I have just purchased my new house. Thoughts and prayers appreciated
Recently, many of you were shocked and saddened to learn that I was living at my parents’ home because the newspaper publisher refuses to pay the piddling $4,000 per week necessary for me to buy a home of my own.
The outpouring of grief and sympathy was heartwarming, and I truly appreciate the thousands of letters of support I received from real estate agents.
You will be happy to learn, though, that I have finally purchased a house. Now you can go back to worrying bout other things, such as nuclear war and the trade deficit.
It was all rather sudden. In fact, I’m still not sure if I actually bought the house or will live in it as an indentured servant. At any rate, I signed many papers and learned how to repeat difficult-to-pronounce terms such as “soffit,” “escrow,” “bankrupt” and “debtor’s prison.”
Looking for a house was an exciting experience. It ranks alongside having hemorrhoids surgically removed. The problem is that no matter how nice a house you find, you are hesitant to commit yourself to 30 years of payments, especially if you are under the influence of alcohol. But I was assured everything would be fine after a week of diarrhea.
As a potential buyer, I was given vast powers. I could barge right into a house – even if the occupants were having dinner, reproducing, hiding dead bodies or planning the overthrow of the government. This experience taught me two very important lessons: (1) Many of us are slobs, and (2) do not enter a slob’s house until the dog is chained up.
Before I went looking for a house, I prepared a rigorous checklist of important features that a prospective house would have to meet:
1. Did I see roaches during my inspection?
2. Was the house constructed on an ancient Indian burial site?
3. Did the neighbors have moats or gun ports on their houses?
4. Was there any indication that devil worshipers had conducted midnight rituals involving goats on the premises?
5. Was the house within staggering distance of a pub?
Fortunately, the house of choice exhibited none of these characteristics, and even offered several pluses, such as a telephone in the utility room; so now, as suds spew from the washing machine, I can call Mom and ask, “You mean you’re not supposed to use the entire box of soap?”
When my working companions learned I had purchased a house, they wanted to know one thing: When is the party?
The party, my good friends, is when you cough up the microwave ovens and rocker-recliners and wall-to-wall bookshelves. I guess that means never.
Perhaps years from now, when my neighbors are assured that I won’t be raising llamas in the back yard or renting out the spare room to a heavy-metal guitarist, I will have a housewarming party.
But first, I have to get a couch.
This column was originally published in the May 20, 1987 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
I consider myself fortunate to be living in a day and age when I can experience the miracle of a 24-hour TV weather station.
Until recently, only the most rudimentary of services were provided on a 24-hour basis, such as murders or foreclosure proceedings on your house brought about by a computer that has confused your credit rating with that of Joan Collins’ most recent ex-husband.
But now, any time of the day or night, you can turn on your television and see colorful maps depicting the spread of rainfall, the spread of hot or cold temperatures, the spread of mold spores, the spread of radiation from the latest reactor meltdown, the spread of Republicans, the spread of Joan Collins’ ex-husbands or the Earth tilting on its axis.
These maps are extremely complicated, requiring a crack team of TV weather station personality clones to interpret them for us numbskulls out in television-viewer land.
For instance, a map featuring a gargantuan green blob in the center of the United States with a little arrow pointing to it that says “RAIN” might be interpreted many different ways, such as the spread of mold spores or Republicans.
But the TV weather personality clone will clear up any misunderstandings. “Yes, it looks like there’s a gargantuan green blob of rain in the center of the United States,” he will explain.
The problem with weather is that you can talk about it for only so long. But the weather station has solved that with:
1. Tomorrow’s forecast for the known universe.
2. The extended forecast for 100 years into the future.
3. The fire danger for various household closets.
4. Helpful tips on how weather kills.
5. The weather forecast for inside your house, as opposed to the weather forecast outside your house, and how you shouldn’t let the two mix or you could cause a tornado the size of Jupiter to suck up your television and then you wouldn’t be able to watch the clever weather station personality clones make faces at one another while on camera and break into jovial, weather-related laughter.
