BAM! You've Just Been Old-Manned!

Last week the nice young couple across the street were vacationing in Barbados (we're lucky to get to Oklahoma!). Before they left I received a text from the guy asking if I'd keep an eye out, pick up packages and mail. No problem!

The morning after they got back, he texted me and wanted to know when he could pick his stuff up. With our dog pack, it's easier for me to just meet him outside. So I met him on our stoop.

"Hey, how was Barbados," I asked.

"Oh, man, it was great. The weather was warm, I surfed a little, and swam with the turtles," he said. I didn't pursue it further, but I hope that wasn't like "swimming with the fishes."

"Then you come back to this," I splayed my hand at Kansas.

"Yeah." He stared down at his feet like he couldn't tolerate standing in Kansas.

"Okay, here's your packages and mail." I handed over the bounty.

"Thanks again. Well, I'm going to get out of your hair," he offered, seeking a speedy getaway.

"What hair?" I asked.

"Heh, yeah. But I gotta run." He hitched a thumb across the street.

"Oh, okay, I don't mean to hold you up," I said, while doing just that.

One step down the front steps, I stopped him. "Hey, we're going to be out of town from the 23rd to 27th or so. Could you maybe pick up packages? You know how it is...I still have late gifts trickling in." I offered a little chuckle, which wasn't reciprocated.

He scowled. "Uh...yeah, I can do that." He turned around and took another step down.

I pulled out my best Columbo imitation. "Just one more thing. Your decorative candy canes?"

"What about them?"

"The three in front of the door aren't lighting up."

One more step on his getaway. "I think I remember that when I set them up."

"Oh."

"I'll shoot you a text when we leave. You know, just a friendly reminder."

"Gotta go!" He practically ran down the yard and into the street to the safety of his house.

It wasn't until he slammed his door that I realized I'd just "old-manned" the young neighbor.

I was reminded of the time nearly thirty years ago when I first moved in and was the youngster on the block. My arms loaded with grocery sacks, I got out of my car and heard the old man across the street calling out my name.

Crap, I thought. Caught!

Sure enough he began to leisurely stroll across his yard. To speed things up, I met him in the street. Maybe a speeding car would put a quick end to our sure-to-be agonizing convo.

No such luck. As the groceries in my arms grew heavier and things started melting, the old guy kept me out there for twenty minutes. To make matters worse, he wasn't wearing his hearing aid, so I had to speak up and repeat bland niceties about the weather at mega-levels. I told him that when I trimmed the front hedges, I developed terrible poison ivy.

"I coulda told you that there was poison ivy in the bushes," the only helpful thing he said. Just too late.

I kept looking down the street for a runaway vehicle. Finally, he said, "well, I'll get outta your hair." (This was back when I actually had hair.)

My arms aching, I pitched a sigh of relief as I escaped inside. I had been "old-manned."

Yikes. I guess what goes around comes around. I hadn't thought my conversation with my young neighbor was too long, or too old-manly, or too dull, but my unwitting victim apparently did. I just never thought I'd be doing any "old-manning."

Just hope those young whippersnappers stay outta my yard. Well, time to put on my gravy-stained sweater and head down to the cafeteria for the early bird hour.

Speaking of all things autobiographical, check out my book Corporate Wolf. Many of the things that happened to our hapless protagonist happened to me in my tenure in the big business sector. Well, except for the werewolf stuff. And the gruesome murders (although there were several coworkers who I envisioned meeting gruesome endings.). Come for the corporate satire and stick around for the dark humor and horror and mystery of Corporate Wolf.

The $25,000 Pork Chop

Hey-ho, here we go, with another cautionary tale, yo!

Several years ago, my brother sat down to dinner (undoubtedly in front of the TV, a family habit shared by myself) with a pork chop. Soon, he started feeling crummy, having trouble breathing. And his chest hurt. Badly.

He thought he was having a heart attack. So he was rushed to the E.R. I'm not sure of the details that transpired there (I'm not sure I want to), but after they fixed him up, the doc on duty came back and said, "You had a chunk of pork chop lodged in your esophagus. Chew your food."

And he probably didn't get a lollipop either.

Later, he remarked, "I had a $25,000 pork chop."

