Hacking Made Easy!

I know, I know. It’s not October. And there is no Halfway to Halloween celebration on Hallmark like there is a Christmas in July. Let’s be honest, Friday the 13th doesn’t exist simply in the 31 days leading up to All Hallows Eve. I do, however, want to talk – albeit briefly – about the macabre in these near Ides of May.  

If you don’t know me then you might not be aware of my nearly neurotic obsession with the horror genre. If you know my family, you’ll know that they are not apart from old black and white Sci-Fi gems with gorilla-suited aquanauts and things that come from another world.  

So, where did this appreciation come from? This is an interesting story. 

I would love to say that I was there from the beginning of the Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees’ killer reputations, but that would be a lie. I was only 4 when Freddy invaded those unsuspecting teen’s dreams. And only mere months into existing when Camp Crystal was turned into Camp Blood. It was a few years later before I would watch these films ad nauseum.  

I vaguely recollect going to a video store on a pretty regular basis – REMEMBER THOSE!? This was no brick-and-mortar Blockbuster... which would eventually employ me... This was the pinnacle of mom-and-pop shops. Pic-A Flick! (At least, I think that’s how it’s spelled...) 

It was a time when you could not only get VHS tapes for a small fee, but you could also bring home those cute little Betamax cassettes. There was one time when we paid an exorbitant amount of money for a recently released copy of Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit for a stinking 20 bucks! 

I digress… I get excited about physical media. Sue me. 

I did this over and over-- I would rent the original Friday the 13th. I would slip it into the video player. I would tremble and be frightened by the gore and frequent murders present on screen. I would return the video and ask for more for some stupid reason.  

Roller coasters are cool, right? Same for horror I suppose.  

Years later, there was a friend through our parents and church who would bring me back to what once scared me. She loved Warrant and Ugly Kid Joe. I loved that she was older and could “teach me” things. She took me back to camp. This time Jason was dead at the bottom of the lake. A crazy girl with psychokinetic powers would raise Jason from his watery grave on one specific Friday. I was still frightened but mostly intrigued.  

That was the sixth Friday... at what point do we just not go near this specific body of water? Worst case scenario, there are like three on the calendar in one year. Come on! Be smart, people.  

My parents loved me, but they loved my brother more. He was the first in our house to own a TV other than the shared “family” TV!  And for what? Because he was their firstborn? Cause he was nine and one-half years older than me? That’s ludicrous.  

Anywho... 

We would stay up till all hours of the night watching all kinds of stuff. Kids in the Hall. Friday Night Videos. Baywatch Nights.   

For some reason, Fox TV in our area would show one extremely specific Friday the 13th. This one was in 3D! The original theatrical version would thrill those in the room with machetes flying toward your face in not one or two dimensions. This time, it was the third.  

On TV, it was... less than horrifying. Jason would stab toward the audience, but we were protected by the thick glass of the screen. You could practically hear the light THWANK as it hit. I should have been turned off by these, even then, out-of-date effects. I was simply enamored. Somehow, through these random events, I became a lifelong fan. Not just of Tommy and anyone trying to put a disabled, mentally strained train of an Oedipal mess. I wanted to know everything I could with anyone who could kill someone and hold my attention. In no particular order.  

I am the proud owner of the entire boxed set. All 12! As uncut and violent as they are, I slip them out of their artistically designed cardboard box and put them, one by one, each after the next, into my Blu-ray player and “relax.” I relish each and every single one of the series’ 196 kills in its body count.  

Also, why can they not work out rights issues between all involved? It’s criminal that there are only 12 and not 13?!?!? 

Now that I think about it, it’s not that interesting of a story. But hopefully,  I’ve kept your attention and entertained you for a few minutes.  

What else is there to say?  

May these May days be filled with spring showers and less Voorhees- fueled rampages through the camp counselors of Crystal Lake. May those that have been murdered on screen rest in peace… or pieces… at least for a few more months. When October rolls around? All is fair in love and counseling.  

 ~ Brandon L. Joyner

Prank You Very Much

Not unlike my parents before me who grew up in the 1950’s, I was part of a TV generation. While they grew up on I Love Lucy, Father Knows Best and Leave It To Beaver, my brother and I grew up on a steady diet of Quantum Leap, The Dukes of Hazzard and The A-Team. (There was also the occasional Circus of the Stars, but that’s for another time.) 

As a family, there were certain shows that we all gathered around the boob tube every week to watch; one of our favorites was TV's Bloopers & Practical Jokes. Dick Clark and Ed McMahon would leave their posts at The Tonight Show and American Bandstand and join forces to spread joy through pranks pulled on the sets that the shows of the day were filmed, sandwiched between bloopers from those same shows and news shows. Was it different than what had come before? Not really. Candid Camera aired years earlier. Punk’d would do it for years after. But this was just right for me.

I would, from then on, be a lover of pranks and, even now, can’t stop laughing at a flubbed line on the TV. 

When I was about 17, I went away to a five-week arts program for high schoolers called the South Carolina Governor’s School of the Arts. For over a month, in between my junior and senior years in grade school, I would move upstate to Furman University and be immersed in all forms of artistic endeavors, whether visual, theater or music. Rubbing elbows with singers and actors like myself was pretty magical and eye-opening. I still have friends from there to this day while others haven’t aged quite as well.

While we begged to be taken seriously as adult artistes, at night, the truths of our ages came to light. We were two to a room, sharing bunk beds. Even though our day-to-day “group” was spread over different rooms, we begged to be together. After hours, we would check the halls. If empty, we would quietly drag our mattresses to each other’s rooms and hang out overnight.

That is until the R.A. found us out. 

While a few jokes had been pulled out on each other - water replacing Sprite, unsweet switched for unsweet tea - they were tame. And… apparently all beverage-based in my memory. One night, we did what we often did, but the ending was much different. We had been warned to confine ourselves to our own rooms, right? Our R.A. took a lot of Saran Wrap, covered it in honey and pulled it tight as they taped it to our door frame. 

SPLAT!!!

Whenever we were trying to sneak back out to our rooms in the early hours of the morning, we were covered in all kinds of sticky. The cherry on top was that same R.A. turning the corner laughing and laughing after the prank paid off. We learned our lesson. And probably have a lifelong disdain for gooey substances. 

While my track record with pranks was spotty in the years following, I would eventually acquire a lifesize Ghostface replica. If you recall Ghostface was the iconic killer costume from the movie Scream. Needless to say, my parents weren’t thrilled with the new decoration. Every time we would walk in the house, greeted by Ghostface, we literally screamed. And not with excitement.

Halloween came and went that year, but Ghostface wasn’t done. You see, my family likes to scare each other. When I was young, my parents would jump out of my closet to frighten me. My brother would grab my feet from under my bed. I would duck underneath art tables and yell. All in good fun, of course.

Now, we had a nearly six-foot doll, serial killer, mock-up. 

The first time, he was hidden behind the front door. When I unlocked it and was face to face with him - or her depending on your fave original or sequel - I almost jumped out of my skin. The same happened when they moved him right in front of my bedroom door. On the flip-side, they probably didn’t love screaming when they found Ghostface in the pantry or their closet.

The piece de resistance came one evening when my parents were out late. They have a walk-in shower with mirrors on either wall of the washroom leading into this walk-in shower. When they tiredly dragged themselves to use the facilities, they were greeted with a knife-wielding psychopath. Now that I think of it, there’s not a better place to have the poop scared out of you. 

In the end, Ghostface ended up at our home’s front door. With each passing season and holiday, he would be adorned with the proper accoutrement. From hearts to bunny ears and Thanksgiving banners to Santa hats. Less scary now, eh? Well… a little bit. 