The weather station offers various public-service hints, such as how to avoid dehydration in case of a 10-alarm fire at your house, or when to take out your houseplants and have them shot.
The weather station personality clones will also interrupt their riveting, blow-by-blow description of the fog in Napa Valley to broadcast documentaries on weather phenomena. You probably never knew the lost continent of Atlantis was done in by incorrectly flushed automobile coolant systems and cheap antifreeze, and if the Antlanteans had used advanced-formula coolants, why, we would all be speaking Atlantic right now.
Yes, it is truly a miracle that I can tune in any time, day or night, and check on the spread of Joan Collins’ ex-husbands.
This column was published in 1987 in the Playground Daily News and is used with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Image courtesy of Healthline Gate. CC license.
I estimate that by the time my yard is covered with real grass, the ozone layer will have disappeared and life on Earth will cease to exist.
As it stands, my yard is covered with a lush, green carpet of weeds, some of them requiring power tools to keep at bay if you dare walk among them. The weeds bear a passing resemblance to grass when mowed to within a quarter inch of the ground, but they grow at the slightest provocation, say, if the world hasn’t tilted on its axis in at least a week.
What the weeds lack in attractiveness they make up for in variety. I have your basic stickers that could disable construction vehicles; I have bushy, green things with purple berries that would wipe out the population of mainland China if eaten; I have tall, hairy things which I’ve been trying to pass off as fruit tree saplings; I even have dollar grass, which is called dollar grass because you have to spend several million dollars in herbicides to get rid of it.
The weeds are home to a menagerie of various crawling and slithering life forms you hear about in those little newspaper stories about some Third World inhabitant who had all of his blood sucked out by a new species of butterfly.
The other day I was clearing some thatch with a front-end loader when I noticed whole herds of black beetles scrambling madly to hide. I assume they were black beetles. I didn’t get too close on the chance they were roaches. They’re still out there, but I expect they’ll be taken care of by the flesh-eating scorpions.
Occasionally I see hints of movement in the taller weeds, and from watching television I know this means a member of the reptile kingdom is out there and if I were smart, I would let Jim handle it while Marlin Perkins watches from the helicopter and talks about term life insurance. “You know,” Marlin says, “seeing Jim being devoured by that python is a handy reminder that you should take out a Mutual of Omaha life insurance policy, because you never know when you’re going to run up against a snake in the grass. THAT’S IT, JIM! KICK HIM IN THE GROIN!”
My plan to conquer the yard with real grass is to sprig it. Sprigging is to yards what the Chinese water torture is to human beings. The successful sprigger must follow a careful series of steps if he is to sprig a yard correctly:
1. Obtain the sprigs, usually by stealing them from your neighbor’s yard after they’ve gone to bed.
2. If felony isn’t an option, search your own yard for sprigs. Sprigs only grow in the wild next to houses or in sidewalk cracks.
3. Rid a small area of weeds. Use dynamite if necessary.
4. Plant sprigs. You way want to protect the young sprigs from Mother Nature’s voracious sprig predators by building a reinforced concrete bunker around the sprigged area.
5. Hope the ozone layer holds up until you can have sod trucked in.
This column was originally published in the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Weeks ago I told you that on our previous visit to the Bahamas we had skipped out on a $2 debt for a loaf of bread. I theorized Flossy, our resort manager at the time, was sticking pins in a voodoo doll to exact revenge.
I promised that when we returned I would repay Flossy so the mysterious car breakdowns and diseases would stop. Well, this is what happened.
It was early on a Monday. I remember that much. The sun had not yet crossed the yardarm (whatever that is), so the rum punch sat untouched in the refrigerator.
Tracy and I were driving to the grocery store to stock up on provisions. The store, for some perverse reason, had closed early Saturday and hadn’t opened at all on Sunday, depriving us of the pleasure of paying $3,50 for a loaf of bread. But now it was Monday and we were starving and $3.50 for a loaf of bread didn’t seem unreasonable.
