When Rick Peterson exited the toilet, Henry was prepared to confront him.

Before Henry could get a word out, Rick said, “You should get that thing cleaned, man. It’s nasty in there.” Then, Rick jumped back into his Audi and took off.

Henry was not about to look inside the Blue Bucket Portable. Over a hundred people must have used the thing since it had been delivered at the beginning of the week.

That’s when he spotted it. There was a little metal latch on the door.

For a lock.

Henry had a lock, and he even knew the combination.

Henry almost ran to his garage and dug around in his junk drawer. He found his simple metal combination Master Lock and rushed back to the Blue Bucket.

After he had fastened the lock on the door, he spun the little combo wheel and felt relief. No more!

He turned around to go back to his office.

Behind him stood his mail carrier, Stacie.

“Do you mind if I use your facilities, Mr. Powell?” Stacie, the mail carrier, asked.

“Sure, no problem,” he stammered. He spun the lock to the proper combination and whipped it back off the door. “There you go, Stacie!”

“Thanks so much!” she said, setting her mail bag on the curb. “Would you mind watching my bag, Henry?”

“No problem.”

After she had used the Blue Bucket, she thanked him. Henry picked up her mail bag and handed it back to her. She slung it over her shoulder, smiled, and went on her way.

When Stacie was out of sight, Henry put the lock back on the door and sighed.

After giving the combination of the Blue Bucket to Mr. Miller and his crew, Henry happily went back to work. He secretly watched out the window, hoping to catch one of his Blue Bucket users being foiled by the lock.

The sound of a car caught Henry’s attention. He looked up from his spreadsheet.

It was Rick Peterson, the realtor. Rick jumped out of his car and ran up to the Blue Bucket Toilet. He flipped the latch but noticed the lock.

“God Dangit!” Rick Peterson screamed.

Henry took joy in Rick’s fury. Who did he think he was to use HIS Blue Bucket Portable Toilet? Why was Rick Peterson mad? Henry should be the one who was mad.

And then, Rick Peterson did something Henry Powell will never forget:

Rick Peterson put his foot up on the door of the Blue Bucket Toilet and kicked it over.

Rick ran back to his Audi and squealed away, out of the cul-de-sac.

Henry couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed. He got up from his desk and ran out to the scene of the crime.

The portable toilet was on its back and had crushed a whole row of his tulips. Blue liquid leaked out from a crack on the side of the Blue Bucket all over his driveway.

“I knew you shouldn’t have put that lock on that Blue Bucket,” said Mr. Miller, the foreman, who was standing behind Henry. “Happens every time somebody puts a lock on one of those toilets.”

“It does?” Henry exclaimed.

“Yes, sir, it does. Say, do you mind if I use your indoor bathroom?” asked Mr. Miller.

“Sure, go ahead,” said Henry.

📍 Observation Point (Literally) - Cape Foulweather

On Sunday, after a fun-filled weekend of cleaning our apartment, I looked outside. Something strange was in the sky. A ball of fire, just hovering there.

At 11 AM, on that Sunday, the sun 🌞 showed itself here on the central Oregon Coast.

Pure amazement.

Due to the sun poking its unfamiliar face out of the usual cloud cover, decided: we were going on a nature drive. A nature drive! 😭

I don’t HATE nature drives… but come late Sunday morning the weekend tourists are heading for the hills. That means coastal traffic! That’s right, we’ve been stuck in traffic jams on Highway 101 alongside some of the most beautiful coastlines in the world. Right behind a Ford F-350 spouting smoke from its chrome diesel pipe.

It ain’t all whales and sea otters here on the Oregon Coast.

I suggested that we drive up to Boiler Bay State Scenic Pulloff. It’s probably one of the best State Scenic Pulloffs I know.

Plus, bonus? It’s only fifteen miles north of us. Just north of Depoe Bay. (They pronounce it, “Depot,” like a train depot. Nobody knows why.)

The Boiler Bay State Scenic Pulloff sits atop a basalt outcropping that gives you some of the best views around. And the ocean! Once while we were sitting there intently staring at the water, a baby whale swam right up to the cliff and waved to us with her fin!

I am not even making that up.

Luckily for me, there was barely any traffic. The road was open. Our nature drive only took about twenty minutes and we made it to the State Scenic Pulloff. You can’t hope for anything better than that.

After staring at a seagull and some weird birds behind the pit toilets, we headed back south to Newport.

K.L. had a bright idea. “How about we go up Otter Crest Loop and check out Foulweather, you guys?” she asked.

The answer was: Yes.

