Hobbies Are a Good Thing to Have...but C'mon!

Some people just need to get a new, perhaps better hobby.

Don't agree? Check out this recent headline:

Man found carrying around a mummified corpse up to 800 years old in a food delivery bag in Peru.

Yow! And I'm not even talking about the clumsily constructed headline (what happened to real journalists?)! Here is a man direly in need of a new hobby.

But let's look into this a bit, shall we? Just in case you're still wavering on the border of acceptability.

The story details "photos released by the Directorate of Culture in the southeastern city of Puno show a skeleton in the fetal position, lying in a red bag with a reflective inner lining, commonly used by food delivery companies. It bears the logo of Pedidos Ya, a Uruguayan takeout company popular across South America."

Okay, I'm not sure why the "Directorate of Culture" got involved in this (must've been a slow week at the operas or whatever), but this surely doesn't bode well for Pedidos Ya, I would think. (By the way, Pedidos Ya roughly translates to "orders already" in English; however, if the mummy in the bag has been waiting for his order for 800 years, the takeout joint hardly lives up to its promise of a title.).

Back to the news story: "The body has become a property of the state under national heritage laws."

So it looks like the body carrier may be forced to seek out a different hobby.

Julio Cesar claims the body belongs to him: “It sleeps in my bedroom, with me. There’s my bed, the TV set and next to it, there’s Juanita. I take care of it. It’s like, if you’ll pardon the expression, as if it were my spiritual girlfriend.” he told the media outlet, using the name he has for the body.

Possibly the most horrifying aspect of this revelation for Republicans is that the remains are definitely male, not female. We're looking at a "Juan," not a "Juanita." Why, it's enough to send the far-right fringe fanatics (and fearers of LGBTQIA) into a frenzy of unfettered furiousness!

Apparently, Cesar said the body had been in the possession of his family for years and he took it out to show his friends. In a food delivery bag. Surprise!

Now, I don't know about you, but if Cesar's friends are the type who truly think owning a skeleton is cool, then Cesar might want to reconsider his friends. Maybe make a few lifestyle adjustments. Perhaps not use his work food delivery bag to cart Juanita around. Finding a jawbone with your onion rings is probably never a good idea.

The news story ends rather abruptly by bragging about the wonderful, rich heritage and archaeological discoveries that Peru is proud of. Man. Talking about trying to spin silk out of webs... Might be a little late for that.

But, even more frustrating are the questions the news story leaves unanswered. Why does Cesar and his family own a body? Where did it come from? If it's truly 800 years old, I assume it's been passed down from generation to generation. Which would make for a wonderful Christmas tradition: "Son, you're now sixteen. I think it's time I introduce you to Juanita. Treat her with love. Take her out for a drive."

Why did Cesar believe it a good idea to cart Juanita around in a food delivery bag? Was it his day off work from Perdidos Ya? Was the cardboard box that Cesar's family usually kept Juanita in not suitable for showing off to his friends? And, again...just what kind of friends are these???

Finally, and perhaps most perplexing, is how did the local law nab Cesar (and Juanita)? The only thing the story alluded to is the Directorate of Culture worked in tandem with local law enforcement in a joint effort. Could this have been an elaborate sting operation? Where an undercover eater of fast food kept ordering menu items until Cesar accidentally delivered his spiritual girlfriend?

The mind boggles. But, please, Cesar...get a new hobby. Maybe even a living girlfriend while you're at it.

While I'm blabbing about secrets and hidden bones and bodies being places they shouldn't be, I'm kinda reminded of the hi-jinx going on at the Dandy Drop Inn, a beautiful and pastoral bed and breakfast in Missouri, where checking in is a breeze...but checking out is a bit on the deadly side. Check out the riveting (eye of the beholder) true (an absolute lie) tale of terror, Dread and Breakfast, HERE!

 

Night of the Big Snit-Fit

Several nights ago, I was unloading the dishwasher when my wife came home. As is my wont, I was cursing up a sailor's storm while tossing the dishes around. (It's not that I hate the job of unloading the dishwasher so much as my back despises it, call it the ravages of getting old.)

I plead with my wife, "Can you please help me?"

She jumps in. While I'm bending over the lower deck (and why geniuses haven't decided to create dishwashers for tall guys is beyond me), I yell, "My back can't take this any more! You finish it!"

