Ground Rule Trouble
The arduous, hilarious journey of calling balls and strikes as a Granite State umpire
After surviving stage 4 cancer, vocal cord surgery, a global pandemic and the general destabilization of civil society, I decided it was time to have a midlife crisis give back to my community. But what could I do? Crossing guard? Blood donor? State fair parking lot flag waver?
Somehow the thought of umpiring baseball popped in my head. The local youth league always seemed to need umps. The rec department might even have a mask and those giant pillows I could borrow. I made a call.
The league organizer asked, “Are you patched?”
“You mean, like in a motorcycle gang?” (See the New Hampshire Magazine June 2011 issue for context.)
All umpires (and other officials) receive a shirt patch to signify they’ve been trained and are in good standing with an officiating organization. It’s like a badge — one that says, “I’m not wearing shin guards for nothing, people.” But how to get that 4-inch cloth disk of respect?
I signed up for the Umpire Development Program run by the New Hampshire Baseball Umpires Association. How hard could this be? I got a boating license after a four-hour course; now I can sail to Portugal if I want. All I need is a long weekend and pointers on how to remove my mask without my cap falling off. Easy peasy!
New Hampshire’s Stephen King Connection
The Granite State hasn't been just a pass-through journey for Maine's master of horror
If there is a trope about Stephen King novels, it would be this: A white, male novelist (or teacher) uncovers an otherworldly threat. The outside world is unable to help, so he surreptitiously fights it on his own. He’s joined by a slow-to-believe friend or two, perhaps with a potential romantic partner. There is a confederate in their midst, someone who will complicate their mission. And all of this happens in Maine. Always in Maine.
It’s not uncommon for an author to use a familiar location across the breadth of their body of work. John Steinbeck often set his novels in Salinas, California. Washington Irving set many of his short stories in New York’s Hudson River Valley. Most of James Ellroy’s crime tales take place in Los Angeles. The setting for William Faulkner’s novels is fictional Yoknapatwpha County. Who can begrudge King his Castle Rock, his Little Tall Island, his Derry?
But over a span of 50 years, 64 novels and more than 200 short stories, even Maine’s favorite literary son has spread it out. The more well-known locales would be an old hotel in the Rockies, a prison in Louisiana, an oasis for the righteous in Boulder, and a post-apocalyptic Gomorrah in Las Vegas.
Less recognized is that a considerable number of the tales in the King oeuvre are set in New Hampshire. It’s a slim slice in a very large pie, but Maine’s neighbor has not been ignored by the Master of Horror. In fact, King rivals John Irving for the number of major novels with scenes set in the Granite State.
New Hampshire isn’t just a pass-through state for the author, another toll booth to hit on his way from Bangor to Fenway Park. The King family has ties here. His late brother, David, was a longtime resident of Milton. His son, Joe Hill, is one of the industry’s hottest writers and lives in Exeter. In speeches and on Twitter, King has made light jokes at New Hampshire’s expense (every Lilliput needs its Blefuscu to war with).
Monsters on Parade in Portsmouth
Our undercover reporter infiltrates a group of terror-artists who will not stop until they have all of Portsmouth cowering before them — or until the parade route ends, whichever comes first.
A giant black spider chasing an enormous fly, stalking its prey by night as it moves up and down the streets of Portsmouth to the screams of the masses. Is this the fever dream of a paranoid exterminator? (Actually, strike that. It probably is.) It’s also the dream of Holly Cook, the evil mastermind of the Monster Troupe. Her goal: Terrorize and thrill the Port City.
The editors of New Hampshire Magazine (dodgy people of questionable reason) asked me if I would go undercover, infiltrate the Monster Troupe, and learn their secrets for stealing the show at the city’s most popular grassroots event.
After making contact through Facebook a series of highly confidential communication channels I alone could master, Holly agreed to let me into her Halloween sleeper cell. It’s her enthusiasm for the parade and friendly nature that is her Achilles Heel, as she has opened Pandora’s Box by letting in a Trojan Horse with the Midas Touch to … sorry, I forgot where I was going with that.
