Enjoy the Magic of the Movies!

I love the B&B Theaters, a humble little Midwest chain of multiplexes, I really do. There's a lot to love, starting with the recliners that make it feel just like home! And the theaters are usually so empty you can scratch yourself just like at home, too! But, man, the B&B's are beginning to annoy me.

Take "Enjoy the Magic of the Movies," their catch phrase. A little bit goes a long way. Every employee says it and they try and say it with a straight face, too. 

Of course they never say it with any conviction either; it's always just kinda mumbled, under their breath as if they were sorely embarrassed by having to spout it and why shouldn't they be? I defy anyone to try and say "enjoy the magic of the movies" without doing a spit-take! Go on...say it in front of a mirror. I'll wait. See what I mean?

Every time these poor humiliated, minimum wage earners are clearly forced to utter this inane declaration (B&B Theater Employee Handbook, Rule 1.7, Subsection 17), I'm absolutely certain they question their life decisions in how they ended up here and wonder if it's not too late for college. Or the military.

I do remember one fresh-faced kid who actually tried to spout it like an overly-caffeinated Doug Henning. If memory serves me correctly, he even added a little magical hand flourish.

"Enjoy the MAAAAAAGIC of the movies!" Hand up, grinning ear to ear, he awaited my response.

So blown away by his strange, yet oddly endearing enthusiasm, after hearing it repeated on auto-pilot by so many other prior employees, I was at a loss for words. Finally, I mustered, "Thanks, um, you too."

I never saw this "magical boy" again. I imagine I caught him on his first day. Before desperation had set in and he quit, opting to go over to the competition where they didn't demand you spout such nonsense.

Now, keep in mind, just like every other retail outlet these days, the B&B theaters are woefully underemployed. There are no longer people working the ticket registers. Instead, you go directly to the concessions stand where four teens await to spread magic all over you. So that's one less time you'll have to hear "Enjoy the Magic of the Movies." That's something, at least.

But this underemployment is getting out of hand. It's to the point where you pretty much self-serve yourself the concessions. And when you're shelling out twenty bucks for a drink and popcorn, wouldn't a little service be nice? Nope. They hand you a cup and an unsalted, unbuttered bag of popcorn and point you toward the row of machines, which is a bonus layer of Hell.

Let's start with the "butter" machines (or that strange deep-urine yellow-colored thick oily substance that passes for butter). Out of eight butter machines, only two work. It's been that way forever. A couple of the non-functioning ones have been battered because some brute didn't get his quasi-butter. I would think they'd get some guy out to fix these butter machines. But apparently the Fake Butter Machinery Union guys are on strike. Not much magic there!

Then you need a road-map to operate the soda machines. There are about a thousand options (and this is an improvement over the old days when the only sugar-free option was Pepsi), but most of them taste like sickly sweet colored water. I tried a sugar-free grape option (gross!), a sugar-free cherry limeade option (even grosser!), and finally landed on a "Sprite Lymonade (which tasted like seltzer water, but at least it wasn't grotesque)." But getting there proved to be the real up-hill battle. 

The theater uses touch screen machines that're pretty stressful. The machine does not want to give you any time to make your decision because it's a big stupid-face bullying machine. There are unnecessary menus within menus and I felt lost in the labyrinth of sub-menus, with no way out. When I waffled, the screen bullied me into making an under-duress decision and snidely claimed, "I'm sorry, but your time is about up." Then it had to gall to show a ten second countdown timer. Like it was going to blow up if I didn't make a decision. In full-on panic mode, I caved in to machinery terrorism and landed on the Sprite Lymonade button, a choice I regretted later.

To make matters worse, before the movie started, the B&Ber's had the gall to taunt me with an advertisement about a man enjoying his time at one of the soda machines. With an expression of out-of-control ecstasy, he started hitting all sorts of buttons, proclaiming things like "Fresh," "Fun," and "Exciting!" He sped this up, deliriously happy, rocking it like a pinball machine, while animated stars and firecrackers and bunnies and crap exploded all around him. Then...wait for it..."Enjoy the Magic of the Movies!"

Well. That wasn't MY experience with the machine. I never remember seeing the "Orgasm" button, for instance.

But there was a bit of magic to be had during the film (a fairly routine horror film). During one the of the movie's nighttime "scary" moments, the screen went completely dark with the audio still rolling. My friend and I sat in the dark waiting for something to light up the screen. I said, "Um, I don't think it's supposed to be this way." My doubting buddy kept on, until he finally acquiesced. (Naturally, theaters in their never-ending quest for cost-cutting rendered projectionists obsolete years ago).

Or was it a truly innovative tour de force of movie-making ingenuity leaving the viewer to imagine unseen horrors for a ten minute stretch?