Were Dick and Ed best friends in real life? I honestly don’t know. I honestly don’t care. What I do know is that they are both up in Heaven Rockin’ at New Year’s and presenting angels with oversized checks. Most importantly, watching along with us at the relative expense of those that they’re pranking. Miracles can’t always work the first time, can they? Blooper on!

What's Love Got To Do With It?!

I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day.

Let me qualify that last statement. I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day due to years of working in an industry that serviced that very holiday. (And is it a holiday? I mean, no one gets off work. Not everyone loves the idea behind it. But I’m losing the plot and this is just the second paragraph.)

For years I worked in a handful of florist shops around Charleston. There was a list of deliveries that would rival Santa’s flowing to the floor. From red roses to teddy bears. From greeting cards to potted plants. (Hey! The flowers are nice, but plants hang around.) All over town, for hours upon hours and days upon days, I was tooling around in a delivery van making everyone else’s dreams of love come true. 

Later that night, it was a cozy evening under the covers. Many times! Alone. It’s when I’m not alone at Valentine’s that sitting there under the covers with my someone, things get really awkward. The last thing I want to do is go out for dinner or see another flower. Cause who doesn’t love romance? 

While I love, love, love romance, I’m not big on Valentine’s Day specifically. Leave the other 364 for huge romantic gestures. 

We could go into a deep dive, comedic history. We could chat about the handful of Catholic saints carrying the moniker of Valentine or Valentinus. We could discuss how Valentine’s Day is another holiday hijacked from Pagan traditions. We could rap about how it’s just another commercial occasion to take a dollar out of your pocket and place it in big businesses’ pockets. But let’s save those conversations for another time. 

Let’s talk bad first dates. (Do you think someone with synesthesia sees red when they think of schadenfreude?)

I, at one point, was in the dating pool. And going out on a lot of first dates, I had a standard “let’s get to know each other” plan. It’s simple. Pick up fast food from the drive-thru, drive to the beach and enjoy the sound of the ocean with a picnic basket and a bottle of wine. It worked… for a while. 

I wasn’t coy about this plan. It would give me and the lady a chance to get to know each other without a large investment of time or money. We would either like each other and continue the dance of future plans or we would go our own ways and keep in touch as needed.

But there was one… 

A friend of a friend. She and I had a lot of similar interests. Comedy, musical theater, etc. Then the big day finally rolled around. We were going on a date. The first date. The first date that had been my standard and a plan of which she was aware. From the moment she got in the car to the moment I took her back to her car, the conversation was like pulling teeth. Painful and, in some cases, unnecessary. 

One highlight of the evening: this was during the holiday season so I took her to the Festival of Lights. It was outside of the norm on a first date and I should have known better. We were sitting on a swinging bench watching a series of lights that created the illusion of a frog jumping into the air from a lily pad into the water. Nothing about this screamed romance, but I leaned in for a kiss all the same. 

She scooted away to the other side of the bench. 

I don’t know what she expected. More importantly,  I don’t know what I expected. She quietly got up and told me that I was… “predictable.” 

And so it goes…

Theater is fun. But everyone dates everyone. Eventually, I took my shot with a girl whom I thought was way out of my league. I asked her for an evening out. She surprisingly said, “yes.”

Let’s shelve the beach picnic for this outing.

We ended up at a now razed bar. I like to drink and so did she. Let’s toss back a few and see where the evening takes us. Great idea, right? 

She ordered vodka and Red Bull after Vodka and Red Bull. (In retrospect, as we weren’t going to an all-night rave, I was surprised, to say the least.) She could keep up drink for drink, shot for shot. She was a half-foot shorter than me too. We settled the tab and headed back home to continue talking. 

At the time, I was driving a Buick that was practically a land yacht. It floated on the pavement. Pulling into my driveway, a slight bump greeted us. As we took the bump, this beautiful young lady looked at me and smiled. Right before she spewed for what seemed like a lifetime on my face and clothes and into her gorgeous long brown hair. To this day, I don’t know how everything liquid in her body ended up on just the two of us and almost none of it ended up in my car.

I carried her up two flights of stairs and into my shower. Changing her without destroying her modesty, I washed her up (when did she eat spinach?), put her into some of my sleep clothes while I washed hers downstairs and laid her in bed for a good night's blackout. 

I took her home the following morning. Short of the incident in the driveway, I did have a pretty great time. I asked if I could see her again. She meekly replied, “no.” And that was that. 

Love doesn't just happen within the confines of February. It happens at Mardi Gras… which I now realize as I’m typing is actually in February. Between the beads, floats and multitudes of debaucherous twenty-somethings, I found a girl. Like, a good one. A soon-to-be lawyer. I won’t go into all the details of the wonderful time we had, but it was that. Wonderful. 

“But Brandon,” you say. “This is about bad dates,” you say. 

I’m getting to it. Sheesh.

I met her at the Orpheuscapade, Harry Connick, Jrs’ swanky, black-tie affair after one of the biggest parades of the entire event down in New Orleans. After a good bit of dancing and just enough alcohol, I was completely taken by this girl. I was feeling myself and I used some of my best material to impress her. 

“What did you say, Brandon?” you ask?

I don’t know. Alcohol. Remember? 

When the lights came up in the house in the wee hours of the morning, our lips were locked in a tight embrace. I followed her home and, short of a brief period when we were separated on Fat Tuesday, we were together for 72 hours. Then, my friend Kristen and I got in the car and drove 12 more hours home. 

“Still doesn’t sound like the world’s worst date, Brandon,” you say. 

You got me. It wasn’t. But… It was the world’s worst timing. You see, there were murmurs in the news about a terrible cold/flu/virus on the rise called COVID-19. You might know this wonderful friend as the Coronavirus. My Corona, if you’re feeling nasty. 

A week after I met this girl and convinced her to date me-- a few hundred miles between us-- the world shut down. We texted daily. Called every couple of days. Zoomed multiple times a week. But pure budding love couldn’t keep up with the dark shadow of a changing world. After a few short months, we were no longer a “we.” We were once again a “she” and an “I.” 

See? I told you it was gonna get bad. 

How to end things here? I sometimes have a dream that I’m the monkey from Raiders of the Lost Ark playing with Marion Ravenwood. All of a sudden, the attention is on me - even Indiana Jones himself. I stumble and fall to the table, my body limp. I’m dead, they realize, as I consumed a poisoned Medjool meant for our hero. Sallah mournfully mutters, “Bad date.”

For those of you who have someone, Happy Valentine’s Day. May the occasion bring you and yours closer together. For those of you without, Happy Singles’ Awareness Day! It’s just 24 hours later. And for those in-between… Keep hope alive!

~ Brandon L. Joyner

On the Road Again

I have a fantastic set of friends. I’m blessed. And not in the “Hashtag! Look at me, Insta and TikTok!” kinda way. Like truly blessed.

I’ve been socialized with other children (and eventually, adults) my age for decades thanks to my parents, church and theater. A lot of those same people talk to me still today. While I have a broad berth of acquaintances, my true friendship circle, while bigger than most, is small. My inner circle consists of very few. One of our favorite pastimes is traveling together. So, when my birthday rolled around, I was surprised with a rental car, an itinerary and a dream.

The theme of this birthday-extended-weekend-excursion was music. Something that was a bonding tie for all of us. Something that was at the forefront of what made us who we are. Three concerts. Three cities. Four days.

Roads? Where we’re going… we don’t need roads. I’m kidding. Of course, we needed roads. I just mentioned the rental car. Pay attention.

Friday. The first stop: Atlanta.

