Noirmares

I have recurring nightmares. Unsettling ones where I've committed a murder and the law is slowly closing in on me.

We'll call them "NOIRmares." Sure, my wife and I enjoy Noir Alley with Eddie Muller on TCM, but I don't think that's where my noirmares come from.

The weirdest part is that I don't murder people who deserve it (ex-bosses, ex-girlfriends, cable guys, politicians). No, I never know the identity of my victims, nor do I ever recall why I did it. The noirmare seems to go on forever, but the point is always about whether or not I'll get away with it.

Where does this come from, I constantly ask myself. I've never committed a murder before, never even came close to formulating a plan. Do I have the latent serial killer gene?

I took to my trusty research assistant, Ms. Google, for the shocking answer:

"Dreams about murdering someone can symbolize a variety of emotions and desires, including suppressed anger, frustration, or feelings of powerlessness, or unresolved conflicts with someone in waking life."

Huh. Well, I felt slight relief in that I'm not the only one who goes on a killing spree in dream-world, but it still leaves a lot of questions unanswered. Cases in point...

"Suppressed anger." I suppose that could be true. But I would think that would be more apt in the case where you personally know your victim.

"Frustration." Again, maybe. There's no doubt I've been frustrated at people many times. But in my noirmares, I'm not murdering the cable guy, am I?

"Feelings of powerlessness." This is certainly true now, especially regarding the MAGA madness. (Although I've never dreamed about murdering Trump, I did have a dream about boxing him.)

"Unresolved conflicts with someone in waking life." Nope. I have no idea who these nameless, faceless cyphers are who I murder, nor do I ever dream about the act of murder. It seems like the murder has already occurred before the noirmare begins.

Ah, Ms. Google let me down. No answers forthcoming from her this time.

Hey, maybe if more serial killers had noirmares, there wouldn't be a need for serial killers!

And speaking of serial killers, give a looksie to my darkly comical serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. There's more cat and mouse gaming and serial killers than you can shake a stick at! And that doesn't even include the bad guys! It's complicated. But you can find them here!

Sexism in Hollywood

Take John Wayne...PLEASE!

You know, I've never really liked John Wayne. I thought his acting was more wooden than Pinocchio. (I know, I know, not a popular opinion, un-American, bla, bla, bla. You should hear what I think about Tom Hanks! I'm digressing...) But over the years I wondered if my initial assessment was too harsh, perhaps even wrong (After all, I figured, sooooo many Americans can't be wrong in their judgment, right? RIGHT??? Wait...never mind...).

Alas, I was correct. One note acting in a plethora of films, always the same character, I again couldn't understand his astounding popularity. But the worst of it was how he treated women.

Sure, he pretty much treated everyone in his movies like crap ("Injuns," young people, comical sidekicks), but the way he treated women was truly despicable. Condescending as all get out, women were objects to be ridiculed, laughed at, relegated to secondary status, and God forbid should a woman ever have an opinion about anything. In one particularly hard-to-take movie, he even grabbed a woman and put her across his lap to give her a spanking!

Before you think I'm heinous for picking on "The Duke (and what's with his weird sorta hip swiveling walk?)," this attitude in old-time Hollywood persevered in nearly every film of the period.

Don't even get me started on that beloved musical, "Seven Brides For Seven Brothers," a jaunty tribute to caveman behavior and raping and pillaging. But it's okay, 'cause you can sing along!

Women were never given choices regarding anything, particularly if it had something to do with their feelings. Feh, who cares what some silly little lady wants or doesn't want? They exist to please and compliment men, of course.

And the horror stories I've read about major Hollywood stars raping starlets is unbelievable. (I won't name names here, but Dr. Google is your friend.)

How is this relevant? Because it's the sort of America that today's ruling political party would love to see us return to. And by skippy, they're doing a damn fine job getting there.

I mean, hey, if our president can rape and denigrate women, why can't we all?

Okay, now that I've got my dander up, let's talk about a different kind of beast: the corporate raider. But the particular corporate raider I'm talking about is also a werewolf. Check out all the wacky, bloody shenanigans in my darkly comic, horror thriller, Corporate Wolf.

Sail On, Sweet Loo

 

Last week we lost our beloved Mr. Loomis. 

We knew what we were getting in for when we adopted him at the age of 11, but it doesn't make the pill any easier to swallow.

Mr. Loomis (my wife decided to add the "Mr." to his name seeing as how he was a dignified older gentleman) was my doggy counterpart. Like me, he was old, cranky, achy, didn't suffer fools (dogs or humans) lightly, scruffy, and insisted on doing things his way.

From the moment we first met him, he made this clear. His foster parent brought him to our house for a visit. When he saw me, he approached me, wagging his beautiful classic tail. I thought "Great, I finally am going to get a cute, cuddly lap dog!" I picked him up and he yarked at me immediately. Nobody puts baby in their lap. (And he always "yarked," never barked. Just one loud yark usually did the trick.) So. No lap dog, Mr. Loomis. But he was loyal. Even though he had his boundaries and set them up at the start, he stayed attached to me, always on my heel, never letting me out of his sight.

A lahsa apso mix, Mr. Loomis' breed origins dated back to being "watch dogs" in ancient China. The little guy probably wouldn't scare off or intimidate danger strangers, but whenever someone entered our house who he wasn't comfortable worth, he released a thunderous YARK, the yark heard around the world. (He really hated cable guys and plumbers. Good taste.)

And keep in mind, this lil' adorable, loyal guy was the dog who beat down three different groomers, all of them firing us from ever darkening their doorsteps again. A formidable ornery cuss, Mr. Loomis took no guff from anyone.

But he was extremely sweet to me. My constant partner, he'd always pop up next to me and settle in on the love seat. As long as he knew I understood he wouldn't be relegated to lap dog status, he sat next to me every chance he got.

And we couldn't go to the bathroom without his ever-watchful presence. Sitting at our feet while we conducted business on the porcelain throne, Mr. Loo was on the job.

I made no qualms in hiding the fact that Mr. Loomis was my favorite of our three dogs (but, shhhhh, don't tell the other two). And I think part of that was, in many ways, he was just like me. But he had lots more hair than I did. And he was adorable, something I can't lay claim to.

Always stoic, I never heard Mr. Loomis whine or kvetch. He didn't "say" much, but when he did the message was clear. And that awful morning last week, he told us it was time to end his suffering through a number of uncharacteristic whines.

I still tear up about my friend, Mr. Loomis (I'm doing that now while writing this tribute). I'd never met a dog quite like him. I love him dearly and can only hope that he's taking charge and collecting names of other dogs in puppy heaven.

Sail on, sweet Loo.

You Guys Asked For it!...

 And you got it!

Happy now? (And no, the price of eggs isn't coming down.)

Please, please, please to our friends in England and Canada, attack us and save us from this ludicrous tyranny.

You're welcome!