Always say yes to Otter Crest Loop, even if you want to get home to watch Episode 2 of Andor, Season 2. The OC Loop (as we call it), has some of the best views around. Even some great whale watching.

Did I just say whale watching? Yes. Yes I did.

It is a little-known fact, by landlubbers such as yourself, that whales can indeed be WATCHED from land. You do NOT need to pay some charlatan $89 to go on their iffy whale watching boat to see whales. There are often gray whales right near shore.

We lucked out last weekend. For the first time in probably five months, we saw a few whales. They were out to sea about a mile, but you could see them breaching and spouting away, doing whale stuff.

Landbound Whale Watching Trick: The best way to spot whales from shore is to watch the whale watching boats. They use sonar to find the whales, or so I’ve been told. We have binoculars and I enjoy watching the people on the whale watching boats watching whales. They’re out there getting seasick while I’m on shore eating a sub, also… seeing the same whales!

After watching the people on the boats watching the whales, we had enough and headed up toward Foulweather.

Cape Foulweather

Cape Foulweather sits just to the North of Newport, Oregon.

Foulweather is spelled with just one word:

Foulweather.

Cape Foulweather was named by Captain Cook. At least that’s what local historians who wrote the ‘Historical Marker’ want you to think. For all we know, it was named by Captain Cook’s illiterate bilge boy.

Regardless of who actually named Cape Foulweather, we do know one thing: the namer was a loosie goosey speller and didn’t care about grammar Nazis.

He spelled Foulweather all one word. That takes moxie. Lots of moxie. That and semi-illiteracy.

One thing I would have liked about living in the 18th century, besides the lack of Facebook? No grammar Nazis. Heck, there weren’t even any real Nazis yet.

Great!

No Facebook. No Nazis. What’s not to like? (constant dysentery?)

Cape Foulweather is just off Otter Crest Loop, a one-way road that hugs the side of various 500-foot-high cliffs. That may not sound high, but trust me, it’s high, like most Oregonians Friday through Thursday.

For some unknown reason, #VanLife aficionados LOVE to park their vans up on Foulweather. I don’t know why; their vans are typically on tilt.

One thing about #vanlifers? It’s impossible to know which ones are “Cindy And Chad” from the popular #VanTok series: Van Diesel, and which are serial killers living in a 1988 Dodge conversion van that they bought from an out-of-business carpet retailer.

Just don’t knock on their windows and you’ll be fine.

I’m sure.

We found the perfect spot that didn’t have any #vanlife peeps or even #DragYourBodyIntoMyVan peeps and pulled over.

We sat in the sun.

It was wonderful. The sun gave us new life to live again while out at sea, a storm brewed and a whale spouted (probably).

About twenty minutes later, we realized it was raining.

Raining yellow pine pollen.

Spruce pollen?

Perhaps fir pollen.

I need to get this right, or the evergreen naming Nazis will come for me.

Regardless, it was a beautiful end to the weekend.

And none of us had an asthma attack.

The End

#CatStack Of The Week! 🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

🌊 Staring Into The Abyss - Writing On The Edge of the Pacific

🏠 In writing news: I’m kicking off a new biweekly series called Habitat for Insanity, starting in two weeks.

Habitat for Insanity chronicles the Rockwell family’s muddy, chaotic ride living and working on a nonprofit homebuild site here in rural Oregon.

From 2017 to 2022, we lived on-site in a cabin in the foothills of the Coastal Range while developing a five-home community from scratch. Permits, infrastructure, road construction—we managed it all while trying (and often failing) to stay sane.

This essay series covers the highs, the lows, and the completely sideways moments of those years.

It was a time.

Stay tuned. 📻

📖 In The Unexpected Exorcist book news!

All week I’ve been putting the final touches on this damnable exorcist book. In the next two weeks, I’ll be sending out an email to paid subscribers with a quick Google Form to collect your mailing address.

Once I’ve got that, I’ll get signed copies shipped out ASAP!

Here’s the cover of the ebook:

📚 Totally Recommended

First, I would like to share my wife-partner, ’s, recent post.

Love it! 🥰

🪩 Nostalgia Nation 📼

One of my favorite writers on Substack is , a.k.a. That 80s Dude. He’s about to release his book: Nostalgia Nation: The Definitive Chronicle of Growing Up Gen X.

John asked me to be one of his ARC readers. At first I thought it involved welding but it turns out that ARC means Advanced Reader Copy.

I’m loving it so far. It reads like a fun, fast-moving catalog of everything I loved about the 80s. Yes, I’m that young. 😭

Nostalgia Nation drops on June 3. If you're into Gen X culture, mixtapes, mall food courts, and a world before TikTok, go pre-order it and thank me later.