House of Blues has been a favorite place of mine since I first encountered it in Orlando, FL. They used to have a chicken sandwich called the Elwood. (It’s not on the menu anymore, FYI. But they might let you order it if you smile and ask for a blackened chicken sandwich with chilis/pickled jalapenos and crème fraiche/sour cream and tip well at the end of the meal.) My love of blues music and good food would make me and the HOB lifelong partners.

Unfortunately, the House of Blues had left Atlanta long before I was able to ever visit. It left a beautiful structure behind which would evolve into an amazing concert venue named The Tabernacle. On this trip, blues music wasn’t in the cards. We headed there for fun. Literally, the band: Fun.

The band with such hits as “We Are Young” and “Some Nights,” the latter doubling as the name of the spectacular, nearly symphonic album. Nate Russ and the rest of the band hit the stage and… A cacophonous belch of the most ear-bursting screams came from the coterie of women stuffed into the building. I love the group. But not in the same way they did. I quickly realized this from the blood slowly trickling out of my ears.

You see… the reason The Tabernacle is called The Tabernacle is because long before it housed the blues, it was a church. Built to amplify voices to the heavens. Tonight, it was doing just that. It was a phenomenal concert. Even if my hearing was a little worse for wear after.

With a little Fun under our belts, we were ready to head to the next destination. Right as we did, it started to snow. So, for the next hours spent driving through the night, we were met with a milky black infinity…

Saturday. Next up: Charlotte.

We got to Charlotte later that night. Safe and sound. What did you think was going to happen?

My friends and I had been to Charlotte, NC a few times for concerts and traveling Broadway shows it’s only a couple of hours up the road from good ole Charleston. This time would be no different.

If you haven’t been to the theater for a concert or for a full theatrical Broadway-style musical or play, you might not want to start with the series of buildings in Charlotte built and repurposed into the Blumenthal Performing Arts Center. And not for the reasons that you think. They’ll spoil you. You’ll never like any other theater outside of New York. Start at a local movie theater turned playhouse… then try Blumenthal.

I don't know if much of the audience here knows what acapella music is but it's music performed with only vocalists. There're no instrumentalists. Which can be terrible, to be honest. But at the professional level, it is quite stunning. My friends and I had been watching a show for the last few years prior called The Sing-Off with hosts Ben Folds, Sara Bareilles and the dude from Boyz II Men whose name escapes me right now.

The group that we were seeing on this particular night had been popular on PBS due to their Christmas special but they were most well-known as a college group when I actually had an acapella group in college. They were called Straight No Chaser. While there were only five guys in my collegiate group called The Parallel Fifths, Straight No Chaser came on with an army of what had to be a hundred and fifteen guys. Alright, that's hyperbole. But they could sing anything and everything with four to six parts. And the concert was amazing...

The audience was into it like you've never seen and this is without all the rock and roll hoopla and hullabaloo of the concert from the night before. While everyone was screaming... there was still a measure of composure considering that it's only nine guys with mics and nothing else. The highlight of the evening? Something that has been left to the annals of history (thankfully) called “The Harlem Shake.” The entire audience got up and danced and the next day we were part of some Instagram fad that would last a week, not unlike those of people being dunked in ice water or scared from a trash can.

After the concert, we were back on the highways and byways and we would arrive the following day, with the snow piling up on the side of the road slightly slipping up North along the way. We arrived on a…

Sunday. Finally: Washington, D.C. and Alexandria, VA.

I know it seems pretty counterintuitive. I said three cities. But how can you get so close and not visit our capital? There really is nothing like the Jefferson Memorial in the snow. Except for maybe the Lincoln memorial in the snow. How ‘bout the White House… in the snow!

I digress…

That evening we would arrive at the Birchmere, a hole-in-the-wall concert venue that has shepherded some of the biggest music acts of all time. Tonight would be no different as they would host… Eddie From Ohio.

What? You haven’t heard of them?!

That’s okay. For a long time, I hadn’t either. But they’ve become one of my favorite bands of all time. They’d be like the Beatles to me if the Beatles weren’t the Beatles to me. And I’ve gone cross-eyed…

In short, Eddie From Ohio is a folk-rock band from the Virginia area. I know, it goes against the name of the band. But it works. And so do they. With Robbie’s velvety, James Taylor-esque vocals, Mike’s jubilant and joyful attitude, Julie’s soulful and powerful belt-backed by what feels like Eddie’s eight-armed percussion. I promise, no matter how well or poorly I try to sell them to you, it’s nothing like listening to their music or experiencing them in concert.

We were mere feet away. Literally, in spitting distance. It’s not a huge room which makes the fact that it’s filled by a crowd of their number 1 fans even more immersive. I’d love to walk you through how much of a personal experience and how special each song was and which was my favorite. But my emotions were running high from the entire weekend and the whole thing is a little watercolor-y.

After the concert, we got to MEET the band. Just as I had every single time I had seen them before, actually. I tried to figure out what to say, how to make them remember me. When I got up to them, I simply stammered, “I’ve seen you ten times.” They said simply, “Thank you.” And signed my cd.

I’m sure they’ll remember me as they’re signing the restraining order. (That’s a joke… I think…)

From there, it was back home to Chucktown. Smiling from ear to ear and singing just a little louder to the radio.

What’s the moral of the story? I dunno. Let me see if I can scrape something together. When you sing, sing a song… Sing it loud, the whole day long? Nope. That’s a little too Karen Carpenter. Take 2! Keep your friends close - ‘cause they might take you to hear some life-changing music. Don’t keep your favorite bands quite so close as they might not let you in the building to hear them play.

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday, dear Brandon. Happy birthday to me (And Eddie… from Ohio.)

Hippo Hero? I Don’t Think So!

Every year around this time, Christmas music invades the radio and the lyric “I want a hippopotamus for Christmas/Only a hippopotamus will do” floats from the speakers. But this is a living nightmare for me and it should be for you too.

The lyrics go on…

“I don't want a doll, no dinky Tinker toy/I want a hippopotamus to play with and enjoy.”

At the tender age of 10 years old, did Gayla Peevy know what she was doing when she recorded this soon-to-be hit classic in 1953? My guess is no. But ignorance isn’t bliss to those clueless kids who now add this dangerous beast to the top of their must-have-lists every December.

You may be asking yourself, ”Brandon, what is it that gets your feathers ruffled about such an innocent song?” I will put it plain and simple. I am scared of hippos.

“But why?” you ask.

This might take a minute to explain but stick with me. I love Jurassic Park.

“But those are velociraptors, Brandon. They’ve been extinct for millions of years.”

I know they no longer occupy a place on this Earth. BUT… In 1993, they were very much alive on the silver screen in the hit Steven Spielberg movie of the same title as the Michael Crichton book, Jurassic Park. A fan of dinosaurs for years, even though I was frightened, I was excited that these long-gone creatures came to life on film. I was ready to read anything and everything that Crichton released and continue to head back time and time again to visit with Mr. Spielberg in the darkened recesses of the cinema.

Also, for the record, I am still scared of velociraptors. Even the animatronics ones from themed parks.

That brings me back to high school study hall. I had gotten my hands on a copy of Congo. The characters jump off the page fighting with wild animals in this (let’s be honest) overwhelmingly mediocre book. That didn’t matter. It begged for my attention. I plowed through that novel in a few hours.

I was done with Congo. But Congo wasn’t done with me.

“Mom says the hippo would eat me up / But the teacher says a hippo is a vegetarian.”

