News, Views, & Interviews

My first book came out in August of 2004. I remember the giddy excitement of holding the finished product for the first time and the pride I felt when I saw The World’s Most Haunted Places on the bookshelves in the bookstores. I’m not sure exactly what it feels like to be an author because every day on this job feels like something new. Though I’ve published five other books since, and I have seven and eight on the way in the next year, I still discover new thrills and challenges within the job — I’m still learning what it’s like to be an author. Some days are really tough. I struggle to get work done. I fall behind, I get frustrated at what I need to accomplish in such a short time period, and I wish I was doing something else. Other days are pure magic. I learn something, gain insight into a tiny facet of a subject, and feel like I’m growing and getting better at what I do. In short, being a writer feels a lot like other jobs I’ve had. There are good days and there are bad days. I have bosses, some people compliment me on what I do (which always feels nice), and some people tell me they don’t like it (which always hurts, no matter how many times you tell yourself that everyone is entitled to their opinion). One of the main differences with this job compared to others I’ve had is that when someone didn’t agree with the way I did my old job, my boss would pull me aside for a quick and private one-on-one. In this job, people publish their disapproval in magazines and on Web sites like Amazon.com for all the world to see. I recently experienced a good day on the job. A new thrill. In the mail, I received some author copies of my first book published in Estonian. Estonia is a northern European country just south across the Gulf from Finland. Check out the cover: I flipped through the book. I don’t have a clue as to what it says and I can only hope that the translation is a good one, but holding that book, I really felt like an author for a few minutes. A similar feeling to when The World’s Most Haunted Places first came out. My publisher told me that some of my other books have also been sold to foreign publishers, and I’ll also be getting copies of those books. I can’t wait. Thanks, Estonia!

I’m under a lot of stress right now. My wife and I have a child on the way, we’re trying to get our house ready for it, I have a book deadline I’m working on night and day (at least I’m finally catching up there), and I’m trying to manage a complete technical redo of Ghostvillage.com for some exciting developments in 2007. My work days typically start at 7:30 in the morning and unless I have an appointment or some other event I simply need to be at, I’ll work until about 9:00 at night. I’m not writing all this for sympathy or anything like that. Everything I’m working on right now I love doing, it just happens to be piling up at the moment. But this isn’t about my “have-to” list. This is about self-inflicted stress. I’m talking, of course, about Patriots football. I don’t consider myself your typical American guy. I love to read and write, cook, I love art museums, classical music, and lots of other eclectic interests. But man, when Sunday comes I transform into Joe-Twelve-Pack and plant my ass in front of the HDTV, I raise the volume of my surround sound stereo, and I yell for my team. There’s no rationale for it, but I feel like if I’m not watching and pulling for my team, they won’t do as well. I admit I’m very biased, but I consider the Patriots the thinking-man’s football team. They play a delicate game of chess combined with a rigid discipline to the fundamentals (most of the time) that I admire and even yell for. But last night my stomach was in a knot for about three and a half hours. Last night the Patriots played in a playoff game against the San Diego Chargers. By just about every measure, the Chargers outplayed the Patriots. They were faster, bigger, and stronger. And they mostly dominated play… but they made some critical mistakes and the Patriots did what they often do in big games — they capitalized. In the fourth quarter the tide turned just enough that a win actually looked possible. I spent the second half of the quarter kneeling in front of the TV — not in some form of pagan worship — but because I was tense and knew that jumping up and down after every play was going to get someone (probably me) hurt. As the seconds ticked away after the Patriots tied the game and put themselves in game-winning field goal position, suddenly all the doubt I had the entire game was erased. When the San Diego kicker missed his final (and very long) field goal attempt, I remembered why I love this team — they find a way. They don’t usually blow their opponents apart, they pick them apart and strike at just the right moments. It doesn’t matter that you’re bigger, faster, and have a better record. When it counts, the Patriots and their football savant coach know what they’re doing. I have no expectations of next week’s game against the Colts. The Patriots have taught themselves and all of their true fans to take it one game at a time. I’m sure they’ll keep me at the edge of my seat because they usually do. For an hour after last night’s game I felt the stress slowly leaving my body. Kind of like the feeling after almost getting in a car accident. You realize you dodged a bullet. I kept saying to my wife, “Why do I put myself through this?” I mean, if the Patriots lost last night, I still would have had a lot of work to do today. Whether they won or lost should have no impact on my life at all. But it does. There’s a spring in my step today as I toil away at the projects that were waiting for me regardless, and there’s anxious anticipation of the next game — like a good party you know is coming up this weekend. Nope, I don’t need any added stress in my life. But the drama, technical acumen, and excitment the Patriots bring me each week is worth every knot in my stomach. Go Pats! (Now back to my regularly schedule intellectual pursuits…)

