Politically Woke Monster

I blame my wife. In fact, all of you guys should blame her.

Years ago, we were hanging out, and as is her wont to do, while reading the news, she told me that someone had died.

I put on a caring face. "Aw, that's too bad."

Soooooooo many crickets as she stared at me. "You have no idea who I'm talking about, do you?"

"Sure I do! He's that...you know...that one guy...in, um, politics who--"

"You don't have a clue."

Shamefully, I confessed. "No, but hey, you know what's on TV tonight?" Master of changing the subject, I tried to steer into more comfortable waters, a shallow and narrow creek of familiarity.

But she wasn't having it. "You don't know what's going on around you in the world. When was the last time you picked up a newspaper?"

"Um...do they still make those?"

"Or when was the last time you listened to the news?"

The shame set in. Secretly, I started reading the news. And the way of the world was kinda upsetting, what with rampant racism, hatred, shootings, etc. Occasionally, there'd be a nice puppy story, but that's not what interested me. Nor, apparently anyone else, for the more sensationalist stories proved to be the most popular. It became like gawking at a car wreck. I just couldn't turn away.

However, shortly after my awakening, I hoped to impress my wife while we were watching Saturday Night Live's Weekend Update segment. I'd offer pertinent comments here and there.

It worked! I was outta the doghouse of ignorance! However...once unleashed, this dog turned rabid for news.

I couldn't stop. I was addicted. And all of the news was depressing. Then Trump came along and made matters much, much worse.

At nighttime, while in bed, I would rant about Trump's newest tirade of crazy. Eventually, my wife got sick of the genie she'd unbottled and told me, "I don't want to hear it. I don't even want to hear that man's name. Just quit talking to me about it."

Well, hell. During the pandemic, who else could I rant on about Trump to? I had a particular itch that I just couldn't scratch. To make matters worse, talking to people about Trump was either preaching to the converted or ending up in a screaming match with the True Believers. Both options were a colossal waste of time and energy and emotion.

Yet I carried on. I took my need to talk Trump to my daughter. She got sick of talking about him, too. She said, "You know before Trump, you never talked about politics. And my mom's the same way. Except for she talks about how great he is."

Huh. My daughter was right. Back when I was married to my daughter's mother, so long ago it seems hazy now, I remembered we never did talk about politics. To me it was unfathomable. What in the world did we talk about?

I think there's one real lesson to be gathered in all of this... Donald J. Trump has been responsible for uniting the American people in a news-awakened country! Thanks, Donnie!

While not quite news-worthy (not even close), and if you're sick of fighting with friends and family over politics, take a break and check out my mystery comedy, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. You have my personal guarantee that there's not a lick of politics and Trump doesn't rear his orange head once.

Under the Thrall of the Witch of Oz

My daughter lives in "Oz."

No, that's not the real name of the place, nor is it the HBO prison where love reigns, and I haven't lost the ability to differentiate between fiction and reality. It's a sorta, sometimes nickname for the lil' small (but big on charm!) town in which my daughter has decided to set her roots.

As a banker, her job is varied, which I guess is kinda par for the course for small towns. She runs the gamut of doing banking chores, personal crisis counseling, and scoping out plots of land for customers to bury bodies on. But the most curious thing she does is run errands for the town's crazy lady.

One time while visiting, she told me she dreaded going to work tomorrow. I asked her why.

"Because I have to go on a grocery run for...(honestly, I can't think of her name and even if I could, I wouldn't publish it) 'Mabel.'"

"Huh," I said. "So she must be a good customer."

"No, she's not a customer."

SOOOO many crickets. My brain ground through rusty cogs and wheels and gizmos. "But...but...but why are you going to get her groceries if she's not a customer? And even if she was a customer, isn't that going beyond the realm of good customer service?" (Side note: this small and quaint town is soooo small and quaint, it doesn't have a grocery store. You have to go to Walmart in the next town over. There're three tattoo parlors, three nail salons, 800 churches, and a bar, but no grocery store!)