I had no idea at the time how correct Mrs. Peevy was. How dangerous are these animals? I’ll point out that I’ve never had any personal interactions with hippos. It is true that they are herbivores. But still…

Based on the success of Jurassic Park, it seemed that every book that Crichton had written was being optioned for the screen. This included a laughable but wonderfully enjoyable adaptation of Congo. About half the movie passes, in the dead of night, where dozens of men and women are rafting down the river when… they’re attacked!

The waters rumble and churn. Boats are flipped over. People flail in a chaotic ballet of death and destruction as each is snapped in two or pulled down to the murky depths by – you guessed it – a bloat of hippos.

There have been a handful of movies that have changed my life: Citizen Kane, Back to the Future, Amadeus. And now… Congo.

“There's lots of room for him in our two-car garage / I'd feed him there and wash him there /And give him his massage.”

Chances are, even if this wild animal didn’t break through your flimsy garage door and trample the other neighborhood children, it would probably sense danger when you tried to rub up on it and violently ravage you to protect itself.

But I digress…

I came home and did my research. In a time before Wikieverything, I flipped through our encyclopedia set and read up on these creatures. While the movie was frightening, knowing what I know now (then), I was right to be afraid.

Do I own a copy of Congo on DVD? Absolutely. Should I not? Up for debate. It’s my family and friends who truly won’t let me forget the deep and enduring mark left on me by this terrifying movie.

You see, I’ve shared this same story with them. Instead of sympathy, it's met with jeers and laughter. On top of that, whether it be my stocking or in a neatly wrapped package under the tree, a bountiful bow sat on top, I am gifted a hippo icon of some kind.

My best friend Kristen’s mother, Cheryl, and my mom – I know she’s a talented artist but she’s more sadist than saint – are the main culprits.

“I can see me now on Christmas morning / Creeping down the stairs / Oh, what joy and what surprise / When I open up my eyes / To see my hippo hero standing there.”

This eerily prescient lyric echoed through the halls of my home nearly 50 plus years later. Every Christmas a different reminder of my fears is all but guaranteed.

Let’s go over a quick list of what I’ve been surprised with over the years.

• A plastic figurine, its mouth wide open and ready to attack with beady red eyes.

• A stress ball – one assumes to counteract the former.

• Soap.

• A potato chip clip.

• A jewelry holder adorned with Swarovski crystal.

The list goes on and on.

And, by the way, young Ms. Peevy, even in a cape, it’s hard to consider a hippo a hero.

“No crocodiles, or rhinoceroseses / I only like hippopotamuses / And hippopotamuses like me too”

They most certainly do not, Ms. Peevy, like you. Or anything else. (Except, perhaps, in their jowls or mouths agape…)

Before I go, I would like to present two counterpoints for your consideration.

Hippos are dangerous creatures. According to the internet, which we all know is digital gospel, the hippo is the most dangerous mammal on Earth, after only humans. They kill over 500 people a year. But their numbers have reached quadruple digits some years. Sharks barely dispatch a dozen people a year. While crocodiles reach hippo heights, rhinos might be a better pet as a gift. Just learn the proper pluralization of the word. (You were so close. It’s rhinoceroses.)

It’s Christmas. Let’s end on a positive note. This song actually saved a hippo. When the song became a hit, there was a fundraiser so that Gayla Peevy could be gifted an actual hippo for Christmas. It worked. This hippo was made comfortable in the city zoo and lived a happy, non-murderous life for the next FIFTY YEARS!

So… if instead of a White Christmas you’re dreaming of a holiday spent with the third largest land mammal, my recommendation would be to reconsider. After all, wherever would they sit at the dinner table?

~ Brandon L. Joyner

The Fast and the Furry-ous

I’ve told you before about Clay and Carol. Along with Carol’s husband, Tommy, all are fantastic friends of the family. Clay and I have been friends almost since birth, I “think” he’ll even claim me today. He’s a brother from another mother. 

And father for that matter. No genetic material in common.  

If you haven’t read about past adventures, pause the video here and read this: 

https://www.suchandsuchdesigns.com/blogs-and-such/winnie-the-what-now 

Good. 

Now, that you’re back… 

The Duncans and our family are close. On another of our famous jaunts down to the most expensive – I mean, magical – place on Earth, we were packed into the three rows of Carol’s van. I’d make some inference that we were like sardines, but it’s simply not true. Everyone had space. This was still a time when vans were vans and men were men. Or something of some such. 

Anyway… 

We were rope droppers. What this means, for the uninitiated, is that we would wake up super early and before the park even opened its gates we would queue up and stand there to be some of the first people around the park. Go down to Disney. Do this. You’ll see we’re not that strange.  

Before you can hop on a monorail or be ferried over the moat-ish water of the Seven Seas Lagoon, (Pro tip: Don’t “morning” the monorail. The capacity just isn’t there. Boats are better.) you’re stopped by a line of toll booth-esque monoliths. Each is loaded with an infectiously happy person at an all-too-early-hour that will kindly ask you for half your life savings to park.  

So… 

There are about three or four cars in front of us, each stopping and taking a second to pay their way and are waved through one at a time. And after a few moments only one stood between us and – get this – waiting in another line.  

The car in front of us drives forward, pausing for a much shorter period of time before being waved on, following traffic into the parking lots of the glorious, magical, Magic Kingdom. 

Carol lifts her foot off the gas and drifts forward, pulling up to the woman who will take our money and allow entrance—one step closer to chumming it up with the Pirates of the Caribbean or the Enchanted Tiki Room birds.  

Closer and closer we inch… 

And then…  

Carol presses the button and her window slides down halfway.  

And then… 

Carol pulls the money from her purse… 

And then…  

The entire car hears metal clank against metal as Carol SMASHES the accelerator to the floor. 

As we speed past the confused woman at the earliest possible hour of the morning, we hear three words that will forever be burned into our psyche.  

“Magic Kingdom… HELLO?!?!?” 

“Carol? What are you doing?!” 

The brakes SCREECH as the rear tires smoke, the van shudders to a complete and immediate stop.  

“We have to pay for parking,” my mom mutters. 

Instead of backing the car up, Carol fully rolls the window down and waves the money out the window. Did she expect the lady to run to the car and collect it? Was she expecting Minnie to drive up in another van and escort her in? I don’t think any of us know. And I knew, at that moment, none of us cared.  

Finally, after far too long, Carol puts the car in reverse and backs up to where the woman has fully emerged from her parking gate shell. Color her embarrassed.  

Carol smiles and says, as if nothing had happened, “Morning!” She hands the attendant the money in exchange for a ticket that will become bleached by the immense heat of the Florida sun in the eighteen hours we’re at the park. The woman smiles back at Carol and points – with two fingers, three fingers, or the entire palm – to where we should park the car. 

After this, Carol gingerly pulls into a parking space.  

My mom looks to Carol and asks, “Carol? Why did you think about stopping then rush the gate?” 

“All the people in front of them stopped to pay. But the person right in front of us didn’t. So, I thought we were good to go,” she replied.  

Clay, dryly from the middle set of seats says, “Mom. They were annual passholders. They don’t have to pay for parking.”  

Silence. 

Then, the entire car erupts with laughter at this gargantuan misunderstanding. And if you know, Carol, her tittering went higher and longer as the day went on and she was reminded of this faux pas.  

If Disney (or any other theme park for that matter) reopens to capacity again and Mickey Mouse skips up to you smiling, take a moment to smell the roses and take a picture.  

And always – I mean, ALWAYS, pay the toll! Who knows what cops dressed as Goofy will do to get their money! 

Until next time… “Magic Kingdom… Goodbye!?!?” 

~ Brandon L. Joyner

Winnie the What Now?!

I’ve been friends with my buddy Clay since we were three years old. Pictures exist of us in kindergarten in complimentary Bugs Bunny and Donald Duck costumes. So… you know… we were tight.