We had taken a different route that morning – in other words, we were lost – and there, lo and behold, appeared the resort where we had stayed two years ago. It loomed above the pine trees and broke beer bottles like the house above the Bates Motel.
“Let’s stop and pay Flossy!” I suggested.
Tracy gave me one of those “You-don’t-have-to-do-this-just-because-you-said-in-your-column-you’d-do-it”looks and said, “OK.”
We pulled into the parking lot. I expected to see Flossy standing at the gate, hands on hips, glowering at us the way voodoo debt collectors glower at their victims.
We entered the front office. There she sat. I think I said, “You’re not going to believe this.” Tracy and I blurted our confession.
Flossy started laughing.
“You came all the way back here to pay for a loaf of bread?” she snickered. “I’ve never heard of such honesty.”
I never said we came all the way back just to pay for a loaf of bread, but if she wanted to think that, fine. Maybe she’d give us a free loaf.
At any rate, she cheerfully accepted our $2 and I assumed the curse had been lifted. Wrong-O.
Later that week, as we were preparing to leave for a sightseeing expedition to the other side of the island, Tracy announced she couldn’t find her purse. Then a wallet turned up missing.
Apparently, as we were sleeping, someone had slipped into our unit and robbed us.
The slimeball ripped us off for about half our vacation bankroll. He stole IDs, credit cards, even the green shorts that contained the wallet.
What followed was a panicky ransacking of the unit, search-and-destroy missions into nearby woods, calls to police, cursing and so on.
The stolen items were never found, although we spent the next three days looking for a happy Bahamian in green shorts.
It was explained to me later that the “momentum of Flossy’s curse” had carried over into the robbery. If that was the case, I may have to return – to pay her interest on the $2.
This column was published in the Playground Daily News in 1987 and is reprinted with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
The pope has finally returned to the Vatican and boy is he lucky: If he’d stayed in America another day he would have:
(A) had to pay taxes;
(B) been asked to appear on “Star Search”;
(C) been shot at on the freeway;
(D) been asked to make a TV commercial for motor oil;
(E) been sued for palimony.
(IMPORTANT NOTE TO READERS WHO ARE ABOUT TO STOP READING AND WRITE ME A REALLY NASTY LETTER ACCUSING ME OF RIDICULING THE POPE: Do not write me a really nasty letter accusing me of ridiculing the pope. I am not ridiculing the pope. I am ridiculing the people who hoped to capitalize on the pope’s visit. People like you and me.)
The pope came to America to touch base with American Catholics who, depending on whom you ask, are either “rebellious” or about to convert to Satanism. Through no fault of the pope, the visit became a seething, roiling, bubbling, churning, nauseating digestive tract of money-grabbing and complaining the likes of which you see only when somebody REALLY famous comes to town, like Madonna or the Care Bears.
The pope began his visit in Miami, which was recently declared dead by New York City, home of the famous garbage barge and the first city to open a pistol range on its subways.
As the pope and President Reagan spoke to the crowds of Miami drug dealers, lightning crackled overhead, which could be interpreted many different ways:
(A) the Lord was applauding;
(B) the lightning was meant for President Reagan;
(C) doctors were unhappy with the growing malpractice insurance crisis.
The pope then traveled to New Orleans, an industrial town engaged in the manufacture of extremely rugged units of industrial-strength pornography.
There, tourists could avail themselves of quaint, hand-carved souvenirs, such as “Pope Scopes,” which are little cardboard boxes with mirrors at each end like you used as a child to look up girls’ dresses. Or, they could purchase “Pope-on-a-Rope” soap, though I am not sure I would want the pope seeing me naked in the shower.
From there it was on to some unimportant states like Texas, and then the pope landed in Los Angeles, where I assume he managed to find his way through the airport and retrieve his luggage all in the same week.
After dodging crowds of music-video manufacturers, the pope spoke to representatives of the entertainment industry, where he likely had to fend off marriage proposals from Joan Collins.