Here’s a pic of Fluffles reading it. She gives it two paws up.

Click Here For: The Nostalgia Nation Book Info Page!

📍 Observation Point - Dollar For A Cigarette?

The other day we were in downtown Newport, Oregon, just off Highway 101. We were out to eat dinner at a little restaurant called Noodle Cafe. They have lots of different noodles, but strangely, no spaghetti and meatballs.

was driving as usual. She hates it when anybody but she drives. It was Friday night and the tourists were OUT in full force. Luckily, we found a spot right in front of Noodle Cafe. But, it was a very tight parallel parking spot.

So, there she went, attempting to parallel park. She used to be a good parallel parker until we got a Honda with a back-up camera. She says the camera makes her dizzy. She went back and forth about ten times until she threw up her hands and asked me to park it.

Oh, the humanity of forgetting how to parallel park. I got into the spot on one try because, oddly, the backup camera doesn’t make me dizzy.

I like that thing.

Can I Have A Cigarette For A Dollar?

When I got out of the car, KL was already in the restaurant. A guy came up to me and asked what I thought was, “Do you have a dollar for a cigarette?” I thought he was trying to sell me a cigarette. (People don’t typically sell loose cigarettes around here.)

I only had a twenty and wasn’t going to stand there on the sidewalk trying to break it with this random dude. “No, sorry, I don’t have any cash,” I lied. Not that I was going to buy a cigarette from him, but I appreciated his entrepreneurship.

Highway 101 is a hotspot for, let’s call them: ‘unexpected money requestors’, so we’re used to quick exchanges — requests for cash, and making excuses like, “No, I don’t carry cash.” This is the easiest excuse. Once, a guy told me he takes Venmo. I said, “What’s that?”

But the guy corrected me: “No, I asked if I could buy a cigarette from you for a dollar?” and he held up an actual dollar bill as proof.

Immediately, I thought—this is some kind of scam. It felt like a scam. But the man was much shorter than me and wearing a nice sweater. I figured I could take him in a fight unless he had a knife.

I was worried about a knife because a year earlier a woman was attacked by a madman with a machete right here in town right in that neighborhood. As far as I can piece together, she survived. Apparently, she had a gun in her purse and as the madman closed on her with the machete, she shot and killed him dead. Such is small town Oregon Coastal life. It isn’t all just evergreens and ocean spray.

I have an irrational fear of being stabbed. Or maybe, it is rational. Stabbings seem to happen a lot around here. Maybe they do everywhere these days, but now I also have the fear of being macheted. Just another thing to add to the list.

The other day I was down at Harbor Freight and saw a machete for $4.29. I would’ve thought a machete would cost at least twenty bucks. But what do I know.

Maybe we should have background checks for machete purchases?

So, there the little guy stood, holding out the dollar. I was at a loss for words. Why was he asking ME for a cigarette? I don’t smoke. Do I look like a smoker? Maybe I do.

I said, “No, I don’t smoke.” Somehow that also felt like a lie, probably because I had just lied about not having any cash, which of course had nothing to do with what the guy actually wanted: A cigarette.

He was dejected.

“Guess I’ll have to find somebody who has a cigarette,” he said and walked away.

Maybe it wasn’t a scam. But it sure felt like one.

PS: I have been told that he was probably just trying to get me to give him a free cigarette. As in, who is going to take a dollar? You’d just give him the cigarette.

PPS: I had the ramen at Noodle Cafe. It had a hardboiled egg in it. Don’t know why I ordered this as I’m a ramen expert cook. Three minutes and add the packet of spice. I could drop a hard boiled egg in and it wouldn’t cost me $16.00.

PPPS: I looked it up. The average cost of a cigarette is only 47 cents.

😼 #CatStack Of The Week

🌊 Staring Into The Abyss - Writing Notes From The Oregon Coast 🌀

My partner-in-life, , started doing Morning Pages a few weeks ago. I’ve done this before. It’s from a book called, The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. It’s SUPER popular amongst artists and writers and crafters and glass blowers. You’ve probably heard of it.

If you aren’t privy to the Morning Pages fandom, here’s what you do: Every morning, you write three pages of longhand text. It’s supposed to get your mind ready for another day of creating art. It can be about anything! Just like this newsletter!

I began writing Morning Pages again because I didn’t want to sit there staring at K.L. like a psychopath for twenty minutes every morning while she wrote. That, apparently, is called ‘Raw-Dogging The Morning.’