After I moved to a different part of town, we became reacquainted in high school and our parents did too. If there is one thing that we did share, it was a love of Disney.

A couple of times a year, Clay and Carol (his momma) and myself and my mom would hop in a vehicle and tour all corners of the Magic Kingdom and its outlying areas.

I have sooooo many memories of the funky adventures that we had all over but most were in the Orlando area. Just to highlight a few…

· Carol, lip-syncing Elton John with a napkin on her head late night at Taco Bell.

· Tara – my high school sweetheart – trying to get into the wrong car at a rest stop.

· Ginny – another high school traveling pal – getting lost when she was looking at koi in the koi pond.

· My own mother, yelling at me that she didn’t have the three hundred dollars that she later admitted to having.

Like I said… I’m lousy with stories this side of funny. I’m sure that in later writings —right here, we’ll uncover some of the hilarity. There was one that stands out above the rest.

At the end of the day, Carol loves to laugh. Even more so, if you get Carol laughing, it’s hard to get her to stop. Not that you’d want to.

On one of our many trips, on the way home, Carol decided she was going to tell a joke. A dirty one at that.

And so, six hours outside of Charleston, South Carolina, it began...

“The first day of first grade, the teacher stands in front of her class. She says to her students, ‘Hello, class. Since you’re moving from kindergarten into grade school, we’ll be using more adult words. Who wants to tell about their summer vacation?’”

“After saying this, Shaun stands up and runs to the front of the class.”

“’Alright, Shaun. Tell us about your summer vacation.’”

“Shaun starts, ‘I went to visit my aunt and rode on a choo choo.’”

“The teacher stops him and says, ‘Not a choo choo but a…’”

“’A train.’”

“’A train. That’s right.’”

Around this point, Carol starts to chuckle. And chuckle. And chuckle. And can’t stop.

It was miles and miles and arriving in Georgia before we’d hear the next part.

“The next child went to the front of the class and the teacher says, ‘Tammy, tell us about your summer vacation.’”

“Tammy starts, ‘This summer, I visited a farm and got to milk a moo moo.’”

“The teacher stops Tammy. ‘Tammy, not a moo moo, but a—‘”

“’A cow.’”

“’Right, a cow,’ the teacher replied.”

Again, we lose Carol. Whether it was knowing what was coming in the end or having our rapt attention, she couldn’t stop laughing.

It wouldn’t be before we broke through the South Carolina border before the third act of this spectacular theatrically-presented joke was to be presented.

“One of the other boys in the class, Dylan, would proudly march up to the front of the classroom. He didn’t need any help from the teacher.”

“’This summer… my parents and I… went to Disney World… And…”

“Hehehehehehehhehehehehehehheheheh.” A high pitch cackle permeated the entire van. It was emanating from Carol. And it wouldn’t stop. “Heheheheheheheheheheheheheheheh.” This was… special.

And slightly deafening. It wasn’t until we pulled into the driveway...

“’This summer my parents and I went to Disney World and we met Winnie the S---!’”

You can fill in the rest.

The entire car burst into a mixture of tears and laughter, some of them due to the joke finally being completed, others due to the shrieking that was coming out of Carol. You never heard such slightly blue language coming from a tight-lipped Baptist woman. Especially not in Sunday school. But this wasn’t Sunday school at all. So, it’s okay.

There are many Disney/Carol stories to go around. And they’re all true. As the old sea shanty goes…

Got a whale of a tale to tell ya, lads

A whale of a tale or two

'Bout the flappin' fish and the girls I've loved

On nights like this with the moon above

A whale of a tale and it's all true

I swear by my tattoo.

Disney might have said that it all started with a Mouse, this adventure ends in a bear covered in honey among many other unspeakable things.

~ Brandon L. Joyner

Two Tickets To Not Paradise, Exactly…

As the Beatles once said… “Baby, you can drive my car.”

It wasn’t until I was almost 18 that I got my driver’s license. To those of you who were unaware, you can thank my parents’ uncommon approach to a split generation pair of only children for this particular blessing.

I remember looking for cars as soon I was notified that this was even a possibility. Like so many that came before, I wanted a sports car.

Let’s be honest. None of us are looking at the classiest of all minivans. (Although… my friend Tom did have a van large enough to have a window with actual working blinds, ladies.)

The car that I had set my sights on was a 1982 Corvette Stingray.

Red, black, white. Color was not an issue. As long as I could be seen cutting through traffic with that sweet, sweet molded fiberglass body. The amazing part of this was how little money this was going to set my parents back.

These beauts only cost about six-grand. A steal in any decade. But especially those where ads on the TV would have gigantic numbers tumbling from the sky declaring that the newest model of this and that was still under 10K MSRP. Whatever those letters meant…

So… My parents did what any other caring family member would do.

They called a family member in Walterboro, South Carolina, and spent about a thousand dollars on a 1988 Subaru station wagon. Truly, the envy of every high school student this side of the Ashley.

I did not love this car.

But it had wheels. And seats. And ran. And a lot of other basic things.

Let me restate. I did not love this car… immediately.

I slapped on a dark grey bat decal on the tailgate and so it became: THE BATMOBILE.

CUT TO:

College – a couple years later. While I would eventually end up at the College of Charleston (Go, Cougars!), I spent the first half of the first year of the new millennium at Newberry College.

It probably was a wonderful school with wonderful teachers and a wonderful campus… But it wasn’t home. I decided that I was going to drive home. Every. Weekend.

And, I did for many of those months.

It took a little over two hours from point A to Point B. But…

I found that speed limits were just a suggestion. Only 65 miles an hour? I can’t drive 65. 85… 90… maybe 95? That’s more like it.

I was making the sojourn back to Charleston after my 9 AM Friday psychology course and from my rear window… Red. Blue. Red. Blue. So on and so forth. I was only a few minutes out of Newberry and there was a cop tailing me.

This was the first time I had ever gotten pulled.

Sure, I had heard stories from my pretty blonde girlfriends that the police were so nice. Just be polite. Hands on the wheel. Have all the information they ask for. You’ll be rewarded with a simple warning. How could this logic ever not work?

Did I mention this was my first time getting pulled?

“License and registration.”

“Um… Okay.”

While I’m getting said documentation, “Do you know how fast you were going?”

“Um… No. Sorry, sir. OFFICER! Officer, sir. No…”

He takes the information. “Stay in the vehicle.”

My mind is reeling. Keep it cool, man. This is your first time. Like everyone says. You’ll just get a warning.

“Here you are.” I had won a ticket for $150 bucks and a coupla points.

“Thank you?”

“Slow down, you hear?”

And it was over. Or so I thought.

I still had to break the news to my parents.

There were words had. Declarations made. All of that’s a blur, honestly. What isn’t was leaving Charleston just 48 hours later. I was pulled again. Again, for speeding. Again, a ticket. No warning.

I was becoming a seasoned pro at this. Who needs ten thousand hours, amirite?

The second violation was dropped, thankfully. Knowing people in your hometown might be rare but also can help you get out of having to own your stupidity from time to time.

FLASH FORWARD:

A few weeks later, I’m with my dad at the Newberry Court House. I stood in front of a judge and pled guilty to the charges. The judge and officer were kind enough to shave a little bit off the top of the fine and points. But I was still in for a good chunk of change.

Running into the officer while paying the fine, he advised my father that he didn’t love pulling me over. And he might not have… had I not passed his clearly marked vehicle going 15 miles over the speed limit.

The moral of this story? If you’re going to break the law – check the plates or at least the side of the car. You might be doing something naughty in front of someone who has the power to arrest you.

