Return of the Furnace Sadists

Just when my wife and I thought we were warming up again after the Big Freeze-Out of 2022 (see "Maple Avenue Freeze-Out"), those sadists from the HVAC rip-off outfit show up again at our doorstep, wearing ear-to-ear smiles, little cute footsy protectors, and dollar signs in their eyes.

I suppose it's our fault, really. I mean, the HVAC company pestered us and bugged us about setting up our yearly furnace maintenance check-up (Ka-Chinggggg!), until we finally bowed down to furnace bullying. I know that Americans never give in to terrorism, but they'd worn us down. So on the eighteenth call, my wife says, "Okay, fine, we'll schedule it soon."

The next day, the mysterious Furnace Phone Lady (I'm not even sure she's real!) calls back and says, "Say, we had a sudden cancellation today in our schedule and have a technician ready and eager to come out and pleasure your furnace (or something like that)!" It's the second time they've used that ploy on us. But just wanting to put them in our rear-view mirror, we gave in. (Ka-Ching, Ka-Chinggggg!)

Sure enough, within 45 minutes the duo of Tony (short, dark, swarthy like a 60's crooner, smooth-talking lead guy) and Bart (stout, friendly, all-American, ginger-haired and bearded lumberjack trainee) are grinning on the stoop. Meanwhile, one of my dogs is going crazy, ready to take a bite out of furnace crime. She showed good taste, but I restrained her, while I let the true beasts inside.

We went through the usual rigamarole, Tony reciting his speech, which I knew by heart and started saying it along with him. I leave the guys to get to work in the basement, this time foregoing my offer to give them a cup of coffee. (I used to think this might soften them up, make them not want to rip me off as much, but to hell with that! I've doled out more than a few cups of $4,000 coffee in the past, surely they can now afford their own.) I go upstairs and pray to the Furnace Gods to go gently on us this time and offer them a sacrificial pot of coffee.

After three hours of chit-chatter from the basement, numerous phone calls (NEVER a good sign), and no word, I finally go down to check on them.

"Well, there's good news and bad news," says swarthy and smooth Tony with his hair teased to well-coiffed points. 

I force swallow the goose-egg of dread in my throat and feel it plummet down to my gut like a weighted-down "goodfella" tossed into a lake. "Okay...what's the good news?"

"Your humidifier filter is in beautiful shape," Tony offers with car salesman sincerity. "Looks like it's never been used."

Good ol' Bart smiles, sticks his hands in his pockets, and nods.

"Huh," I manage, now in a walking daze of torment. "And the bad news?"

"The reason your filter is in such good shape is because your humidifier isn't working."

"Oh..."

"Looks like your humidistat (I think they make these words up to non-technical rubes such as myself) is busted." Tony says it with a smile. No...a leer.

Bart nods, a very empathetic nod. Good cop/bad cop.

"I...see." But, really, the only thing I could see was our bank account flying away on the wings of an angel. "And how much will that cost me?"

Tony flips a curl out of his eye--the way Fabio used to do it--and pretends to consult his iPad, although I'm pretty sure he and Bart have already conspired to come up with a magnificent number. "Let's see..." Annoyingly, Tony makes a clicking sound with his mouth as he pretends to check some numbers. "Looks like...about $695."

"What??? We just blew thousands on the furnace a couple weeks ago! Why didn't they catch it then?"

Tony stares at me blankly while Bart nods, displaying sympathetic, round dog-eyes.

"Okay, fine, whatever," I say. "How long will it take for the part to come in?"

"Oh!" Tony's face brightens. (Ka-Ching, Ka-Ching, Ka-Chinggggg!) "I just happen to have one in the van!"

Of course you do, I thought. "Fine. Let's do it," I say instead. These guys have perfected the art of planned obsolescence.

Another hour later, Tony comes upstairs, banging around the huge-ass furnace filter (just like those chain oil-change places always do), with Bart nipping at his heels.

"I think you need a new furnace filter," says Tony. "I mean, just look at it." He displays it like Vanna White, with a toothy enough grin to give her a run for the money.

"And how much will that cost?"

Tony goes through his imaginary iPad search again. "Lessee...uh-huh...yep...uh-huh...$175 dollars."

"Well," I said, more than a little miffed and ready for some payback, "I really wanted to look for those on Amazon. Pretty sure they carry them. And at a lot cheaper price, too. Oh! But I'm not supposed to talk about that, am I?" 

Bart lets out a laugh and a genuine smile. Tony shoots him a look. Then there's silence. Silence like the suffocating silence before a Spaghetti Western shoot-out. My eyebrow raises. Tony's eyes squint. Bart stifles another laugh. Somewhere Ennio Morricone music is playing. Tony opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. His jaw lowers and closes several times, resembling a land-locked fish.

Finally, he says, "Well...what you're really paying for is the convenience of us having it." A smile inches back, but this time not as assured.

I twist the sweet, sweet knife of revenge. "Oh, you mean it's more convenient than Amazon delivering it to my door?"

Bart laughs again. Probably his last laugh ever on the job.

I had my moment. Now, I just wanted to get them out of my house. Either that or unleash my dog on 'em.

While I'm thinking about wild animals tearing apart humans, have you guys checked out my darkly comical and horrific werewolf book, Corporate Wolf, yet? Well, do it already! Or I'll sic the furnace sadists from hell on ya! 

 

Who would win in a fight, the Mandalorian or the Witcher?

Answer: NEITHER!

Because they'd bore each other to death!

I can see their climactic confrontation now. It takes place on a swinging rope bridge. In the rain, natch. In monotone voices--so, so deadly dull--they threaten one another. The Mandalorian mutters "This is the way." The Witcher parries and growls "Hmmm." The Witcher swings a weapon. So does the Mandalorian. The bridge swings. Then they start getting sleepy. Sooooooo sleepy. And lay down on the bridge for a long, nice slumber.

Honestly, what's all the fuss about these two dull shows starring two of the most boring "heroes" ever to grace the TV screen? Both of the shows have turned into phenomenons and I don't understand why.

I know this will be an unpopular opinion, but it's not like I haven't tried. Really. I've suffered through two seasons of both.

Let's start with The Mandalorian. Okay, sure he's got Star Wars canon behind him, so I get the following there (but has anyone REALLY been able to keep up with all the Disney Star Wars TV shows? Seems like homework to me. But if they ever offer a Jar Jar Binks variety show, I'm all over it.). And I will admit "Baby Yoda" is adorbs (don't get on my case for calling him Baby Yoda, Star Wars fans; I can't pronounce his real name, let alone remember it.). But that's it.

Regarding the titular hero? He's the worst. He wears a tin can over his head for the entire series. Worse, he talks in a terribly dull monotone, made agonizingly more painful by the muffled tin can echoing effect. Snooooooze...wake me up when the can comes off.

Here's the worst offense: one year, the guy was nominated for a best actor emmy. It is to make me laugh. Now I've seen Pedro Pascal actually show some acting chops before (notably, Game of Thrones and Narcos), but in The Mandalorian, he's gotta have the cushiest, best paying, laziest gig in Hollywood. Hell, he doesn't even have to sit in the make-up chair. For all I know he doesn't memorize his lines and just has them piped in via ear pods.

Moving on to The Witcher (must we?)... This one I REALLY don't get. Two seasons in and I'm out. Felt akin to torture, a real struggle. By the second season, I just had it on in the background while I did more important things like, say, play games on my phone.

I don't know about the original source, but to me the series seems like cookie-cutter fantasy, checking all the boxes (Princess on the run? Check! Brooding hero with a troubled past? Check! Frog-like humanoids? Check! Etc? Check!). I can see the Netflix board meeting now...

"Powers that be, we have the next Game of Thrones right here! Guaranteed!"

"Hmmm, what's it about?" Management taps a pencil on the long table.

"It's about a lotta stuff! See, there's a Witcher and he--"

"Hold on, just wait a minute!" Management shakes head, furrows brow. "I don't think witches will appeal to our target audience, particularly the family market because they're scary and--"

"He's a hunk."

"Oh. I see." Dollar signs light up Management's eyes. "Does he take his shirt off?"

"As often as you want!"

"Sounds promising, sounds promising." Management sits up in million dollar chair. "Annnnnnd, does he show his butt?"

"You better believe it!"

"Sold!"

It's fantasy at it's most juvenile level. Instead of calling the lead female "Jennifer," the show's creators came up with "Yennifer," merely changing the first letter of her name, believing it to be cool-ass and other-worldly. I'm just waiting for her evil twin brother "Yevin" to show up (although I won't be waiting, not really).

Which brings us to the big, boring, brooding "hero" of the show, the Witcher. Again talking in an emotionless monotone, never showing any differentiation on his face other than the look of chronic constipation or residual road rage. (Points to Henry Cavill for at least showing up with his face painted white instead of hiding in a can, though.)

Where are the identifiable heroes of genre TV land? Remember Buffy and the gang? Angel and his cohorts? Heroes who were connectable and empathetic? Soooooo many other great genre shows of the past? 

Yet these two dullards are amongst the most popular current heroes on TV. The only thing I can think of to explain it is the "hunkability" factor. Gotta be it.  Yet...Pascal doesn't ever show his face, so...

I dunno. Give me a real hero from the golden, olden days of TV any day. Heroes like...Robert Blake and...um...Bill Cosby...and....wait...scratch that. Never mind. When does The Mandalorian start up again?

Speaking of heroes to root for, why not give my troubled, teen-aged, bullied witch boy, Tex, a shot? He's an every-man (well, "every-teen"), someone with relatable problems (a ton of 'em), always tries to do the right thing and rise above the occasion. Not to mention putting his newly discovered (but unwanted) witch powers to good use such as discovering who's murdering the bullies in his high school. (Eat it, The Witcher!) That's Tex, the Witch Boy, conjuring up right here and other cool online bookstores.

ASMR...Whaaaaaat?

Always late to the party, we just started watching "The White Lotus." In the second episode, the two heinous, emotionless, mean teen girls get stoned and then do some "ASMR." 

I asked my wife, "What's that?"

She said, "Look it up, it's so stupid."

SOLD!

So, off to consult with my writing assistant, Ms. Google, I went. The results will astound you! I say, I say, ASTOUND you! (Read that in a Foghorn Leghorn voice.)

Get this...ASMR stands for "autonomous sensory meridian response." What a load of hooey explaining nothing. 

Let's break it down. "Autonomous" means the feeling is in your body. Well...of course it's in your body, Dr. Numbskull! Where else would it be? In a rock, perhaps? Now, I hear some of you New Age Wiccans (I have a HUGE following amongst the Wiccans), taking me to task over that and saying, "But, Stuart, usually feelings are in your mind." Well, yes, but where's your "mind?" In your body, dammit!

"Sensory" explains that your senses perceive the feeling. Again...duh. Do we really need a word telling us this? Isn't this pretty much common sense?

Here's my favorite: "meridian." The word indicates the energy of feeling in your body. Ha ha haaaaaaa! Who do we have to blame for THIS word? I'm beginning to see a lot of repetition here.

Finally, we have "response," which shows how a feeling is a response to stimuli.

I say, ballyhoo! We've got four fancy-pants words, all pretty much redundantly describing "feelings from outside stimuli." We could've easily shortened the acronym to "SR," and not missed a beat.

Now comes the fun part. We've broken down the high-falutin' acronym, signifying nothing, so let's chat about the "process." It's a "calming sensation in response to outside stimuli, a pleasant tingling that starts at the top of the head and works it's way through the spine and limbs." Examples of stimuli cited are whispering or someone playing with your hair (damn...I missed that ASMR boat!).

Back in my day (before color TV), we used to call it "goose bumps."

Blame it on Jennifer Allen, an internet chat frequent flier, who coined the term in 2010. Taking it a step further, in 2015, the first scientific study on ASMR was conducted. Craig Richard, a physiology professor at Shenandoah University compiled a survey of 30,000 applicants. He then formed (are you ready for this?)...the "ASMR University," an online resource for everything ASMR. (I wonder what it would take to get my Masters at ASMR University? I already have a BS in Goose Bumpery.)

A phenomenon was created. (Or so the ubiquitous "they" say...I'm pretty sure even cavemen got goose bumps, but why quibble?) 

And it has exploded. New words and cutesy nonsense group names are trending. "ASMRtists" are making online videos, trying to induce feelings by making sounds over a microphone. "GibiASMR," "GentleWhispering ASMR," and "ASMR Darling" have gathered millions of followers on YouTube and other social media platforms. The highly scientific noises created include whispers, mouth noises (I wonder if burps are considered spine-tingly?), chewing (gross!), page turning (at the lightning speed my wife smacks through a book's pages, it's anything but relaxing), and "finger flutters," a so-called popular trigger. I don't know about you guys, but I don't even know what a finger flutter is, let alone know if it makes a sound.

The end results are calmness, sleepiness, and a state of relaxation.

Maybe I'll become an ASMRtist and make a video featuring the close-range sounds of fingernails across a chalk board, pieces of Styrofoam rubbed together,  Gilbert Gottfried, Rosanne Barr laughing, the Emergency Broadcast System alert, and ancient Uncle Bobby farting in his sleep. (It's gotta be more lucrative than churning out novels these days.) I wonder if the ASMRheads would make me an ASMRlegend?

Again, let's just call it goose bumps. Or I'll even modernize a bit (not too much, mind you) and go with the same results from yoga, mediation, or a massage.

I suppose even physiologists and psychologists gotta eat, though. But c'mon, guys! Enough is enough! Quit making up new titles for old junk simply because there's nothing else new to study just so you can obtain job security! I call quackery! Tomfoolery! Shenanigans! But really, I call it goose bumps.

Wait a minute... Do I hear... I think I do! The sound of one of the dogs piddling in the hallway! Ahhhh...the wondrous release of ASMR.

