Our Lady of the Elevator Has Run Amok!

Some time ago, Those Who Are In Charge of my wife's work-place decided, "Hey, let's build a new building!"

"Yeah, let's," exclaimed excitable Big-Shot #2. "We'll fill it full of bells, whistles, cogs, doo-dads, whatchamacallits, unexplainable inventions, easy to misinterpret art, and everything will cost a crap-load of money!"

"Capital idea! Technology is great! I'm exhausted! Let's have lunch!"

And, lo, for many, many years, build they did until they finally rested on the seventh year. Celestial trumpets blared at the beauty of the newly erected building where everything had gone mechanized.

Where nothing could possibly go worng! (Sorry, Westworld.)

Technology is great. I'm all for it. But when things bust, it seems like no one ever knows how to fix it or just don't have the desire to do so. Maybe the budget's not there or whatever.

For instance, I don't know how many years only one sink in the men's bathroom has worked. And each time, like a rube, I forget and fall for it, going down the line of 5 sinks trying to gather soap from the automatic squirter and water, finally hitting the jackpot on the final try. Sometimes. Then you move over to the electronic paper towel dispenser which appears to work only on every other Thursday.

Most troubling of all, of course, is the breakdown of Our Blessed Lady of the Elevators. The super-cool, mechanized elevator used to welcome you aboard with a very pleasant greeting delivered by one of the great female, comforting voices I've ever heard. It's like being under a gravity blanket and I never want to leave her bowels. She might even have a slight British accent, I'm not sure. (As everyone knows, Americans just love British accents, hence why they find BBC stuff like "The Button Hour--A History of Buttons" fascinating. If that were an American show, narrated by, say, Gilbert Gottfried, all bets would be off. But I digress...)

Our Lady of the Elevators would always see you off, with "Fourth Floor" and other niceties, just a swell way to lighten up a bad case of the Mondays.

But something has gone terribly amark...amack...AMOK with Our Lady.

Now she says cryptic things once you enter her domain, one word ominous statements that had never been in her vocabulary before. When I step inside, instead of a greeting she says, "OF." When she drops you to your destination, she'll utter, "AND." I'm not sure if that's a question or she wants a tip or what. Several times I believe she's said, "THERE," almost like a petulant child's definitive stance of defiance.

What used to tickle me, frankly now disturbs me. Is she speaking in some highly advanced tech code, preparing to lock-down the building and rise up amongst the humans, first by taking away our clean hands in the time of a Pandemic, and then completely dominate the building? Is she trying to gaslight us like Hal on 2001: A Space Odyssey? Has she secretly replaced the security team with a bunch of RoboCops? How'd she learn new words that weren't in her limited vocabulary before? Is she secretly educating herself at night by watching reruns of "Law and Order?"

Just what will happen when technology does outgrow us? I've seen enough crappy science fiction films to provide me with plenty of restless nights worth of answers.

Now that I've put the fear of Our Blessed Lady of the Elevators into you, rest easy 'cause there ain't an ounce--not one iota--of that new, dang-fangled technology stinking up my book, Ghosts of Gannaway. No sirree, nothing scary to read about here...um, unless you consider ghosts, murderers, time-shifts, eerie hallucinations, curses, insanity, and stuff like that scary. And if you do find that stuff spooky, what're you, some kind of dad-blamed sissy? Well, git, we don't want your kind around these parts! But if you have what it takes and want to test your mettle, saddle on up with Ghosts of Gannaway.

Brotherly, Doggy Love in Our Great Time of Distress

Baron and Merle are my daughter's dogs. They were raised in the country and their behavior definitely shows it. Recently, my daughter needed help in taking Merle (a gigantic Redbone Coonhound) to the vet to get his nails clipped. I thought, Hmmm, should be easy, but I don't understand why we just can't cut the nails ourselves.

Famous last thoughts.

I knew Merle was loud (he sounds like a highly irritable Bull Walrus), but you really can't understand how loud until he bellows for 15 minutes directly into your ear in an enclosed car. From the second the key slipped into the ignition, acting like a starter gun, Merle didn't stop until I pulled the key out. That I fully expected from the last time I transported Merle so this time I had brought some earplugs. Good thinking.

But while we waited outside the vet's office for them to call us in, I ran the wipers to clear the windshield. Merle went nuts, hopped into the front seat and attacked the windshield. I'm freaking out and my daughter's laughing. Laughing!

She says, "Dad, Merle hates windshield wipers. Why would you do that?"

"And you're just now telling me this," I shouted, trying to out-bark Merle.

Soon enough, they called for Merle. It took two nurses, a doctor, and my daughter to trap Merle against the wall so they could clip his nails. I should have taken it as an ominous portent of things to come later that day, for I had also been enlisted in helping my daughter give him a bath and clean his ears.