Or just don’t break the law in the first place. That’s probably a better takeaway.

I have been pulled about twenty times over the last twenty-plus years… But there really is nothing like your first. I’ve slowed down in my slightly advanced years. Yet, I still feel the need for speed from time to time and must remind myself to pull off the accelerator, lest we repeat the sins of our youth.

And from time to time, I flick on the radio and hear those Fab Four.

“Baby, you can drive my car. And maybe? [Just maybe,] I’ll love you.”

~ Brandon L. Joyner

Back In Black

I’m not gonna lie. I think the Friday after Thanksgiving this year might look a little different.  

If you’ll allow, let me tell you a little tale… 

I come from a relatively large family. My father has four brothers – three surviving. The first cousin count on that side alone is eleven. And due to most of those having families of their own now, we rarely see each other during the holidays. 

Serendipitously, one year saw the Florida arm of my family in the same house as most of the Charleston branch. After the cranberry sauce was consumed and dessert was served, my Aunt Carey retrieved a stack of newspapers from her car. Ads from all of the major retailers cascaded to the floor as she marked up the offers that she was going to take advantage of and tossed away those that were of no use. 

“Um… Whatcha doin’?” I inquired. 

“Making a game plan,” she responded.  

Christmas was just around the corner and her three boys and one daughter required a huge mountain of presents underneath the tree in just a few weeks. 

At least, in my memory they did. I’m sure I’m being hyperbolic. 

She had a couple of televisions, computers, and toys of all kinds adorning her massive shopping list. And when was this to take place?  

“Where and when are you doing all this?” After all, she was hundreds of miles from home.  

“We’ll be getting up around 2am and starting at Best Buy,” she answered.  

“2am?!” Cause that’s the only proper response to getting up that early to stand in any line for hours and hours for anything ever. After a slight bit of deliberation, I inquired, “Can I join you?” I had never done anything so… so… intense for something seemingly so unimportant.  

But she said, “yes.” And the game was afoot.  

Like Samwise Gamgee headed into the fiery pits of Mordor, I followed her around town from store to store in order to save pennies on the dollar. The best part about it? I had a blast. Dodging to and fro to avoid the stampede of opposition shoppers, waiting in another line to escape the store and then tossing my findings on a counter with the final total announced at a fraction of what it would be on any other day of the year. 

And—you guessed it – this has become an annual event for my friends and myself. What other time of year can you hear so many strange rumblings from half-crazed, fully exhausted shoppers? 

A couple years ago now, standing in what was the music section at a big box store, a woman mumbled to her daughter, “Hey! Have you heard of this artist Michael BUBBLE? He’s pretty good.” Laughs from my groups were hard to stifle over this interaction.  

If you are a people watcher? This event built to bilk you of your hard-earned cash has become a perfect breeding ground for the hyper weird.  

Now the plague of the most capitalistically of capitalism is that Black Friday was starting to invade the Thanksgiving holiday itself. Where you had to shuffle out of your home in the middle of the night in the freezing cold to queue in a line that wraps around the building in the vain hopes that you can grab one of the ten TVs supremely marked down to bargain-basement prices… in the past few years, you could just head out about five in the afternoon and grab whatever you needed leaving those you might not want to be around in the dust holding their third serving of turkey.  

I never loved this… Thanksgiving to me has been about being thankful for that we have and have had. Not for what we can have or possibly consume.  

In these times of corona, it seems the clock has been reset. Wal-Mart and Target have both announced they won’t be opening their doors this year on Thanksgiving itself. Maybe its cause of the bottom line. Maybe it’s the companies themselves being more responsible. I think you probably know the answer.  

Whatever the reason? I’m ironically thankful. 

Let Black Friday be its own holiday in between food and more food. I’m happier this way.  

So… as you sit together respectfully socially distanced from family that you may or may not like in general or people that you may or may not agree with politically in times like these… consider Marcie’s words from "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving" from 1971 - "Thanksgiving is more than eating, Chuck. We should just be thankful for being together." 

I hope you had a phenomenal Thanksgiving and HAPPY HUNTING this Black Friday. 

~ Brandon L. Joyner

Catch a Wave

Let me start by saying this... my brother and I have always been competitive. And I guess that by using the tired narrative device of “Let me start by saying this...” I may have lost you already. But, please, stick with me.  

When we were kids, John and I used to race to see who could not put on our pajamas faster. Rushing from the drawers where they were located to the bathroom where we would brush our teeth back to our He-Man and the Masters of the Universe sleeping bags. Whoever could get there quickest would be the champion for the night.  

I would win most nights. Maybe all of them. Who’s gonna argue? John’s not writing this piece.  

That somehow leads us to a gigantic cruise ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean... 

One other important detail, John has had several surgeries on his right eye. They worked and worked to keep his retina attached. This was largely unsuccessful leaving him with very limited sight (if any) in that eye and concern from his parents (rightly so) about the possibility of losing the other one. This didn’t slow John down but did change the perception of his abilities.  

All fun, slightly depressing details that will become important. Another overused writing device... obvious FORESHADOWING!  

On the back of some cruise ships, they have surfing machines. (Am I 400 years old? Surfing machines?)  It’s called a FlowRider. Cruisedeals.expert (a classy website, I’m sure) has this to say about the contraption: 

A FlowRider is a 40-foot-long surf simulator constructed on dry land, or in the case of Royal Caribbean ships, a free attraction located on the deck at the rear of the vessel. A FlowRider wave is formed by water rushing upwards at 40kph, mimicking the feel of the ocean surf. 

(That’s 24.8548 mph for those of you not on the metric system. I know. I Googled it.) 

After long and somewhat deliberate conversation within the family, it was decided that John could try the boogie board version of this. Questions were asked. Safety was inquired about. The kids running the show took John under their wing. And they were fantastic.  

They rode right beside him. He laughed and rode and had one of the best times that I’ve ever seen John have. Not to get too sentimental but when John accomplishes something that he or especially others don’t think he’ll be able to do, it’s an amazing accomplishment. A day for celebration. While some of the other guests might have gotten upset at how long it took the cruise team to get him set up and extending their wait or giving John a little bit longer on the waves—taking them longer to get into the water themselves—there was no animosity whatsoever. Excitement truly prevailed. They were not only not mad, they cheered him on, this weeble wobble of a man.  

I thought, “well... damn. He made it look easy.” I, being the loving brother that I am, must destroy the memory of my sibling, salt the earth and spread the word of my greatness. It's what any good family member would do.  

It’s in the Bible.  

Check it out. 

I can’t remember the specific passage or page off top. Sorry. 

So... I hop in the line for this manmade surfing construct. This is going to end so well... Said no one. Ever.  

One of the guys in front of me is a ringer. Has to be. He hops on the board provided by Royal Caribbean and... goes... off. He flips around on the board. Jumps into the air. Zigzags left and right, to and fro. You name it. He did it.  

I thought, “well... damn. He made it look easy.” And now, I’ll show him.  

The time arrives. And I take the board. I plunge the faux wood short longboard into the foam created by the water throttled at my being.  

I want to say that I took to this activity like a duck to... well... water. I want to say that without knowing what I was doing I switch stances, kickflipped and tail slid with the best of them. I want to say that the crowd jumped to their feet cheering as they had never seen a first-timer be so successful at riding the waves.  

A literary reference comes to mind... (Another overused device. How meta!)  

But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out. 

In reality, I looked like a 250lb newborn foal who, instead of being birthed on dry land, was instantaneously sent onto the roughest of seas and told that I would need to run before I could walk. Immediately I plunged forward in front of the board and it flew backward into the wall with me to follow shortly. The crew must have felt bad for me as they placed me right back into the water rather than moving onto the next victim. 