I go sit down. My wife follows me. Exasperated, I toss my arms up. "What? You're not going to finish unloading the damn dryer?"

Calmly, she says, "As soon as you're done being snitty, we can finish it together."

"I'm not being snitty! You're being snitty!"

"Oh, you're soooooo being snitty."

"Am not," I reply in a very anti-snitty, mature manner. "If anyone's snitty, you're the snittiest."

"You're Frank Snitty!"

"You're snitty, gritty, lower than any dirt band!"

"You constantly wallow in the Secret Life of Walter Snitty!"

I held up two finger guns. "Snitty, snitty, bang, bang!"

"Are you quite finished with your snittiness yet?" she asks.

"No! Because I'm not snitty! I'm the anti-snitty! There's an aura of snittiness surrounding you! You're just swimming in your own snittiness!"

This went on quite a while. Much to do over a tiny little word like "snit."

Which sent me hurtling--hurtling, I tell you!--toward the nearest electronic device to consult with my research assistant, Ms. Google.

A snit is defined as a fit of irritation or a sulk, hence the term "snit fit." Furthermore, the word derives from the Proto-Germanic word "snidaz," which means to cut, slice, or piece. Yow! First of all, I had no idea there were so many variations of the German language. Secondly (and an even bigger Yow!), "snidaz" sounds more like Norman Bates on holiday, rather than a little sulk.

I'm glad my wife and I called a halt to our (she would have you believe it mine alone) snit-fit before the knives came out.

But something still seemed wrong. I always thought a "fit" referred to a voluntary or involuntary physically violent altered state, you know, the classic rolling on the ground, pounding your fists over the floorboards, moaning and crying and shrieking to the unfair Gods of Mean Parents about how you never get to watch Star Trek on TV and instead have to suffer through yet another geriatric, boring detective show (not that I speak from experience, mind you). It's hardly fitting behavior when teamed with a "snit," a mere irritant. Aren't we treading softly into the land of Oxymoronia?

Back to Ms. Google I raced for the answer, who defined the term "having a fit" as being very angry or shocked. Well. I wasn't really angry at the dishwasher, more than just in pain at having a sore back. I definitely wasn't shocked at the resultant dishes (other than a few that stubbornly refused to come clean no matter how many times we washed them). And, of course, I never resorted to floor rolling (although knives sprang to mind a couple times). So...is what I experienced even remotely close to a "fit?" Furthermore and henceforth, the combined definition of the words "snit fit" means being irritated to the point where you're reaching for the knives (so, sooooo close at hand in the dishwasher...) to resolve your irritation.

Such a cute, little phrase. Such a deadly consequence.

Ahoy, matey, lots of deadly consequences arise in my darkly satirical serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated, resulting in--you guessed it--numerous snit-fits that don't end well for the intended targets. Knives come out, heads are dropped and swapped in lots of serial killer cat 'n mouse games. Start with the beginning, Secret Society (available here and other fine on-line book sellers, because all brick and mortar bookstores are as dead as most of the casts of my books), and read 'em all. Go on. Whaddaya waiting for? I'll wait right here until you're done. Don't make me have a snit-fit! You won't like me when I have a snit-fit! 

 

The Agony of Switching Phones

Everybody faces stress these days, particularly in today's rocky political, social and economic climate. There's the stress of crazed dictators ready to press that Big Red Shiny Button to end everything. It's kinda stressful when the so-called lawmakers of our country act like feuding children on the playground. Who doesn't stress on making ends meet? And health scares? "Wait a minute, wait a minute, hold on just a minute! Was this stressful mole there yesterday?" Gotta love family! Family's always a fun stressor. But the biggest stressor of all (or at least in the top three), is changing phones.

I feel like I've just been through war and the side of electronics nearly beat me down. But I persevered, sweating it out for days, until...victory!

Let me give you a bit of background (you're welcome!): For years, I fought my wife over wanting to get me a cell phone. Period. 

I said, "Wife, I don't want a celluar telephone."

She replied, "Why not, husband?" (Yes, we're weird.)

"Because I don't want to become those people. You know...the people who go out to eat and won't even attend to their partner over the dinner table, but instead are putting dog noses on their faces in photos and sending it out to strangers they don't even know."