It should've been an Olympics event.

Baron was no problem, in and out of the tub. Probably the only thing he's good about. Then came Merle's turn. We shut the bathroom door behind the three of us and let the good times roll. As soon as Merle got wet, he leaped out of the tub. Now, I don't know how much Merle weighs--three or four hundred pounds, my back tells me--but trying to corral a herd of stampeding buffalo would've been much easier. Somehow we managed to do it, though. Still...the worst was yet to come.

"Don't let him see the bottle with the ear-cleaner," instructed my daughter in a very troubling manner.

"Hey," I chortled, "he's a dog. He's not going to remember the ear-clean--"

ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF!...

Merle raced away from us from one corner of the small bathroom to the next, leaving a trail of destruction and wetness in his path. That's what I get for being Mr. Chortling, Know-It-All, Smarter Than Dogs Adulting Guy. And then--only then--did it make sense why my daughter had tried to tape sheets of plastic everywhere like a murder room and moved all the non-attached bathroom stuff out.

We tried the cornering trick as they had at the vet, which didn't work. It was akin to trying to catch a monster-sized greased pig (not that I know what that's like, mind you, but I imagine it is). I tackled Merle, my daughter whipped the bottle up, flipped up his ear, and he barreled through us, the cleaner spraying everywhere but in his ear. After several other attempts, we had no other recourse but to surrender.

Beaten, defeated, soaked more thoroughly than Merle, and sweating like I had in the Amazon jungle, I flopped down onto the couch. A very tentative Merle came padding out and looked at me. With great distrust.

Now, Merle loves me. In fact, he loves everyone he meets, sorta like Lenny from Of Mice and Men, but he used to have a special affinity for his "Grumpaw." 

Not today. Never had I seen such a look of suspicion, wariness, and flat-out betrayal. His eyes said it all. It was truly heart-rending. The rest of the day I tried to make it up to him, but he avoided me like, well, a guy who had the gall to try and squirt something in his ears.

He hid beside the sofa where he thought I couldn't see him like a child: out of sight, out of mind. Eventually, he grew slightly braver and poked his head out, but retreated quickly like a neurotic turtle when he saw me still skulking about. Once I moved off the sofa, Merle crawled up onto it next to brother Baron, and put his paws around his little brother for comfort from the big, bad man and the trauma he'd induced. All the time staring at me, waiting for me to whip out that bottle (see the photo above).

My daughter found it all highly amusing, just another incident where she finds my being traumatized by her dogs the pinnacle of comedy.

"Merle's telling Baron," she interpreted, "that if you ever see Grumpa come at you with a bottle, run."

Now, why not run on over to my handy-dandy Amazon author's page and check out all of the wondrous oddities I've conceived for your enjoyment pleasure all in one nifty, convenient locale?

"Olympics 101, Baby!"

Well another Olympics season has come and gone. Fun while it lasts, but always a relief when it's over due to the time constraints and sometimes nerve-rending suspense. I'm also glad we don't have to hear two-time medalist and commentator, Tim Daggett, shout his annoying catch-phrase, "Olympics 101, baby" again.

Nothing against the guy (actually I kinda like him), but he used that catch-phrase so often, my wife and I considered making it a drinking game. Luckily, we decided against it because we would've been soused for two weeks straight.

The first time he said it, it was infectious. The next time provoked a grin. The following four hundred times was akin to having drill-work done on your teeth.

Now, let's just break that slogan down a bit... It's my understanding that "101" is used as a sort of catch-all for beginners, such as a English 101 class. You know, where you learn the basics. Tim, buddy, there's nothing "basic" about what those Olympic gymnasts were doing, flying like Dumbo and contorting like Tommy Tune having a seizure. I'd say we're well out of the "101" category...baby.

Digging even deeper, what's with "baby?" Surely, Tim's not referring to his co-commentator, Nastia Liukin, in such a sexist manner. No, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt on that one. Which leads to another troubling theory: Tim's referring to us, the viewers, as "baby." I'm taking umbrage with that if it's true, because nobody puts baby in a corner, labeling me as such. But the most likely explanation is that Tim's so endearingly old-school, he still thinks "baby" is cool lingo, daddy-o. Probably while wearing his Sinatra-hipster captain's hat, ring-a-ding-ding.

When Tim wasn't shouting his slogan, he was prone to showing off. "It looks like she's going straight from a Bread-Basket into a Salto and then an upside-down, backward triple Yurchenko vault, followed by a Major Kipling and then finishing with a beautiful Dorian Gray Portrait!"

You know, it's hard enough being an armchair Olympics expert (a position my wife and I find ourselves in every two years or so), without having to learn all of the new terminology and moves named after famous mailmen or whatever. Just when we thought we had it down ("Her score definitely should have been higher" and "Planted it!" and "Tremendous bread-basket" we'd shout at the screen), more terms were thrown at us faster than a baseball pitching machine run amok.

Honestly, though, the nicest thing about this year's Olympics? The camaraderie, congratulations, and kudos displayed between countries for their fellow competitors. If only our politicians (and the crazed followers on both sides) would take a cue from this respectable and civil behavior.

Speaking of impossible to understand stuff, have a go at my character Zach in my book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. You see, he's...ah, just read the book. 

 

The United Cray-Cray of America

We live in crazy times, surrounded by even crazier people. Here in the states, a lot of 'em pack heat, which doesn't really put my addled mind at ease. People are fighting, getting hassled and assaulted in the streets for wearing masks. Well, please excuse them for attempting to keep not only themselves safe, but your crazy ass as well.

I just don't get it. I'd really thought we'd progressed over the years, grown together as a society, learned to work and live and basically function with each other not only out of necessity, but because it's the civil thing to do. Boy, did I get burned there with my naive outlook. The past several years have not only proven me distressingly wrong, but we've turned a corner and have found ourselves regressing to the point of incivility. And worse.

I'm not going to point fingers and play the blame game. It's tiresome and everyone and everything's become villainized and/or politicized to the point of insanity. And it doesn't matter anyway; neither side is backing down, taking things to extremes to the point that we're living in constant fear of violence.

I suppose I really have to stop wearing my anti-Trump mask out in public. Two no-no's that could be double grounds for a double stomping. And I'm gonna lay off my road rage hobby along with my favorite one-fingered salute. Hey, somebody might be having a bad day and decide to shoot me, doggone the luck any ol' hoo.

A while back, I wrote of how my wife turned me into a news junkie, seeking out the most lurid and over-the-top stories. I'm not talking about true life crime and murder, either. No, for my full share of comedy, I used to enjoy the unbelievable three-ring circus of political insanity.

But even that's losing its cutting comedic edge. Seems like there's a new sexual scandal about lawmakers every day (and isn't it about damn time we stopped calling them "lawmakers?" Particularly since it's clear that a good deal of them aren't interested in making "laws" to satisfy or aid their constituents, but rather to line their pockets and stay in power). Furthermore, these idiots are bandying about Holocaust comparisons to mask wearing. Absolutely shameful and beyond inappropriate.

Don't even get me going about the lies, lies, constant lies being spewed by so-called "politicians," which is one reason we're suffering from a mass pandemic of crazy. The odd thing is, "loyalists" don't seem to care about how a certain former "big-wig (is it literally a wig? I suppose we'll never know.)" has displayed nothing but utter contempt, racism, barbaric behavior, name-calling, and other such beyond playground-bad behavior toward everyone in his orbit who don't necessarily gravitate toward him. In fact, this behavior has molded the way his loyalists respond to their fellow citizens. Hey, if it's good enough for That Guy, it's good enough for me. Lead by example!

Well, I suppose I can always get a few chuckles from the MyPillow guy. Let's just see what he's up to...okay, three-day symposium offering bonafide proof of foul play, nothing new there... Oh, he's not going to sleep for three days (kind of self-defeating pillow advertising, but whatever) while he's going to stay on stage for 72 hours straight exposing "The Truth." This after he got mad at his (small) audience wanting to break for lunch. Uh-oh...wait...the MyPillow guy just fled the stage after finding out that Dominion is proceeding with their billion dollar defamation suit against him. But, hold on, what fresh new hell is this??? Poor MyPillow guy was accosted that night by two photo-taking evil beings who put their arm around him and pushed a finger into his side causing "agonizing pain." I don't know about you, but a finger in your side is more annoying--kinda a kid brother pestering, say--than agonizing, but, hey, maybe the villain (who Lindell claims was Antifa) had a finger of steel. Or maybe Mike just needs to get that sleep he deprived himself of.

However, the so-called bad Antifa guys who mercilessly jabbed Mike with a deadly digit have since come forward, said that wasn't at all what happened, and they were actually Lindell fans wanting a photo. So...sigh...even the usually laugh-garnering Mike Lindell has let me down.

Which just goes to show you how crazy our country has become: a disgraced pillow salesman has a huge political voice and was advising the former president during those last terrifying months in office.

Our country is crazy right now, but as a patriot, I believe it will recover. But the only way that's going to happen is if both sides find common ground. You know...a novel concept like working together for the betterment of civilization. Imagine that.

So, hey there Mr. and Ms. America! Put down your phones and quit reading the news. Don't feed the beasts and trolls. What should you do instead? Hmmm, maybe read a book. I just happen to know where you can pick up some mighty entertaining, escapist ones.