Now that I think about it, maybe they were just having a laugh... 

I made a second attempt and stood on that board and wobbled back and forth and stood up about four times as long! Which probably came out to something like 6 or so seconds.  

Endless Summer, thy name is Brandon. 

I got out of the water, kept my head held high and waited until I got back to the room before breaking down in tears. Like a real man. 

What is the moral of the story? Sheesh. I’m hard pressed to put a fancy cap on this one. Let’s see... 

Sometimes you feel beaten down. Sometimes you feel like nothing is going right. Like you can’t get anything right. When this happens, stand up and brush yourself off. Think of me getting my butt handed to me by my loveable but cycloptic brother.  

Remember me and my failures and think to yourself, “well... damn. He made it look easy. I can do better than that at least.” 

Also, I love you, John! You’re doing great! 

~ Brandon L. Joyner

We've Only Just Begun

As I sit here writing this, our family and probably yours is under a quasi-quarantine. Stuck inside. Running around the kitchen table. Clawing at the walls.  

All we can do in times like these is look forward.  

But those who fail to learn from history are condemned to repeat it as Winston Churchill once paraphrased. So, while we wait on tomorrow, we look back to the past.  

My mother, Jeannie Joyner, the artist whose work this very site is built around, has always been the creative type. She grew up in a generation that still taught home-ec and wood shop. Now, I doubt that mom could make a birdhouse, but she sure as heck would give it the college try. She wanted to escalate what she had been doing for so many years leading up to the last one. 

She decided to sell her artwork of the city which is so near and dear to her heart: Charleston! 

We set up Facebook and the website and things just kind of sat. And sat. And sat.  

I posted a few pictures. I really didn’t know what to do next. It would be about a year before I really sat down with the family to form any type of business game plan.  

And right before we did… 

Beep. 

A Facebook message from Lisa Graham. 

“This is an odd question. I recently changed a light plate in my home that I purchased about 4 yrs ago. The back is signed by Jeannie Joyner along with Rainbow Row Charleston SC but the plate is not painted. Just curious who Jeannie Joyner is. I found online she is [a] Lowcountry Native.”  

And the journey began. 

The above pretty much outlines the discovery of this former artwork. The former owners of the house had apparently scrubbed the painting of Rainbow Row that Jeannie had so painstakingly recreated transforming this simple household item into a work of art. All that was left was a white nothingness.  

After a little bit of back and forth, Jeannie and Lisa came to an agreement that Jeannie would repaint what once was hers. Bring history that had been erased back from the dead.  

In the end? Voila! Lisa and her family had Jeannie transform this everyday switch plate into a view of Charleston once again. Not to mention she made a few friends along the way… 

(Picture of Lisa and Mom and the switch plate.) 

In the end, this rekindled the passion for the project. We started taking more and more pictures of what mom had painted. The flower pots. The saw blades. The lightbulbs.  

The fire was stoked and we built an inventory and were ready to really gear up to share our love and Jeannie’s art. We always knew how we wanted to work. Help people connect with the town of Charleston in which they live or help a visitor take a piece of our city home with them. We’ve been doing it ever since. Hence, this blog.  

Before we go, you might be asking yourself where the name of our illustrious company came from. The answer may surprise you. Jeannie and David had a little business years and years ago. The name? Designs from Our House. Some of you may remember it.  

When approached about this new endeavor, she was asked if she wanted to go with the same name as her former company. She simply replied, “No. I want it to be called such and such designs.” 

Perfect!  

What started as a placeholder for something more fanciful became our moniker for one of the most consistent and creative artistic establishments on all of the interwebs.  

After this first full year of business online, we simply want to say: Thank you! 

Thank you for interacting with us on Instagram. 

Thank you for commenting and sharing our work on Facebook. 

Thank you for reading our quaint newsletter every week. 

(Thank you, Lisa, for looking us up and helping to put our butts into gear.) 

We appreciate you and your patronage. But if you want to pick up one of our wine glasses or a set to celebrate along with us? We would LOVE that too! 

~ Brandon L. Joyner

A Pirate Looks Back At 40

I’ve been putting off writing this for quite a while now. Months, actually…

And, that’s for several reasons. Mostly, because, who wants to hear about anyone getting older. For those who are beyond your years, they’ve lived through it already. For those younger, they think they know better all the same.

What does that leave to be said? What makes it special?

Well, in the end, it’s my 40th birthday coming up and someone gave me the mic. So, there.

I’ll keep it short. At least short for me.

I could write about all of the things that I’ve learned in my time on this earth, but to be honest the older I get the less I feel I know. I mean, when I was in my early 20s, I thought, “I know 80% of everything there is to know.” Now, I think, “There’s so much to know… I’m up to 2 – maybe 3%….”

I’ll just tell a quick little story that encompasses everything I’ve learned. How about that?

They say that ten thousand hours makes you an expert. If you perform any specific task for over ten thousand hours you’ve earned your professional’s badge. I tell you that to tell you this. I’ve been performing since I was a kid. In church, in school, around town. Wherever anyone would allow me to sing.

While I was in college, I auditioned for the musical Oklahoma! I found out shortly thereafter that I had been cast in one of the lead roles: Curly. Like it or not, I was going to be singing about how “Beautiful a Mornin’” it was.

We rehearsed. All of the singing, the dancing, the whole shebang for a little over a month. The cast was as professional as we were going to get (in college). The first couple of performances went off without a hitch. Curly courts Laurie. Will loves on Ado Annie. Everything in between was gravy, baby.

And then…

During one of the shows, I was getting into the song “The Surrey with the Fringe on the Top.” Everyone in the audience knows every note and every word. But who cares? I knew what the hell I was doing.

I was set to climb up the windmill on the stage opposite of Aunt Eller’s house to which the laundry line’s attached. That’s exactly what I rehearsed and exactly what I did.

Except…

When I did it this time, I accidentally knocked the line off and all of the laundry floated to the stage. I was going to fix the line as soon as I could. At least I thought I was, when I realized I had thrown myself off of my game – off of autopilot—and forgot the lyrics to the song. I moved some of the lyrics from the second verse. No harm, no foul.

Then, when I got to the second verse… I didn’t think I should repeat the same lyrics over again. So, I politely took a handful of words from the third verse and plugged them into what I was singing at that moment in time. I had saved my bacon from the fire, off to fight another day.

Then came the most romantic part of the song. Laurie and Curly would cuddle up at the base of the windmill. Love was in the air.

I sat in the glow of the lights from above, my Laurie in my arms shaking violently with laughter. You see, I had forgotten yet another verse. I had no more made-up lyrics left. The only thing I could think to do was scat. Instead of the wonderful words of Rodgers and Hammerstein, I blurted out “skeep bah deep floo gah doop gee gee floo dooh.” This was during the most tender moment of the song.

This was the first of many flubs by the entire cast that night. The 8 pm show on a Saturday night. Props were forgotten. Starter pistols misfired.

It did not go well. So…

There was always tomorrow night though. There was the rest of the run to consider. What is any performance meant to do? I pulled up my overalls, hitched up my big ole brown boots and sang out my cowboy heart for the rest of the run. The show must go on…

That’s life, folks. No matter what happens you have to keep going. It’s one of the many lessons I’ve learned. And there it is.

What else is there to say really?

While trinkets like “live every day as if it’s your last” seem a little hoary, this makes them no less true. I realize that tomorrows are never guaranteed.

But as I procrastinate, this becomes a bit of a paradox. Until we meet again on the raging seas of life, I will remember you fondly so long as I can remember anything at all.