I understand completely how this happened. While growing up, another trait that was shared in our family was our mother used to cook the crap out of meat, thus draining the juices and making any kind of meat crossing our supper plates akin to a dry piece of leather.

I believe both my brothers still like their meat cooked "well-done," i.e., as desiccated and dehydrated as Lawrence of Arabia in the desert. Growing up, my family used to enthuse about "steak night." I'd just roll my eyes and wonder what the hullabaloo was about. First, it took about an hour to chew the much-lauded steak, and to me, it was tasteless. My mom even overcooked liver, and the less said about that the better. When my dad came home one night espousing the joys of spam, Mom even found a way to blast that to a crisp.

Later, I escaped the curse of dry meat by experimenting with medium, then medium-rare. Much better.

My wife says that's a trait of older generations: to overcook the hell out of meat. Me? I'd rather risk botulism, then waste all of those long hours chewing on a dry shoe again.

I think my brother learned from the infamous pork chop incident. But I hope he enjoyed it!

Speaking of pork, the cops can't seem to catch benevolent serial killer Leon Garber. But the nefarious shadow company who originally hired him to do their dirty work sure can. Believe it or not, they're the real villains. Find out what in the world I'm talking about in my darkly comedic and suspenseful thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated, available here.

Sump Pup

That's NOT a misspelling in the title! NOT a dream (although it kinda resembles a nightmare)! NOT an imaginary tail (pun intended)! And NOT a hoax!

No, this is the traumatic tale of one dog's disastrous Thanksgiving. This is the tale of Mr. Loomis and his terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad holiday.

For those of you who don't recall, Mr. Loomis is our special needs, 15-year-old Lhasa Apso dog (with a bit of Dachshund tossed in for extra length!). He's 95% deaf and blind and sometimes bounces around like a pinball looking for a hole to fall into. I have a certain soft-spot and affinity for Mr. Loomis because he reminds me of myself: he's a cranky old man who never gives up.

But I digress. Why I remember that traumatic Thanksgiving morning like it was last week...because it was...(cue the wavy vision and flashback music)...

My wife thought it'd be a great idea for Mr. Loomis to get a bath Thanksgiving morning. After all, we had family coming over and Mr. Loo needed to look (and, um, smell) his best.

Mr. Loomis doesn't like baths. He groused, grumbled, tossed and turned, fighting my wife, until he finally resorted to howling. But she--and he--powered through it.

Once Mr. Loomis was out of the tub, my wife and I went upstairs to put some crap away, leaving Mr. Loo (and our other two dogs) free to roam the main floor.

My wife went down first, then called up, "Hey, did Mr. Loomis come up there?"

I looked around, knowing full well he hadn't. "No...can't you find him?" Panic set in. I had no idea what had happened to our senior dog. He definitely can't manage stairs any longer by himself, riddled as he is with arthritis.

I raced downstairs (well...as close to "racing" as I can get, seeing as how my knees are arthritic also). Now I couldn't find my wife either. Clearly, there was only one possible realistic conclusion: alien abduction.

But before I called Mulder and Scully, I heard a detached, echoing bark from the basement. (Actually, it was more like a "YARK!" Loomis doesn't say much, but on the rare occasion he does, it's always one loud, snappish, angry YARK.)

My wife's voice resounded up the basement stairs as well. "Oh my God," she exclaimed. "How'd he get in there?"

Mr. Loomis had somehow tumbled down the basement stairs, managing not to break any bones. Even worse, he'd found the worst possible place to land in the basement: he'd fallen into the sump pump.

Panic really kicked in when my wife told me he was swimming in the sump pump. She fished him out. When I looked down the stairs, Mr. Loomis was running away from my wife with her following in hot pursuit.

"Is he okay?" I asked.

"He's fine. Just mad."

He was about to get even madder. Now, my clearly freaked out wife said, "Guess what dude? You're getting another bath." Turning toward me, she added, "Is it too early for a drink?"

Let this be a cautionary tale for all. To paraphrase the great philosopher Willie Nelson: "Mamas, don't let your puppies fall in the sump pump."

Since our Thanksgiving went the way of the dogs, look out for other hairy creatures in the work place. Of course I'm talking about my black comedy/horror opus, Corporate Wolf, the only book that takes aim at corporate America through the lens of werewolf vision. It's complicated. Find out how so, here!