Either way, I call it...MAGIC!

While I have magic on the brain, there's a ton of it lurking around the more frightening perimeters in my book, Peculiar County. The tale of a Midwestern mortician's daughter and her dalliances with ghosts, a murderer, witches, and something creepy that takes flight in the night, it's as close as I'll ever come to writing "magical realism." (At least I think so...it's been quite a few years since I studied literature, so maybe I'm just full of it.) Be that as it may, feel free to visit haunting Peculiar County right about here!

Xanax Anyone?

So my wife and I were at an estate sale (side-bar: going to these is one of my wife's new hobbies; I don't enjoy trawling through dead peoples' things, but I think my purpose at these deals is to provide muscle when needed). 

We're upstairs in this house, perusing the "rare" back issues of Entertainment Weekly (c'mon, these aren't rare!), when an older guy suddenly blurts out, "Hey, anyone got a Xanax? No? How about a Valium? Klonopin, then? Adderol?"

My wife and I shoot each other a look, then mutter, "Ah, sorry, we're...um...out of those right now." Another shocked couple in the room pretty much share the same reaction.

The drug-seeking estate crawler follows up with, "No? Dayum, I got a killer headache! Wow!"

Okay, there's a lot to unpack here. First of all, whatever happened to aspirin? Isn't that still the number one go-to headache reliever? Wouldn't random strangers at an estate sale be more likely to have some aspirin on them, rather than an anxiety tranquilizer?

I dunno. Maybe I missed something. Is this line of anxiety relief drugs so over-prescribed now that they're becoming so commonplace, that it's okay to ask random strangers at an estate sale if they're packing? And is the assumption that everyone is now taking these medications (maybe so; I mean, if everyone was truly Kung Fu fighting, I suppose everyone could be popping Xanax as well.)?

Secondly, I'm pretty sure tossing a stranger a Xanax is--if not illegal--highly frowned upon. Hang on (sometimes I forget there's something out there called the "internet."). Okay, I'm back. Yep, says so right here: because Xanax is a controlled substance, the illicit distribution of it is a crime.

Yow! Either we'd stumbled into a very sneaky undercover sting targeting random Xanax-slinging strangers at estate sales, or this guy was prowling estate sale to estate sale in search of a fix. (I wonder how much luck he had with this chosen venue.) Yep, those are the only two possible choices.

You know, usually when I go to estate sales, it's in search of cool, kitschy 50's or 60's Americana or maybe even a ginormous Hawaiian shirt. I wouldn't think estate sales would be a good place to score a tranquilizer, but I could be wrong. It's happened once before.

But the next time a rando at an estate sale hits you up for a Xanax, tell him, "No! I don't illicitly carry and distribute controlled substances because I'm not licensed to do so!"

It just might keep you out of jail.

Speaking of random strangers, a bunch of them (all with dark secrets, some worse than others) convene at a Midwest Bed and Breakfast during one of the worst winter storms in recent history. Of course I'm talking about Dread and Breakfast, where checking in is a breeze, but checking out just might kill ya! Schedule that getaway right here.

A New Crackpot Group!

I've discovered a brand spanking new nutty group. At least they're new to me! This is exciting! I feel like I've uncovered a rare new species!

It's...the "Flat Earthers!" 

Now to be certain, let's draw the distinction between several other fringe groups... 

First, you have your Middle-Earthers (hobbits and trolls and Gollums and big, ol' hairy feet on little tiny guys). As far as I know, they don't look for conspiracies and are either extinct by this point or are hiding out in Greenland or wherever. I don't consider them a threat.

Then you have your Highlanders. No, I'm not talking about a secret cult devoted to the automobile of the same name, but rather, a group of fanatics who worship a silly pseudo-fantasy franchise filmed on the cheap (usually in Canada) regarding lopping off heads for some wonderful reason. While I don't believe this cult to be a threat to society, they can certainly be annoying, particularly when they quote the shows. However, I wouldn't worry about them too much, because as they like to say (in a booming, deep, theatrical voice), "There can only be one!" Hence, I'm putting them on the endangered list.

There's the Outlanders. This group I truly don't understand. I've heard raves--from fans and critics alike--about how wonderful their show is. I sampled half an episode which was TOO much for me. Romance in historical Scotland? Blech. The less said about this group, the better.

Finally, we have the Furries. And they're another ball of fur altogether. And, um...I really don't want to talk about them.

Which at last brings me back around to the Flat Earthers. These kooks insist the world is flat. Despite all science to the contrary ("Socialist, Marxist, evil liberal lies!") or even the actual photography of our planet's spherical shape ("Fake news! Filmed in a Russian warehouse!"), they refuse to believe the truth.

