Thrills and Chills At The Old Snow Cone Stand

In the south Louisiana town of Gueydan, are a couple of vacant buildings few seem to notice.

The, now closed, Pioneer Hotel catered mainly to hunters, coming in for ’duck season’. The towns only claim to fame is for being the ‘Duck capital of America.’ (Yes there is a sign, and yes, It has been desecrated on many occasions)

Imagine these doors in various bright colors. So sorry I didden’t photograph it sooner.

 Originally the hotel’s eight rooms had color coated doors. An adjoining home office for the woman who ran it is off to the side, where a single trellis still passes for a garden.

I used to suggest the place when we planned our vacations, liking the colorful doors and being too young yet to realize the pointlessness of accommodations so far from the beach and not ten miles from home.

Though now that I think about it, the place may have been closed even back then. The lady who ran it lived out her life there, long after she stopped renting rooms, so it continued to look livable for quite awhile. It deteriorated after her death, so that now nearly all of the color has faded from the doors that sparked my interest.

 I could go on forever about that hotel, but It was the much smaller building next to it that led to one of the most harrowing experiences in my otherwise uneventful life.

This second building is red, but for some reason I remember it being rainbow. Those I’ve questioned insist it has always been simply red.

Small things amuse small minds I guess.

I have very clear memories of being held up by an older cousin while my first snow cone ever was handed to me through the single bay window that formed the little shack’s entire front.

It may have been a case of mistaken identity, as many such places had come and gone all over town, yet for much of my life it continued to be the old snow cone stand.

I would discuss it with friends at recess, who mostly had no idea what I was talking about, though it seemed some older kids had mentioned a place where small trinkets had come with snow cones in much the same spirit as Macdonald’s or Crackerjacks.

One evening, as I was falling asleep to my one-eyed Teddy Ruxpin’s rendition of “Come and discover the world with me.” I quietly concluded that it must have been the place, what with a building that cool, they had certainly gone all out.

I shot from my bed when it hit me. Surely some extra trinkets were left behind when they closed the joint. All those prizes could still be there, locked up in the stand, awaiting the child bold enough to brave the ghosts and claim the treasure. ( It was a proven fact that all old buildings had ghosts and treasure.)

I tossed and turned but couldn’t shake the thought that there was an endless pile of multicolored crap with my name on it. This thought followed me onto the porch where I found myself mounting my rickety, training-wheeled contraption and pedaling like mad across the wide open. Simply being alone at dusk was almost enough to make one die of fright but my eye was on the prize, and my brain was full of that awesome, idiotic reasoning one often encounters around bed time that makes even the dumbest ideas seem divinely inspired.

Soon those three black windows gaped at me out of the dark trees. I had second thoughts when there seemed to be blurry faces peering out of them. The faces never moved, and with all the courage and stupidity that could be mustered I snuck around to the back, where I discovered an even greater obstacle.

A rusty screen door was the only entrance. Those things were a pain to open. The handles would stick, and if you tried to force them, they would summon an army of angry adults. I attacked it anyway. The noise was deafening in the quiet.

Three dark figures eclipsed the light of the windows. They never moved so I turned on my light, and shrieked.

Someone had left some cardboard cutouts in front of the windows. Maybe the video rental place was using the building for storage? It didn’t matter. I was scared to death of cardboard cutouts; all those eerie, two-dimensional people with their staring eyes and obviously fake smiles. Oh, but what was that?

There were boxes of Mardi Gras beads and quarter-machine eggs littering the floor. I was in heaven. I propped the stubborn door open with a stick and was faced with enough beads and bracelets to make up a kiddy-king’s ransom. I thus filled my pockets with enough small rubber animals to make up a first class security force.

There was too much to carry, but I wasn’t worried. I only needed enough time to nab the pieces I wanted. Ooh a dinosaur! I reached for it just as the stick fell to the crabgrass and the door slowly started to close. I turned around to catch it, but the thing was tightly sealed. I tried the stuck handle again and again, then struggled against the screen, screaming for all the world to hear.

The wind moaned outside and one of the cut outs fell over. The pouting face of Julia Roberts wavered inches from my own. With superhuman strength borne of unholy terror, I burst through the screen. The next thing I remember was my butt hitting bike seat and my legs tearing out of there.

I awoke safely the next morning with three pink bracelets still safe on my arm. No one believed me when I showed them those bracelets. Father insisted I’d won them at a party the day before, and swore I’d never left my bed. Still It’s hard to believe I dreamed it, though I was never that impulsive in real life.

As for the old snow cone stand, knowing what I know now it is unlikely that it could have ever been used for that purpose. Mother always commented on how much it reminded her of a tug boat. It was only recently I questioned my uncle who insisted that it was indeed, part of a tug-boat. Namely, A disembodied wheelhouse left there by a man who used to fix them back in the fifties. He knew very little about the man and claimed my late grandfather had known him.

It was too bad I’d missed my chance, not that I never asked my grandfather about the past, but without specific questions there was never much to say. Perhaps if I’d known the right questions then, many of my favorite landmarks would have had even better stories.

More Bohemians At Large!!!

It wasen’t easy, but somehow I’ve managed to scrounge up some more of my favorite people.


In the museum of on it? They made their choice!

   Amongst the baggers and taggers of our streets, a very special kind of punk does roam. He is does not concern himself with the crudely scrawled genitalia of lesser men, oh no, he is a graffiti artist.

Imitation is the surest form of vandalism.

With aerosol cans shaken and ready he sets out to conquer his urban canvas – etching out visions of little green men and claw snapping hipster lizards. Quickly his arms race across the walls – completing in mere minutes a masterpiece that is soon to fade beneath the chicken scratch of jealous philistines. Like his work he to will vanish, quickly as he appeared, in a cacophony of color.

If one was to catch him by his capacious pants, and look him in the eye, would there be a face at which to shake one’s finger? Or merely the deeper shadows of his hoodie? Perhaps, but first you must catch him.

He went this through this door, officier, I swear!


Will, be a mermaid, for money.

All it takes to be a werewolf is a lost razor and a hygiene problem, all it takes to be a wizard is a beard and a book of spells, all it takes to be a pirate is a little copyright infringement, and all it takes to be a vampire is a strong stomach and a complete lack of shame. To be a mermaid however, requires the hard work and dedication of a true professional.

They may not be the fastest fish in the sea but they are a joy to watch, dawning their unique hand crafted scale mail to brave the waves.

Few can comprehend the courage it takes to plunge oneself into open water with naught but a ridiculous outfit standing between wild nature and tender human fiddly bits.

Once there stood a submarine theater in San Marcos Texas where these elusive creatures could perform in safety, but with the days of Aquarena Springs long gone and the whereabouts of Ralph, the swimming pig, uncertain, the mermaids of the world have swam south, perhaps to greener pastures in Australia’s colorful reefs, or perhaps they have gone west – to seek a contract with Disney.

Whatever the case I shall miss you, you strange semi-aquatic entrepreneurs. I wish you luck upon your long journey to wherever that may be – follow the tuna to never land, and send me a pair of long seaweed stockings when your get there.


If you love your billbord. Set it free. If comes back to you, it’s yours. If it dosn’t, it was never meant to be.

  Just when society thought it was safe, to flaunt its various discrepancies to the disillusioned masses. These guys crawled out of those very masses.

Before they intervened, our public spaces were enslaved to the almighty dollar, forced to cower behind the obvious lies of the man.

Now a light has been shined, through all the glamour and hype – a door that can never be closed. “We too, can make signs!” scream the people – “but we’d rather fool with yours!”

Now that liquor conglomerate falters before pouring its single malt into that vaguely phallic bottle, and ruthlessly edits its ads in search of ambiguous, four-letter words. More often than not, that drilling company won’t even try to apologize for the spill, knowing how easily it all rhymes with fish kill.

Authorities warn businesses to be mindful of suggestive imagery – small, easy to reach, text, and pickles that can possibly be painted brown. They have also issued a formal Ad-visory for the following products; Smuckers jam, Schlitz and Pabst beers, S & M family outlets, and Blimpie subs. Target of course, has proven to be an obvious – well, you know.