You probably guess it, but due to Covid-19, there will be no Portsmouth Halloween Parade in 2020. But, you’re invited to check out The Monster Troupe for yourself at next year’s parade. The parade, a truly fantastic grassroots community event, takes place on Halloween night at 7 p.m., and everyone is invited to dress up, gather at Peirce Island by Prescott Park and march. There’s no registration and no fees. Not feeling like your creative costume skills will be up to snuff to participate? No worries — spectators are welcome as well. Learn more at portsmouthhalloweenparade.org.
Perhaps you don’t know who or what the Monster Troupe is. Let me share with you some notes I keep in a metal-bound folder, or as I refer to it, my steel dossier. The group marches in each year’s Portsmouth Halloween Parade. But this street gang stands out because of their homegrown, larger-than-life props they bring. Somewhere between St. Patrick’s Day float and Macy’s balloon, they bring an arts-and-craft monster 12 feet tall and the width of a city street. The group has even grown to include a color guard and dancers.
They have to be stopped.
Season of the Twitch
FEAR LED OUR PRIMITIVE ANCESTORS TO HIDE IN CAVES AND BUILD FIRES TO KEEP THEIR NIGHTMARES AT BAY. TODAY, WE LEAVE OUR CAVES AND HOME FIRES AND EVEN PAY GOOD MONEY JUST TO GET A TASTE OF THAT PRIMAL SENSE OF TERROR.
When the editors of New Hampshire Magazine approached me about a Halloween feature, it sounded like a cruel joke. “We want to send you to some of the state’s scariest haunted houses and see what happens.” What happens? I’ll tell you what happens. This guy is going to lose his voice screaming and have water pouring out of his eyes (his eyes, if he’s lucky). Because, like Bert Lahr’s Cowardly Lion, “I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I do, I do, I do. I do.”
When all of the leaves have fallen and the branches of trees look like crooked fingers ready to pluck bad little children from the path, a new kind of tourist season comes to New Hampshire. The Halloween horror experience has become an increasingly popular entertainment option. From high-end corporate terror parks to do-it-yourself haunted houses, there are plenty of options if you care to be scared...
The Doctor is In…Sane
Presiding over a grotesquery of six undead musicians is a man in a mask, fez, and satin jacket that is an assault on the eyes. While he belts out a song called “Teeth of Candycorn” on his guitar, a bandmate keeps time rattling chains and banging on frying pans. A madness to the method.
It’s October 31 and Doctor Gasp and the Eeks are playing the Press Room in Portsmouth.
While some acts are built to be celebrated for Christmas or St. Patrick’s Day, the good doctor stands alone on Halloween. Dan Blakeslee, the doctor’s alter ego, spends the rest of the year touring New England and beyond as a folk singer. But come fall, he dons the Doctor Gasp outfit and performs a raucous show full of kitsch and mayhem.
Blakeslee got the idea in 2001 when he took part in a haunted house in York, Maine. He appeared as a ghost cowboy, sitting in a rocking chair and covered in cobwebs, playing disjointed guitar chords to set the mood. After four hours noodling with reverb and wah-wah, he started writing a song.
“I love ‘Monster Mash’ to pieces … but I’m going to write my own and perform it here,” he says. “I performed the song [“Witchtrot Road”] and immediately apologized to the audience.” Just as he thought the experiment was a failure, someone in the back yelled out “I want to put that song out on vinyl next year!” Blakeslee crafted eight more Halloween-themed tunes and put out his first album. He didn’t record as Doctor Gasp until 10 years later on the album “Vampire Fish for Two.”
Confessions of a full-time NH podcaster
When “Serial” became a phenomenon, one day in the car, I turned to my wife, Rebecca Lavoie, and said, “We should make our own podcast talking about episodes of ‘Serial.’” We’d written five true crime books together and worked in radio. It just might work …
We fashioned a studio in a cedar closet and produced “Crime Writers On.” Since 2014, our panel — which includes local authors Lara Bricker and Toby Ball — has been doing thumbs up/thumbs down reviews of true crime podcasts. Our takes on good storytelling, quality production and ethical reporting have made us tastemakers in the space — influencing both listeners and podcast creators.
