Datesasters

Between my two marriages I went on quite a few dates that I refer to as "datesasters." Everyone's had 'em, an important part of education. (Now you youngsters must keep in mind that this was before online dating services became a thing, so we had to do it the old-fashioned way: through blind luck and lotsa courage.)

I'm still trying to forget one of my worst datesasters. It started off at the Kansas City Spirit Festival (an outdoor musical event) nicely enough. I can't remember who the band was (lotsa beers flowed), but my friends and I were sitting in the grass and before you know it I was dancing with a pretty girl (or so I thought at the time...remember, lots of beer). By the end of the show, I asked for her phone number and she gave it to me.

I waited the requisite three to five day period (you never want to appear too "hungry," although at the time I was practically starving)  and then called her. Thankfully her answering machine picked up and I left a detailed message and my phone number, thus putting the onus on her and sparing myself any possible one-on-one humiliation. Which as it turned out would've been preferred to our upcoming two dates. (My male work peer overheard me and said that was a wussy way out, to leave a number on her answering machine. Easy for him to say as he was married.)

She called back. The date was set! I told her I'd pick her up but she said she'd come by my house. (Warning sign number one. What was she hiding, I wondered.)

As I waited for her to come by, I couldn't help but wonder what she truly looked like without my beer-colored goggles. Color me shocked. At my door was a beautiful young Asian woman wearing nice clothes and cool high-top tennis shoes. Bonus points: she had giant 90's hair! (I've had several dates before where I met the women at bars, then set up a future date and when I saw them, I wanted out. Immediately. Guys, don't set up dates at bars when you're wearing those beer-colored goggles!)

But this time I was extremely pleased. I took her to a Cajun restaurant where all the men were sneaking looks at her while trying not to let their own wives/dates catch them. I felt like king of the world (eat it Dicaprio!) and wanted to show her off everywhere I could.

After a movie (Trainspotting at an art-house theatre, natch) which we both enjoyed, I took her home where I tried to kiss her. She backed off and said, "I never kiss on the first date." But then she was anxious to go on a second date.

And that's when it all went careening down to hell like a runaway bus driven by a blind man on an ice-covered hill.

When she showed up that next Saturday, the makeup was minimal, the clothes sorta "comfy" looking, and the Giant 90's hair was nowhere to be found. Don't get me wrong, she still looked pretty, but by the lack of effort she put into it this time, I could sense the honeymoon was already nearly over. (I know this sorta sounds sexist, ladies, but that's how we young guys thought in yesteryear).

Knowing that she liked live music, I decided to take her down to the River Market where there was a Zydeco Music Festival.

She says, "What's Zydeco?"

I explained it to her as best I could. "Hmmm," she said. "Sounds interesting."

On the way downtown, out of nowhere she suddenly blurts out, "I'm interested to see how sexually compatible we are."

YOW! I nearly swerved into another car. Was this the same girl who didn't kiss on the first date?  But once I got over my initial shock, I thought things had suddenly picked up.

And I was wrong. Once I bought tickets, drinks, and food, she said, "I hate this music. Can we go?"

"Um...sure." A mental image of the big bucks I'd just dropped flew away in seconds. We couldn't have been there for longer than ten minutes.

She said, "Let's go back to your house and watch a movie."

"Okay!" I floored the pedal and made it home in record time. She'd chosen La Femme Nikita (which I'd already seen, but I was game) and we piled onto the sofa.

Before I pushed "play," she turns to me and says, "I bet you're a Republican, aren't you?" in the most derisive of manner.

Loud warning bells went off. I heard a horrendous "AOOOGAH!" sound in my mind. And somewhere a cartoon trombone went "Wah, wah, wah, wahhhhhhhh."

I wasn't sure how to respond to her sudden judginess. As I tried to keep my temper in check, I said, "No, no I'm not. I'm very much a liberal Democrat. Why would you even assume that?"

I forgot her answer, but it didn't matter. I'd begun the check-out process. Check-out was completed with her next sudden judgy out-of-the-blue statement: "I think you're just looking for a new mother for your daughter."

