Foodie Sadists

So, it's come to my attention that "Foodies" are sadists.

Wait, wait, wait, hold on, wait. Don't leave! I have empirical evidence to hold this theory up. And I'm not just talking about Gordon Ramsay ripping into some poor novice chef, either.

Okay, it's bad enough that Foodies are food snobs, turning their noses up at *sniff* tacos or whatever. But they also have created different uses of language just to drive people crazy.

I mean, honestly, is "Foodie" even a real word?

But it doesn't stop there, nosireebobcattail!  Let's take the carrot for example. To me, a carrot's a carrot no matter what you do with it. You can cook it, boil it, shave it, or just go full-on Bugs Bunny and gnaw away, but it's merely a carrot. But Foodies insist "au contraire (pinky finger extended)!"

There are carrots called Thumbelina, Little Fingers, Purple Dragon, and my favorite, Solar Yellow. Do they taste different? Probably not, at least from this guy's Taco Bell-raised taste buds.

Here's where things get really interesting... We all know there're "baby carrots." Why aren't there "adult carrots?" Furthermore, can anyone explain to me what a "fancy carrot" is? Is it a carrot in a top hat? And here's where my theory of foodie sadists really comes into play. Some time ago, we were at a restaurant and the menu proudly proclaimed they were offering "tortured carrots." Yep. Poor lil' orange sticks.

What'd I tell you? Sadistic.

Furthermore, you can crack, beat, whip, boil, scramble, slice, dice, dredge, slash, punch down, knock down, peel, trim, mince, dice, scrape, scald, grate, chop, debone, grind, pierce, pound, prick, shred, skewer, sliver, strip, sweat, and hang various food items! Notice there's not a whole lot caressing going on in the kitchen. Buncha sadists.

Then things really get sick and twisted when talking about Olive Oil. Okay, sure there's "virgin" olive oil. But...how can olive oil be "extra virgin?" It boggles my mind. It's kinda like a doctor proclaiming a patient "extra dead." You either are or you aren't. 

On occasion, I've attempted to be a "Foodie" and beat up some food in the kitchen just to feel what it's like. Once I thought I'd make chicken cordon bleu for my wife. The recipe called for "whipping cream." I thought, great, I've already got "Cool Whip" in the frig, no need to whip it senseless since it's been pre-whipped for me. 

That night, disaster struck our palates. I'd made a big mistake. Cool Whip apparently wasn't the same as whipping cream. Chick cordon bleu shouldn't have tasted sweet and marshmellowy.

So, I ask you, foodie sadists of the world, why can't you quit beating on your food, stop with the confusing and violent language, and give food a chance? Some of it used to have faces, after all.

Don't make me tell you this again.

Speaking of sadism, something's just not quite right at the Dandy Drop Inn, where folks check in, but don't check out, if you know what I mean. See for yourself. This Winter, cozy up with Dread and Breakfast.

 

Christmas Caroler Massacre

Okay, now that I have your attention via my unashamedly titled post, I'm in a quandary...

Not too long ago, my daughter moved into her first house. I'd asked her if she'd had any trick or treaters during Halloween.

"No, I don't think they come down my street," she answered.

As a parent, that didn't set too well with me, just add that to my worry-list, but that's not for now. I said, "Wait until you get your first Christmas carolers."

Ah, I remember mine, lo, forty-one years ago, and how awful it was.

I shouldn't have answered the door. I really shouldn't have. But I did. Before me stood  a fully dressed, Dickensian group of carolers. I recognized the head singer, all teethy smiles and glazed eyes, the God-Squadder who lived caddy-corner from me, the guy who wouldn't quit pushing The Word to me.

Absolutely, inevitably quicksand-stuck, I wanted to slowly close the door, tell them they'd made a big mistake. However...even though I'm a bit of a curmudgeon and a hermit, I still have a heart.

They proceeded to sing. It was the longest Christmas song in history. My forced rictus grin stretched, ached, began to tremor, my upper lip twitching and forcing my tell. I felt like the Joker while constipated, not a lot to smile about, but you kinda have to muscle through it. 