Ashley Flowers was an early fan before creating the juggernaut “Crime Junkie.” Actress Alison Sweeney went from CWO listener to creating the “Chronicle Mysteries” series on Hallmark Channel, playing a crime-solving podcast host. And imagine our shock to hear directly from THE Steve Martin that he’s a listener. That scene in episode 1 of “Only Murders in the Building” in which he, Martin Short and Selena Gomez bond by drinking wine and discussing “All is Not OK in Oklahoma” is an homage to us. (“I’m all for a good peeling of the onion, but let’s pace it up, people! Please!”)
Our reach extends far beyond New Hampshire. Our live show in Concord drew a crowd of only about 30, but in Dallas we played to a room of more than 150. One quarter of our audience is international. We’ve done meet-and-greets in Denver, Dallas and Nashville, but also London, Toronto and Dublin. (Stay tuned, Melbourne. Someday …)
HOW NH DEFIED THE FEDS, MOB, AND CHURCH TO CREATE THE FIRST STATE LOTTERY
In 1964 we hosted the first state-run lottery at Rockingham Park in Salem, a horse race that sparked a national sensation and scandal and put us in the crosshairs of the mob, media and the church.
Just before the bell went off at Rockingham Park racetrack, Frank Malkus of Carteret, New Jersey, took out a fresh cigar, put a match to the tip and sucked life into it. Eleanor Malkus, in double pearls, held her white-gloved hand in her husband’s.
A 21-year-old co-ed, wrapped in a heavy, blue coat, peered across the track with a pair of binoculars. Carol Ann Lee of Worcester had never been to a horse race, so she brought her father, friends and kid sister. She wondered if she was about to turn a three-dollar wager into a $100,000 payoff.
The VIP section at Rockingham held about 20 people and a gaggle of reporters and photographers looking to record their every reaction.
“Well,” Malkus said, puffing the cigar. “Here it goes.”
Brave Hurt: How NOT to Win the New Hampshire Highland Games
Ever wanted to try your hand at tossing a caber or hurling a haggis? Our man on the scene Kevin (Mac)Flynn shows how not to do it.
Scotland has contributed to world culture like no other nation. It has given civilization single malt Scotch, the Scottish terrier, Scotland Yard, double malt Scotch, Scotty from “Star Trek,” Scotch-brand magic tape and Scotch. There is also haggis and Gordon Ramsay, two things that are only really related in that fact that Scotland should apologize for both.
Annually in New Hampshire, we get to see a side of Scottish culture that goes beyond tartans and bagpipes.The New Hampshire Highland Games, a world-class level competition of Scottish “heavy athletics,” has mesmerized attendees with feats of strength, agility, brawn and utter pointlessness...
The Coldest Cut - The John Pond Cold Case Investigation
How do you solve a 20-year-old murder mystery? And how do you bring a dead man to justice?
Act 1:
The temperature dropped after sundown and Dennis Razis pulled his jacket up around his neck to stave off the chill of the early autumn night. The crickets were quieter in September, too quiet to obscure the 11 p.m. slam of his pick-up’s door or his crunching footfalls through the graveled Salem trailer park. He’d had a bad feeling as soon as he arrived, but remembering the promise of a cheap stereo, Razis pushed it out of his head.
Razis climbed the ramp built to accommodate John Pond’s wheelchair, rapped on the door at 9 Arthur Street and waited for Pond to let him in. He heard two people murmuring inside. Razis assumed Pond would be alone. He waited, but no one came to answer his knock. He was turning on his heel when the door opened a crack. Filling the entrance was a tall, gruff man eyeballing him.
“You don’t want to see him,” the stranger said. Razis heard Pond call from the other side of a wall. “Hey buddy,” Pond urged. “Go to 48 Arthur Street! Call the police! This guy is gonna stab me!”...
Born to be Mild
Our on-the-scene correspondent rode in to the Weirs atop a metal machine that throbbed with the power of two horses and 49 screaming CCs.
Why would someone ride a bright red moped to Laconia Motorcycle Week?" you ask.You would not be alone. In fact, many people (police officers, outlaw bikers, mental health professionals) asked me the same thing. It's not because I had some great appreciation for Austrian motorized push-peddle transportation from the 1970s. It's because Motorcycle Week, the one-time symbol of machismo and lawlessness, is finally accessible for wussbags like me.