Failing to comply with the Ad-visory can have devastating consequences. Their latest insurrection dealt a grievous blow to a beloved fast food franchise, who had refused to take the threat seriously. Now we all how easy it is to super size a clown.


I’d like to take a moment to remind everyone that these activities are a crime.

Perpetrators can face up to a week in jail and have their poetic licenses revoked.

Bohemians At Large

Warning! These colorful nonconformists or coming! They are not quite anarchists, not quite hippies. Like hipsters you probably wouldn’t have heard of them, but the threat is real. Report any you have seen.They are armed and dexterous. More are born every instant and I strive to capture each and every one!


Tea cozy? Hows about a tree cozy bi-och!

Citizens be warned, what started as a minor invasion of colorful critters has now become a blight that is sweeping the nation. Tired of rejection at the hands of ungrateful nieces and nephews, disgruntled aunties are laying siege to our public places with intent to clothe the world in their tacky creations. What’s worse – they are teaching this outrageous haberdashery to our youth, who in turn defile our sacred monuments with unflattering lumpy sweaters and blasphemous woolen caps.

“I had no idea they’d use it for evil!” Screams Miss Flutterbe as her coven of quilters are questioned for their involvement in peddling this practice to impressionable teens. Authorities advise citizens to be mindful of the ever mounting cost to homes and businesses. That now must be dry-cleaned weekly.

Note, that this is not some yarn I’m spinning – it’s all (somewhat) true. Just Google Urban Knitting and be awestruck by the devastation these crafty cultists have unleashed upon the establishment, and marvel at the audacity it takes to drag a once wholesome activity into the depths of utter caous.

I’ve recently been informed that the days of this scourge are numbered. The U.S. Government – being the party poopers that they are, have released trillions of clothes moths upon affected cities. To this offenders have replied, “Crochet!”


Is it Dr. Livingston or something more sinister?


Picture this, you’re a bored security guard in a creepy, old building no one is ever likely to use again, or lord forbid, some disillusioned soul who has sworn off the man forever in favor of a more liberal drinking schedule.

You hear footsteps echo through the empty rooms of your latest dive. An owl flies from the gutted rafters. It’s silent wings scattering the dust of fifty years. You hear the click of a gun being cocked, and wait in silence for your uninvited guest to show himself.

Surprise, it’s just some guy with a camera. “Hi I was just – taking some pictures.” He says. Yeah right.

Its been happening more and more in the darkest most forgotten corners of our communities. Persons calling themselves Urban Explorers are stirring up the sands of time and baring witness to history.

These intrepid rouges risk life and litigation to bring us the truth behind that creepy house on the hill, that once grand hotel, and that mysterious and dangerous network of tunnels beneath our feet. One may read of their exploits on many astounding websites – that shall remain nameless – for they have sworn me to secrecy.

To find them must one simply explore.



I have planted the petunias, SIR!

The efforts of environmentalists to prevent deforestation has largely failed, but these tenacious tree huggers have teamed up with the worlds vegans to start a new Re – forestation movement. Old news, you say? What If I said they intended to do it smack dab in the middle of town?

Their weapons are shovels and pitchforks, saplings and bags of manure, and bombs. Yes I said bombs, seed bombs. These quaint little pods are often poured into gumball machines, for obnoxious children to purchase and plant. The pods contain what are purported to be ‘wild grasses’ which we all know to be a fancy name for weeds.

Dude run! It’s a sequoia!

“Who will protect our golf courses from of the ravages of ailanthus and buttercups? Who will keep the riff raff away frow our roses? Who will tell little Susie that those dandelions are not ‘real’ flowers?” cries the public as vegans launch phase two of the plan.

Yes sir – ee, the veggies are coming. Soon we shall be so deep in broccoli that we’ll have to eat our way through just to reach a McDonalds. Chances of having any more room for chicken nuggets are slim. (One starts to see a method to this madness.)

Slowly it creeps across empty lots and vacant parks, up the walls and balconies and into our homes, tempting us with the sent of tomato flavored tomatoes, and the shade of its all-encompassing oaks. Resistance is futile!

(eats tomato.)


Insiders advise activists to be wary of food grown in contaminated soil.

A prehensile tail may be useful, but it will make you a lot easier to catch.