I do have a couple of beefs with Morning Pages. Mostly, I am not a morning person. The last time I did Morning Pages, I should’ve called it The Early Afternoon pages.

Another problem? I don’t consider the writing that I do to be art. It’s something, but not art. Perhaps I’m a communications crafter? Some writers do create art, I suppose. You know, serious literary types. Poets. It makes sense for to do The Artist’s Way since she’s a watercolorist, AKA, an artist! (Note to artistic writers: I see you).

I’ll update you on my Morning Pages in a couple of weeks. See if it has given me the urge to buy some paint-by-number sets or maybe even a beret.

📚 Totally Recommended

Here are a few superb Substacks and a podcast I’ve read/listened to this week!

First, here is one of my favorite new paintings from . Her night skies are the 💥. I’m KL’s gallery manager at klrockwell.com so have asked her to make it available for sale. She said: “NO!” She said it’s in one of her sketchbooks so it’s not that easy to just pop it out and frame it. If she doesn’t, I’ll turn it into limited edition prints without her permission!

From , an aspirational post:

The Positive Echo

This life is not a rehearsal

In the movie “The Martian”, our hero Matt Damon is accidentally left for dead on a planet with neither an atmosphere nor water. He has only his strength of purpose, his wits and a pile of potentially useless technology to save him. He uses his scientific knowhow to grow food, establish communication with earth and he constructs a rover to take him to a …

Read more

2 years ago · 8 likes · 6 comments · Gary Coulton

’s new podcast! Loved this one. Never knew who Ricky Seaman was before the pod, but he has one interesting life:

Humbling the Narcissist

Humble Homies Episode 1: Ricky Seaman

I’m extremely exciting to present the first episode of the Humble Homies podcast! This first episode features Ricky Seaman, who in his own words, is…

Listen now

a year ago · 18 likes · 5 comments · Nur Nadar

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To everybody who became a paid subscriber, thank you! I would DM to thank you personally, but sometimes people think that DMing is weird, so I try not to do it.

Your support means a lot!!!

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📍 Observation Point - My News Diet

I have to admit it: I’m a news junkie. I didn’t used to be a news junkie, but the internet turned me into one. It’s nice to find an inanimate, amoral object to blame my addiction on.

Honestly, I don’t know why I end up scrolling over to one of a hundred news sites every day. It’s USUALLY the same thing, day in day out. I didn’t become a news junkie because of the current political situation we find ourselves in, but let’s just say it isn’t helping matters.

Back in the day, the 1980s (and the decades around the 1980s), it wasn’t exactly possible to be a news junkie. I suppose you could have three subscriptions to different paper newspapers AND watch BOTH the local and national news each night, but that would still be less than the amount of news I’ve been consuming lately. (Does anybody else hate the phrase “consuming media” as much as I do?)

My mother, , reads the newspaper from top to bottom. Left to right. Even the ads. She doesn’t miss a word. Thankfully for her, the newspapers in the Menomonie, Wisconsin vicinity, have turned into a shell of their former selves. Even she can’t stand reading them anymore without wondering about her life choices.

I was never much of a newspaper reader even when newspapers were the main source of news—but I was a newspaper delivery professional for a number of years. When I turned ten, I got a job delivering The Dunn County News. This is when The Dunn County News was still a real, good, independent local newspaper with actual information. Every Wednesday and Sunday, I would get my paper sack and head out to Knapp Street and Douglas Street.

It was good money for a ten-year-old. I could probably still do the route from memory today, and that was forty years ago.

When I turned 13, I moved to the big-time. The Leader Telegram Newspaper out of Eau Claire, Wisconsin. That route was also on Knapp and Douglas Streets. The Leader Telegram is (was??) a daily. Every day after school I would traipse up and down the relatively long streets and deliver the news. About 1/3 of all residents of Knapp and Douglas Streets in Menomonie were daily subscribers.

So, what happened to me? Why do I think that I need to read the news more than my customers who read the Leader Telegram once per day? I suppose I’ve been well-conditioned by outside forces to believe that I need to know what is going on at ALL times. Honestly, it’s ridiculous the number of times I check the news per day. Phone. Computer. iPad. Whatever is closest. It really is a sort of addiction.

I have come to the conclusion that I only need to read the news once per day. Just once. Not more. Not less. Okay, less would probably be more. I have a subscription to the New York Times, so that will be my source of news. Once per day, I will read the New York Times. And then, nothing else. I don’t need to know what idiot thing Pete Hegseth said to Fox News about Greenland. I’m sure somebody will tell me if something earth-shattering happens—like invading Greenland.