I could get away with that kinda reasoning for only so long. After awhile, I began to understand how a cell phone could simplify life. So I finally relented and got my very own celluar flip phone! Trumpets!

And I was perfectly content with it, too. I could answer calls while not at home! Wow! I could actually send a text message! Cool! (Even though it took me 15 minutes... Tap, Tap, Tap, bingo, right letter! Tap, tap, tap...crap! Start over...) Everything and then some of all I needed.

Then my wife decides I should upgrade.

"Why?"

"You're a dinosaur. Nobody uses flip phones any more. With an upgrade, you can get directions, weather, cruise the internet..."

But like Grandpa fighting those newfangled, dad-gummed VCR's, I defied change and chose to dwell in my dinosaur valley. Until my wife gifted me with an Android one Christmas, probably the only way I'd ever upgrade.

Looking at it, I crinkled up my face like I'd just opened a package of underwear. "But...but...but...how does it work?"

Slowly, baby-steps, ever so carefully, I learned, mastered, and conquered. It only took eight months, too! I ended up putting my entire life into the phone. Passwords, photos (including several of me with a dog-nose), important documents, and most importantly, my ongoing games of choice (Angry Birds 2 and Wordle).

Alas, the Android had its drawbacks. I found this out after about eight years. The memory was crap. It locked up all the time. And the biggest problem of all? I couldn't do all the great filters on SnapChat that my brother could do on his iPhone.

But, still, I hesitated... I didn't want to lose the progress on my games that I'd carefully cultivated for years. As I stated earlier, my whole life was on the phone. What if something went astray in the Great Changeover of 2023?

So, I took the bold plunge into 2023 with a sparkly new iPhone. And immediately I wished I hadn't. Much, MUCH more complex than my humble Android, there were bells and whistles controlling bells and whistles signifying more hidden bells and whistles. I still can't figure out how to turn it off without going all the way into the settings and then some sub-sets after that. I don't need all of these blasted bells and whistles. I just need the button that puts a dog nose on my photo!

My wife says, "Go to one of the phone shops and ask them." That, of course, was out of the question. There are three kinds of demons walking the earth: 1) Car salespeople; 2) Furniture salespeople; and 3) Phone salespeople. (The fourth kind is politicians, but I've covered that area enough for a while). All of these demons share an in-your-face, fast-talking, no time to breathe, hardcore sales approach and I loathe dealing with them. In many ways, the phone guys are the worse. All of them are completely tech-savvy millennials who can't wait to smirk at the dumb old guy bringing in his eight year old Android that looks like a Transformer with the neon green, clunky protective case. The idiot who can't turn his phone off. So, that option was off the table.

My biggest fear was transferring my data. How? I could manually load in every single contact (how did I get to know so many people?), but didn't have the patience or time. Time spent better playing Angry Birds 2. 

Ms. Google steered me toward two directions. The Apple preferred manner was to set up some commands on both phones, punch a few buttons, then completely wipe your Android and lose all data! WHAAAAAA? Oh, HELL no. I wasn't going to lose eight years of my life. Terrifyingly stressful.

The second option was go into your various phone "stores" and download an app that would transfer data. With great trepidation, I did so. I watched the YouTube video over and over, pausing intermittently to recite back the next step. On my work table, I had two phones, my laptop, and pen and paper. My finger hovered over the button, ready to push, while my mind screamed to stop, taking on the personality and traits of my old beaten up Android: AIEEEEEE! Don't KILL me, Stuart! PLEASE, dear God, don't kill meeeeeeeee!

I held my breath. Closed my eyes, praying to the tech gods who lurk next door to Cthulhu (and why he doesn't mow his damn yard is a point of contention), opened my eyes. With a shaking finger, I let it rip.

I waited. Like watching a pot boiling water, but much, much more intense.

Finally...SUCCESS! I couldn't believe it. I checked everything and by gum, it seemed to all be there. Still, I distrusted it. Continually, I set the phone down, picked it up ten minutes later to make sure the data was still there (kinda like new parents putting their hand on their baby while its sleeping to make sure it's still breathing; admit it, parents! We've all done it.).