Since before Brando was a Wild One, Motorcycle Week has had a reputation as a Mecca of sin, of danger and of ultimate coolness. But over the years, the biker event has become more and more gentrified, with touristy commerce, well-behaved crowds and corporate sponsorship. Today there are more concealed weapons on the floor of the N.H. House of Representatives than among the thousands of leather-clad riders who descend upon the Lakes Region each June.I figured the event had finally become so pansyfied that I could do the once-unthinkable: pull into the Weirs on a 49cc bike with a 32:1 oil/fuel mixture and rumble with the big boys…
A Look at NH's Web Weavers
Each hour spent online offers a fresh assortment of wisdom, whimsy and wonder to our twitching typing fingers. Ever wonder who’s deciding what rises to the top of the info heap? The answer may be closer than you think.
Let’s just get this out of the way. My name is Rebecca Lavoie, and I’m addicted to reddit.
You may have heard of reddit (the lowercase “r” is part of their minimal aesthetic), but if you’re like most of the people in my life, you either don’t know much about it or have been confounded by the site if you’ve ever tried to check it out.
So first, a quick explainer.
Reddit is a social media/news site on which users can post content ranging from questions and opinions to links to articles, photos, videos, music or just about anything else of interest.
...Oh, and one final thing about reddit … it’s ugly...
Baby, I Can Wash My Car
I knew my marriage was over when I realized how dirty my car was. Cleaning the cars had always been the domain of my husband, the kind of man who makes it a weekend activity the way most of us go to the beach or brunch with friends. His car-washing kit is better stocked than a professional detailer's, and for 10 years I've enjoyed driving around in a vehicle that could be described only as much cleaner than my house.
The divorce was my idea. After years of working on our marriage despite our differences, I felt that, at 34, it was time to let go despite the awful real-estate market, my lack of current steady employment and the fact that there are certain things I have no idea how to do without my husband's help.
My husband agreed that divorce was inevitable, and we set out to make it "amicable," which we've tried our best to maintain. We are living together in our "house for sale," our last hurdle before we can break up, but we've begun building the walls between our future, separate lives...
Call me scum
Not everyone gets my wit and charm
I am scum. A vapid, selfish, pathetic example of the feminine race. How do I know? The readers of Newsweek told me so.
My dream of becoming a writer coincided with my divorce, or possibly was born from it. When I started finding my voice in observational narratives, a writer friend suggested I submit a piece to Newsweek's 'My Turn' column, a popular feature that receives hundreds of submissions per week. If nothing else, he said, it would be a great opportunity to write using submission guidelines, a process completely foreign to me.
...When I logged on at noon, I learned more about myself than I could have possibly imagined. I am, according to all of America, 'Selfish!' 'Stupid!' 'Unappreciative!' 'Nonchalant!' And, my hands-down favorite, 'Completely worthless selfish scum.'
Bright Idea?
Nothing says “Peace on Earth” like a giant flashing electronic sign from Target that says “Peace on Earth.” Or an inflatable Santa in a popcorn popper. Or the ghostly illuminated outlines of caribou grazing on your dead lawn. Such is the state of Christmas decorations these days, as New Hampshire homeowners are no longer satisfied with outlining the straight edges of their homes with twinkle lights so their gambrels resemble the Golden Nugget Casino. Nowadays, they must also adorn their property with animatronic blow-up characters so it looks like the Fantasmic Parade at Tokyo Disneyland.
I suppose the art of hanging Christmas lights has lost its importance, especially in my overachieving Nashua neighborhood, where it feels like a communal obligation. My yearly routine begins right after the Thanksgiving tryptophan has left my system. I grab my Rubbermaid© box filled with strings of 1000bulbs.com© icicle lights and my Arrow© T50 staple gun. (The staple gun has been in the same place for the past 12 months: on top of the box.) I feel pressure to perform, because my neighbor has already beat me by covering his home with an attractive electronic net used for capturing Beluga© whales at night...