The money-grabbers were there, too, with their papal lawn sprinklers, which is ironic because grass has ceased to exist in Los Angeles unless it is rolled into little papers and smoked.
The pope, before returning to America, may require that we all submit to urine tests.
This column was published in a 1987 edition of the Playground Daily News and is used with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Image courtesy of Concorede Pictures.
“Chopping Mall” stars Kelli Maroney as Alison Parks, Tony O’Dell as Ferdy Meisel, Russell Todd as Rick Stanton, Karrie Emerson as Linda Stanton, Barbara Crampton as Suzie Linn, and Nick Segal as Greg Williams. Directed by Jim Wynorski. Rated R with a 1-hour, 17-minute run time. See it on Amazon Prime and Tubi.
Del’s take
“Chopping Mall” is a product of the incomparable Roger Corman, king of the independent, low-budget exploitation film.
Corman began his career in the mid-1950s making science fiction/horror movies (“The Beast with a Million Eyes”) and Westerns (“Five Guns West”), and became known as the “King of the Drive-In.” He continued in the 1960s with a series of opulent gothic horror movies based on the works of Edgar Allen Poe (“The Pit and the Pendulum”) and worked with stars such as Vincent Price, Basil Rathbone, Boris Karloff, Ray Miland and Peter Lorre.
Eventually Corman established his own studio, New World Pictures. He is credited with starting the careers of numerous A-list actors and directors, including Francis Ford Coppola, Jack Nicholson, Martin Scorcese, Peter Bogdanovich, James Cameron and Jonathan Demme, to name a few.
Corman produced “Chopping Mall,” along with his wife, Julie. It was shot mostly at the Sherman Oaks Galleria mall in Los Angeles in 20 days, with two days of studio filming. The film is described as a parable of Reaganesque consumption and has become a bit of a cult hit over the years.
The plot is fairly straightforward: A group of teenagers holds an after-hours drinking and sex party at a furniture store in a shopping mall on the same night a trio of security robots goes online for the first time. Unfortunately for the teenagers, a lightning strike damages the robots’ programming and they embark on a killing spree. Armed with tranquilizing darts, tasers and directed-energy weapons, the robots are more than a match for a group of oversexed teens … or are they?
Originally marketed as “Killbots,” (a superior title in my opinion) “Chopping Mall” was filmed at the same location as “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” But trust me, it bears little resemblance to that classic coming-of-age movie. “Chopping Mall” is mostly a bloody excess of exploding heads, lots of jiggling breasts, tacky ’80s-esque music, some seriously terrible dialogue (which was mostly ad-libbed from what I understand) and crappy special effects – heck, they even poached the ray gun sound effects from the George Pal version of “War of the Worlds.”
But as an artifact of the ’80s, “Chopping Mall” is a fascinating time capsule. As I watched the movie I made a list of some of the uniquely ’80s features: big hair, designer jeans, pay phones, landlines, popped collars, circular glasses frames, pastels, Better Cheddar, CRTs, gun stores in a mall, cigarette machines (a pack of smokes cost $1.25), suspenders, button-down shirts, wooden skateboards, handheld calculators the size of mobile phones, khakis with pleats and shoulder boards.
Wow, those were the days. Not.
Look, “Chopping Mall” isn’t high art. It’s a low-budget exploitation film, squarely within the Roger Corman mode of a moviemaking. As silly entertainment it’s just fine. I can think of worse ways to waste an hour and 17 minutes of my life. Go into it with low expectations and you won’t be disappointed. Just be prepared for some serious gore.
I give “Chopping Mall” a grade of B. Anything higher would dishonor its low-budget aspirations. But I’m guessing Mladen will gush – it’s right up his alley. So expect multiple A’s, maybe even with a bullet. Or an exploding head.