Yet there was a long road ahead of me. Passwords were not copied over as were other various things. But all of my dog-nosed pictures had been saved. Mercifully so. After 48 hours, I finally was able to sleep.

While my head's still confused over the entire ordeal, pity poor Leon Garber. He doesn't understand why the corporation he used to work remotely for, Like-Minded Individuals, Inc., has blackballed him. Maybe even wants to kill him. And really, all he wants to do is go about his business: accounting during the day and killing off evil scum at night. That's right, it's Secret Society (the first of a trilogy) full of darkly black humor, thrills, mystery and suspense. You can get it here or ask for it at your local bookstore (but do it in a whisper; you never know when Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. are listening.)

"I'll Scratch Their Eyes Out!"

During childhood, I remember my mom as being the kindest, sweetest, most loving mother in the world. I suppose most of us do (excluding some horror film serial killers or maybe Joan Crawford's daughter). But my mom had one simple tear in the fabric. When she turned "Dark Mom," it was terrifying!

No, I'm not talking about when she'd try and "spank" my brother and I. Actually, we hoped for that because she pulled her punches and cried more than our crocodile tears. (It was a much better fate than awaiting the flying, fiercely flailing hand {or belt} of my dad. I'm pretty sure Ward Cleaver took after the Beaver with the metal end of a belt, too, but that footage was cut from TV.)

There was one trigger--only one--that would morph my June Cleaveresque ray of sunshine mom into Dark Mom: when my mom "perceived" other adults--mostly teachers--as abusing her poor lil' innocent (*Cough!*) angel children. (And make no doubt about it, my brother and I genuinely deserved the teachers' wrath, at least 9 times out of 10, but that's hardly the point, right?). When Mom was triggered, brimstone lit up her eyes. Smoke roiled out of her nose. Her rosy complexion burned into a Devil's red. Hands gripped the steering wheel until knuckles turned bone white and I swear--no, I SWAN--claws began to grow from her fingernails.

But it was what she said that terrified me the most. "I'm gonna go scratch her eyes out!!!"

Yow!

First of all, the imagery, oh, the imagery. I vividly imagined Mom going up to my fourth grade teacher and stabbing her long nails into Miss Billyous's eyes, plunging them in again and again, while all sorts of viscera slung across the chalkboard and splattered my fellow students. She'd finish with two runny egg-like eyeballs impaled upon both index fingernails. All the time during this horrendous vision, she was hysterically tittering and laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West. Our namesake after all.

And poor Miss Billyou's crime against humanity? She dared to tell the class, "Well, by now, I'm sure all of you know that Santa Claus isn't real. It's your parents." (Side bar, your honor: To be honest, I was in the Santa doubting stage at that time, kinda wanting to hold onto the magic, the myth. But deep down, the logistics of it all didn't quite add up. I believe my fellow students had already bypassed that stage and nodded enthusiastically with Miss Billyous's whistle-blowing, to which I joined along, not to be labeled a pariah. Not like poor Roger Danton, who was audibly shocked and ridiculed because of it.)

So when my mom picked me up from school, I made the mistake of telling her about this. At the time, I believed I was being clever, trying to coerce a confession out of her, demanding an explanation why she'd lied to me all those years. After everything we'd been through together. So much for truth being the best policy and all that crap.

But something unexpected happened, she turned into Dark Mom. Immediately I knew I'd made a big mistake. 

"I'm going to go scratch her eyes out!" she shouted.

She zipped the car back into the parking lot, squealing the tires and making the scrambling kiddies squeal. In the backseat, I was hysterical. I didn't want Miss Billyous's eyes to get scratched out. I kinda liked Miss Billyous. Also, I didn't want my mom to be a prison lifer. Who'd make my sammitches? And I suppose part of me didn't want to have to deal with the humiliation of being the only student whose mother scratched the eyes out of their teacher.

"Please, Mom, don't do it! PLEEEEEESE! OH, NOOOOOOOO! She didn't mean it! I'll DO ANYTHING! PLEEEEEEEE..." I'm screaming and crying and I think I even threw my arms around my mom's neck to keep her from scratching out my teacher's eyes. My younger brother beside me had no idea what was going on, nor did he have a reason to join in the caterwauling, but he did, sensing trauma like a dog.