But since when has the "truth" ever got in the way of these fringe groups' outlandish beliefs?

Wait. It gets even better. To my hilarious delight, a district chair in Georgia, Kandiss Taylor, recently blabbered on about the Great Globe Propaganda Conspiracy.

Having recently uncovered biblical "evidence" that the earth is flat, she said "I turn on the TV, there’s globes in the background … Everywhere there’s globes. You see them all the time, it’s constant. My children will be like ‘Mama, globe, globe, globe, globe’ — they’re everywhere. Every store, you buy a globe, there’s globes everywhere. Every movie, every TV show, news media — why? More and more I’m like, it doesn’t make sense. And that's what they do to brainwash!"

Yow! Now, please keep in mind, this is a "lawmaker," deciding what happens in the lives of her constituents. And know that she babbled all of this nutty nonsense on her podcast called...you guys ready for this?...wait for it...here it comes..."Jesus, Guns, and Babies!" Personally, I can't think of a better title, can you? Why, the three items just go perfectly hand in hand.

Well. What do we expect from a grown woman whose name is "Kandiss." (Hey, Kandiss, leave the politicking behind and get back on your dancing pole!) Furthermore, a little background shows that after losing the last Georgia governor race, Kandiss proclaimed "It's rigged! I won! They cheated!" This coming from the candidate who scored 3% of the public vote to the winning governor's 73%. (Oh, the damage that the Orange Don has wrought on our country!)

I know that crackpot fringe and culty groups have been around forever, but the number of conspiracies and groups have skyrocketed since the grotesque MAGA movement (not to mention a disturbing increase in racism). Of course, we all know how Trump was ripped off in the last election. And how liberals are cannibalistic, baby-eating, Satan worshipers.  And did you guys know that the proceeds to girl scout cookies goes to fund abortions? I heard that gem recently.

I suppose it's too much to ask for our politicians and leaders to actually get around to doing something good or maybe something that the constituents actually care about or possibly helping those in need. Instead we've got a guy (who could possibly become our next president!) wasting millions of tax-payer dollars on fighting drag shows (*Gasp!*) and Disney World ((*Choke!Gag!*). 

Then there's those stupid globes which keep me up at night.

I'm sure we'll be seeing a bill banning globes in our future. They're just so...damn mean and round and WRONG!

While we're talking about nuts, there's a veritable tree full of them running around in my Killers Incorporated trilogy of thrillers regarding a conspiracy (AHA!) revolving around a nefarious corporation (PROBABLY LIBERAL!) that supplies services to serial killers for a fee. Until you cross them as did poor Leon Garber, our serial killer hero. But he's a good serial killer! It's complicated. Read all about it here in the first book, Secret Society.

Murder's On the Table!

My wife and I find ourselves embroiled in some very bizarre conversations. Take the following, for example. (And neither one of us can remember how exactly we came to this conclusion, but we just know that we did.)

"You know, divorce is not an option for us," I said one day out of the blue. "I would never divorce you."

"Hmmm," said wife. "I concur. However, murder could be a viable option."

"I wholeheartedly agree," I said while raising a very professorial finger and not even truly contemplating the underlying horror, oh, the horror of it all.

Now, of course we're joking. And I have to remember who I can tell this to and who I can't. For instance, caught up in the moment of our last anniversary celebration, we let this bombshell rip to our unsuspecting, befuddled and horrified wine-tasting hostess.

"We decided last week," said my wife, "that divorce isn't an option for us. Ever. However, murder's on the table."

Figuring I could smooth things over a bit, I added, "Yes. For all of the TV cop shows proclaim that murder is a crime of passion. Hence, it goes to figure that since we passionately love one another, murder would be the only logical outcome were things to get intensely wrong between us."

Naturally, I just made things worse. The hostess' jaw dropped and so did the glass she was polishing.

A little later, over my daughter's birthday dinner, we shared the same jovial news  as other eavesdropping diners and waitresses undoubtedly had their phones out and ready to call 911.

We do need to watch who we share this with. The Big House is not a viable option for us (although murder still is). 

While I'm on the topic of how funny murder is (hardy-har-har-har!), there are lots of larf-out-loud hijinx and antics surrounding murrrrrrder in my Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Start at the beginning with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and you'll see just how high-larious murder can be!

Attack of the Knife-Wielding Sushi Boy

My wife and daughter claim that I'm prone to exaggeration. Me? I don't buy it. Not for one minute.

Take for example the dark, dark incident that henceforth shall be known as "The Attack of the Knife-Wielding Sushi Boy." 

You know, memory can be a funny thing. It's strange how my daughter remembers the "incident" quite a bit differently than I do. I suppose it's her mind's way of protecting her from such vividly nightmarish occurrences.

And it's all true!!! As my mind is my witness.

There I was, visiting my daughter in her small lil' town when we decided to get sushi. However, her town's so small, I doubt the inhabitants have ever heard of sushi, let alone run a sushi joint.

So we had to travel about 35 minutes away to yet another small town (although this one big enough to have a very good sushi joint; we'd eaten there before) to satiate our sushi cravings.

The parking lot seemed uncustomarily full. Uh-oh #1. The waitress looked around the packed restaurant and said, "It'll be about an hour until a table opens up."

Hopes dropped. Hunger pangs rose. As did blood pressure.

Sensing our sushi hopelessness, the waitress suggested we could sit at the sushi bar. 

Now, I've sat a sushi bars before, but none as cramped and awkward as this one. It wasn't a bar, but a tiny ledge, barely enough room to put a plate on while people happily chowed down at tables right at our back. And we sat so low, I could look up into the sushi chef's nostrils, mere inches away. Trying to talk to my daughter played havoc with my neck, cricking every time I attempted to turn to speak with her. And we couldn't even hear each other over the raucous chowing and chatting and coughing (Uh-oh #2!). We'd found Sushi Hell. Or...it had found us.

But, being the good-natured, good sport that I am, we decided to make the best of our awful situation. 

Naturally, things crashed downhill after that. 25 minutes of waiting and we still hadn't seen a menu or waitress. I noticed a table in the corner opening up. So I raced back to the front desk and waited for the "friendly (or at least, that's how I perceived him at the time)" bus boy to come talk to me.

"We're sitting over at the sushi bar," I gestured to the claustrophobic corner, "and just wanted to know if we could move to that table." Mind you, I said this in my best manners, displaying magnanimous kindness in doing so given the circumstances.

The friendly-in-disguise-only boy glances at the table, and says, "Sure! Let me just go get it cleaned up!"

Things were looking up for us! Or so I thought. But the dark clouds just kept rolling in.

After another twenty minutes of watching our table not get cleaned up, a clearly bored waitress comes up and says, "You ready to order? Or WHAT?"

I said, "Thank you so much for your gracious offer, but we're waiting on that table over there. Have a nice day!" Under my breath (because good manners count, after all), I added, "And we still haven't seen a menu."

Unbothered by our suffering and grumbling stomachs, she walks off, slower than a one-legged turtle.

Then I hear the bell jingle above the door. Two women enter the restaurant. The friendly-posing boy races over (Oh...I see...he RACES toward them, but took his sweet time leaving me hanging at the front desk for minutes!) and chats with them, giving them excited nods. Then he looks at OUR table. He looks at us. The women look at their fingernails.

The boy--visibly getting more crazed in appearance by the second--rushes back to OUR table and finally cleans it. He looks our way, shooting daggers, then looks back toward the indifferent women with love in his eyes.

I stand up. Ready to race the women to OUR table if necessary. The sushi boy narrows his eyes at me. 

Ennio Morricone music plays over the speaker. The Sushi Kid looks back at the women, smiles. SMILES! Looks back in our direction and glowers.

I take one step toward our table. Then another. 

My daughter remains seated. Possibly worried that I'm about to get attacked.

She was right.

Finally, downright menacing sushi boy sprints toward me. Holding a long sushi knife!

He said, "I forgot about the reservation at that table."

Things got a bit blurry then until we got back to my daughter's car. Shock is a funny thing.

"Man," I said, shaking my head, "I can't BELIEVE how that guy attacked me! Did you see the knife in his hand?"

My daughter said, "You mean the super nice boy with the huge smile who apologized profusely?"

"What? That's not what happened at all! He was downright mean, arrogant, and one step away from gutting me!"

"You mean when he continued to apologize and you stormed out of the restaurant yelling, 'That's uncool! That's UNCOOL, MAN! THANKS A LOT! THANKS A LOT FOR NOTHING!!!!'"

"Clearly, daughter, you're delusional. That's NOT what happened at all! He attacked me vocally first, then physically! And...and...he wasn't a boy at all. He was this HUGE, scary guy with two knives in his hands and murder-lust in his eyes!"

"Hmmm. I must've missed that when I was apologizing for your hissy-fit. Whatever, Dad."

Sigh. Maybe my daughter's defense mechanisms are making her even more delusional than I thought.

But hope springs eternal. No, we never did get sushi that day. But we're going to try and go there again in a couple weeks for my daughter's birthday. But just in case, the guy wants to go round two with me, I'm going to wear a baseball hat, a fake handlebar mustache and sideburns, and speak in a funny German accent.

While I've got delusional people on my mind, there's more than a few running around in my horror suspense thriller, Godland. But, hey, that's what makes it fun! (Hmmm. Maybe I should redefine my sense of "fun.")