I rolled into Gettysburg, Pennsylvania yesterday for a meeting regarding the Ghost World Conference we’re having here in July. Gettysburg is a town where history (and its ghosts) are most certainly alive. There are multiple competing ghost tours in this little town, reenactors walk the streets and battlefields (are they reenactors or are they ghosts?), and even the locals will acknowledge their supernatural side if you ask. Last night I went to dinner at the Dobbin House Tavern, a home constructed in 1776 that now serves Colonial and Continental cuisine. We ate in the Springhouse Tavern located in the basement of the building which was a perfect setting for our ghostly discussion about theories, research, and the people doing the investigations. After dinner, we decided to pay a quick visit to Sach’s Bridge — just a couple of miles from the restaurant. Sach’s Bridge was the main retreat route for the Confederate forces after the battle of Gettysburg. It’s also said to be one of the more haunted hot spots here. When we arrived, we noticed there were a few people already on the bridge snapping away pictures, and looking for spooks. This was the evening of January 12th — clearly off-season for Gettysburg, but there they were ghost hunting. And there we were casually doing the same. When we got closer, I saw that they were three teenagers. They showed us some of the “orbs” they had captured on their digital cameras and we asked if they belonged to any investigative groups. They said they did not. Every time I come to Gettysburg, I’m amazed at how many supernatural tourists and armchair ghost hunters I run into. Interest in this field continues to spread and people are asking questions (even if they’re asking those questions with a digital camera). This is a good thing. Gettysburg is a shining example of an historic location that full appreciates and embraces its important historical significance, but also accepts its supernatural appeal. Some visitors may come here only looking for ghosts, but they’re bound to leave with a little history too. This is also a good thing.

Back in April of 2006 I found myself flipping through early morning television shows. I often stop when I come across television preachers because I find many of them equally entertaining and appalling at the same time. It was a late April day when I discovered Rev. Peter Popoff of People United For Christ, Inc. Ministries. He was on every other day on Channel 61 on my cable system (this channel is significant… bear with me). Rev. Popoff was different. Unlike the other television preachers, he wasn’t yelling about doom and gloom. Nor was he promising eternal salvation. This guy was promising money — big bucks — to those who called his 800-number and asked for his miracle spring water. The 30-minute segment on Channel 61 was full of people who… how can I put this politely… didn’t seem overly articulate or educated by the way they were talking… saying things to the good Reverend like, “I don’t know how it happened, but one day there was $15,000 in my checking account.” “Halleluiah!” Popoff would shout in response. “My wife and I just bought a brand-new Cadillac, and just six months ago I didn’t know how we were gonna pay our rent,” said another witness. “Amen!” Popoff would reply. Once in a while during this infomercial, Popoff would perform the obligatory faith healing. He’d through an old woman’s crutches away, he’d lay his hands on the head of another gentleman and claim that he cured him of AIDS, and other theatrics, but the main focus was money. The green stuff. You don’t need to earn, he didn’t even say you had to pray for it, just call the 800 number, get the miracle spring water, and do exactly what he says to do. So I called. Less than a week later the spring water arrives in a little plastic packet — almost the size of those ketchup packets fast food restaurants give you with your fries. The instructions were complex and very specific: Place the unopened envelope containing the spring water under my pillow. In the morning, take 7 sips of water from a bedside glass in Jesus’ name. In the morning, open the envelope, open the holy water, and anoint my hands. Next, I need to send him a “Holy Consecrated Seed of Great Harvest Offering” of $17.00. He goes on to write, “NO, I don’t want you to send $37 or $77…” So I sent the $17 to the good Reverend, because his letter said he foresaw a miracle money windfall of between $1,700 and $17,000 coming my way from some unexpected source. Who couldn’t use $17,000, right? What is the significance of the miracle spring water you may ask? He doesn’t tell you this in the infomercial, but it’s in the letter. This miracle spring water comes from a natural spring near Chernobyl in Russia. Everyone who drank from this spring immediately after the meltdown disaster didn’t die (which makes sense because it probably takes a little time for the radiation to seep into the ground and contaminate the water supply). The Chernobyl disaster happened in 1986. By 2006 I’m sure the radiation is thoroughly in the ground water now — and I rubbed that water all over my hands — all for $17,000 dollars. What is the significance of Channel 61 you may ask? Channel 61 on my cable system is also Comedy Central. They don’t have 24 hours of programming so they sell their early morning time. Since sending in the $17.00 back in May, I’ve received dozens of other letters from “Prophet” Peter Popoff. In coming Blogs, I’ll share some of the many other rituals he’s asked me to perform to get my miracle money. From chewing mystical bubble gum to rubbing holy oil, he leaves nothing to chance. The letters and pleas get more insane as they go. Stay tuned… If you’d like to see his Web site, you can visit it at: http://www.peterpopoff.org/

Heeeeey, just a quick note to say Happy New Year… almost. I’m spending the last day of 2006 watching football (the New England Patriots, of course) and grazing on tons of snacks we bought for the day. It’s a quiet day here at the Belanger Palace, a day to reflect on 2006, and get fired up about the myriad of projects and endeavors I’m planning for 2007. I hope everyone has a great evening and a fantastic 2007 full of love and laughs. -Jeff

Some people die at the most inopportune times. Sure, dying on Christmas day is a tough blow to family and friends, but dying the day before an American president pretty much insures your tributes will be buried on page 2. In his twilight years, James Brown was best known for his legal troubles, chemical dependency, and… well… more legal troubles. But when you put on his old music… that guy rocked. He was bad ass. Super bad. I don’t care if you’re white or black, young or old, when “I Feel Good” comes on the radio, you groove. Jump back. Wanna kiss myself. OWWWWW! I’ll mourn the loss of an artist over the loss of a politician any day of the week. But two things are really bumming me out right now. First, that the United States media will focus on Gerald Ford’s three years in office instead of an American legend’s many decades in music, and second, I have a cold and I come in and out of clarity thanks to swelling sinuses taking on antihistamines. If James Brown ever haunts the Apollo, call me. I’m there.

Merry Christmas to all my Christian friends. And to all my friends of other belief systems… happy Chinese food and movie night!  I met Dave on Ghostvillage.com. He was an actor, storyteller, and a friend. He passed away in June of 2005, but not before leaving his mark on a lot of people. I asked him what it was like to play Santa. I played Santa at Universal Studios Hollywood for five years. Parade, lap, and media Santa. But my favorite memory as a Santa was when I went out with a group of volunteer performers to a place that was basically a day care center for senior citizens who couldn’t really take care of themselves. That’s where I met Frank. Frank had a stroke and couldn’t speak anymore. A nurse/helper-type person wheeled him up to me and said, Frank, tell Santa what you want. I watched as this man who reminded me of Kirk Douglas struggled to try to speak and saw the tears build in his eyes when he couldn’t, and I heard myself say, “It’s all right, Frank. Santa never forgets a friend, and we go way back. I know what you want and I’ll do my best. Bless you Frank.” I’d never said bless you to anyone before. Frank then grabbed me in a hug so tight I thought my ribs would break. We were both crying openly. Absolutely no shame. As we were leaving, the nurse said Frank had been unresponsive for a week before that visit. I went back the next year and all they knew was that Frank was no longer there. I sure hope he got that wish.

I asked my father what his earliest memory of Santa was. I remember I was about four years old — I was in preschool. My father worked in the tool and die department of American Optical Company with about 100 guys, and they did lots of stuff for the families. They had a children’s Christmas party at the Hamilton Rod and Gun club in Sturbridge, Massachusetts at the north end of Cedar Lake. The club was a lodge-type building with an upstairs and a downstairs. The upstairs was a dining area with two or three rows of tables about 30 or 40 feet long and then a front porch, and the basement was like a game room with a knotty pine wood bar. I remember being there for a Christmas party, and we drove up there, just my father and I, and when we got to the place, it was dark. We went inside and all of the kids were downstairs in the basement and we watched movies. They were Christmas movies, and they showed Santa Claus flying through the sky with Rudolph and landing on rooftops. We watched movies for a good long time, and we had candy canes and stuff. Then it was time to have dinner for the fathers and the children, so we marched upstairs toward the dining area, but first they brought us out on the porch, and there was the biggest Christmas tree I have ever seen in my life — it was huge. I was spellbound by the size of this thing. Then it started to snow, and it was those big, big, big snowflakes, and I could hear sleigh bells in the background. And up through the parking lot comes a horse-drawn sleigh with Santa in it, and he got out and came up on the porch, where all of us children were standing, and it was the Ho Ho Ho — it was so real it was unbelievable. We all got presents out of this big bag that Santa had, and our names were on them and everything. He knew everybody in the room. After we started opening our gifts, he was gone. To this day, I don’t know who that Santa Claus was.

Brandon is my nephew. Like many boys his age, he’s focused on toys and play time. Ever meet Santa? I never met him, but I heard him once. I heard a buncha deer on Christmas Eve. When I was three, I met the fake Santa at the mall and by mistake I pulled off his beard. It went back on, and all he said was hey. Then he asked me what I wanted. Last Christmas I saw a bunch of Santa dudes. They were like dinga linga ling with those bells. People were putting money in the thingamajig. They say Have a good Christmas, and then I say You too. One time I was looking out the window, and my parents weren’t there, and I thought that Santa just left. I thought I saw some breath steam coming off the roof. Something did stink like deer. What do you think of Santa? He’s pretty cool. Technically, he might need to go to a weight-loss clinic, but he’s pretty cool. Think you’ll see him this year? Hopefully, because last year my sister tried to wake up early to see if Santa Claus does exist, but when we got up, all we saw were a bunch of filled stockings and presents.  If you could tell Santa anything, what would it be? I’d like to have… you’ve heard of the TIE fighters in Star Wars, right? Well I want a TIE pilot, cause I don’t have one. That’s what you’d tell Santa if you had the chance to tell him anything at all? I might want more Star Wars things like a sand trooper, a snow trooper. I just like the bad guys more than the good guys. Do you think Santa deserves a year off? No. What could be so hard about making your deer land on it [the roof] and then barely walking to the chimney and then just jumping down the chimney or tapping your nose and falling through the roof? I never even saw the guy. Yet.