That really blew my mind. "No, I'm not. She already has a mother."

But the damage had been done. I left her there to watch the movie alone while I tended to more pleasing things like doing the dishes and taking out the trash and cleaning the toilet.

At the end of the movie, I ushered her to the door. Where she lingered for an awkward twenty or so minutes, obviously wanting to see what would happen next. Clearly, in addition to being judgy, she was delusional. In what possible world, could anyone have viewed this as a good, successful date?

I opened the door and said, "Okay. Bye."

So the datesaster process began anew once again. (Now that I think of it, this datesaster wasn't nearly as bad as some upcoming ones I suffered through. But that's a post for another day!)

The only guy who had a worse dating profile than me has clearly got to be Shawn Biltmore. On the surface, things don't look so bad as he has two attractive women interested in him at the same time. But could one of them possibly be a murderous, flesh-rending and gnawing werewolf? Find out in my darkly comical horror satire, Corporate Wolf, available here.

Night of the Sick Geezer

Last week, I was so sick, I found myself unable to write a new blog post. Hey it was a struggle to get outta bed!

So...about that...

For some time, me and my fellow "geezers (that's what my niece calls us; yet she still enjoys our outings!)" had been planning a reunion of sorts at a local bar.

With some effort and through a ton of texts, I managed to get (almost) everyone on board, including one of our pals who resides in Portland. 

The bar was Ground Zero, the area where I picked up this hideous virus (and am still recovering from). But through the miracle of modern forensics, intensive investigation, and arduous research (and lotsa assumptions), I found out exactly who Patient Zero was.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't as tough as all of that...for you see, in our group texts, one of our friends gave us a "heads up. I'm recovering from a bad cold."

To which I responded, "unless you're 100% recovered, stay at home because we don't want your plague."

His comeback? "Now I'm more bound and determined to come."

Sure enough, when I saw him enter the bar, I turned to my brother and said "crap. I didn't think he'd actually come."

With about a dozen of us in attendance (half of the bar's capacity pretty much), we had pushed two tables together. At the time of Patient Zero's arrival, our second table was occupied by just one other geezer.

I pointed at the barren table and said, "you sit over there."

He didn't. Not only did he find it funny to sit down right next to me (12 guys around two small tables is quite "cozy"), hilarity further ensued as he comically rubbed the back of his hand against mine. Several times. And since it was loud in there, he yelled while talking to me and I felt his virus-ridden spittle land on my cheek and hand. This occurred during his explanation that it'd been a week and he wasn't contagious any longer.

Yikes.

Anyway, a good time was had by one and all of we geezers. And after that night, I went home. And waited for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it did. Right on top of my head like a cartoon anvil purchased from the Acme Company.

Wednesday morning, I felt like a pu-pu platter. As the day progressed, I grew worse and felt like a three day old pu-pu platter. Eight days later, I still haven't completely recovered from the Virus From Hell. Thanks buddy!

So it was my civic duty to check in with the other geezers. I put out a high alert and canvassed them to see if any others had fallen ill. Sure enough, my pal from Portland had the exact thing I had, picked it up at the same time, and we're both in the recovering phase. (I still haven't heard back from three of the geezers, so they're either busy or on their death beds.)

I told my wife the entire horrific saga. She said, "if you die from this, I'm not inviting 'Patient Zero' to you to your funeral." I suppose there was some comfort to be had in that. When I told a couple of the other geezers my wife's comment, one guy said, "make sure your wife knows I'm still on a low-carb diet and pretzels and light beer will be fine at your wake." It's good to have friends.

Meanwhile, Patient Zero still refuses to accept full responsibility for his reckless actions. Sure he has a point that we were in a crowded bar, but I'm extremely suspect. At the bar, my interactions were limited to the 12 of us geezers. And prior to our soiree, I hadn't been outta the house in about a week. The evidence certainly points toward him. 

In a way, I suppose I don't blame him. Not really. I probably would've done the same thing if I were in his sick shoes. It's not often we have everyone gathered from our college days, quite an accomplishment, one not to be missed.

Still...still...this cautionary tale adds an entire new spin on the saying "drink responsibly."