Finally, the song finished. I wondered what I should do. Should I tip them? Give 'em a ten-spot, tell them to call an Uber and get the hell outta here? Invite them in (never a serious option)? Offer them cookies? I had no cookies. But I had cigarettes and chips and beer and NyQuil, the important ingredients to a young and dumb bachelor's lifestyle.

While I was pondering the proper response, they launched into yet ANOTHER song.

 I felt like a turtle on his back, legs slowly flailing, a car hurtling down the highway toward me. 

At long last, they completed their epic three-hour (at least it felt like it) performance. All smiles on their end. My face twitched, unused smiling muscles taxed, craziness taking over.

I hollered, "YAYYYY! Thank you, thank you very much. Happy holidays."

After shutting the door, I nearly passed out.

I like Christmas. I'm not a Scrooge. I just kinda have invasion of privacy issues. Especially when people want to sing at me. One of the roughest work-outs I've ever been through. It's truly weird.

Happy holidays, everyone, no matter what you celebrate. But, please, don't sing on my doorstep!

While I'm talking about cold, wintery work-outs, why not--during the holidays--check into the Dandy Drop Inn. I understand there's a huge winter-storm brewing and if you're caught out in the midwest, the Dandy Drop is a fine, fine place to warm your toes. Maybe lose your head, too, but not every place is perfect. Make a reservation with Dread and Breakfast, the perfect winter holiday thriller.

 

School Dazed!

To supplement my income as an author--and since we'd just had a very expensive year--the time had come to get some sort of part-time job.

But there was a huge, honkin' obstacle. No way would I ever go back to the Big Business world. Also, I had no real desire to work for The Man ever, EVER again. Basically, I wanted a job where I didn't have to interact with people, where I could sleep in, one where I didn't answer to anyone. And one that wouldn't require me to do any work.

I'm still looking for that dream job. (If you guys have any ideas, hit me up; I've already tried writing).

Then, a good friend dropped (what I took as a joke at first) a bomb on me. Via text, he said, "Go get your real estate license so you can become my partner and open up houses for me."

The more we discussed it, my wife and I became convinced it was a really good idea. I could work on my own terms, set my own hours, have plenty of time to write. Sure, I had to deal with people, and put on a happy face (and, maybe if I'm lucky, one of those stylin' gold jackets!), but I could do it. Probably.

Two problems, though: 1) The more I got into it, the more I found out it wasn't really gonna be an easy part-time job; and 2) It meant going back to school.

Gulp.

I hadn't entered a classroom in over 35 years. For that matter (outside of the use of the right side of my brain in writing), I hadn't utilized my brain in years. Even back in the corporate sector, I was on auto-pilot, just going through the motions. I feared that I'd lost my mojo for studying, that my gray matter had devolved into a slushie. Yet I couldn't become a realtor without passing the notorious real estate exam.

I took these fears with me right into the classroom. Glad to see I wasn't the only oldster in the classroom, I found a seat, fairly confident. However, that confidence quickly blew away like an untied balloon. For the first time, I felt like the dumbest guy in the classroom.

This was a crash course in real estate. One thousand new terms were lobbed at us over four days, plus we were expected to be able to do complex math equations. What little brain I had left felt like it would explode. The hot-shot, young whippersnappers ("Get offa my lawn!") rattled off answers as I tried to sink into my seat. I'd also made a huge mistake sitting at the front table where the old guy teaching the class learned my name, kept winking at me, and couldn't keep his tongue in his mouth. For four solid days, he yelled and berated us, doing his best drill instructor routine. And that's exactly what it felt like: boot camp for realtors.

Finally, class ended. It was time to take the real estate exam. So, I studied. Damn, did I study. For four days and three nights, I studied. Or at least made a good effort at it.

Exam day! Nervous, I stumbled into the top-secret testing compound. I was searched, asked to pull my pockets out, pirouette for the bored security woman, poked, prodded, studied, had my picture taken, identified three times, and escorted into a quiet room.

Three hours later, I emerged exhausted and terrified. I hadn't done anything that grueling since my first (and only) prostate exam. The woman handed me several sheets of paper as I looked them over. Finally, near the bottom, in teeny-tiny print (much too teeny-tiny for my beady lil' ol' man eyes), it said "PASSED."

Whew.

Um...now what?

Speaking of crappy corporate jobs--and if you've ever worked in the white collar sector--check out my novel, Corporate Wolf. It's a satire about big business. But, um, you know...with werewolves and murder.

Sucking Eggs with Gramma

My wife's driving and even though I should know better, I direct her to change lanes.

She shoots me a glare and says, "Don't teach your grandmother how to suck eggs!"

Silence. Morgue-like silence. Silence so intense that even the crickets are stunned quiet.

Finally... "What?"

"Don't teach your grandmother how to suck eggs," she repeats.

"What are you talking about?"

She rolls her eyes and rolls into the next lane. "Oh, come on, like you haven't heard that a thousand times."

"No. I haven't. Not once! First of all...ew. Second...what the hell's it mean anyway?"

My wife, always an educator and not an enabler, says, "Look it up."

Well, I'm always lazy and not a researcher. Besides, a smart phone may be smart, but my wife's smarter, not to mention a lot quicker.

Exasperated, I say, "C'mon, just tell me!"

She won't. "Look it up."

Okay, this went on for a while and I still didn't know what the phrase meant. I mean...is sucking eggs even a thing? Again, I reiterate...ewww. THIS I looked up. Apparently it's a different method of eating eggs by putting a small hole in the shell and sucking at it. Raw. *Choke* Gasp!

Secondly, ever since my wife said this horrendous phrase, I can't erase the image of my grandma sucking away at an egg, her whiskers fringing around the shell. The horror!

Thirdly, I've given this way too much thought.

Finally, yes, I did break down and look the phrase up. It means don't tell someone how to do something they have more knowledge about. Huh. So...all grandmothers are expert egg-suckers is the take-away from this lesson in semantics. Now I'm seeing vivid imagery of a line of lil' ol' ladies sucking on their eggs. I'm scarred for life.

Don't even get me going on "You can't have your cake and eat it, too." (Why, actually, yes, yes you can have cake and eat it, too. In fact, I'm willing to wager that when you offer someone a piece of cake, 99% of the people will consume said cake. Unless, of course, "having" means possession, so if you eat the cake, you no longer possess it, not really, and then we're getting into the nebulous world of philosophy, which never helped anyone out, and ARGGGGH, I'm thinking wayyyyy too much about all of this...).

While on the topic of obsession, you'll find a host of obsessed characters in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. There's the man whose wife may (or may not) be cheating on him; the guy who proclaims much too loudly he's not a racist; the young woman obsessed with finding her missing brother even if it takes her into the bowels of Hell; and many, many more. (Now you can kinda see why I like writing about obsessed characters!) Go read the book. Perfect for Christmas gifts (especially if you don't like the person)!

Werewolf Chat with author Dave Jeffery

Today on Twisted Tales, killer author Dave Jeffery has agreed to join me for an interview about his thrilling new werewolf book, Tooth and Claw. (It only took a little cajoling and maybe a lotta blackmail to get him here, too). By far one of my favorite horror tales of the year, Tooth and Claw offers up an intensely suspenseful tale of man vs. werewolf vs. man. It’s complicated. Best just to let Dave explain it…

SRW: Thanks for showing up, Dave.

DJ: Thanks for having me, Stuart. It’s appreciated very much and thank you for your kind words about Tooth & Claw. 

SRW: First, tell the readers what Tooth and Claw is all about. But do it with the timing of an old Catskills stand-up comic.

DJ: A bunch of wealthy big game hunters pay to hunt down a werewolf on a huge country estate. Big question is who is hunting who?

SRW: Tooth and Claw’s premise is great, that of the werewolf being hunted (and I’m more than a little jealous I didn’t think of it). The theme of man hunting man is nothing new, of course, dating back to Richard Connell’s 1924 short story, “The Most Dangerous Game” and the subsequent movie adaptations. (I’m fairly sure it goes even further back, but I’m much too lazy to research now). What inspired the premise?

DJ: I’d wanted to write a werewolf story for quite a few years but never really found a good hook. I read a story here in the UK about fox hunting and how there was always a desire by the rich establishment to bring it back as it was more part of their heritage than the actual act of hunting. This got me thinking, what if there was a way where you could pay to do this kind of thing illegally but in complete and total privacy? Then, viola! I suddenly had my route into the kind of werewolf story I wanted to write. 

SRW: Your prose is impressively dense and I mean that in a good way. But I found it odd that until a quarter through the tale, there’s only a handful of dialogue! Dialogue is a secret weapon to me, easy to write and fun to read. Was this a conscious choice on your behalf? Does it represent your overall writing style?

DJ: The narrative for my pulp fiction is deliberately mapped out this way. When you’re developing a shorter piece my focus is always on getting the characters embedded in a way that is paced, yet detailed. I owe a lot of this style to my writing hero, John Steinbeck. In longer pieces I use more dialogue to differentiate in stories that have a lot more characters, for example my Beatrice Beecham series for Young Adults.  

SRW: Along these same lines, there’s a lot of internalizing amongst the characters, particularly when they’re faced with life or death situations. Usually in action-oriented books, the characters think fast on their feet, worry about the consequences later. Interesting approach.

DJ: Again, this is a device to add pace and also gives the reader some insight into the reasons why characters make the choices they do in adverse conditions. It’s certainly something I ask when reading action adventure books. 

SRW: I see that you’re a mental health professional as well as an author. Interesting, particularly in regards to your characters. Let’s start with protagonist Detective Constable Ian West. As an undercover cop in a dangerous situation, West seems to be his own worst enemy. Constantly, he doubts himself, jeopardizing his mission and his life. Do you see this as the hazards of West’s dangerous job, his ill-timed romance, or a flaw in his character?

DJ: West is pretty much coming to the end of his career and is at a phase in his life where is he more concerned about what his job has cost him rather than the original reason he took it on. The potential flaw of being in a relationship whilst undercover hints at how his judgement is askew. The notion that he is in love gives him clearer guidance on his destiny as he sees it, which is no longer with the police. 

SRW: Moving onto your villains, you’ve created one of the most loathsome group of folks gathered in some time. Yet, deep into the tale, you make a case for a couple of them as to why they became the sociopaths they are today. To you are they ultimately victims because they were abused as children? Predators? Both? (I can’t remember any reason for the O’Kill sisters or Rothschild being the way they are, just plain old rotten).

DJ: I have a background in mental health and I try to avoid simplifying mental illness with, what are in truth, complex psycho-social issues. That said, the characters have encountered experiences that have shaped how they perceive the world and this is not necessarily from the point of view of someone’s mental health. Sometimes people are raised in certain climates of privilege and it is the disconnect with what constitutes the ‘normal’ world that makes them behave the way they do; so this is not about abuse. It is about never being exposed to an average life. Is essence they are more ignorant than sociopathic. 

SRW: To me, the werewolves are much more sympathetic than the human villains. After all, the wolves are just being wolves. Them, I can empathize with. The human bad guys, not so much. So, tell me, Dave, who would you rather take your chances with in a dark alley?

DJ: Humans, because they’re fallible! Once a werewolf is on your tail, it never ends well. 

SRW: To me writing sustained suspense is incredibly taxing, but you manage to keep the entire second half of your tale riveting. Is that hard to write for you? If not, what part of writing causes you the most hair loss?

DJ: The main issue for me is emotional continuity. Once you build a character you have to keep them consistent with their belief system. I often stall when I place a character in a situation and think, well this puts them into conflict which, as you know, is good for the reader and character-development. However, the sensible part of me wants to keep the character true to their base personality. So, if I lose hair – not that I have much of it left to lose – it will be over that continuity dilemma. 

SRW: Even though I’m a fan of Jeffrey Kosh’s stellar cover, I have to say because of the characters represented, I thought the book was going to be more of a rebel-rousing, testosterone-driven, yee-haw, blood-soaked, good ol’ boy romp through werewolf-ville. Yet I was pleasantly surprised that it’s a suspenseful, action-packed, thoughtful book. Not really a question. Just a thought. So take the compliment!

DJ: Thank you! I agree, the cover is amazing and gives the book a balls-to-the-wall vibe. Though I think this is more representative of the second half of the story.  

SRW: Alright, just to play devil’s advocate, and because I’ve got you here, I’m gonna pull the pin on this next question and lob it at you, Dave… Ready? 

As both a horror writer and a mental health professional, do you see horror entertainment as a healthy, cathartic release? Or do you view it as potentially damaging to already susceptible or troubled minds? (BOOM!)

DJ: This is very much a subjective process, depending on the person. The more damaging perspective is the clumsy application of mental illness in the genre. That has potential to create more harm to those with mental illness in terms of mental health awareness and social exclusion. 

SRW: From the tough to the mundane… Off the top of your head, favorite werewolf movie…

DJ: Easy – American Werewolf in London. 

SRW: Honestly, I thought the entire werewolf genre had been played out (sparkles killed the vampires, natch), but you show there’s still some fresh breath in the ol’ mangy wolf. Any other werewolf fiction spring to mind that’s different?

DJ: I’ve heard Corporate Wolf is a doozy, I’ll let you know! 

SRW: That's peculiar...I've heard the same thing about Corporate Wolf. What are you working on next?

DJ: I have three contracted projects for next year The Phase War and Frostbite 2 (Severed Press) and another in the Beatrice Beecham series for Crystal Lake Publishing. There will also be a sequel to Tooth & Claw (Grinning Skull Press) in 2021 and a follow up to my dystopian novella A Quiet Apocalypse (Demain Publishing).

SRW: Tell everyone where they can stalk you via social media sites and where to find your books.

DJ: Please stalk away at:

Dave Jeffery Website

Amazon Author Page

FB Author Page

Twitter Page

SRW: Thanks so much for dropping by, Dave. And, seriously, Tooth & Claw is great. Unrelenting suspense, gripping terror, and a fast read, every horror (or action) fan should go get it right now.

DJ: Thanks so much for asking me do this and for the kind words about what I do. You’re a star!

The Mansplaining Conundrum

Hi. My name's Stuart and I'm a "Mansplainer."

Everybody: "Hi, Stuart!"

First time I heard the term "Mansplaining," I immediately thought it meant shaving your genital hair. Thankfully, I learned more about the term (thanks to a very helpful man; I kid, don't hate!).

I don't really consider myself a mansplainer, but my wife has accused me of that. Last weekend, a neighborhood woman was searching for her lost dog. Earlier, I had unsuccessfully tried to lure it into my backyard with a sausage. So, when I saw the woman go buy a third time (this time with that little brat, Bailey, in her arms), I tossed the door open and told her my daughter's dog likewise keeps digging out. Furthermore, I went on to tell her how we intended to fix the issue with chicken-wire (my wife's idea, natch).

When I closed the door, my wife said, "Way to mansplain, dear."

Okay, I know we live in a new enlightened era, the MeToo sitch should never have been necessary, I consider myself a feminist, my wife wears the tool-belt in the family, yadda, yadda, yadda. But if I have some beneficial information to share, I'm going to. It's called being a decent person regardless of who you deliver the information to. It's just the way I was brought up, after all. (On the other hand, my parents brought me up in a house of racism, so there is that).

I don't care who explains things to me as long as I find it beneficial. So, bring it on ladies and gents, explain, explain like the wind.

Now there is the argument that this sort of behavior is inherent in males; we feel compelled to "help" and "explain" things, particularly to women. Movies and culture and upbringing have bred that into us. The term "damsel in distress" may've been railroaded after the '30's, but it's still heavily branded onto every man's brain.

But, where is the line drawn? If one of those retired handymen at the hardware store wants to explain the difference in tools to a woman is he doing his job or (gasp) mansplaining?

Frankly, I get thrilled over the rare occasion I can explain something to my wife with authority. Certain sense of virility about it. Having said that, our marriage is a different one. I'm the expert on the truly important stuff such as movies and music. My wife draws on her infinite wealth of knowledge to "femalexplain" things to me about hardware and tools and, you know, all the useful junk in life.

Over the last year, we've been "rejuvenating" my daughter's new house. Basically I'm just "tool candy."  Wait, that's not obscene as it sounds. I mean, my bad-ass wife operates crazy, dangerous saws while I try to steady things.
She explains it along the way...

"Bead board goes along the walls after we put down the base-board, then quarter-round seals the deal, then we caulk, and then we..."

On and on it goes, a whole new education. Is she guilty of "Femalexplaining?" Is there such a thing?

Furthermore, here's a real philosophical stumper for you, right up there with that poor incontinent bear in the woods: Is explaining "Mansplaining," the ultimate in Mansplaining?

It makes my man-head hurt.

Look, take pity on us, the downtrodden, middle-aged, privileged, white males. Why, we've never had it so tough, being an unprotected group of people in today's modern...um... Wait, it's beginning to sound like a Trump rally up in here.

Never mind.

Speaking of "downtrodden, middle-aged, privileged, white males," did you hear the story about what happens when such a man wakes up to find himself now a Middle Easterner? No? It's just one of the tales in my short horror collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, a book written in anger after the last presidential election. Let's make America great again! Hell, yeah! Start by buying my book! Damn straight! Yeah!

 

The curious controversy of recycling

In our household, we're huge believers in recycling ("recyclists?"). Oh, sure, I wasn't always that way, just like so many others. Sometimes it just seemed easier to pitch a plastic bottle or can than re-purpose it elsewhere. But common sense, not to mention common decency caught up to me. If we're not gonna take care of our world, who will? Just makes sense, right?

But not everyone feels the same way these days.

A couple years ago, my wife and I visited Iquitos, Peru. It was agonizing to see the townsfolk walking down the street, tossing trash cavalierly onto the ground. Abandoned debris literally decorated sidewalks and streets. Of course Iquitos is a third-world "jungle city" with nary a recycling bin in sight, but come on! These folks pride themselves on being newly "civilized." Such is the price of mass civilization, I suppose. At least they all had satellite dishes and killer knock-off Nike kicks.

Yet when this practice of refusing to recycle comes to my front door, I take umbrage. Umbrage, I tell you!

Case in point number one... A week ago I found myself in a large group setting (more on this in a later blog; same bat-time, same bat-channel). The pretty, pretty princess in front of me turned around, regally held out her empty designer water bottle and said, "Stuart...would you throw this away for me, please?" I hadn't sat next to the trash can to hall monitor everyone's trash prowess, but it soon fell upon me to do so.

I snatched the bottle, loudly said, "No, I will not." Appalled, pretty, pretty princess's jaw dropped, clearly not used to anyone denying her regal way. But I continued anyway. "I will, however, take it home and recycle it for you."

The class roared. One guy shouted, "good for you!" I was earth's superhero for one second. Yet the pretty, pretty princess sat down, mortified. Yes, I'd saved Mother Earth, but at the cost of recycle-shaming my classmate. (Psst...it was worth it and I'd do it all over again).

Which brings me to the curious case of (let's call him) "Dougie." A while back I was visiting my daughter. A friend, with new boyfriend "Dougie" in tow, dropped by for a visit. Dougie was an amiable enough lunkhead of sorts, prone to power chugging beer and talking about himself. He also had a remarkable talent for working in six eff-bombs into every sentence. It's a talent, I tell you.

Anyway, after his nineteenth beer, Dougie gathered his fallen tin soldiers and asked me (he ignored my daughter even though it was her house; chivalry's dead) where the trash is. I said, "Oh, we recycle cans. There's a bin in the kitchen."

Dougie scoffed, wagged his head, and muttered, "Recycling's stupid."

My daughter went into the kitchen and caught Dougie pouring the recycling bin's contents into her trash.

Had I known this at the time, I would've said something since I am my earth's keeper. But, I didn't find out about it until later.

But...wow. Just, wow. As much as I admired Dougie's true talent for clever cursing, he'd just entered my "Most Wanted Recyclist's Terrorist" list. First of all, who in the world goes into someone's house and screws around with their trash? Second, I know some people are lazy, but actually saying "recycling is stupid" just boggles my mind. How could anyone possibly justify such a mystifying and stultifyingly stupid statement?

So, trashers of the world, beware! I'm on the watch. I will have no problem recycle shaming you in public. Don't get on my bad side!

Speaking of bad sides, there's plenty of bad behavior in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. We're talking mean, misanthropic, violent old women; racists; mafiosos; a self-centered pretty, pretty princess; a delusional murderer; and many more. Oh, there are some REAL monsters, too.

 

How to get away with murder in your sleep

I murder a lot of people in my sleep.

Click on through to the other side for murderrrrrr...

Wait, wait, wait... Before you call the police, let me explain. No, I don't sleepwalk and stab snoozily away, nothing like that. Rather, I have a recurring nightmare where I've killed someone (that and the horrifying nightmare where I walk into the world's grossest public restroom barefoot, but that's a dream better left untold).

The odd thing is I never dream the actual killing, nor do I have any idea who my victims are. You'd kinda think those two issues might be important, but no my Id chooses to cut to the Dostoevsky-like chase: waiting for the noose to tighten around my throat as Johnny Law moves in.

What does this say about me as a person? According to the intronets, I have a guilt-ridden mind. Of what? No idea.

I searched my back history for various explanations... Maybe that kid in Kindergarten who I helped to harass because everyone else was? Maybe how I rudely ghosted a woman I dated in college? How about when I used to smoke, I'd toss the butts out on the highway? Or perhaps Karma's getting back at me for cutting in line for a roller-coaster at Worlds of Fun. I don't know...

But these dreams are long, stressful and convoluted. The other night I had my victim all ready to go, trundled up in a plastic trash bag (I assume they were extra, EXTRA strength), and ready to put out on the curb for trash pick-up day. Once the body was picked up and put in the back of the trash truck, I'd be in the clear. However...dogs kept sniffing around the bag. I had to continue shooing them away. Then neighborhood kids kept circling on their bikes, moving in closer, wanting to know what was in the bag ("You kids get outta my yard!"). Then, cop cars started slowly crawling by my house...looking...

How'd it all turn out? Beats me. I ended up at some ridiculous bus station with a miles-long line of people waiting to board the bus, on the lam with my mug plastered on newscasts throughout the terminal.

Much scarier than any horror flick or current political administration.

Apparently, my "guilt-ridden mind" doesn't stop at nightmares, either. Whenever I see a cop, I break out into a cold sweat, start humming some nonsensical tune, hoping the cop will ignore me, view me as an inconsequential, law-abiding citizen. It doesn't matter that I am a law-abiding citizen. It's just one of those things. "Capiophobia" is what my research assistant, Ms. Google, calls this bewildering fear of cops.

Clicky for...um...murder most massagey.

So. I figured that's why I gravitate toward murder mysteries, both writing and reading them. Unlike my nightmares, I can control the destiny and fate of my characters (mwah, hah, hahhhh!), ensuring that justice is served, and that the good guy and/or gal (generally falsely accused) are cleared of any bogus murder raps. It helps to set my day world right, even if there's nothing to be done about my nightmarish night-life.

And like my nightmares, the murders are never gruesomely delineated. It's the aftermath that's important.

Huh. As a kid, I always thought episodes of "Columbo" were boring. Why? Because they always showed from the on-set who the killer was. It became ninety long minutes of watching the killer sweat it out while Columbo ("Just one more thing...") circled the drain. 

I suppose I might like Columbo better now as I can definitely relate with the killers' increasing paranoia.

Sorta like my character, Zach, in the Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Only he's innocent. You see, Zach (a vapid, but big-hearted male entertainment dancer--don't call him a "stripper!"), has an uncanny knack for stumbling across dead bodies, generally becoming blamed as the killer. It's up to his sister sleuth, Zora, to investigate and clear his name, usually with her entourage of four kids in tow. Together they traverse a warped path to the truth, complete with characters straight outta my nightmares: The hippy parents! The singing and dancing detective! Menacing nannies! The paranoid computer geek! Corrupt politicians! Frenzied furries! Rival strippers! Murderous televangelists! The list goes on...

So, take that, guilt-ridden mind! (Freud would be proud.)

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