~ Brandon L. Joyner

Trilogy of Terror

Who doesn’t love one last, good scare?

October is over. It’s true. But before the “amber waves of grain” go all “snowcapped mountains white,” we might have one more yarn. One last fright.

This is more Treehouse of Horror than anything else, so please keep up.

I grew up watching horror movies. Lots of them. My parents maybe should have been more protective of my cinematic childhood, but that is a therapy session for another day.

I remember watching Friday the 13th Part 7 where a young girl with psychic powers raises Jason Vorhees from the dead to wreak havoc one last time… until the next last time. Or Nightmare on Elm Street 4. Was that one Dream Warriors? Nah. That was Part 3. Four was…The Dream Master. (Thank you, Google.) Part 4 has my favorite quote. “Swish. Killed the fish.”

Hilarious in and out of context.

But there’s a distance there. A space between me sitting in the living room cuddled up with the blue glow of the TVs with actual tubes and the maniacal serial killers haunting the woods or your dreams or certain parts of Texas.

Today, let’s talk about real scares. Personal scares. And, since we’ve just mentioned them, let’s start at the movies.

Let me confide something in you. I thought that Scream was a tired idea before it came out. I was mistaken. It – at the time – was one of the scariest movies I had ever seen. But I was wrong about the girl on a video tape coming out of a well. (What the heck were you thinking, The Ring filmmakers?)

Like I said, I’ve been wrong in the past. I’ll be wrong in the future.

Ghostface became part of the cultural zeitgeist. Seeing a person dressed all in black with a bright white mask and wielding a hunting knife just became the norm. After the over one-hundred million dollar success of the original and a couple of sequels – this is before an underrated fourth in the series and three seasons of an undercooked tv series – people know who the heck Ghostface is. But, sitting in the darkened theater over twenty years ago, I had no idea what I was in for.

From the opening phone call with Drew to the final jump scare, I was all in. Along for the ride.

There are things now known as 4-D movie theaters. Once upon a time, this type of experience was contained in the fenced-in confines of a theme park. Water shooting you in the face. Bubbles falling from the ceiling. Fans stirring up smoke and blowing it around your seat.

Do you remember when I said I was along for the ride?

This was a 4-D theater before 4-D theaters existed. I hooped and hollered. I jumped at every stabby moment. I held hands and then twisted said hands until the blood was thoroughly rung out of said hands. I might have ended up sitting in a someone’s lap. But, I’ll never tell.

The kids who flanked me on either side? They never saw it coming.

Years later, I would revisit this same “thrill.” Most might not know, but the couple of days following Halloween are a fantastically deeply discounted time for us fans of the macabre. I snagged a full-sized, animatronic Ghostface from Spirit. And the fun began…

He was hidden all around the house to scare whomever was dumb enough not to see him coming. In showers. In the pantry. But… if you’re not paying attention after a fun night and a few drinks. Your mom is able to subtly put it behind the front door. You walk in completely oblivious. See a dark masked figure with a knife raised above its head. You could scream to the heavens and crumple to the floor.

I’m not saying this happened to me… But it could have…

Since it was just yesterday, let’s tell a tale of Halloween.

I do not like haunted places. I don’t wander grave yards at night. I don’t tempt fate heading into places where bad things have historically happened and where the miffed ghosts of the past may still wander the halls/tombstones/shady medical establishments.

Don’t start nothing. Won’t be nothing.

Some friends decided that heading to the Old Charleston Jail for a ghost tour would be the most splendiferous of all ideas. It’s not. That place is haunted. Don’t be dumb.

If you haven’t checked out our history on the Old City Jail that we posted on October 25th, skip over there when you’re done here.

Anyway…

We are dressed up in all kinds of Halloween garb. Some of us pirates, some of doctors. You get it. I was dressed in gold lame. Elvis Presley, baby.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

And we start the tour. This place was used for water torture. This is where they used electroshock therapy. These bars held this bad dude right across from that crazy lady. All in good fun, yeah?

A couple of the actors dressed as inmates are grabbing for us behind a set of thick iron bars. The tour guide yells, slams their hands with a billy club, slamming the outer huge iron door. SLAM! It echoed…

Then they continue with all the gory and gruesome details of the misdeeds done by those in charge over what seemed like millions of years. And… the huge iron door swung open narrowly missing me and my “friends.”

What did I do, you ask? I did what any sane man would do.

I screamed. Loud and high. And I picked up a male counterpart and threw them at the actor who jumped out and scared me.

My friend tells the story later, “I was walking forward and then… I wasn’t. I was facing left as I was being launched at one of the people running the tour.”

We made a hasty get away only seconds later.

But scares are rarely contained to the thirty-one days of October. A great shock to your system can be waiting around any and all corners.

Years ago…

Another friend, who at this point was living in Orlando, asked if I wanted to go Universal Studios. Now it’s no big deal. We head down to Universal Studios several times a year if we’re able.

We go religiously. (Don’t tell Jesus. The big turkey legs make him nervous.)

This was my first time.

And they have/had/have a Jurassic Park Ride. I love Jurassic Park. Dinos are my favorite. Love, love, love.

But… I’m so excited about this new (to me) attraction, I’m paying attention to exactly zero percent of the warning signs.

Does it have a brachiosaurus? (“Please remain seated at all times.”)

I wonder if there’s a raptor cage. (“Keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle.”)

Wait… after this I can go and pet a triceratops? (“People who are pregnant, have high blood pressure or heart conditions or are just not paying attention to these signs should not ride.”)

We hopped in a large boat and… we’re off.

“Welcome… to Jurassic Park. (Dun dun dun duuun dun. Dun dun dun duuun dun.)”

I am in heaven. Here’s an Ultrasaur. A stegosaurus. Don’t forget the Psittacosaurus, whatever that is. My eyes are open and I am a kid. Just excited to be there.

Then things went south.

A lizard throws us off course by head butting us from below. The raptor cage that I was wondering about? There it is. But the raptors inside have gotten loose. No Bueno. Where have they gone?

Two compys fight over scraps of clothing which I assumed were from a dead guy. The raptor cage from the first movie? DROPPED from above, stopping just above our heads.

This is not what I signed up for.

Bring back the Stegosaurus!

Then, a dark tunnel. Broken glass. Blood. Raptors left and right. Jumping out at us. Clawing. Hissing. Dilophosaurs spitting just like in the movie. Now, a welcome relief from the Florida heat, then another thing surprising me on what I assumed to be a peaceful water taxi tour through time. I was holding on to the lap bar for dear life. The entire time I had not noticed that we had been transported up and up and up through a chain system. Think “Splash Mountain” with teeth. Yet, that wasn’t the end of it.

And this terrifying enemy surfaced, as such enemies often do, in the seemingly most innocent and unlikely of places.

A large gaping black void sat in front of us. A roar bellowed at full force and stomping right toward us was the king mama jama. A full-size Tyrannosaurus Rex. I was a dead man. No one – but everyone else on the boat – saw this coming. Not only was he headed for us, but we were headed for him. The worst game of chicken ever.

A shaft of light from underneath. I looked down at the only way out. An 85-foot drop. Then? The clawing, hissing and spitting were from me. I expected none of this.

FLASH.

They took a picture of the most scared I have ever been in my entire life, the masochists. And then sold it to me for 14 bucks.

Please see the below:

So… If someone rings you. Asks what’s your favorite scary movie? Or tells you that you have only seven days to live? Or invites you to a haunted house? A theme park maybe?

Just say no. Hang up. And re-watch Friends. Because there’s safety in numbers.

~ Brandon L. Joyner