At first I considered getting just the Sunday New York Times sent to me in the mail. That would probably be good, but I’m cheap, and I already have a $4.00 a month internet subscription, so I’m going with that.

The news has always had politics, but now the news IS politics, not vice versa. I despise the constant worry “the news” creates. Will there be a tariff? Yes. NO. Maybe? Yes again. No! The stock market! Oh, luckily there’s not a tariff today, so the stock market is okay again. I don’t even own a single stock and never have and never will! What the hell do I care?

I’m going on a news diet. For the next week, I’m news fasting. I won’t even look at it. If I see a news story on Notes, I’ll ignore it. I am going to make an attempt to curate my Substack subscriptions, and get rid of anything political. My YouTube feed is going to be another matter completely; what a mess.

I’ll probably get the DT shakes, but I think I can do this. My writing output should shoot up after I institute the news diet. No damn news for the next week, and then once per day.

Come on Adam, you can do this!

🌊 Staring Into The Abyss - Writing On The Edge of the Pacific

Allergies have really kicked up here on the Oregon Coast. We live directly next to one of the largest spruce, fir, and pine forests in the Lower 48. I should just say, “evergreen forests.” Until about a year ago, I called them all pine trees LOL. What a faux pas. Pine, spruce, and fir are, apparently quite different from one another, although they look the same to me. Don’t even think about calling the trees around here “pine trees.” The locals WILL call you out if you call them pine trees. Listen, bro, they’re called Sitka spruce. Okay, okay…

Anyhow, this time of year the trees start raining yellow pollen down and man, I’m allergic to these evergreen spruce. When it’s raining yellow spores, you know a sinus infection is right around the corner. This makes thinking, much less writing, incredibly difficult. But this year I’ve got: Benadryl, 12-Hour Nasal Spray, Advil, and teas with healing properties. I won’t let this year’s spore jamboree stop me from writing!

Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna’ go to go take a nap.

Disaster-Horror Novel Update

I’ve been writing, and writing and writing, finishing up the first draft to my new novel: Foulweather.

Foulweather is set in Newport, Oregon. (Hey, that’s where I live!) It follows a local marine geologist attempting to survive an earthquake, a tsunami, and a forest fire. And something else lurks in the deadly waters. Will they survive? You’ll need to read Foulweather to find out! Available in all bookstores this summer! Or Fall!

I decided to name the novel, Foulweather, all one word, because Cape Foulweather, all one word, is just up the road. It was named by Captain Cook in the 1700s, and back then, there weren’t grammar Nazis. He was like, Foulweather. No Space! And I love it.

📚 Totally Recommended

I’ve been reading the book: The Terror. That said, I’m only a hundred pages in of something like 800 pages. So far, I’ve learned a lot about ice-breaking steam ships in the 1840s. And, there’s a monster out there!

I’m also reading ’s book, Shattered. I go back and forth between the books. I should be done reading The Terror in about 8 months (it is LONG!). I’m loving Shattered. CB Mason is a fantastic writer!

Portal

I found an app that I NEED to tell you about. It is called “Portal.” It is a nature ambience app. Pretty straight forward, but not only does it have sound, it also has nature in motion. Video.

I like Portal so much I have been considering becoming a paid member, and I’m cheap as heck! That said, the free version is all you really need. (And no, Stacey, I’m not getting paid to promote Portal)1

The best ambient experience on Portal? I love, Spring Barley Field, Devon, UK. The wind blowing through the barley, birds singing. I can almost drown out the Pacific’s wave noise outside my window.

I am NOT getting paid for this, but Portal Corporate—I’m available 🤗

Unabashed Self-Promotion Alert! 🚨

If you would like a signed paperback copy of The Unexpected Exorcist (once it’s ready sometime between now and the end of June 😹), consider becoming a paid subscriber. My memberships are still on sale till the end of the month!

To everybody who became a paid subscriber last month, thank you! I would DM to thank you personally, but sometimes people think that DMing is weird, so I don’t typically DM.

Your support means a lot!!! I was also listed in something called, “#34 Rising In Fiction” that Substack puts out thanks to you. I’m not totally sure what that is, but it was an honor just to be mentioned.

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📍 Field Report - Layer Failure At Moonshine Park

Living on the Oregon Coast, I have had to come to grips with its strange weather. For the majority of the year it sits between 40 and 58 degrees Fahrenheit. Whether it’s January or July, it’s usually in the 40s or upper 50s.

At first, I enjoyed this weather. Anywhere else in the United States gets HOT in the summer. Wisconsin, where I grew up, gets into the 100s. I can’t handle that type of heat.

I DIE!

In Newport, Oregon, most summer days require a sweater. I like to layer. Some people don’t, but me? I’m a layerer. You NEED to layer if you’re on the coast because one hour, rain and forty degrees, the next hour, fifty-eight and sun!

The cool summer weather only exists from the Pacific’s waterline to about five miles inland. Our apartment is only a quarter mile away from the Pacific, so we get the cooling effect year-round.

Moonshine Park

Last weekend, I made a stunning error in outdoor attire, all because we headed east to central, inland Lincoln County.

We had never been to a little riverside park named Moonshine Park the entire time we’ve lived here. It’s out past Siletz, up a long, long windy road that makes you feel like you’re in the movie, Deliverance. That said, we did get to see a herd of Scottish cattle which I had only seen in documentaries.

had read that there is a waterfall at Moonshine Park so we HAD to go there. She cannot pass up a waterfall, even if it means hiking ten miles. I’d rather sit in the car and look at pictures of the waterfall on Google Maps than hike, so this place was a good middle ground. At least I thought it was.

It was a cool morning in Newport, as per usual, so I put on jeans, boots, a long-sleeved shirt, and denim jacket. It was still early April, so I erroneously thought that it would be cool, even inland.

It was not.

We got to the park and it must have been seventy degrees! For me, seventy degrees is shorts and sandals weather. Having slowly turned into a Coastie, I can’t abide the heat and seventy is definitely heat.

The park was a nice little place. You can camp there if you’re into that kind of thing, which I’m not. If it hadn’t been so dang hot, we probably would’ve made a fire in one of the fire rings. But not with heat like that!

So, there I stood, all dressed up, not properly layered for the severe heat, staring at a little waterfall. It was more of a runoff chute if you ask me, but people seem to like it. and seemed to enjoy staring at it. There were a couple of semi-naked people enjoying the water, which must have been like thirty degrees. But remember, weed is legal in Oregon.

When you visit the Oregon coast, you MUST layer appropriately. I broke all the rules. Sometimes, it’s difficult to layer in reverse. I often find myself standing in an eighty-degree vineyard wishing for death or a medically induced coma due to heat.

That day at Moonshine Park I couldn’t even enjoy the moonshine because just sitting in that heat meant I was sweating. I need cargo shorts and sandals to be happy in the Inland Empire of Lincoln County.

This area of Lincoln County was known for the strong, illegal liquor known as moonshine. These days, it’s mostly methshining. We saw a methshining grow room on our little drive.

🌊 Staring Into The Abyss

My novel, The Unexpected Exorcist, is almost complete. Ready to go. I know I’ve been saying this for a few weeks now. I won’t get into the weeds here, but we needed to make a few changes to publishing rights etc. Publishing can be quite maddening.

Disaster-Horror Novel Update

I’ve made it into the final stages of my disaster-horror novel’s first draft. The title is locked in and ready to be revealed next week. I can also tell you that it is set in Newport, Oregon. This book is bound to ruffle some sensitive Newportian feathers. (Spoiler alert: A tsunami is going to hit Newport.)

📚 Totally Recommended

For the past couple of weeks, we’ve had a streaming service called HBO MAX! subscribed to watch The White Lotus season 3, but I’m not going to recommend that show because it’s super depressing.

For an upbeat show, I’ve found something much better called, The Pitt! It’s all about an emergency room called, “The Pitt”! That’s the slang term Noah Wyle uses to refer to his ER.

For all I knew, Brad Pitt had opened up his own branch hospital, or it was just a horrible place to work.

Turns out it’s named “The Pitt” because the hospital is located in Pittsburgh, PA, and the hospital is named, “Pittsburgh Hospital” (or something). Who would’ve guessed? I didn’t know people in Pittsburgh called their city, “The Pitt.” Honestly, it seems a bit on the nose, if you ask me.1

Hypochondria and “The Pitt”

I have a condition known as: being a hypochondriac. I watched all of House, and whenever the weekly show was done, I would think I had some new and spectacularly rare disease for the next four days. Honestly, it’s not good for my mental health to watch these type of shows.

Like most Americans, I have ended up in the emergency room either for myself or a family member. is there at least once a year.

As a hypochondriac, the emergency room is not the best place for me to be. I’ve seen all types of bloody messes while waiting to pass a kidney stone or be stitched for this or that. Once, I even saw a guy die at the emergency room.

Therefore, I have decided to watch all of The Pitt to desensitize me to emergency rooms. I don’t think it’s working and I have been experiencing incredibly intense nightmares about being at “The Pitt.”

(Who names shows these days??)

Unabashed Self-Promotion Alert! 🚨

If you’d like a signed paperback copy of The Unexpected Exorcist (once it’s ready sometime between now and the end of June 😹), consider becoming a paid subscriber. My memberships are on sale right now! Not only will you get a signed copy of the book, but also my undying gratitude.

That’s priceless. 💰

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Contents Of This Week’s Very Observational Newsletter

📍 Field Report: Tidal Raves And Parking Spot Manifestation
🌊 Staring Into The Abyss - Writing Updates
📚 Totally Recommended
🚨 Unabashed Self-Promo Alert: Free Norm Rockwell eBook!

📍 Field Report - Tidal Raves

My family has lived on the Oregon Coast for two and a half years. Are we locals? No, the locals would never allow us to call ourselves that. We call ourselves “Resident Non-Locals.” I wrote a post about this conundrum called, “Am I An Oregon Coast Local?” if you would like to get into the weeds on this.

We’ve become very comfortable living here. That said, the longer we’re here, the more commonplace the impressive coastline becomes. The sea stacks, caves, pelicans and whales become, well, just the background of where we live. It was bound to happen. I’m not jaded, I’m just used to grandeur now. Grandeur is our default mode operating system.

Last weekend, and I took a trip to Lincoln City. About twenty miles north of Newport. I went to the best bookstore on the coast called Robert’s Bookshop. Most bookstores on the coast have names like: Bob’s Beach Bum Books, so I find the mundane name refreshing. And it really is a great bookshop.

On our way back home, we decided to finally eat at the not-mundanely named restaurant: Tidal Raves. It’s a beautiful restaurant in the town of Depoe Bay that sits on a cliff overlooking the bay.

We have lived within 45 miles of Tidal Raves for over a decade, but every time we consider going there, I say, “I’m not eating at a place that named itself Tidal Raves!”

Plus, Tidal Raves doesn’t have a vegetarian option as far as I can tell. Our son, , is a strict vegetarian, and unlike his mother, does not consider fish to be a vegetarian food. Luckily, he wasn’t with us, so we decided to give it a try and see if it was all it hyped itself up to be.

The real locals of Lincoln County really do rave about Tidal Raves. “It’s the best!” “You won’t get better fish anywhere on the entire coast!” etc. etc. So we had to try it at least once.1

Them’s the rules!

Tidal Raves has a very modern look to it, so we thought it would be haute2 cuisine. Something fancy.

It was not.

On top of it all, Tidal Raves does not take reservations, which is another reason we never eat there. It is always packed and there is very little parking.

Luckily, I’ve been practicing “The Art Of Manifesting Parking Spots.” Just outside Depoe Bay I went into a deep trance and put all my positive energies into making sure a parking spot would be available when we arrived. Not only was it a blue sky Saturday, it was also the lunchtime hour during Spring Break. I needed to tap into all of my chakras.

I chanted my mantra learned from the secret tome: The Secret. “There is a parking spot. There is a parking spot. A parking spot is available! Tidal Raves has a parking spot available for us!”

previously thought my dark manifestation magic was bunk, but over the years she has seen parking spots appear, seemingly out of nowhere, after I perform my manifestation rites. I pray to the pagan God, Manifesto, and often my manifestations work.

After I had made all my incantations and sacrificed a handful of Doritos to a seagull, we rolled into the overly small Tidal Raves parking lot just as a mini-van was pulling out.

I was worried, not because I was using black magic, but because the place was packed. Without a reservation, we might be sitting there for an hour waiting on a table to open up. Maybe I should start utilizing my power of parking spot manifestation for shorter wait times at restaurants. Maybe I will?

I had always envisioned the clientele of Tidal Raves as retirees in suits. Its exterior has that vibe. It has an upper-middle-class Wisconsin supper club look about it.

Here’s what it was:

As you can see from the picture, the place sits right on the bay. It’s a beautiful view. But, it wasn’t what I had expected. It was full of … tourists!

I had worried about my attire, dark jeans and a black, Steve Jobs-approved long sleeve shirt. It turns out I could’ve worn my cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt for all they cared.

Instead of what I thought it would be, it turned out to be just another hectic, tourist filled fried fish joint. You know—what we’re used to.

The town of Depoe Bay is known for two things:

1. The World’s Smallest Harbor

2. People getting swept to sea on a regular basis.

As we sat there eating our fried fish and fried shrimp ( is fancy and orders shrimp), I had to watch a family crawl out on the rocks just to our west. We could see them through the immense picture windows. I could barely eat, worrying I was about to witness a family of four get swept out to sea.

For about a half hour, these people stood out on incredibly dangerous rocks. I couldn’t concentrate. I almost got in the car and drove over to yell at them to get off the damn rocks.

Finally, they left. About a minute later a giant breaking wave engulfed the basalt rock they’d been standing on. Lucky, lucky, family of four.

How was the food? Honestly, it was a bit greasy, but it was worth the view.

Now, I understand why people rave about Tidal Raves: It’s the view of the water and the cheap thrill of perhaps, just maybe, getting to watch somebody be swept out to sea. 🏄‍♀️

🌊 Staring Into The Abyss - Writing On The Edge Of The Pacific

Last Sunday I was struck down with severe lower back pain after picking up a five-pound potted plant. Oh, the humanity. One minute I’m having a good old time deck gardening and then BAM, I’m down for the count.

I wasn’t in much of a creative writing mood after that with seering pain running down my legs and up my spine. I’m not one of those people who “pushes through the pain.” No way. My creativity tank was on empty.

Luckily, things have been picking up the last couple of days and I’ve been writing again.

I’m also looking for an ergonomic chair that I can spend six hours a day in without getting crippling back pain. What a concept!

📚 Totally Recommended

Limitless Resources

My partner-in-life, ’s latest post on Substack is entitled, Limitless Resources, and was superb. Go check it out. It’s a beautiful meditation on her rabid journal collecting that is putting us in the poor house.

K.L. Rockwell, Watercolorist

Limitless Resources

So much I want to share that it is tumbling out of my head in a chaotic mash up…

Read more

a year ago · 53 likes · 39 comments · K.L. Rockwell

Shattered!

I’m also excited to read ’s upcoming novel, Shattered! It is on sale now! I just ordered a paperback copy for myself and will report back in a couple of weeks.

Below, CB discussed her new book in her post, Shattered is HERE!

by CB Mason

Shattered is HERE!

To learn more about the FORGED series, visit the Table of Contents…

Read more

a year ago · 18 likes · 9 comments · 𝐂𝐁 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧

🔊 Unabashed Self-Promotion Alert! 🚨

I don’t have any self-promotions this week, but my late father’s Cold War army memoir, How I Won The Cold War, is FREE through Monday!

I was the editor of, How I Won The Cold War, so expect a giant bucketload of spelling errors. It was published in 2013 during the Kindle Golden Years.

If you are interested, just click the link below, and it’ll take you to the Amazon page where you can get the Kindle version for free!

Link To Free Ebook!

In the before times.

Before the internet times.

We had a good little public school system, but I wasn’t exactly an honor roll student.

Regardless of my standing at school, people thought I was smart.

“He’s so smart!” they would say.

Also, “He’s so arrogant!”

Blame the World Book Encyclopedia.

There is one reason and one reason only the good townsfolk of Menomonie, WI, thought I was smart:

My dad bought an entire set of the World Book Encyclopedia in 1979.

And probably more importantly, the internet didn’t exist.

There literally wasn’t anything else to do…

… so I read...

… The Whole.

Dang.

Thing.

Multiple. Times.

There were arcades, which were awesome, but the quarters always ran out…

… and the World Book Encyclopedia was always waiting back at home.

I don’t know how or why my parents got this set. They weren’t rich… Maybe they bought it piece by piece at the grocery store?

It WAS a beauty of a set. The brown and black set with gold gilt. Okay, it was kind of ugly.

It adorned the front shelf in a place of respect. A place befitting the World Book.

I read The World Book constantly. What else was there to do? My dad was in charge of the TV “clicker” and only gave the clicker up if he was out of the house.

So I read the World Book.

When I was bored, which was usually, I would grab a volume off the shelf and sit and read. Sit in various places. The most obvious seat being the most read place.

I wasn’t well read. No, sir. Just well read in World Book.

How weird would that be to see a kid sitting around reading an actual encyclopedia today?

The World Book Encyclopedia is, unfortunately, known as a lower-end, dumbed down, kid-centric encyclopedia.

I’m sure the smarter, richer, more arrogant families of Wisconsin had Encyclopedia Britannica on their front shelf.

Regardless, if you read the entire World Book, you will to seem smart to adults.

And arrogant.

Even today.

Not that anybody is going to do that.

In case you were interested, the good people down at the World Book, Inc. are still printing the World Book Encyclopedia. And it’s only $1,200 for the set!!

I was thinking about getting one, but I’m no thousandaire! Also, I live on the 3rd floor and I don’t want the FedEx guy to stab me.

So, thank you World Book.

I salute you!

You created an arrogant monster.

The End