Speaking of irresponsible behavior, people don't come any more irresponsible than my character, Zach, possibly the world's dimmest male stripper (whoops...excuse me..."male entertainment dancer"). Just ask his long-suffering detective sister who constantly has to bail him out of jail and worse situations. All because he's kinda dumb and can't help but fall into very bad situations. See for yourself in my Zach and Zora comedy mystery series available here.

Sorry, guys! No new blog post this week...

 ...someone has graciously donated their plague to me. It's all I can do to get outta bed. I'll be back next week for more fun and frolics.

Zombie Cow!

While my wife peruses the morning "news" on her tablet, she likes to call out ludicrous headlines.

"Here's one for you, honey," she said. "'Beloved cow killed by trespasser; ranch owner says not the first time.'"

Yow! Just how many times has this poor cow died? You'd think that after a while the ranch owner might just throw in the towel and quit performing his voodoo rites to bring back his beloved cow.

Obviously, the headline suffered from poor writing. This is the kind of stuff my take-no-prisoners journalism professor in college would've ridiculed for the entire class' enjoyment.

Which brings me to the sad state of so-called journalism these days. Remember all of those 40's and 50's movies where newsrooms are packed with hard-hitting, dedicated, chain-smoking reporters? They're pretty much gone now. Instead of the bustling newsroom, we have conspiracy theorists churning out crap on their computer from their mom's basement. And more and more of our newspapers are going the way of disco.

Now, every time I hear the term "fake news," I cringe. Mostly because I attribute the term to our preening jackass in charge who shrugs off anything negative he hears about himself as "fake news."

But I'd be foolish to doubt the existence of "fake news." These days, people from both sides of the political aisle throw out anything that suits their agenda, true or not. It's becoming harder and harder to sift  the reality from the crappery.

News is compromised. Everywhere. Even the highest bastion of nighttime news shows--60 Minutes--has become vulnerable to our cranky, orange baby king's needs and wants by offering apologies and losing lawsuits. It's pretty sad.

And never trust anyone who only watches one news channel. If some guy says to me, "last night on NewsMax, they said President Trump bla, bla, bla...," I immediately tune them out. Why, it seems like only yesterday that news was supposed to be completely unbiased and not push their own agenda. Those days are long behind us. Even CNN or MSNBC are admittedly more left-leaning than they probably should be. So it is hard to get true news any more. Try to stay balanced. Go ahead and watch CNN. But then switch over to Fox News to see what the other half is up to! If nothing else, many laughs will ensue!

And do you guys remember editors? You don't? Well, for good reason! They don't exist any longer, as dead as a zombie cow. An editor used to be a full-time job, the overseer of bad writing and fact-checking. Now, any buffoon with access to a computer can churn out anything and post it on the world-wide intronets as "news," the facts be damned. And don't even get me started on the misspellings and poor writing in these "stories." Even professional outlets apparently have done away with editors, their stories riddled with errors.

Okay, I realize I'm coming off as a negative nelly and a cranky coot. But having a journalism degree means a lot to me. Having said all of that, there's still plenty of enjoyment to be had by looking at a lot of the trashy click-bait and articles purporting to be "news." Laughs abound! 

Hey! Didn't I start out by writing about a zombie cow?

While I'm on my cranky old guy soapbox, you may as well check out my book of short stories, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. In it you will find stories of horror and occasional bursts of dark comedy. But I also wrote it at a time when I saw where our country was headed and some of the stories represent everything that's wrong with our country these days. (It's also fun, though. Don't let me scare you off!)

The Spirit of Selling

The holiday season has dropped on us like a piano out of a fourth story building. And what better way to celebrate than showing our thanks for the true heroes of the holiday season: the sales clerks.

Especially the mean, cranky and just downright weird ones.

Why I remember like it was only yesterday...

When I worked in North Kansas City, I would spend my lunch hour in downtown, shopping for the holidays. At a CVS drugstore (hey, I was broke that Christmas!), I spotted my nemesis: the rude, mean old woman clerk with an indecipherable accent from the Slavic regions or wherever. