BERJAYA

Christmas, 2025

Posted on December 25, 2025 by profmondo

Christmas in Mondoville is not the stuff of Currier and Ives — it’s sunny today, and we expect a high in the upper 70s. Culturally, it feels inapt, but as I’ve noted before, that’s apt in its own way.

That’s the thing about miracles — if they were appropriate to the occasion, they wouldn’t be all that miraculous; they’d just be How Things Are. After all, what is appropriate about God, Caedmon’s “Holy Shaper”, choosing to become one of his own creations, limited as we are, choosing to play by the rules humans must live by, including hunger, thirst, tears, pain, and yes, death? What is appropriate about the Maker of the Universe not only becoming human, but entering the world in a manger, dependent on others for care and love in order to survive? What is appropriate about the Divine Perfection being driven even from that home into Egypt?

And we mark that inappropriateness, that miracle, today. Ideally in the company of family and friends, sometimes simply muddling through the best we can, but we mark it.

***

I’ve been blessed to spend this Christmas time in the company of all three Mrs. Moores. I picked the Spawn and the Spouse up in Charlotte on the 18th, which also gave us the opportunity to have an early dinner at one of our favorite greasy-spoon burger joints. Fortunately, the Spawn is able to work remotely, because she has had to clock in a few times this week, but we’ve managed to find time for other stuff as well.

We watch quite a few movies when the girls are down here, and this year we decided to go with Westerns. Both because I’m much older than they are and because I occasionally teach the genre in my film classes, they’ve let me drive things, so we’ve seen Stagecoach (1939) and The Searchers (1956), with Black God, White Devil (1964, from Dani’s ancestral Brazil) sandwiched in between. Tomorrow, we’re going with The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (1966), and then they head home on Saturday (another burger in Charlotte for me!). However, I’ve also assigned them several more to watch when they get back up to Terpville. Specifically, I’m pointing them at The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962), The Naked Spur (1953), Winchester ’73 (1950), Forty Guns (1957), Ride the High Country (1962) The Wild Bunch (1969), and Unforgiven (1992). And for what it’s worth, I know the Spawn reads the blog from time to time, so if you have additional suggestions, feel free to mention them in the comments.

***

Another part of Christmas with Clan Mondo involves gorging ourselves into a stupor. Here, Mrs. M has done her usual exceptional job — not the gorging itself, but in supplying the requisite foodstuffs. She started a custom a year or two back of setting up a snack table, with lots of allergy-friendly candy, junk foods, and the like, as well as an array of the Spawn’s favorite foods in quantities sufficient to founder a Percheron. Meanwhile, the all-important pork products food group has been taken care of with bacon (and the accompanying biscuits and gravy), sausage-and-cream-cheese balls, and all that sort of good stuff. And of course, tonight we’ll do the traditional turkey and dressing bit.

This is as good a point as any to observe that Mrs. M makes heroic (heroineic?) efforts at this time of year. As the Spawn has noted, Mrs. M is the motor that makes the family run, and between this summer’s wedding and these holiday celebrations, she has outdone herself. I know it’s stressful for her, and although I try to do what I can, things simply occur to her that don’t occur to me, and that we’d certainly miss if they were absent. And she takes care of those things, and of us, without complaint, or at least far fewer complaints than we likely deserve. So as ever, thanks to Mrs. M for making the season merry and bright. Meet you under the mistletoe, okay?

***

Books were the primary medium of exchange at the Mid-Century Mondohaus this year. The Spawn’s haul included works ranging from cultural anthropology to the Bell Witch, and Huxley’s Devils of Loudun. Dani picked up some novels about Latin American dictators — apparently quite a few have been written; go figure — some art supplies, and additional volumes for her study of the Chinese language. Combining the language and dictator themes, she also got a copy of Pantsov and Levine’s 2007 study of Mao.

My own library was expanded by several volumes as well, with a historical lean. I received a book about the loathsome Woodrow Wilson, along with an abridged version of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and Piers Brendon’s Decline and Fall of the British Empire. I also picked up Seth Bovey’s history of garage rock. On the fictive side, I received a couple of novellas from Peter S. Beagle, and am told there are various other volumes yet to arrive. And because it wouldn’t be Christmas for Mondo without some Lawrence Block, I completed my Scudder series with a short-story collection, and also acquired Into the Night, a posthumous collaboration between the extant Mr. B and the late Cornell Woolrich. The capper — or maybe jacketer — came from Mrs. Moore, who recalled my fondness for denim jackets. Although I don’t wear any sort of coat very often down here, I’ve always liked jean jackets, probably dating back to the one of my dad’s that I liberated occasionally in late elementary and into middle school — remember, I was a big kid. That particular jacket was notable for the the fact that Dad — who had some acquaintance with herbal jazz cigarettes — had painted the ZigZag rolling papers man on the back. I had no idea what it represented — I just thought it was cool that Dad had painted it.

The jacket did not include the word mark. I’m guessing Dad saw that as gilding the lily. Or the bud.

In any case, I’ve owned jean jackets for much of my life since that time, but with my recent loss of weight, my old jacket was about the size of a circus tent and no longer suitable for me. So Mrs. M thought that should be remedied and set me up with a new one that’s even authentic Levi’s-made, rather than the historical “whatever was large enough and cheap” issue that has driven my wardrobe for most of my life. The older, voluminous jacket has been passed down to the Spawn, who apparently plans to wear it as a duster-like garment. Likewise, she may inherit an old sports jacket of mine, which she will use for a sort of Diane Keaton-in-oversized-clothes thing.

Another example of Mrs. M’s eminent practicality takes the form of a high-powered flashlight and vehicle escape tool, with a hammer (for breaking glass) and strap cutter (for seatbelts). She already has one, but gave one to each of us. God willing, we’ll never need to use it, but she wants to make sure we’re safe. And who knows? The next time I find a student vehicle in the last faculty parking spot, it might become the instrument of a learning opportunity.

As for Mrs. M herself, she now has a new purse and billfold, along with some cast iron cookware and cosmetic stuff. The purse is apparently described as a “koala bag”, which seems to me as though it should reek of eucalyptus, but what do I know? The important thing is that, like the rest of us, she’s very happy with it.

***

As I mentioned, the younger Mrs. Moores are heading back to Terpville in a couple of days, at which point I’ll get back to thinking about school stuff — arranging syllabi and the like. But for now, I think I’ll just try to enjoy the day, with a garage rock piece I’ve shared before, but since ’tis the season and all…

Saturday’s Children were part of the Chicago garage/teenbeat scene, and like many bands of that ilk, wound up on Dunwich Records (and yes, the Lovecraft connection is there — the label’s publishing arm was Yuggoth music. In fact, the label would eventually put out some sides from Chicago psychsters H.P. Lovecraft.) Saturday’s Children were less raucous than such Dunwich bands as the Shadows of Knight and Del-Vetts, with melodies and harmonies owing more to the Beatles and Zombies than, say “Louie, Louie.” They did a Christmas single in 1966, the B-side of which was an odd hybrid of “Deck the Halls” and Brubeck’s “Take Five,” crunched into waltz time. But this was the A-side, and I listen to it a lot this time of year. From somewhere around my second Christmas, here’s “Christmas Sounds.”

Merry Christmas, everyone, and see you soon!

Posted in Culture, Faith, Family, Literature, Music, Why I Do What I Do | Leave a comment

Sunday Afternoon Potpourri: There and Back Again Edition

Posted on December 14, 2025 by profmondo

It’s sunny this afternoon, but the temperature is dropping, with a predicted low of 20 overnight. Down here, that’s apocalyptic, Ninth Circle stuff, but I still bear enough of my years in Kentucky and Indiana (to say nothing of my, um, natural insulation) not to be bothered. One of my outstanding memories from my time at Ball State comes from a morning that I was scraping the windshield of the car so that Mrs. M could go to work, The car was warming up and the radio was playing; I could hear it as I cleared the windshield. The morning DJ announced, “It’s minus seven in Muncie this morning, but with wind chill, it’s minus seventeen.” (And for any readers from outside the US, those are Fahrenheit temperatures.)

Besides, I got a cold-weather booster shot this week. Let me tell you about it.

***

As I mentioned recently, some of my family’s possessions have been stored as potential evidence since my parents were murdered on 12 June 2009. The trial was four years after that, but the Boone County Sheriff’s Office held onto all those things — even those not used at trial — for years in case of appeal. I guess those appeals have reached something of a conclusion, as I was contacted over the summer and asked if I wanted any of the items that hadn’t been introduced at trial. There were about eighty items on the list. Most of them would fall under the heading of detritus, honestly, but there were some things I decided I would like to have. This didn’t include some firearms — specifically long guns that had been in the family for generations. While some of them may have been worth some money, I talked to Mrs. M and decided I didn’t want even the chance to exist that something of my family’s would be involved in someone’s death. (Yes, I know that human beings have been using whatever comes to hand since Cain struck down Abel, and that the chances of any of those weapons being used to harm anyone in the future were small. However, having those guns destroyed reduced those chances to zero. I’m good with that.)

Most of the items I wanted were small — address books and the like. However, there were a couple of computers, and I knew that Dad had been digitizing some family photos and such, and that it might be possible that I could find the originals of the personal web page he had put together after his retirement. For those of you whose memories of pre-2010 computers may be a bit dim, this stuff was pretty bulky and heavy, which to my mind made having them shipped a non-starter. Instead, I decided to drive up and retrieve it myself. With the help of Commonwealth’s Attorney Jason Hiltz (part of the team that prosecuted my brother for the killings) and members of the BCSO, I scheduled a pickup for this past Wednesday.

It was something of a whirlwind trip. I drove from Mondoville to Northern KY on Tuesday. Under ordinary circumstances, it’s a pretty simple trip: I-26 to I-40 to I-75. However, due to the massive damage Hurricane Helene did on my birthday in 2024, a significant chunk of I-40 in North Carolina is still out of commission. I was routed onto a series of blue highways between Asheville, NC and Newport, TN, which slowed me down a fair amount, with additional delays thanks to an accident on a twisty mountain road that stopped traffic for a while and some bridge construction in Hot Springs, NC. I also worked in a stop at the Buc-ee’s in Sevierville, TN where I fueled up both the car and myself.

But eventually I made it to Lexington, where I got in a late lunch/early supper with the Mad Dog, who lives a little over an hour away in Morehead, KY. I had expected to see his lovely wife the Mad Doc as well, but she was recuperating from some recent medical stuff. We met at one of my favorite restaurants, where I had the meal I have every time I’m there — a Hot Brown sandwich (with ham and turkey, hold the tomato) and a slice of their should-be-famous chocolate brownie pie a la mode.

After about 90 minutes, I got back on the road, but not without a quick picture with the Dog.

The Prof (repping Dr. Johnson) with the Mad Dog.

I made it to my base camp in Florence — a clean, comfortable hotel a few miles from the Sheriff’s Office in the county seat of Burlington. I was pretty tuckered from the trip, so I stretched out on the sofa and watched my beloved Kentucky Wildcats manhandle an overmatched squad from North Carolina Central University. From there, I called it a night, knowing both that I had things to do the next day and that it usually takes me a while to adjust even to the most comfortable unfamiliar bed/

Sure enough, I woke up before my 6 a.m. alarm. I got civilized and availed myself of the free hot breakfast in the lobby — sausage and eggs, with orange juice. From there, I made the fifteen-minute drive through the cold and spitting rain to the Sheriff’s office. They had been expecting me, and after some very brief paperwork, brought the stuff out to my car and loaded it in. It didn’t even fill what passes for a trunk in the Blue Meanie, but it was nearly all that I wanted. There’s still an item remaining — a cell phone and charger as obsolescent as the computers — but it has not yet been released for some reason. If and when it is, the police assured me that I could have it shipped to me.

I suppose that if I had really wanted to punish myself, I could have made the drive back home, but had decided instead to make a day of it while I was up there; it had been more than a decade since my last visit, after all. So from the office, I drove to Union, to the neighborhood where I had spent my adolescence and college years, to the house that was my family’s for nearly 33 years, and where my folks had lived for 31.

The house has appreciated dramatically in value since I sold it, now going for about three times what it cost in 2011. Apparently even murder discounts fade with time. And that’s just as well — as I’ve said a number of times, my family spent 31 good years there, not just five very bad minutes.

From there, I went to the city building. Again, I hadn’t been there since Michael was sentenced in 2013. Dad had been Mayor of Union for nearly twenty years, with stints on the city commission and as City Administrator on either side of that. The city had a population of 503 when we moved there in 1978 — it’s now somewhere within spitting distance of 8000 people. So yes, it has changed dramatically since my time there. Still, I take comfort in the fact that my parents and their contribution to the city have been remembered. I walked into the lobby of the building, and explained who I was. The city clerk (a job my mom occasionally filled when the regular employee couldn’t make it) showed me a plaque my her window:

And outside, there was a new sign:

And a memorial for Mom in the garden, not far from the sign.

I don’t know how often people see those names or think of them, but I did, and I hope others do too.

From there, I went to a gas station a couple of miles away, where I happened to see an outpost of Cincinnati’s signature ice cream chain, Graeter’s. While ordinarily even I would say that ten a.m. is early for ice cream, the store was open, and in fact had been since 5:30 that morning — it turns out they’ve developed a thriving coffee shop business along with their ice cream and chocolates. So it was clearly destiny (or perhaps density) that led me through the door and to the counter, where I had a couple of scoops of their eggnog flavored ice cream. I chatted a bit with the manager and watched a mom with a couple of small children in the enclosed play area. And a good thing it was enclosed, too — along with the lowering temps and cold, spattering rain, there was a fair amount of wind, resulting in what fans of Disney’s version of Pooh would call a blustery day. I don’t remember exactly why I think this, but I got the impression that the mom had taken the kids there for a post-pediatrician’s visit treat. Before I left, they had settled at a table and were enjoying some sort of seasonally decorated cookies.

After that, I drove to Mall Road in Florence. Like a lot of locals of my generation, Mall Road was the site of my first job — the two years I spent in customer service at Sears. Sears is no longer there, of course, and neither am I. In fact, very little of the Mall Road where I hung out in my teens and early twenties remains. Stores and restaurants come and go, the cinemas where the Mad Dog worked and I watched movies on the cheap as they were being screened the night before opening are gone as well. Sic transit gloria Wednesday, I guess.

Something that does remain, however, is a Barnes & Noble, in the plaza across the street from the mall. It was the first large bookstore I ever visited, and I was happy to see that it has survived the ups and downs the chain has endured over the years. I wandered around for a bit, and it occurred to me that now some of the names on the spines of books and the covers of magazine were those of people I know, people with whom I’m acquainted, and people whose work has appeared alongside my own. I really should write more.

Back to the hotel, where I heard from Jerome “Joe” Scott, who was one of the first friends I made after we moved to Kentucky, and the bass player in several of my high school bands. We had planned to meet for lunch, and as it happened, he was actually at the mall taking care of some shopping. Since we were already in proximity, we bumped our noon meetup time to 11:30 and got together across the street from my hotel at LaRosa’s, the 800-pound gorilla of Cincinnati area pizza chains. As a tribute to times gone by, I wore my SCTV “Russian Television” T-shirt, appropriate for when one dines with a fellow “Uzbek.” We caught up on mutual friends, each other’s lives, and inside jokes while splitting a double pepperoni pizza — we communicate online pretty often, of course, but there’s something to be said for sitting across the table from someone. At the very least, it helps the comic timing.

But as it does, life made its intrusions, and Joe had to take care some other stuff so he headed off, and I? Well, I went to another bookstore and the music shop next door, I browsed for a bit, but didn’t pull the trigger on anything, and eventually headed back to the hotel, where I listened to a podcast and some music until dinnertime.

I was supposed to get together with another friend from the area, but family issued took him out of the picture, so I continued my Cincinnati-themed dining by going to the local Gold Star Chili. I normally have Skyline, because I can find it at Kroger and Publix stores in Real City, so I thought I’d have a go at the other major chili chain for the first time in years. I had my usual — two cheese coneys (chili dogs) with mustard, no onion; and a three-way (chili and cheddar cheese over spaghetti).

While I ate, I watched a family come in — a young couple with a toddler and a baby, along with one of the sets of grandparents. The Muzak was playing a variety of hits from the mid-80s, Madonna, Howard Jones, and other staples of the MTV of my high school and undergrad years. I enjoyed the meal; I think I prefer Skyline for three-ways, but there’s just something to be said for freshly served coneys.

Finally, for dessert I went to the nearest outpost of United Dairy Farmers, the convenience store/dairy bar chain. I picked up a couple of Powerball tickets and a chocolate malt, another favorite treat of mine. I know one can get a shake anywhere, but I remain a sucker for an actual blended chocolate malt, and UDF scratched the itch. From there, back to the hotel and bed, where I had dreams of my old home and of people I can only see in those dreams and in memory.

Making up for the day before, I overslept by about half an hour, but still managed to get packed, have some more sausage and eggs, and get on the road at a reasonable hour. Even with the detour through the Smokies, I made it home by mid-afternoon, and was doing laundry by the time Mrs. M got home from school. I also discovered that I had hit the road just in time — the area got several inches of snow on Thursday, but I had gotten out ahead of that.

I don’t know if or when I’ll be back there. While some of the people I would have wanted to see are beyond my reach, in the Big Elsewhere, there are still folks I wouldn’t mind meeting up with. And as I told my friend Will Harris, it was only moderately haunted.

***

In other news, the clock struck midnight on the Newberry Wolves Cinderella football season, as they fell to defending national champs Ferris State in the national semifinals, 49-17. The game was actually more interesting than it sounds — after falling behind 21-0 to start, the Wolves made their customary charge back, bringing the margin to 21-17. Unfortunately for our side, a series of turnovers gave FSU the ability to put the game away. The conditions in Big Rapids, MI were also extremely hostile for the South Carolinians, with wind chills around minus 5 and a field that bore a resemblance to a skating rink. Of course, it was cold and slick for Ferris as well, but as the home team they were at least somewhat more accustomed to that kind of thing.

So some disappointment at the outcome is to be expected here in Mondoville, but realistically, we did what no Newberry football squad has ever done, and we did it in a season when no one expected much of us. Between the national runner-up finish in field hockey, the football team’s unexpected success, and the fact that our speech and debate team was rated sixth in the nation this year, we have astonishing momentum for a school with fewer than 1,700 students. So if you have or know a high schooler who might be interested in a lively, small school experience, they might want to have a look at my employer. (Especially if they want to major in English.)

***

In other good news, the latest Mrs. Moore — the Spawn’s wife Dani — got to finish a long journey with a brief walk, completing her B.S. in Web and Digital Design from the U of Maryland’s Global Campus. We’re amazingly proud of her, and will no doubt be celebrating when the girls come down for the holidays this Thursday. In the meantime, here’s this to tide us over.

***

I think that’s enough to tide me over at the moment, so I’ll go ahead and wrap things up. I’ll close today with a track I referenced on my social media while I was on the road. Since the 1980s, New Jersey’s Smithereens have done their bit to carry the torch of 60s-style rock into the present day. Although the band’s original vocalist and principal songwriter Pat DiNizio died eight years and two days ago, the band continues to tour with such vocalists as fellow power-popper Marshall Crenshaw and John Cowsill.

This is a track from their second album, the (to my mind) underrated Green Thoughts, which sounds very much like a bunch of guys from Jersey trying to echo the Beatles’ Revolver. This was the second cut and second single from the album, inspired in part by the loss of DiNizio’s parents’ home for tax difficulties (a divorce was involved), which drove DiNizio toward the Reform party in the 90s. This is “House We Used to Live In.”

See you soon!

Posted in Culture, Education, Family, Music, Pixel-stained Wretchery, Why I Do What I Do | 4 Comments

Thursday Afternoon Potpourri: Wandering About Edition

Posted on December 4, 2025 by profmondo

I made a quick run to Real City today, but got home a bit sooner than I might have expected to. So why not blog a bit? It isn’t as though I’ve been burning through the pixels of late, so let’s go ahead and get to it.

***

Earlier in the week I had to swing by my doctor’s office for a follow-up appointment (nothing serious, just a check on a change in a medication.) Because the practice is staffed by human beings, somehow they failed to check me in when I arrived, which gave me about a half-hour delay, No big deal — as I said, I’m doing fine, and I wasn’t in any particular hurry.

But as I sat there, a young mom and two children came in. I don’t know how long the family has been here; I couldn’t make out the language the mother spoke to the older child, but it wasn’t English. One of the kids was a babe in arms (or in a carrier, anyway). The other was a little girl, a late-stage toddler. The three of them and I were the only ones in the waiting room, and while the mom and infant sat across the room from me, the older child had what, if she were a small dog, we might call “the zoomies.” She dashed circuits of the room, holding a children’s book of indeterminate content.

Indeterminate, that is, until she came to a stop so abrupt it made my artificial knee hurt and thrust the book into my hands:

I don’t know how long she had owned the book, or if it was hers originally — there’s a Little Free Library outside the doctor’s office. But she had it, and then I had it. The little girl just looked at me. I glanced across the room at the mom and baby, neither of whom seemed particularly interested in the goings-on.

So what the heck? I read the book to the kid. Fortunately, I’m a pretty good public reader — between the job, Noirs at the Bar, having a wife who teaches first grade, and having been a dad for quite some time, I certainly have had the practice. Alas, I’ve never seen an episode of the animated series from which the book derives (or is it the other way around? My kid was of a prior generation), so I couldn’t do the voices from the show, but the little girl didn’t seem to mind, and both she and her mother smiled as I showed her the illustrations accompanying the text.

One interesting point in the story was when, at the Halloween party, a character known as Madame Gazelle — apparently a teacher in the world of the series — cast no reflection in a mirror. I wouldn’t expect a gazelle to be a vampire — they’re herbivores, after all — but while the text mentioned the fact, no one in the story made a big deal of it, so I didn’t either. Still, it seems like something of an unfired Chekhov’s Gun.

In any case, I reached the conclusion as the little girl resumed her dashes around the waiting room. I handed the book back to the mother, who smiled and nodded, and then the nurse appeared and told me I was at bat so I headed to the exam room. When I returned, the mother, children, and book were nowhere to be seen. Now it’s three days later, and I wonder if I’m the only one who remembers the little incident at all. Still, it made the wait pass a little more pleasantly by giving me something to do. The Universe provides.

***

The Real City trip this morning was for a haircut and beard cutback. I’ve already had my first callout as Santa of the season — there will likely be others, but they happen more frequently when the beard is fuller. Afterward I swung by a local Chinese place for lunch, followed by a stop at the local used media emporium, where I found Still Waters, a Matt Goldman standalone from last year that I hadn’t previously known about. Goldman also released Dark Humor this week, the latest in his Nils Shapiro PI series. I’ve added that one to my Christmas list, so I reckon I’ll be caught up with his output by month’s end.

My next stop was at the Giant Warehouse Store where I went in the hope that I might be able to restock the sugar-free green tea that I run on most of the time. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the house brand that I normally guzzle, and the name brand they did have really wasn’t significantly cheaper than it would be at my grocery here in Mondoville. For my last stop, I checked a Kroger (which we don’t have in Mondoville) in the hope that they might have the seasonal egg nog flavor of ice cream from Cincinnati-based Graeter’s, a 155-year-old maker of ice cream and candy. Because both Kroger and Graeter’s are headquartered in Cincinnati, I’ve had some luck finding treats from my old stomping grounds at the Real City Kroger, but today was apparently not my day, as they had nothing whatsoever from the brand.

Fortunately, I may be able to make up for the lapse next week. I’m making a dash to Northern KY next week to pick up a few items that had been held as evidence in my family’s case even after the 2013 trial, but have finally been released. I’m only going to be in the area briefly, but it looks as though I may have a chance to meet with the Mad Dog and Mad Doc on the way up, and another long-time friend on the full day that I’ll be in town. It’s going to be a lot of driving in a fairly small window, at least for a non-professional driver like myself, but I’m looking forward to the trip.

It’ll be my first visit to Northern KY since my brother’s sentencing twelve years earlier, and I haven’t actually lived in the area since I went back to grad school nearly three decades ago. I suppose that in many respects it’ll be yet another reminder that Thomas Wolfe got things right, and many of the people and places I knew are gone to the next world, or at least out of this one. And that’s to be expected — life goes on even when and where I’m not looking.

The Spawn and I were chatting a bit about this lately. She has fallen in love with Maryland, which makes it likely that Mrs. M and I will head that way when we retire. I feel pretty safe in saying that neither Mrs. M nor I expected that to be where we’d spend Act V of our lives, but on reflection, I’m not entirely sure that we had a particular destination in mind along the way — heck, I still feel a certain level of surprise in having made it this far.

Of the places we’ve lived thus far, I’ve found things that I liked and that I miss from all of them, but I’m not really sure any of them really feel like Home anymore. The places I’ve been, and the places where we’ve been, were more often than not places we went for a purpose — my father’s job, a degree, my career — rather than as ends in themselves, places that we knew we were part of. We haven’t been unwelcome in any of those places, but I spent my childhood in one place, my adolescence in another, and have spent my career in still a third. I have roots with some people in Nashville — surviving family, friendships of nearly sixty years’ duration, but the place itself has changed so much since I left in 1978 that it wouldn’t feel to me as I think it must to my family and friends who have stayed in the area.

And now I’m educating myself about Maryland, under the assumption that I’ll go there in five years or so because that’s where the Spawn and her Mrs. are, and where they expect to stay. Mrs. M and I agree that home is wherever the Spawn will be — whither thou goest, and all that. At the same time, I suspect that some would see my lack of geographical rootedness as a symptom of the alienation that marks the modern world, and maybe they have a point. After all, while the Spawn has worked on this chapter of her life for six years now, and for more than a decade my the time we get there, in many ways it’ll be a blank page for Mrs. M and me. (Always assuming I make it that far — too many of my friends haven’t even made it here.) But it’ll make it easier for the Spawn (and we hope, Grandspawns) to have a connection to that place, and in that regard, it’ll be worth it.

***

Well, it’s coming up on suppertime, so I think I’ll close this installment up in my customary manner. And speaking of being out of place, let me introduce you to The Triumphs, Milwaukee’s leading surf band of 1964. In this respect, they were similar to Minnesota’s Trashmen (of “Surfin’ Bird” fame), but may have had even more of a frat-rock edge. They cut four tracks, of which two were released on IFF records. The musical archaeologists at Norton Records unearthed all four and released them on an EP in 2004, and this particular song — “Surfside Date” — is the title cut, 103 seconds of frenzy with saxophone raveups over a remarkably old-fashioned chord progression. Buckle up, gang!

See you soon!

Posted in Culture, Family, Literature, Music, Why I Do What I Do | Leave a comment

Sunday Afternoon Potpourri: Not Quite a Month Later…

Posted on November 30, 2025 by profmondo

Really, Mondo? Four weeks between posts? Yes, and I apologize. Gradeapalooza wrapped up on Tuesday, and with three of my classes being Froshcomp, my brain was more or less mulch by the time I got the grades turned in. Additionally, our athletic teams have had unusual success this term, and since I’ve taught quite a few of the athletes, cheerleaders, band folks, et al., I tend to show up to their games to support them. This semester just felt particularly dense, and it was hard for me to clear sufficient head space to blog, write, or really do much of anything. But here we are — I haven’t quit, so let’s get to it.

***

As I mentioned above, our sports teams are blazing some new trails these days. Sports serve a somewhat different purpose at Mondoville’s level than they do at the schools one commonly sees on ESPN and other networks. While at big colleges, athletic teams are often seen as a PR apparatus, a “front porch” to attract alums, donors, and students seeking a fan experience, Mondoville and similar institutions rely on sports as a means of bringing more kids into the classroom by offering them spaces on the playing field. You see, our current enrollment of about 1,500 is an all-time high, and more than half of our students are on one varsity roster or another. Of those kids, virtually none attend on full athletic grants-in-aid. In fact, down here in Division II, the typical athletic scholly will generally be in the low four figures, if that. But even with other financial aid (for academic achievement, activity grants, and such), those kids pay enough tuition, room and board to be something of a profit center for the college.

Being part of a team also seems to enhance student retention in many cases. Student-athletes build connections with their teammates, of course, and with their coaches, other department personnel, and in the case of many of our international kids, host families. And at least in this part of the country, there’s a certain cachet for the kids (or their parents) to say they’re in college on an athletic scholarship, even if the scholly in question has the actual size of –>.<–.

Really, as much as anything, our sports programs offer kids a chance to get a few more seasons of doing things they love while (one hopes) getting an education as well. And on very rare occasions, a few of our kids have made it to the big leagues; we’ve had at least four kids in the NFL and one in MLB in my years here, with others playing in international leagues.

Because we’re in the South, football is king, of course, and we’ve seen unprecedented success in the sport since I got here in 2003. To call Newberry football a historical laughingstock might be unkind, but it wouldn’t be inaccurate. As I’ve said in the past, we were everybody’s homecoming game when I got here, an easy win for programs big and small. However, over my two decades and change, we’ve won six conference titles and made it to the playoffs as many times. Granted, even by D-2 standards we’re a small school (When I arrived, we were the smallest school in the nation with scholarship football), so our typical playoff run in any sport tends to be, um, truncated as we fall to bigger, better funded programs at larger schools with bigger budgets.

But not so much this year. This season’s edition of the Wolves wasn’t even picked to finish in the top half of our conference, but apparently they didn’t get that particular memo. Instead, they’ve found their way to an 11-1 season so far (with seven of those wins coming in games decided by a single score), and yesterday we entered unprecedented territory, winning a second-round playoff game against the U of West Florida. This means that next Saturday the team will travel to Albany, GA to face the Golden Rams of Albany State U, with the winner going to the national semifinals. In short, it’s the program’s best season in, well, ever.

But even with that, the other big athletic news here was our field hockey team, which came within inches of Newberry’s first national championship in any sport, losing 3-2 in overtime in the national title game against perennial power Shippensburg U. It was a heartbreaker, but in this case the Wolves represented not only the college, but this entire region of the country. The sport has been dominated by schools from Pennsylvania pretty much since the establishment of Division II, and this was the first time that a team from the South made much of an impression at all. The team finished 20-1, and fought a program with half a dozen national titles to a standstill in regulation.

So it’s been a fun autumn, and it isn’t over yet. Meanwhile, our basketball teams are a combined 10-1, so we’ll see if the good times keep rolling here at the Little School that Can.

***

An advantage to the term’s drawing to a close is that I can take some time to focus on the Newberry Crime Writing Workshop. We’ll be opening to applications in February, and I’m hopeful that we’ll get off to a good beginning. Watch this space, and I’ll keep you posted as things develop, including some big names for the 2027 edition.

***

Of course, the big news at the Mid-Century Mondohaus is the pending arrival of the younger Mrs, Moores for the the holidays. I’ll be picking up the Spawn and Spouse in Charlotte, which offers me the added bonus of grabbing a meal at one of my favorite burger joints. The girls have apparently gone on something of a Westerns kick, so I imagine we’ll get in a fair amount of screen time while they’re here. My Mrs. M has ordered this year’s family jigsaw puzzle, so that end of things is covered as well. I decorated the tree this morning, so it’s beginning to be beginning to look a lot like, well, you know.

***

I also made a blood donation this afternoon, bringing me to the 6-gallon mark over my career as a donor. It’s one of my favorite ways to help people, and as someone with a rare blood type, I try to encourage other folks to do it as well. Who knows? You might save this blog — or at least the blogger — someday.

***

Okay, I think it’s time for me to wander home, where Mrs. M has graciously volunteered to fix some coneys (hot dogs topped with Cincinnati-style chili and cheddar cheese) for my dinner. But of course, I’ll cap this with a bit of music.

Art Guy was an L.A.-based songwriter who recorded a single on the Valiant label which promptly vanished, and then he had a brief run as a member of Smokestack Lightning, who recorded on the White Whale label. TeenBeat Mayhem describes this cut as a “fast strummin’ folk punk protest with reverbed fuzz”, and there’s really not much I can add to that. So here’s “Where You Gonna Go.”

See you soon!

Posted in Culture, Education, Family, Literature, Music, Why I Do What I Do | Leave a comment

Sunday Afternoon Potpourri: Gradeapalooza Approaches

Posted on November 2, 2025 by profmondo

I’m pretty well caught up on grading, at least until Tuesday. I have a paper coming in from my film kids then, but the real deluge begins next week. The college reshuffled our calendar so that we wrap up, finals and all, before Thanksgiving, with the Spring semester beginning on 12 Jan 26. In between, there’s a one-month Winter Term, where I’ll be doing an independent study with a single student, with a focus on 20th-C. fantasists like Leiber, Harlan Ellison, Borges, and Peter Beagle. But what of today?

***

Mondoville’s athletic teams have had a remarkably productive semester. Most notably, our field hockey team has completed a perfect regular season, earning sole possession of the conference title (they won a half-share last season) and a ranking of number three in the nation, with the conference tournament ahead. While winning the tourney would guarantee a spot in the national playoffs, I suspect they’ve earned their way in regardless. I know very little about field hockey, but I’ve been to several matches this season, and from what I can tell, the team has possibly been even more dominant than the perfect record demonstrates, giving up an average of 0.625 goals per match, while averaging nearly five and a half goals themselves. We’re talking 1985 Bears numbers here.

Meanwhile, our football team is 8-1 and has assured itself of at least a share of the conference title with one game left to play (next Saturday, here — seats available!). [Side note: we only have a ten-game regular season this year because we had a game scheduled against Limestone University. When Limestone folded, we were unable to fill the gap.] The playoffs are a distinct possibility.

This actually presents a potential issue, in that (thanks to the calendar tweak I mentioned above) there’s a real possibility that a football playoff game could conflict with our first day of finals. As challenges go, it isn’t unpleasant, but yes, things could be complicated. It’s also interesting in that folks didn’t expect a great deal from this year’s squad, which was picked to finish seventh in our ten-team league. And in fact, the Wolves have come from behind in quite a few games this season, winning several on the final possession and earning the nickname “the Cardiac Pack.”

I make a habit of attending a variety of our sporting events (and musical performances, and, and, and…), because I want the kids to know that I’m interested in their passions outside the classroom as well. I applaud their successes, individually as well as collectively. But I have to admit — it’s fun for me, too.

***

Speaking of fun, before I dove into grading last week, I dipped into Learning to Kill, a collection of Evan Hunter/Ed McBain’s early short fiction. Most of the stories appeared in the legendary Manhunt magazine in the 50s, so I had read a few (“The Last Spin“, “On the Sidewalk Bleeding“) before. Still, it was good to encounter them again.

I’ve always had a fondness for short stories, and I guess my own career as a writer fits with that. Of course, unlike Mr. Hunter in his early days, I live in an era that doesn’t have as much commercial use for them. Still, along with folks like Harlan Ellison and Mr. Block, these stories remind me how much can be accomplished in a tight space. Since I’ve cleared the deck for a couple of days, I’ll probably get back into the collection tonight.

***

In other news this weekend, I learned that I’ll be heading up to Charlotte in November of 2026 for an opportunity to see what I’ve been calling Rush 3.0. Several family members and friends from Nashville are making the trip as well, so that makes it a double bonus. The Mad Dog asked me if it was expensive — it is, at $173 for a ticket at the front edge of the upper bowl of the arena. But I’ve certainly had worse seats before, and between the opportunity to spend time with friends of fifty-plus years’ duration and a band I’ve enjoyed for almost fifty years, I just couldn’t say no. So, I guess I have to live for at least another year.

***

I’ll go ahead and wrap it up for now. Some time back, I wrote about the music scene in Lexington, KY, back in my M.A. days. I was a participant, of course, but I talked about a few other bands (including some with whom I shared gigs) in the process. One that I mentioned was Paul K (for Kopasz) and the Weathermen, and I noted that I wrote a story a few years back that alluded to one of Paul’s songs. It had been years, perhaps a decade or more, since I had heard the song, and it’s been even longer since then. I did find a snippet of it on YouTube, but I had given up on recovering the whole thing, particularly since Paul died five years ago. Heck, I didn’t even know the title.

But things come around, including music, and earlier this week, I found a live performance of the song on Paul’s Bandcamp site. In fact, it was even recorded at the (now-defunct) Wrocklage dive bar in Lexington, a place I played fairly often, some of which gigs may have been opening for Paul. So a dollar later, I had the song. Turns out I had misremembered the lyric I mentioned in my story. The good news is that thanks to my lapse, I didn’t infringe anyone’s copyright.

Normally, I’d link to a video here, but since as I said, only a fragment of the song is there, I’ll go ahead and point you to Paul’s page and the track in question. It has more than a little Lou Reed to it, but it also hits me right in my love for noir and dark humor. So go here, and check out “My Knife,” by Paul K and the Weathermen.

See you soon!

Posted in Culture, Education, Family, Literature, Music, Why I Do What I Do | Leave a comment

Mondoville Saturday Afternoon

Posted on October 25, 2025 by profmondo

I had to pick up a couple of things at WalMart after lunch today, and figured I’d take the opportunity to gas up Mrs. M’s ride, seeing as she has taken mine to Real City for some retail therapy. Conveniently, there’s a gas station in the WalMart/strip center parking lot, and that’s the one I normally patronize.

The lot next door serves the local Tractor Supply, a fast food place, and an empty storefront that used to be an appliance rental store. I can usually count on there to be a food truck or two there as well. And because Mondoville is in the buckle of the Bible Belt, there are occasional fire-and-brimstone preachers there too, exercising their First Amendment Rights, often with a bullhorn. While I belong to a different brand than those folks, and disagree with them on numerous key points, I don’t mind them, and see them rather like the food trucks, a splash of local color and part of the American landscape. In fact, it would be difficult to swing a cat around here without hitting an Apostolic Tabernacle of the White-Winged Gospel Truth, and it shows. (In fact, while I was at WalMart, a fellow ushered his little boy out from in front of my cart and wished me a blessed day. As I said, I’m from a different faith tradition, but I’m happy to receive blessings wherever I find them. A blessing is, well, a blessing.)

But it was a little different today. As I was pumping gas, I looked into the adjacent lot and saw a small gathering of African-American people with signs: “Do You Know Jesus?” “Prayer Requests”, and my favorite, “Drive-Thru Prayers”,

And there was a band — about 4 or 5 folks, a guitar, a bass, a drummer, an electric piano player, and a singer (who may played one of the other instruments; I didn’t get that good a look). Friends, they were throwing down. They were doing up-tempo gospel, and it cooked. It was the most soulful music I’ve heard in a very long time, a spectacular reminder of the DNA that rock and roll shares with the black church. I could hear Otis, and Little Richard, and Sam Cooke, and it was the very definition of a Joyful Noise. You could hear faith and joy and authenticity in every note.

They finished a song, and the singer said “Hallelujah” a couple of times. I wanted to join in, and I’m a Presbyterian, for Pete’s sake — one of the Frozen Chosen. I decided I would go over and check things out, but I wanted to finish my errands at WalMart first, since I was in the parking lot and all. So I did, but by the time I had finished and emerged from the store, the signs were down and the band was packing their gear away.

So I was a little disappointed as I made my way back to my office a little while ago. But what I had seen made me smile, reminded me of how joyous faith can be, and gave me a flash of that joy as well. And yes, it moved my spirit. Not too shabby, for a Fall afternoon in Mondoville.

Posted in Culture, Faith, Music, Why I Do What I Do | Leave a comment

Sunday Afternoon Potpourri: Post-Homecoming, 2025

Posted on October 19, 2025 by profmondo

I’ve never entirely acclimated to life here in South Carolina, although it’s done well by me. I mean that first part pretty literally — even after having lived here for two decades and change, the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere, I still find it odd that we should have highs in or near the eighties in October, and I’m slightly bothered by the fact that I haven’t seen a serious snowfall in ten or eleven years. It’s a breezy day today, and Mrs. M and I took turns wielding the leaf blower this morning, but most of the leaves, even the fallen ones, are still green.

A few years from now, when we’re retired, Mrs. M and I intend to settle near the Spawn and her Mrs. That’ll probably be in Terpville, although most likely in a more affordable part of the state. One of the things I’m looking forward to is the idea of living someplace with four distinct seasons again. Who knows? I might be able to wear an ugly sweater, rather than being one.

***

As the above title indicates, Mondoville’s Homecoming Weekend wrapped up with an alumni brunch this morning. I spent most of yesterday afternoon on campus, where I saw a few former students and former colleagues, and had the opportunity to meet more than a few babies and toddlers of the aforementioned alums — one of my favorite things to do. I watched the annual parade from my usual spot, atop a brick wall near the college’s main entrance. It seemed a bit shorter than in recent years, but that may simply have been because it started relatively promptly — itself a new experience.

Small or not, I enjoy the parade, not least because I remember the Spawn’s participation in it over our time here. I was a member of the athletic boosters club during my early years at the college, and the Spawn was part of the kids’ auxiliary. Back then, the athletic teams were called the Indians, and the booster organization was the Indian Club (which always made me think of jugglers.). This meant that the Spawn spent part of her youth as a member of the unfortunately named “Scarlet Scalpers.” But she had a good time riding on a flatbed truck with the cheerleaders. Later, she rode with the county sheriff and his family, and ultimately with her sorority sisters during her own years at the college. So when I watch the kids scrambling for candy as the convertibles, trucks, and golf carts roll around the Quad, I have my share of fond memories as well.

The centerpiece of the weekend, of course, was the football game, where the mighty men of Mondoville sprinted to a three-touchdown lead in the first five minutes, and then ambled for the remaining 55, on the way to a 38-24 win over our frequent nemeses from Mars Hill U in North Carolina. The win put us atop the conference, percentage points ahead of Emory & Henry U’s Wasps. As it happens, those very Wasps are coming to town next weekend for a showdown that will likely have playoff implications. So that’s my next Saturday settled.

I also enjoy these Homecoming weekends because it’s not really an experience I can have in the traditional manner. Because of the somewhat circuitous, non-traditional route I took to the B.A., I’ve never even been in the city where my baccalaureate degree was conferred. Of the four(!) schools I attended as an undergrad, the one at which I spent the most time is also the one that invited me to the world after I lost my scholarship, so it’s hard to think of myself as an alum there. (That doesn’t stop the alumni office from hitting me up for donations now and then.) Probably the closest I came to the “traditional college experience” was during my M.A. program at Kentucky, and I had a wonderful Ph.D. experience at Ball State as well, but Homecomings are typically aimed at the baccalaureate alums.

However, having been here in Mondoville for approaching a quarter-century, I’ve had the opportunity to be a part of the experiences of a whole slew of undergrads, and have accumulated my own share of memories of “bright college days,” even if I’m one of the “ivy-covered professors in ivy-covered halls.” So each of these has made for a good weekend, and I’m looking forward to getting a few more in before I wrap up my career.

***

Speaking of blasts from the past, a couple of weeks ago I got behind the drum kit for the first time in more than a year, running through some songs with two of my former colleagues in the Berries. Unsurprisingly, I was beyond rusty — so stiff that Jack Haley should have lent me an oil can. But the robo-knee did fine and we had some fun. Heck, we may start looking for a guitarist before too long.

***

I received my schedule for next semester recently — I’m currently on track to teach my usual two sections of FroshComp, along with the Age of Shakespeare course (How many times must I tell them? It was 52!) and a creative writing workshop. Registration begins tomorrow — here’s hoping that all of them gather enough students to make. And as far as it goes, I still hope to get sections of Medieval and the Age of Johnson (75!) in my remaining years.

***

The crimefic world took a hit earlier this month when Down & Out Books (publishers of my Broken Glass Waltzes, among others) abruptly shut down. This left a lot of writers stranded, and their work orphaned, which is never a great situation.

I’m currently talking to other publishers about bringing BGW back into print, but I’d also like to take a moment to remind everyone that the literary world (particularly on the indie level) is an ecosystem of its own, with writers, publishers, and readers all playing roles. If you like a certain writer or the books from a certain publisher, do what you can to keep them going. Review books and writers. Buy books, or request them at your local library. Recommend that sort of action to your friends. To borrow a phrase from my friends in the band Salem Hill, it’s a way of putting Pennies in the Karma Jar, and a way of fueling the sort of stuff you like to read. Think about it, huh?

***

Let’s wrap things up with some music from the year of my birth. Jerry Fuller was a native Texan who achieved his greatest fame as a songwriter and producer in the 60s and 70s. He discovered and produced the Knickerbockers (whose “Lies”, a garage-rock standard, accounted for the band’s being remembered to this day as “the Bergenfield (NJ) Beatles”) and Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. He wrote his fair share of hits as well, including Ricky Nelson’s “Travelin’ Man” and Puckett’s “Young Girl” and “Lady Willpower.”

But this track is from his solo work, and it’s a side of the 60s we don’t think about that often. When we look back on the mid- to late-60s, we often think about the protest songs dealing with the civil rights movement and the Vietnam War. However, some of these songs had counterparts. Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” was answered by the Jayhawkers’ “Dawn of Instruction,” and Bob Seger (under the nom de guerre of “The Beach Bums”) wrote and performed “The Ballad of the Yellow Beret,” a response to Sgt. Barry Sadler’s much better known (and more verdant) tune. (Seger’s tune is a rare example of what might be called an “anti-anti-war song”, and at the opening he calls it “a protest against. . . protesters.”) Of course, there was also Keith Everett’s “Conscientious Objector” (“May as well be a defector,” he continues.) So it wasn’t all puka shells, peace and love, I guess.

Anyway, Fuller himself was drafted, doing his service in the Army Stateside, in upstate NY at the Seneca Army Depot. When he got out, he recorded this one, where he gives us, among other things, a musical version of the Domino Theory and the specter of enemies within (to use a currently renascent phrase). Here’s “The Master Plan.”

See you soon!

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Saturday Potpourri: So. Sixty.

Posted on September 27, 2025 by profmondo

Mrs. M, the Prof, and Bananas Foster at Figaro today.

Yep — I’ve made another trip around the sun. My social media feeds are rife with well wishes, and if I fail to acknowledge any of them, I will apologize in advance for the oversight. I’m grateful for each of them. And for each of you.

***

While I’m caught up on grading at the moment, there’s always something else I can work on, so I’m in my office this afternoon, and Mrs. M is dealing with her usual deluge of weekend work stuff. I’ll likely chat with the Spawn this afternoon or evening.

But that didn’t mean there was no room for celebration, and this is where we encounter one of the advantages of life in a small town. Mondoville’s got its share of nifty restaurants, but I think it’s safe to say that the city’s leading “fine dining” place is Figaro the Dining Room, in the historic downtown area. I haven’t been there terribly often, both because my tastes are really pretty plebeian and because our entertainment budget is typically fairly limited.

However, special occasions are special occasions, and as it happens, a former student of mine is married to Figaro’s executive chef. Meanwhile, I’ve been jonesing lately for a favorite dessert of mine, Bananas Foster. (And yes, I know I was just in New Orleans, the birthplace of the dessert, but that trip was on the college’s dime, so I tried not to be a full-on sybarite.) Online searches didn’t indicate anyplace in the area — Mondoville, Real City, wherever — that had it on their menu. I’m not surprised; I really haven’t had it too many times myself. I discovered it on a business trip to Boston back in my magazine days at a place called Legal Sea Foods (which always made me wonder what the other fish places were serving). In the ensuing three decades or so, I’ve had the dish maybe two or three times, including once when my folks made it for me for an earlier birthday celebration. (Likewise, they made Baked Alaska for me on a couple of occasions — they were nifty people.) But a craving is a craving.

And so, I decided to. . . not call in a favor, but rather to ask one from that former student I mentioned. I reached out to her and asked if her husband’s staff might be willing to make a one-time addition to the menu for today. And by golly, they were! So that’s how Mrs. M and I went there for brunch. . . and dessert (as seen in the picture above.)

As an additional treat, our server today was one of Mrs. M’s former first graders (the current crop aren’t tall enough to reach the tabletop), which allowed her to perform one of her favorite magic tricks. Debbie has saved pictures of every former class on her phone, and when she runs into them in the wild, she’s able to produce a “remember when?” image. The students are always thrilled, and it’s great to see them light up when she shows them. Today was no exception.

To sum up, the meal was lovely, as was the service, so I wanted to say thanks to Samie, Chef John, our server Alora, and the rest of the wonderful staff at Figaro. And if you’re in the Mondoville area and want a top-flight meal, drop by Figaro — they’ll treat you well, even if you haven’t been a regular. And in turn, that may make you one.

***

I also learned this week that Mondoville will soon have its very first magic shop. (That’s “Pick a card” magic, not “I summon Belshurgoth, Dark Lord of the Hoary Netherworld” magic.) Apparently it opens next weekend. I’m unreasonably pleased by this, as I’ve always loved magic.

I think that when I was a kid in the 1970s, there were certain hobbies? Occupations? Activities? that tempted a certain portion of my cohort — comic books included ads for stuff like stamp collecting, ventriloquism, and yes, magic sets. At various points, I noodled around with all of those. In the cases of ventriloquism and magic, I discovered that I lacked either the dexterity to do them, or the patience to practice enough to overcome that fundamental problem. All the same, I remember a few tricks that I owned, and I even put on a small magic show for little kids at the Donelson branch of the Nashville public library the summer before seventh grade, and for years, I had a replica Charlie McCarthy vent until it finally wound up moving to a garage sale or landfill. (See, one of the things I learned was that vent or vent puppet was a more sophisticated term for the dummy. After I moved to Kentucky, I learned that I lived fairly close to one of the larger collections of retired vents in the world, at the (not at all creepy) Vent Haven Museum.)

But I’ve maintained my dilettante’s interest in both ventriloquism and magic over the years, and should shows featuring either turn up when I’m channel surfing, I’ll stop to check them out. In recent years, I’ve had a good time watching episodes of Fool Us, Penn & Teller’s showcase for stage magicians. On top of that, one of my favorite students in my Kentucky days was a championship-level performer of card tricks. We remain in touch to this day. (But to my credit, I never played poker with him. My degrees may be in English, but I’m not stupid.)

So as I’ve said, I’m pleased to hear that Main Street Magic will be opening here, and that they’ll apparently host shows at the opening (and I hope, thereafter.) Still, that means that Mondoville will soon have a gaming shop and a magic shop. That puts us just a comic book store away from a harmless, but socially maladjusted teen’s trifecta. Or maybe Vent Haven needs to open a branch office.

***

Later this week, I’ll be speaking to an online meeting of the Upstate Chapter of Sisters in Crime. I’ll talk a little about writing noir fiction, and about its intersections with my life beyond the page as well. If you’re part of the chapter, I hope to see you there!

***

And now I think I’ll get on with my birthday afternoon. Again, thanks to everyone with whom I’ve made the trip so far — I’m looking forward to the next part. To wrap things up, here’s a garage standard I’ve hosted before; it happens to have been the number-one song in the U.S. on the day I was born. It’s also the official rock song of the State of Ohio, but I won’t hold that against it. Featuring the Zehringer brothers Rick (later Derringer) and Randy on guitar and drums respectively, here are the McCoys, with “Hang On, Sloopy.”

See you soon!

Posted in Culture, Family, Music, Pixel-stained Wretchery, Why I Do What I Do | 4 Comments

B’con Wrap-Up, 2025

Posted on September 13, 2025 by profmondo

Sorry it took me so long to get back here, but I spent the past week catching up on the grading from the week before. The good news is that I’m caught up with that until Monday, so I can catch up with this today.

***

I made my first trip to New Orleans a couple of days after Labor Day, for the most recent edition of Bouchercon. I started with an early morning drive to Charlotte, a couple of hours from Mondoville. While most of my air travel over the past few years has been from Greenville-Spartanburg, the nearest direct flight to New Orleans is from Charlotte, so there I went. The flights (both there and back) were full, but not miserable, and I had downloaded a couple of podcast episodes to see me through, so by the standards of present-day air travel, it wasn’t too shabby.

Not having a Steve Womack to chauffeur me this time (Hi, Steve!), I caught a cab and made it to the Marriott on Canal Street. It was the middle of the day, but my room was ready, so after having lunch and establishing my base camp I gathered some of my propaganda for the Newberry Crime Writing Workshop (and if you haven’t checked it out, I think you should. But hey, I’m not your real dad. Unless you’re Emily, in which case I am.)

Although the sessions were already underway when I arrived, I didn’t make my first panel until three. The panel addressed noir (one of my favorite subjects) and was moderated by Peter Rozovsky (one of my favorite people on the crime writing scene). The panel also included Poppy Gee (the Australian novelist with whom I appeared at Killer Nashville) and Nik Xander Wolf, who is pioneering a subgenre of surf noir, as evidenced in a series of anthologies and Kelp Journal magazine. After the session, I spoke to Nick for a few minutes, and found out that yes, there might be room for stories about, say, surf music and other aspects of the culture beyond the waves proper.

Afterward, I walked a few blocks through the area and picked up some soda for my room refrigerator, I had red beans and rice at a cafe across the street from the hotel, followed by a slice of pecan pie back at the hotel bar/cafe. Much of the action, networking, and general cameraderie at B’con takes place in the hotel bar. You see friends from prior cons, meet writers whose work you admire, and engage with fans and others in the field.

This is tough for me sometimes. While I’m fine in performance situations (on stage, in front of a classroom, or (ahem) when I’m writing), I feel incredibly awkward in many social settings, and run into trouble meeting people. It was compounded this time because I actually was “selling” something, in this case, the idea of the Workshop. That left me feeling rather like one of those people who calls you at dinner to talk about your car’s extended warranty, and who wants to be around someone like that? Still, duty calls, and sometimes it calls collect. So I accepted the charges through the course of the weekend. I can’t say it was unproductive — a lot of folks to whom I spoke seemed interested, even excited, and I now have a line on a potential star instructor for a 2027 edition of the NCWW. So there’s that, but the “being on” whenever I’m outside the room is a challenge, and I was pretty tired by the end of each day. As a consequence, after a brief chat with Mrs. M, I fell asleep with little difficulty.

***

I got an early start on Thursday’s panels, starting with a 9:00 session on the age-old writing struggle between plotters and pantsers (that is, between people who write down outlines and such before they actually begin drafting and those of us who get an idea, sit down at the keyboard, and see what happens next.) I’m squarely in the second camp for reasons both temperamental and driven by my environment, which may be a big factor in why I seem to specialize in short stories and unfinished novels. I don’t know if anyone switched camps as a result of the panel, but I enjoyed hearing the variety of perspectives from both sides.

The next panel was on Private Eye fiction, a subgenre that is always said to be moribund, but that persists nonetheless. Certainly the participants (moderator Tom Andes, Jonathan Ames, Andrew Klavan, Con Lehane, and Kelli Stanley) didn’t sound like they were making buggy whips, and there were several versions of the argument that as long as there is a need for a modern version of the knight or frontier hero, there will be a need for P.I. stories. That argument, of course, mirrors (whether consciously or not) that of Robert B. Parker’s dissertation, which applied Northrop Frye’s theories to the tough-guy hero. And you know what? It worked pretty well for him. Perhaps it still works.

After lunch, I found a panel visiting the nature/nurture question with regard to serial killers. The panel was heavily attended, and of course the true crime element was a draw as well. The panel included folks from both the fictive and true crime camps, including moderator Jose H. Bogran, Ethan Cross, Diane Fanning, Libby Klein, and Emma C. Wells. The relative celeb on the panel, however, was Katherine Ramsland, whose works on the subject have become bibles for folks who are interested. Notably, this was compounded when it was discovered that recent Idaho mass killer Bryan Kohberger had been one of her students. Someone asked about him during the session, and Ramsland explained that she doesn’t talk about students. Because my sense of humor is what it is, I approached her after the session. “I’m also a professor,” I said. “Good to know that not even mass murder trumps FERPA.” She laughed.