Thank God my mom finally relented. She huffed her way back to the mommy we knew and loved, almost shrinking with each loud exhalation huffed through her nose. "Fine," she finally said. "But she'd better not cross my path!"

So...if not a complete win, at least a stay of execution.

Now, I believe this trauma had been blown way out of proportion in my work-in-progress brain by a late night viewing my mom and I shared several weeks prior. It was something we enjoyed doing together on Saturday nights. She'd let me stay up with her for the 10:30 movie, we'd (she'd) cook popcorn and I can firmly nail this ritual down as the beginning of my love for movies.

Not that time, though. It was Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. The one where Suzanne Pleshette's eyes were pecked out by birds. EEEEEEEEEEEEEE! For years, I vividly remembered the quick shot, Suzanne's eyes all bloodied with gunk oozing out and splayed all across her teacher's blouse. (Of course, upon revisiting the film, my faulty childhood memory had the wrong character getting their eyes pecked out; I also remember thinking, "But...but...the movie didn't have an ending! What a rook!")

Anyway, I didn't want Miss Billyous ending up like a similar teacher with a similar fate, Suzanne Pleshette.

Well, that was the first Dark Mom transformation I recalled. There were many more after that. And each time, they became less and less traumatic. Near the end, I'd just roll my eyes and "whatever" her.

Now, the incident I just cited was a rarity. As I'd noted earlier, most times my brother and I came face to face with the misdirected wrath of Dark Mom, we usually deserved the teacher's punishment. We WERE brats. 

Case in point, my seventh grade art teacher banned me to sit in the hallway several days. My mom, upon hearing this, went Dark. She said, "I'll scratch her eyes out! She's just jealous of your art skills!" Well...no. Granted I was a good artist and granted, the teacher did dislike me. But she had good reason, too. I was the agent provocateur in that class and led about eight students into misbehaving along with me, their Don of Delinquency. When the teacher would go into the mysterious back supply closet, I had them all throwing yarn up and around the lights. It was a beautiful sight to behold. And Boom! I was sentenced to the hallway. Got an "F" for my troubles, too. Well deserved and bravo, old chap, an education utilized wisely!

So, I had to talk my mom out of scratching the teacher's eyes out. Not that I really thought she'd do it, mind you--not in the wise, experienced, mature mind of a seventh grader--but rather, I didn't want to go through the embarrassment of "Mommy yelling at teacher." I had street cred to maintain.

Wrapping this sermon up, I suppose if Mom morphed into Dark Mom, I, too, had a secret identity: Dark Pre-Teen.

Now that I've laid down just a taste of the kinda kid I was (just a taste, mind you), some of my *good* teenage years behavior can be found in my first book, Tex, The Witch Boy (republished recently by The Wild Rose Press). It's not all me, natch. I wasn't a witch, nor did I tackle murders, but a lot of the bullying and other incidents actually happened to me or a friend. (Ahem, artistic license is taken. I wasn't exactly a complete angel in high school, either. But those incidents are for another series...) That's Tex, the Witch Boy! Get it before all the copies magically go *POOF!*

Hey, kids! It's Snack Night!

After college, a lot of my graduate friends from the University of Kansas settled in the same Kansas City area, and we shamefully continued to act like college kids for many more years. On Friday and Saturday nights, we could always be found down in the Westport area (lots and lots of bars within walking distance, the trendy area at the time), closing down the place every weekend.

But along with old traditions, several new traditions were forged. There was the tradition of going to Don Chilito's for Sunday hangover lunch. Don Chilito's (which long-time blog readers may remember my writing about before) was a particularly terrible Tex-Mex restaurant with awful food, but we found it perfect for ourselves, immensely enjoying the camaraderie and comedy. (I know...it doesn't make sense to me now, either.)

However, the new tradition that I enjoyed the most was "Snack Night." It began small. When my brother and I lived together in a rented house, every Sunday we'd go to the grocery store and just stack our respective grocery carts full of ludicrous snacks. The worse it was for you, the better. 

I remember the check-out clerk always looking at us funny, when one of us would unload the cart onto the conveyor belt. There was ice cream and syrup, potato chips, french onion dip, crackers, cookies, Lil' Debbie's artificial sugary nothing-cakes, corn chips, salsa, drumsticks (not the chicken variety, mind you, but the dipped in chocolate and peanut ice cream cones), hot fudge, cheese dip, jalapenos, hot sauce, candy bars, you name it, it went onto the conveyor belt. And not a vegetable to be found, thank you very much, no siree Bob!

Then the other West brother would follow, emptying his cart onto the belt while the clerk just kinda gawped at us. It wasn't unusual for us to rack up fifty to sixty bucks in crap each week. (With inflation, it'd be about three times that much now).

But that was just the first step in snack night. While we'd gorge ourselves silly at home, we'd make a point of watching the worst possible film available.

That was my job. I'd study, read reviews, scan the latest video releases, and pull a winner (i.e., loser). (Side note: Hey, Millennials! You whippersnappers ever head of videotapes? You kids today and your instant streaming don't know how lucky you have it! Why, back in my day...)

Some of the highlights of our movie viewing included Cool As Ice, the ludicrously, unintentionally hilarious film starring nominal white rapper, Vanilla Ice, as a bad-ass, nominally rapping (natch), romantic lead. His slow romantic ballad and the ensuing slo-mo montage has to be seen to be believed.  

 Road House was another favorite, one of the dumbest, yet most inexplicably popular films we'd ever seen, where a bar bouncer in "Kansas (complete with mountains in the background!)" has a national reputation as the best bouncer in the world! My favorite scene is where the lisping hero (Patrick Swayzee) takes the bad guy's (perpetually sneering and grinning Ben Gazarra) girlfriend home with him to his house. While they're "making love," Ben Gazarra steps out on his veranda and watches them...RIGHT NEXT DOOR! And then there was Over the Top, of course, the heartwarming and pulse-pounding tale of a down-on-his-luck, yet lovable lug (Sylvester Stallone) who attempts to win back the love of his snot-nosed, annoying son (played by some snot-nosed, annoying kid) by dragging him to the utmost of importance arm wrestling championships.

I think you kinda get the drift of the entertainment we desired...no, craved. Perfect match for the quality of "food" we consumed. (Too bad there wasn't ever a film about a hot dog eating championship; that would've perfectly met our Snack Night requirements).

Snack Night grew in membership. First one college pal joined, then another, and another, until word on the street turned it into a mini-phenomenon (not really, but I'm a writer). Soon, we had about a dozen to fifteen guys crammed into our small and modestly furnished living room, crowded around a small TV with a beat-up Korean VCR on top of it.

Snack food wrappers littered the floor. The microwave was kept busy, constantly dinging. Nachos were burnt, eaten anyway, and spilled. Ice cream melted and was eaten with a straw. Chips crunched beneath our feet. The refrigerator was always packed, the food spilling out onto the kitchen countertops. It truly looked like a battlefield and as they say, War is Hell.

Or Heaven, eye of the beholder and all.

Now, there was an unspoken rule about Snack Night. It wasn't ever truly defined, but we had a no girlfriend policy. (Usually.) It's not like we were Spanky and Alfalfa's He Man Woman Haters Club. No, it wasn't like that at all. I kinda think that any woman we knew at the time considered our barbaric ritual as too utterly grotesque for them. I'm pretty sure they were right, too.

No matter, it was a place and time where we could hang out and do whatever. Given our youth and good health at the time, no weight was gained or diseases contracted. Shocking, I know.

I'm not sure when and how Snack Night disbanded, but I'm pretty sure marriages were involved.

Hmmm. I wonder if my wife would object to my bringing back Snack Night to our house... Yeah! I'll keep it simple and only invite ten guys the first time and...and...

Nah. My health couldn't handle it now. Maybe some traditions are better off buried. (And there's no way my wife would go for it. I'm sorry, Spanky and Alfalfa!)

While I'm waxing nostalgic, I'd be remiss if I didn't plug my book, Peculiar County. If spooky nostalgia's your bag, boy, have I got a book for you. Taking place in the '60's (right before the turbulence began), Peculiar County tells the tale of a tom-boy living in a small farming town in Kansas, who stumbles onto a murder mystery. Did I mention that there are also ghosts, witches, a haunted hanging tree, something that flies the night skies, and much, much more? A book for all ages (but don't let that throw you!), it also happens to be my favorite out of my 21 titles. Come visit scenic Peculiar County here!