Last May, I traveled to Bangor, Maine, Stephen King's hometown. The result of the trip was an article in Writing magazine's October issue (check out our exclusive King interview). This is the last of my journal entries, however I will be posting a few other King related goodies as Halloween draws near.

May 12, 2005
8:35 p.m.

Here we are in mid-May. The birds are singing, the sun is shining, and everyone is comfortable in the warm evening spring weather. Oh wait... we're in Maine.

It's cold, son. It's dang cold.

I just got back from a baseball game. I went to Trevor Mansfield Park to watch Bangor High take on Hampden. By the end of the Star Spangled Banner (which was pumped out over the loudspeakers all around the field), the wind was blowing hard and frigid causing many teeth to chatter. Of course... the numbing noise was coming from my mouth only as the rest of the fans were nestled under wool blankets, drinking hot cocoa from their mittened hands, and rooting for the home team through multi-layered scarves. They expect this kind of weather, they come prepared. They are the locals.

In Jungle Dogs by Graham Salisbury, a 12-year-old kid, Boy Kahekilimaikalani Regis, learns to brave both human and canine jungle dogs in Hawaii. On page 1:

Boy and his older brother Damon are sitting on their bikes on a road in the jungle. Then...

Boy leaned forward and squinted into the shadowy trees and thick twisty weeds. He could feel his heart thumping in his throat. "What...what if they're in there?" he said.
"What if who's in there?"
"Jungle dogs."

What would you do if you saw jungle dogs? Tell us.

May 11, 2005
9:32 p.m.

...and I thought yesterday was exhausting.

I woke up this morning and drove to Stephen King’s office. I met with his assistant, Marsha DeFilipo and she gave me a very interesting interview. She even let me take pictures of his office! While I was asking her a few questions, Stephen called her to ask about some tickets. She told him that she got them and that yes, they were on the field level. Looks like Mr. King is going to see the BoSox soon.

After that, I drove around and found King’s house. I felt very much like a stalker as I snapped photos of the house and his beautiful, black wrought iron fence adorned with bats and gargoyles. I got out of there quick. It just felt dirty. Although it would have been cool if he came out to say hi. It wouldn't have been too much out of the ordinary. According to everyone in town, he's an incredibly friendly dude.

Last May, I traveled to Bangor, Maine, Stephen King's hometown. The result of the trip was an article in Writing magazine's October issue (check out our exclusive King interview). Over the course of the week, I will be posting my journal entries from the trip. The following entry details my long drive and arrival in Bangor.

May 10, 2005

9:51 p.m.

Ugh. Argh. Sigh and et cetera. I am tired. I have arrived.

The rental car is nice. It has air conditioning and cruise control and a CD player. So I listened to the first four CDs of From a Buick 8. I was wrong when I said it was 8 CDs. It’s actually 13! Wow. That's a whole lotta reading. It's pretty good, too. Guess I should mention that. It's all about this car, a Buick (duh) that, for some reason or other, has some sort of evil power to it. One patrolman has already disappeared and the others think the Buick ate him. Spooky.

I wouldn't say this if Mr. King hadn't already said it himself. He's been quoted, in the past, by saying something to the extent of: After a long career, I find myself repeating myself. I didn't use cute little quotation marks because I'm paraphrasing. I also just noticed that I repeated "myself" in the paraphrasing. Sheesh, I must be tired. Anywho, the reason I bring it up is because King wrote an excellent book called Christine a long time back. Christine is a possessed 1958 Plymouth Fury with a taste for bloodlust. That book was awesome. I remember exactly where I was when I read it. I was here in Maine as fate would have it! It was much farther south from Bangor (where I am now) in a town called Pine Point and I was probably about 13 or 14 years old. As I was making the long haul today, I made a pit stop in P.P. and walked by the old family cottage. I got a chill walking down the street.

I remember there was a car that used to be parked there on the street. I remember the exact spot and the feeling I used to get when I walked past it. As if the car was alive, as if it wanted to own me. King affected my mind. He got in. He’s always known how to do that.