Mladen’s take
Yeah, I was hyped when Del used the phrase “jiggling breasts” in his review. All of a sudden, I was looking forward to watching “Chopping Mall.” But trouble soon arrived. The problem? The bared breasts were front-loaded. So, the remaining four-fifths of the movie was barely tolerable to me. No more nudity, just hokey – even for a Corman film – analog-ish visual effects and blood splatter. Let’s face it, despite years of writing movie reviews with Del as my antagonist, he still has no ability to distinguish between cartoonish depiction of slit throats or exploding heads and realistic, honest-to-goodness, stomach-churning graphic violence.
Where to begin evaluating “Chopping Mall?” How about the old saying, “lightning never strikes twice in the same place?” Why? Because in “Chopping Mall” lightning struck THREE times in the same place to send the trio of Bobcat tractor-like killerbots on a hunting spree. Sheesh. From there, the movie gets better in the sense that it gets worse.
We start with four heterosexual couples and then there were three and then there were two and then one. I concede, the couples countdown was a tidy way to knock off the subadults portrayed in the film. The systematic, one-couple-slaughtered-at-a-time pace of the movie generated anticipation. “Ah,” I’d say to myself, “she bought it because she was unable to use a Molotov cocktail correctly. Burning to death sucks. How will her boyfriend meet the Grim Reaper?” Wait a few minutes and, pow, a killerbot grabs the boyfriend and drops him from the mall’s third floor. Thud, and we’re shown a pool of diluted ketchup pooling around the boyfriend’s cracked skull.
For Christ’s sake, the movie didn’t even have a decent soundtrack and it was made in the decade, 1980s, that generated some of the best songs ever. Yes, Corman’s studio did things on the cheap but, come on, why not drop a bit of change for the right to use Blondie’s “Rapture?”
Why the f— Del thought I’d like this movie, I have no idea. Maybe he thought I’d like it because it has gained somewhat of a cult following over the years. Maybe he just wanted to insult my taste in movies. No matter, “Chopping Mall” deserves no better than a C-. But, I don’t want to discourage filmgoers from watching other “Gore”man flicks. There are a lot of them. Del, here are a few that I watched and enjoyed: “The Wasp Woman,” “Carnosaur,” “Death Race 2000” and its sequel, “Death Race 2050,” and let’s not ignore “Sharktopus vs. Pteracuda.”
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.
The sadists I work with on the wired desk have a game they play from June 1 to Nov. 30.
They know I am fascinated by hurricanes. They see my tracking charts featuring the scribbled admonition that he who steals this chart will die of earworms.
Worst of all, they know I am always anxious to study the satellite photographs.
We receive three satellite photographs each day. The first is transmitted at about 4 a.m., the second at 4 p.m. and the last at 9:30 p.m. Each has its own idiosyncrasies. The morning photo has poor resolution. The afternoon photo is usually sharp, and more closely represents the extent of the cloud cover. This is the photo we publish in the newspaper. The night photo exaggerates the cloud cover, but it can give you an idea of trends in a storm’s movement.
At any rate, I want to see them all. Enter the sadists.
My desk used to be next to the Laserphoto receiver and I could quickly intercept any photographs entering its collection tray. But now my desk is located across the room. Now I must rely on the good graces of the wire desk to supply me with satellite photos.
Ha ha ha ha ha, boy am I a schmuck. Relying on the good graces of the wire desk is like hiring a 40-foot python to babysit small children.
The game goes like this:
1. I am sitting across the room, minding my own business, when suddenly I hear the telltale click of a Laserphoto being cut and fed into the collection tray. All eyes on the wire desk also turn to the Laserphoto machine, as if were a slot machine that had just rung up four cherries.
2. Somebody on the wire desk leaps up and snares the photo.
3. A triumphant “AH HA!” rings across the newsroom.
4. The satellite photo is held so that everybody on the wire desk may see it, but not I.
5. Suddenly, everybody on the wire desk becomes an expert at interpreting satellite photography. “Looks like a suspicious cloud mass in the Caribbean,” they shout in delight. “Yes sir, I see evidence of a circulation in that cloud mass,” or, “Are those spiral bands beginning to form in that Atlantic disturbance?”
6. They sneak peeks at me and titter like schoolgirls. They want me to get p and come over there and try to beg for the photo, but I know they’d pass it from person to person in a perverse game of keep-away, so I refuse to act like I’m interested.
7. They raise the stakes by saying in loud voices, “Uh oh, this looks like a Category 5 storm to me. I don’t think we better let Del see this. I think we should tear this up and burn it. Del wouldn’t be interested, anyway.”
8. The final act in the game involves my capitulation, where I must prostrate myself and shout, “Come on you slimes, gimme that satellite photo. PLEEEZE?” This always is greeted with malicious merriment, especially if I have to get down on my knees and grovel.
Now isn’t that sick?
This column was published in the Playground Daily News sometime in the 1980s, possibly 1986, and is used with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Filmmakers would have you believe every hour of every day is fraught with adventure.
The typical cinematic day begins with an illicit love affair followed by a mysterious telephone call, a car chase and a narrowly averted assassination attempt.
But life rarely imitates art.
This occurred to me recently as I was standing in an office supply store. The clerk had just told me IBM manufactures a ribbon cassette that is compatible with my Royal typewriter.
That made me happy – inordinately happy. And I didn’t know why.
After all, small success stores such as these are not the stuff of which entertainment is made. Had I not been taught by 25 years of watching television and movies that a person could not be truly happy unless he were realizing his most extravagant dreams?
It had been a good day, so far, and as I went over the events that had made it that kind of day, I began to remember something many of us often forget under the barrage of video and celluloid fantasies.
That morning, I finally discovered a place where our writers’ group could meet. I belong to the Redneck Riviera Writers Group. We get together twice a month and compare notes on the business of writing. We had been meeting at people’s homes, or local eateries, but it soon became obvious that if we were to expand beyond our current membership of five people, we would have to find a permanent meeting place.
After a fruitless search, we found a new home at the YMCA, courtesy of Joe Lukaszewski. That made me feel good.
Something else nice happened that morning. I found a book of Ramsey Campbell short stories I hadn’t known existed. I’m a student of the short story and Campbell is a bona fide master. The book should be fascinating.
I also picked up what I think will be the perfect gift for a friend. It, too, is a book of short stories, but these are special. I had never seen the book outside of the one copy I’d been hoarding for myself. Now she can enjoy it too.
Pop artist Andy Warhol died recently. In one of his obituaries I came across a reference to a movie of his titled “Sleep.” The movie depicted a person sleeping. That’s it. Two hours of a person sleeping. The entertainment virtues of the film are less than debatable, but I think I understand what Warhol might have been saying.
The small, mundane successes and failures – things that would end up on the cutting room floor – are the body and texture of life. They are what make life an endlessly fascinating experience. Spilling coffee on the living room carpet. Finding a letter from a friend in your mailbox. The thousand things that you forget a day after they’ve happened. They are what get us through accomplishments to crises.
So it was a pretty good day.
This column was previously published in the Playground Daily News in the 1980s and is reprinted here with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
As Rosanne Rosannadanna said many times, I thought I was gonna die.
The alarm clock ticked off the remaining moments of my peace and then it buzzed; my second thought – the first being that I had passed away in my sleep – was that I had awakened into some unhealthy person’s body.
I hurt everywhere. My back hurt. My throat, my ears, my chest – they all hurt. This wasn’t the body I had fallen asleep in. This was a boy on the verge of going belly up.
I had a cold.
A cold leaves me just sick enough to make life miserable, but no so sick that I feel I have to stay in bed. It seems a shame to lounge around in bed when I could be getting work done, but when I actually do those things I begin to wish I’d lounged around in bed.
I don’t know why I hadn’t foreseen this cold. Everybody in the office was sick, and relatives who were visiting were similarly smitten. When you are surrounded by people who are breeding germs faster than you can kill them, your chances of surviving unaffected are slim.