Next up, I indulged my interest in depictions of evil by checking out a panel on villains and our attraction to them, both as readers and in the larger general culture. As is often the case in panels of this nature, the general consensus was that we should remember that villains typically don’t see themselves in that light. While we may not accept their justifications, they typically do the things they do for reasons that make sense to them at the time. (It also helps, I would add, if your villain’s victims are themselves unsympathetic — call it the Dexter effect.) Neither are interesting villains one-dimensional, Snidely Whiplash types. (In this respect, I think this is something that Lawrence Block handled astonishingly well. After all, Keller is essentially a professional serial killer, but it’s difficult not to like the guy. As some other guy said, “It’s not personal; it’s business.” Still, probably much more charming on the page than, say, as your substitute teacher.)

I have a current work-in-progress that’s set in the mid-1960s, and so I next found myself taking in a panel on writing historical mysteries. My interest was helped by the presence of my friend Kate Pilarcik and her husband, historian Matthew Magda, along with Baron R. Birtcher and others. The discussion ranged over issues of verisimilitude, keeping research from becoming infodumps, and avoiding anachronism. By the time we were finished with that one, it was time for dinner — another burger and some onion rings, followed by some schmoozing in the bar and another call home before I called it a night.

***

Friday’s sessions began at nine that morning, with a panel on the psychology of killers. I’ve come to accept that I attend such sessions at least in part as a sort of scab-picking on my own part. In some respects, I’ve come to accept that I’ll never truly understand why my brother did what he did; in fact, it’s probably a good thing that I can’t, because it underscores a difference between the two of us. Also, I’m enough of a medievalist/person of faith to accept that there is simply such a thing as radical evil, darkly numinous, and only marginally comprehensible by science. Still, I go to these sessions and hope I might gain an insight. It hasn’t happened yet, nor did it this time. Maybe next time, though.

From there, I caught a panel on developing one’s skills as a writer and the professionalism of one’s approach. This was led by a group of writers affiliated with Outliers Writing University, a series of online classes and seminars led by pros in the field. Panelists included D.P. Lyle, Kathleen Antrim,
Heather Graham, Jon Land, Terry Shepherd, and Stacy Woodson. Outliers had a significant presence both at B’con and Killer Nashville. I don’t see what we’re doing as competition with them (nor does Michael Bracken, who’s both a faculty member with Outliers and co-director of NCWW), but I do admire their positivity and presentation. I waked away feeling realistic about the writing business, but inspired nonetheless. That’s a neat trick.

More red beans and rice for lunch, and then I was off to a panel on short fiction, moderated by Martha Reed and including such stalwarts as Don Bruns, Rob Lopresti, and Josh Pachter. The discussion was lively and reminded me of the passion and craft involved in these smaller works. I’ve come to notice that most of my peers talk about their short works as being plot-driven. I get that, and certainly I try to make sure that something has happened in my own stories. But at the same time, my principal interest when I write seems to be on a character or set of characters, their voices, and their interior landscapes. At least some of the time, and at my best, I find myself feeling like I’m writing a novel — it just happens to be in the range of 3,000-5,000 words. This may be why I’ve been accused occasionally of writing literary fiction, but I plead not guilty.

The last panel I attended for the day was a gathering of book critics, chiefly from Deadly Pleasures online mystery magazine. It was a listing and description of new and old favorites, and I heard about some works I’ll have to check out. You can find an account and the list of books at Deadly Pleasures here.

This was followed by more schmoozing in the bar and book rooms, and another scouting expedition into the neighborhood. I found a very small used bookstore, and of course I couldn’t pass it up. Crescent City Books had the sort of eclectic and eccentric range of books one hopes to find in such places, including rare and obscure editions. I found a signed, slipcased edition of a Harlan Ellison collection. I own a copy, but well, it wasn’t this one. Alas, the book was $250, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life sleeping with one eye open, so I gave it a pass. I hope it finds a home. As a bonus, I ran into my friend Michelle “Shelley” Kubitz Mahannah, the Minnesota-based writer. We actually met up a few times over the course of the conference, but it’s good to run into folks “off the property” as well.

“Hey, Mondo! How come you’re in one of the nation’s great cities for dining and you haven’t mentioned more than a couple of servings of red beans and rice, huh? How come?”

A fair question. Unfortunately, both my father and the Spawn were/are allergic to shellfish. In fact, my dad once said that if he were going to commit suicide, he’d probably do it at Red Lobster. Suffice it to say that I don’t want to discover that I’m the missing term in this generational equation (“Solve for Mondo.”) There’s also the fact that I was trying really hard not to abuse my funding from the college, and that’s hard to do in a tourist district.

However, I did find a restaurant near the hotel for dinner. Coterie Nola is fairly nondescript from the outside, but I looked at the menu and decided to have a go. I opted for a Po’Boy sandwich, featuring roast beef debris (the shredded beef and gravy from a chuck roast) and melted cheese. It was, well, magnificent, to the point that I had another go the following night.

Definitely a knife-and-fork job, but well worth it.

***

I got rolling Saturday by attending Megan Abbott’s interview with Steph Cha. I haven’t read Cha’s work, but the interview made me think that may have been an oversight on my part. Afterward, I bought a copy of Megan’s latest, El Dorado Drive, and got her to sign it as a gift for the Spawn. Megan is probably the Spawn’s favorite crime writer not named Warren Moore, and I’m always delighted to be the middleman in these transactions.

Yes, I’m an awkward, hulking brute. But Megan is a giant when she stands on her talent.

From there, it was off to another P.I. panel, this one with Nora McFarland (Moderator), Cheryl Bradshaw, Marco Carocari, JD Allen, Delia Pitts, and John Shepphird. They, too, talked about the relevance of the PI in today’s world, and of the character’s enduring appeal. After that, I caught a panel on humor and the mystery, which was just as much fun as one might expect. At the signing a few minutes later, I got panelist (and former Seinfeld writer) Matt Goldman to sign his recent novel, The Murder Show. We talked a little bit about his next novel as well, featuring his PI hero, Nils Shapiro. I’m looking forward to it. A bit more schmoozing, a trip to the aforementioned Coterie again, and then it was back to the hotel room, where I listened to the radio broadcast of Mondoville’s first football game of the season (a win!), and called it a night, as I had an early morning Sunday.

***

Sunday morning I packed my bags and checked them before going to my panel, on voice in crime fiction. My co-panelists were Daniel C. Bartlett, N.M. Cedeño, Carol Orange, and Mark Thielman. However, while we were there, and while an audience was there, our moderator, Catherine Tucker hadn’t shown up yet. Somehow, she had come to think that the panel was at 8:30, rather than 8, and when she showed up “early” at 8:15, we were already introducing ourselves. However, she effortlessly stepped into her role and did a lovely job of making sure that everyone contributed to the conversation. Frankly, I was impressed by my co-panelists, the moderation, and the audience. As I told someone, “It’s 8:00 on a Sunday morning in New Orleans. People won’t even be through throwing up yet.”

I then went to the signing room, where someone brought me a copy of In Sunlight Or in Shadow, with my story “Office at Night.” As a short story writer, I don’t do a lot of business at these things, so it’s aways nice when someone comes by — it signifies effort on their part.

As my session wrapped up, I went over to say hello to Jordan Harper. I’ve made no secret of my admiration for his work, and a lucky few folks had advance copies of his next one, A Violent Masterpiece. I wasn’t so lucky, but I’ve already bought mine. You should buy it, too.

From there, it was another taxi back to the airport, and then back to Charlotte and a two-hour drive home. I’m already looking forward to next year in Calgary.

And how have you been doing?

Posted in Culture, Family, Literature, Medievalia, Pixel-stained Wretchery, Why I Do What I Do | 1 Comment

Friday Afternoon Potpourri: Killer Nashville and Other Cool Stuff Edition

Posted on August 29, 2025 by profmondo

So there’s a full week of classes put to bed, with initial papers from my freshpeeps coming in this evening. Let’s get caught up!

***

Last week was the first week of classes, but mine were cut short as I went from Mondoville to Greenville last Thursday, catching a flight to the Killer Nashville Writers Conference in Franklin, TN, a suburb of Music City. The flight there was pleasant — not overfull, and I got an aisle seat with no one next to me. I got to the conference venue before the scheduled check-in time, but they graciously allowed me to go ahead and establish myself in a spacious, comfortable suite. In fact, they even had Sirius XM on tap, so I was able to keep myself in garage rock for the weekend.

I came back down to pick up my conference gear, and as I left the registration table, I had the pleasure of seeing a familiar face that I had never met before. You see, I’ve been reading Steven Womack‘s novels for thirtysome years now, when my parents introduced me to his novel Dead Folks Blues, the first of seven (and counting) novels chronicling the adventures of Nashville journo-turned PI Harry James Denton. As I’ve done more fictioneering of my own, I’ve had the pleasure of getting personally acquainted with Mr. Womack, but it has always been through the Intertoobz, rather than in meatspace. At last, though, were were in the same room, and we spent some time hanging out and catching up in the lobby. (Fun fact: Although their stints didn’t overlap, both Steven and my dad taught at Watkins Institute in Nashville. Dad taught printmaking for a while in the 70s, and Steven ran the screenwriting program for years before the school’s absorption by Belmont U in 2020.)

After Steven headed off to teach a master class, I set up a table with promo stuff for the Newberry Crime Writing Workshop — flyers and bookmarks, telling folks about the opportunities we’ll be offering for our 2026 debut. Most folks were in classes at that point, but a few were drifting in and out of the conference bookstore, and I did a bit of gladhanding and huckstering as I met them.

I had skipped lunch, other than a bag of chips and a coke I bought in the hotel lobby, and I was an hour ahead of Nashville’s time zone, so I was eager for dinnertime to come around. However, what made it especially worthwhile was the opportunity to get together with a couple of folks who show up on the blog from time to time. My cousin Jack Dunn, freshly retired from a career as a pilot for Delta, and Carl Groves, my friend since first grade, and I gathered at a Mexican place where I had last been for Jack’s birthday a couple of years ago. Regrettably, the fourth of our musketeers, Michael Dearing, was unavailable, as he was keeping musician’s hours — reasonable, I guess, seeing as he is a working musician, but still inconvenient.

L-R: The Prof, Carl, and Jack. Once, we were two redheads and a blond. Sic transit and all that.

The restaurant wasn’t excessively busy, so the three of us were able to talk and catch up for two or three hours before heading back out. Jack, who lives in the neighborhood, gave me a ride to and from the hotel, and even made a side trip to allow me to score some Sun Drop for the hotel fridge.

Friday morning, I got up, took advantage of the complimentary breakfast buffet and went to some panels before lunch. In particular, I saw my friend and fellow South Carolina writer Paula Gail Benson in a panel on presentism and the historical mystery, and then caught one on Southern noir, with Jim Nesbitt, Tom Burns, and Steven. I was particularly pleased when Steve made a connection between the Southern Gothic and the region’s noir — it’s a hypothesis I’ve had for years, in the same vein as Robert B. Parker’s theory of the private eye as cowboy for the urban frontier. (Of course, all these ideas owe at the least an unconscious debt to my main man Northrop Frye.)

After lunch, it was my turn in the barrel, as I appeared on a couple of panels on Friday afternoon. The first one was on writing noir. Mr. Burns moderated, and I was seated next to Avram Lavinsky, another member of the musicians who write/writers who music club. (Heck, he’s even earned a gold record for his work with Blues Traveler.)

At this point, I have to acknowledge something. . . again. My parents said that it’s good that I became a prof, as I’ll lecture at the drop of a hat — and I’ll bring my own hat. It’s a personal failing, but I get excited and start to infodump. I have to be careful about this kind of thing on panels, because I don’t want to monopolize things. As a consequence, I’m always worried that I may be talking too much. I think I probably exceeded my 20% of the panel, but when I asked Avram if I had talked too much, he said, “No. You know too much.” Did I mention that Avram Lavinsky has now become one of my new best friends?

On the heels of that panel came another, this one on writing short fiction. My co-panelists included Ms. Benson from earlier, along with Debra Goldstein, Pam Ebel, and T.G. Wolff, who is also the driving force behind the Mysteries to Die For podcast. The panel went well, and we spent some time talking about the pleasures and challenges of working in the form. (For me, the biggest challenge lies in selling the things, but that was a panel for the next day.) We also hipped the crowd to the Short Mystery Fiction Society, which is a nifty space for folks with a passion for the form, whether as writers or readers. And at this panel, as well as everywhere else I went, I alerted folks to the Workshop, hoping to drum up some interest. I dealt out more flyers and book marks, and restocked the table by the bookstore afterwards.

From there it was off to dinner with a group including Steven and my buddy Robert Mangeot (rhymes with banjo) at Italian chain Buca di Beppo. Our table of four went old school, splitting garlic bread, spaghetti and meatballs. The restaurant serves family-style, and the portions were sufficiently abundant that Steve (as the local at our table) had plenty of leftovers to bring home to the Mrs. Afterward, he dropped me back at the hotel and I called it a night.

I was on the opening panel on Saturday, this one on selling the short story. One of the points I made is that if we want to publish our short fiction, we need to support the venues that publish it as well. After all, if we like the stuff enough to write it, we probably ought to do our part to make sure there are places for it, right? After the session, I caught a panel on the blurred lines between the mystery and thriller genres, attempted more hype for the Workshop, and then went to a plenary lunch. The keynote address, by Katherine Hutchinson-Hayes, was quite good. Normally, I’m extremely unreceptive to things I perceive as motivational speeches — blame it on my Gen X cynicism, or too much exposure to televangelists and the prosperity gospel. However, Dr. H-H was charming, funny, and even able to reach a curmudgeon like Your Genial Host.

After she wrapped up, we had the opportunity to catch a live interview with mystery writing ace Sara Paretsky, famed for her V.I. Warshawsky series about a female P.I. The interview was marked by her own modesty, but also by the strength of her convictions, whether regarding writing or larger life. She earned a standing ovation and she got it.

While I knew who Paretsky was (of course I do — she’s Sara freaking Paretsky!), I had never met her before. On the other hand, while we had never met, I’ve had the honor of having a story with one of hers in one of Mr. Block’s anthos. Thus reminded that I can in fact play in the big leagues on occasion, and so I struck up a conversation with her after the interview. She was gracious, and appeared genuinely touched by both how thrilled I’ve been to share a contents page with her and how I’ve used her work as part of my ongoing campaign to connect the Spawn with the genre. Even so, I knew the honor was mine.

After lunch, I went to a presentation about life on Oklahoma’s Death Row. While part of my interest was professional, I also found myself brought to curiosity by how close my brother came to Kentucky’s version. Michael was one vote away from going to the row himself, and I found myself remembering a conversation he had with Mrs. M before his trial.

In Kentucky, condemned inmates can be identified by their red uniforms (Oklahoma’s Death Row uniforms are apparently similar to those elsewhere in the prison.) In a phone conversation after the prosecution declared that it would seek the death penalty in my parents’ case, Mrs. M asked him if he was afraid of the death penalty.

“No,” he said, “But I look terrible in red.”

I followed that session with more legwork, and then it was time for the conference’s awards banquet. Because I was there on the college’s dime, I couldn’t justify paying extra to attend that, so I settled for some nachos at the hotel restaurant before returning to my room for the night.

My last panel was on Sunday, but before that I was able to attend one on neuropsychology and the process of writing, followed by a funny panel on “How to Create a Mediocre Mystery.” This was hosted by the abovementioned T.G. Wolff, ably sidekicked by her son Jack, who happens to be a Comm major at my Ph.D. institution, Ball State U. We talked about it for a few minutes before the session, and as I grabbed my stuff at the panel’s conclusion, Jack and I exchanged the Ball State shibboleth of “Chirp, chirp.” A pleasant surprise.

In my final panel, I was joined by Messrs. Nesbitt and Burns, along with Aussie mysterian Poppy Gee. We talked about character-driven mysteries, and most of the focus was on series characters. I suggested that while one can succeed with a character who develops over the course of a book or series (e.g., Matt Scudder) or with a character who remains fairly static (Spenser), the important thing is that the character has to be someone the reader finds interesting, and therefore complex or ingratiating enough to make the reader come back again and again.

Speaking of ingratiating, after that session, Steven gave me a ride back into town to the airport, and a couple of hours later, I was on a more crowded plane back to South Carolina, returning home around 8:40 Sunday night, allowing me to return to the classroom at 8 Monday morning. Ah, the glamorous life of the writer.

***

In between recovering, teaching, and getting ready for next week’s trip to Bouchercon in New Orleans, I found the time to read Hatchet Girls, the latest installment in the Hap and Leonard series by Joe R. Lansdale. The guys are older now — they’re in their fifties — and they recognize that they may be approaching their sell-by date for the detective/scuffling business. Leonard is preparing to marry his longtime boyfriend Pookie, and has gone into business running a fitness center. He’s offered Hap a position there as well, but Hap remains committed to the detective agency — no surprise, as it’s run by his wife. And besides, sometimes odd jobs come up and he could use some help. Such is the case when a local woman asks Hap and Leonard to help her deal with a semi-feral hog who has terrorized her family. Complications ensue, ranging from the pig’s meth-making owners to a cult of misandrist women led by a former champion baton twirler — the hatchet girls of the title.

The best H&L novels walk a fine line between hard-boiled and absurdly, gut-bustingly funny, in a manner well suited to the dysphuistic narrative style of Southern storytellers. While the H&L novels are set in Texas, I can recognize the voices of some of my own relatives and acquaintances in them as well. That may be one reason why I’m such a fan. Suffice it to say that Mr. Lansdale has done another fine job, and gave me a fine evening’s entertainment.

(And did I mention that Lansdale will be joining Cheryl A. Head, Michael Bracken, and well, me for the 2026 Newberry Crime Writing Workshop? No fooling — you should look into it.)

***

I think that’ll get me through this installment, and it’s off for more adventures in the Crescent City next week. But in the meantime, some music.

Maybe it was because I was in Nashville last weekend, but as I drove from the airport back to Mondoville Sunday night, I found myself in the mood for some old-fashioned country music about truck-driving men and their semi-mythologized lives. So here’s one of the songs I’ve been playing a lot this week, with more than a little possibility for the noirish. With “Diesel Smoke, Dangerous Curves,” here’s a truckin’ bard just shy of the holy prophet Red Sovine, Red Simpson.

See you soon!

Posted in Culture, Education, Family, Literature, Music, Why I Do What I Do | Leave a comment

Professor Mondo

Christmas, 2025

Sunday Afternoon Potpourri: There and Back Again Edition

Thursday Afternoon Potpourri: Wandering About Edition

Sunday Afternoon Potpourri: Not Quite a Month Later…

Sunday Afternoon Potpourri: Gradeapalooza Approaches

Mondoville Saturday Afternoon

Sunday Afternoon Potpourri: Post-Homecoming, 2025

Saturday Potpourri: So. Sixty.

B’con Wrap-Up, 2025

Friday Afternoon Potpourri: Killer Nashville and Other Cool Stuff Edition

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