"I don't know," she said. "It's just something everybody does!"

"WHAAAA? And she's not a customer??? But...but...what strange witchery is this?"

The witch of Oz's back story gets even weirder/stranger/awesome, depending on how you view it. Once, when my daughter's boss went to her house because she beckoned, she answered the door without any pants on. And one day she came into the bank with no eyebrows.

"Someone broke into my house and burnt my eyebrows off," she explained with a straight face and no eyebrows.

But my daughter (and a lot of the town's members) often go on errands for her, hauling a 20 pound bag of potatoes up two flights of steps. Sorcery!

Here's the best part: the woman pays my daughter off in ice cream drumsticks! (Where does she get this endless supply since they're never on her shopping list? Perhaps she's a rich, eccentric drumstick heiress.)

Yes, through either sorcery or subtle psychological manipulation, Mabel has the town do her bidding, and while under her thrall, her minions are helpless as they scramble to get cigarettes and TV dinners for her. Is she a good witch or a bad witch? The verdict's still out. Just beware of strangers bearing drumsticks.

Speaking of witches, one factors in mightily in one of the tales in my darkly comical and spooky collection of horror tales, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. As a matter of fact, the small town in which this peculiar tale is set is very similar to "Oz." Could it be...a TRUE STORY?

 

Wait! 60? That can't be right!??!

Turning 40 didn't bug me. I didn't even flinch at tipping into 50. But when my wife reminded me that my upcoming birthday would be my 60th, I freaked. It felt like I was taking the first doddering step toward the early-bird hour at the cafeteria. I swear to God I thought I was gonna be 59! 

"Do the math, dear," said my wife.

Well, math's not my friend, and it certainly wasn't this time. After struggling and counting on my digits (I had to borrow my wife's fingers and toes, as well), I finally came up with 60. Ta-dahhhhhhh!

Everyone had always told me that 50 is the big one. The one where I'd go out and buy a convertible, get hair plugs, and start (God help us all) wearing Skinny Jeans. But 50 didn't bug me, not one bit.

But 60! Man. No wonder my body's betraying me. Let's see...we're looking at getting winded by walking up stairs. Losing hair in the most mysterious of places only to see it migrate to most unwelcome new areas. Forgetfulness ("I didn't put that there!" "Well, then who did? The dogs?" "Yes."). 

And it seems like the older I get, the more crap I'm starting to lug around whenever we go on extended drives or trips. I put everything into a bag (but I'll never call it a "fanny bag." That's for you young whippersnappers.). What's in the bag, I hear everyone asking? Well, there's moisturizer, a top-of-the-line, retractable back-scratcher (I call it "The Claw"), several different chargers (why can't these impertinent young enterprising punks make one charger for everything?), a Kindle, a bottle of ointment for itchy skin, and soooooo many pills.

Back in the day, I went from no pills to a multivitamin every day. Arranged by my wife, that seemed like a big change in lifestyle for me. Now, I'm taking more pills than Seth Rogen at a party. I'm taking pills for bones, for heart strength, for eyesight. Hell, I'm even taking fiber and that's the one area I've never needed help with. I'm as regular as a cuckoo clock. I don't even know what half of the pills are or what they do, but it takes up a good chunk of time every morning, swallowing handfuls of the blasted pills.

My eyesight's getting so bad that I really don't like to drive at night. Things get blurry and you never know when my addled old man brain might take a detour and get lost.

When I first moved into my 'hood, I was the young whippersnapper, the old neighbors around me dying off left and right. Suddenly, I'm the grand ol' man on the block, the neighborhood historian. When did that happen? Even worse, when I talk to the new youth splattered around the block, I find myself embarrassingly trying to sound younger than I am.  "Hey, that's cool" and "I'm down with that" and "What's up?" and "Twenty-three skidoo, kiddo!" (Okay, I'm kidding about that last one. Even I'm not that old.)

For God's sake, I'll absolutely know I'm pretty much finished once I start watching the CBS ("Chronically Bitchy Seniors") network. Even worse, I might actively seek out "Matlock" reruns.

As I sit here writing this, in my gravy-stained Mr. Roger's sweater, my fingers cracking like a playing card clipped to the spokes of my bike back in the olden days of yore, I have to wonder how in the world I'm ever gonna handle 70.

Wait...I gotta go. There's some damn punk kids playing in my yard!

While we're chatting about old things (my back hurts!), check out my historical ghost saga, Ghosts of Gannaway. Not only does it take place in the '60's (peace, brother), but a dual timeline plays out during the Great Depression (kinda what I'm facing now). Oh, and it's scary, too.

The Great Unmasking

Well, as I'm sure you're all aware, it happened.  The CDC suddenly came out and said, "Yo, you vaxxed guys can dump your masks now, yo." BOOM. 

Just like that.

No build up. 

I mean, wearing a mask has become second nature after a year-and-a-half. I began to finally accept it as the new norm, hardly even bothered me after a while. My second skin. Hell, it became so normal, everyone in my dreams wore masks. Now, I feel like I need some time to adjust to the whole masklessness of it all.

Part of it is my distrust of my fellow citizens. The pandemic has made a lot of people and politicians crazier than usual. I guarantee that a lot of the people out there running around without masks right now haven't been vaccinated.

Which just gripes my goat. I don't understand the "anti-vaxxers." They cry about how they should have freedom to not wear a mask or choose not to get the vaccine. And buy assault rifles. What they don't take into consideration is that they're holding the rest of us hostage by refusing to get vaccinated. So much for their ballyhooed "freedom." Thanks, guys!

Not only is refusing the vaccination downright selfish, it just doesn't make sense. The vaccination doesn't carry tracking microchips, for God's sake. Why anyone would refuse to possibly save their--and their fellow citizens'--lives is beyond me. Of course it doesn't help when a lot of our so-called political leaders are refusing the vaccine. In the House of Representatives, only 95 of 212 Republican House members have been vaccinated. What the HELL, guys?

It's all become so tiresome with everything so politicized. The chances of swaying someone from one side of the argument to yours is flat-out rarer than catching a snipe.

But, hey, it's Amurica, dammit! Land of the free! Home of the brave people with assault rifles! And the unvaccinated! I suppose it's everyone's right not to get the vaccine. But your personal "freedom" should end when it puts the person next to you at risk. There was some local Kansas idiot who ran the worst Mexican restaurant I've ever suffered. He refused to have his customers AND staff wear masks because "a man has to draw the line somewhere." Big talk from a little mind. "Would you like a side of Covid with your burrito?" 

Freedom to go out and infect people ain't what America's about. Damn skippy. Can't believe I have to spell it out.

Anyway, back to the CDC's decision... As I said earlier, I've become a lot more distrustful lately (thanks politicians!). This CDC unmasking seemed incredibly sudden. I didn't think we were anywhere close to achieving it yet. I still don't. I suppose there's a level of anxiety about it all. When my wife and I finally reentered a movie theater, it just felt wrong to be sitting there without a mask as we binged on popcorn. (By the way, there weren't very many cinematic options. But, hell, we would've sat through "Barney's Big Purple Blunder" just for the experience.) So, why did the CDC finally have a change of heart? I know there's been political pressure on them (again with the stoopid politicians!) to issue the new order, so I can't help but feel they may have bowed down to the idiot "lawmakers."

I'm still wearing my mask out even though I've been fully vaxxed for some time. However, we've actually eaten at a couple of restaurants, trying to get back to living our lives. But baby steps, man, give me baby steps.

If you haven't yet read one of my books (in or out of a mask), then take some baby steps toward my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. You'll get a little bit of everything here, including a lot of dumb, stubborn Amuricans who get what's coming to them!