While we're talking about tomfoolery, there's a whole lot to be found in the adventures of Zach and Zora in my comical mystery series consisting of three (so far...I hope!) books starting with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. If you like your mysteries full of dumb male strippers and angry pregnant sleuths and a myriad of other nutty characters, I recommend you drop in at the Bone-In-Beef dance club where Zach is about to take the stage (until he stumbles over yet another dead body, natch). Nine out of ten priests recommend the books available here!

 

Throwdown in Aisle Four!

I was having a day. It was so cold out that when penguins woke up, they checked the thermometer, then went back to bed. Not wanting to mess with gloves, the tips of my fingers had grown white and numb. In the grocery store parking lot, some clown zigged into the parking spot I had been waiting on, cutting me off.

So, of course, I was in the perfect mood to go grocery shopping. Fun!

As I pushed my cart down the salad aisle, some kid was bent over, endlessly stocking and restocking. It was a risk going behind him, because I knew--absolutely KNEW--he'd back into me, but I took the plunge anyway, just wanting to get in and out of there as fast as possible.

"Behind you, behind you, behind you," I muttered to the kid as a warning. A warning he didn't heed.

Sure enough, he straightens and backs into me, knocking me sideways a couple of inches. A little bit indignant, I say "Excuse me."

Stares are exchanged. The silence is interminable. I'm waiting for the inevitable polite exchange of niceties expected in civilized societies. But the kid's got nothing.

But I sure did. I walked a few feet and stopped. 

Oh, hell no, I thought, he's not gonna get away with saying nothing. Whatever happened to the customer's always right and all that rot? Surely the onus should be on Stock Boy #13 to make things right with the customer he'd just assaulted, right? Right???

I turn back around and repeat loudly, "Excuse me!" I wait. More waiting. My blood's boiling up into my face, a red-hot three alarmer.

Annnnnnnd, the kid's still got nothing. He flashes a brief, cocky smile, then drops it. His brow furrows, wondering what this crazy ol' coot wants. Lips quiver.

I help him along a bit. "I said, 'excuse me!' Annnnnnnnd...." I roll my hand out in a Vanna White fashion, hoping to push this kid into some manners. It doesn't take. I go through my routine three more times. "Excuse me! Annnnnnnnnd..." By now, my hand's flapping like I'm trying to take flight.

Finally--FINALLY--the kid mumbles "excuse me." But intoned a question mark at the end of it, like I'm being outrageously insane in trying to bring back courtesy in our broken society.

But it'd have to do. Clearly Tik-Tok doesn't teach manners. I go racing through the store, talking madly to myself, an insane old guy with a grocery cart, itching to kill. I whip down the meat counter, grab some pork chops and harshly pitch them in the cart. I blast down the canned vegetable aisle, daggers of angry eyes ready to pounce on the next rude stock boy. Flying through the soda lane, I notice they still haven't restocked the Fresca (Stupid store! Dumb-ass, lazy stock boys have no manners and can't even restock the Fresca, for God's sake! What's this world coming to???).

By the time I zipped past the dairy goods, I start thinking... Wait a minute... Am I being a jack-ass? Am I making a bigger deal outta this than I should? Am I contributing to the downfall of our country? Like Trump?

I tear past the health food section (as I always do, because who needs healthy food, right?) and begin to circle back to the poor, abused stock boy.

There he is, still stocking and restocking the salads. Same position, same oblivious back to the world.

"Excuse me," I say again, coming full circle, with a lot less indignation and anger.

He turns around. Once more, he he pastes on that smarmy, half-amused grin. But no, I won't give in to my inner Karen, not gonna Hulk out. Not this time.

"Hey, sorry that I was a jerk a little while ago. I've been having a day," I say.

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry if I did something to offend you." Like he's still clueless, but whatever. Baby steps.

"No, no, you're fine. It was my bad. I just wanted to apologize."

"Okay," he says, still having no idea how he broke our societal contract of mores.

As I headed toward the checkout lane, I felt a little bit better about myself and my relationship with others around me. Perhaps if we all took a minute to just check ourselves, put ourselves into the other person's shoes for a minute, realize that we're not the only ones having a bad day, and that maybe--

"Whaddaya mean, $3.99??? Your stupid sign said these hot dogs were on sale, dammit! I'm not gonna pay $3.99 for hot dogs that aren't even real meat! This is the last time I'm taking my business here! Where's your manager??? This is highway robbery! Why, I never, ever..."

Hey, ho, speaking of people behaving badly, there's a whole mess of bad behavior going on during a terrible winter storm at the Dandy Drop Inn. Why, I'm talking hit men, mobsters, embezzlers, religious zealots, insane angry husbands, crooked cops, and maybe even a serial killer or two. (No rude stock boys, however.) Come on down, check into the Dandy Drop Inn, join the fun, and hope you don't drop dead from the horror of it all. That's Dread and Breakfast, natch. Ask for it by name!