This cold was shaping up into a real barn-burner. My throat felt like Patton and his boys had chased Rommel through it. My head was stopped up and I could bells ringing – symptoms of a fever. And though the temperature outside was a balmy 73 degrees, I was freezing.
The thought of sweating it out at the office – and I use the term “sweating it out” purely in the abstract – was about as palatable as having a tooth pulled, so I phoned in sick. The building at work is usually 40 below zero, what with out overzealous air-conditioning system. I always go to work unless I’m not ambulatory, but since I felt SO bad, and since I’m OVER 30, I decided age has hits perks and this was one of them.
I lay in bed the entire day. The minutes were like hours. I would doze, look at my watch, doze a while longer, look at my watch, see that only 10 minutes had passed, doze again, knock off another five minutes. I did manage to stay awake long enough to watch “Jeopardy.”
The radio made no sense that day. I remember hearing an endless series of weather forecasts. You’d be amazed how many times radio stations give the weather forecast. I found myself comparing the weather forecast to my internal weather forecast: “Cloudy with a chance of showers today; severe thunderstorms tonight, with locally heavy rainfall possible.” Yep. That was about right.
Being sick all day means that you are awake all night and sicker still. I remember looking at the alarm clock and thinking it said 1 a.m. Then the living room clock began to toll and I counted 12 gongs.
As I write this, I am sick. I don’t feel like going back through and cleaning it up. It is freezing in here. I’m counting the minutes until 6 p.m. so I can get to the break room and eat one of those moon pie things and take more drugs.
I think I’m gonna die.
This column was originally published in the Playground Daily News in 1986 and is reprinted with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Alas, I will be leaving for Los Angeles soon, though you’ll be sorry to hear I should be back in a week. At least that’s the plan. Since my flight was booked by the Cerritos Travel Agency, I may be dropping unexpectedly on some California suburb and staying there for all eternity.
I am of two minds about his trip. I’ve always wanted to visit Los Angeles because the film industry would have you believe you can’t belch there without background music and klieg lights. But to get there one must fly on a heavier-than-air object that is traveling at 500 mph at an altitude God never meant for men to violate.
This is not an hour-long petting-zoo ride to Atlanta or Orlando. Five hours, buddy. Count ’em. Five hours of terror. Five hours of sweaty palms and heart spasms every time the plane changes altitude by more than a few inches. I’ll be sitting next to one of the androgynous pin-striped creatures who won’t even hold my hand, and when we land at LAX they’ll take me to the Farmers Market and sell me at 49 cents a pound.
The airport is, of course, across town from Santa Ana, my intended destination, so after these five hours of terror I can drive right into two more on the Los Angeles freeways. My sister says they’re no worse than the freeways in Detroit, and I seem to remember careening along the Freeway of Love (as those sick individuals call it), trucks roaring past at a shade under the sound barrier and, to paraphrase Robert Frost, thinking that I had miles of concrete to go before I could pass out.
Ah, but once I am there …Hollywood? Sunset Boulevard? Beverly Hills? Universal Studios?
Naah. Work.
Ostensibly, that’s why I’m going there, and the newspaper is giving me only enough money to ensure that I don’t spend all my time at Malibu or trying out for game shows.
But yes, I intended to see the giant sign that is always in the process of falling down over Hollywood, and I expect to see the sidewalk where the movie stars have gotten their feet muddy in concrete. I want to see the piers that extend into the ocean and don’t collapse during storms, the movie and television studios that I vilify regularly in this column. I also hope to visit one of those malls that has its own city council.
I’ll be looking for Randy Newman cruising the freeways singing, “I Love L.A.” or the Beach Boys talking about those “California Girls.” I’ll be waiting to see those who are “California Dreamin’” or whether “It Never Rains in California.”
And then – Oh, boy! – another five hours of terror as we head back east. We go to Memphis and then to the Okaloosa County Air Terminal, so I get the added bonus of taking off and landing twice in one day.
At least on the return leg, I should be able to drink my lunch.
This column was published in the Playground Daily News in 1986 and is used with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .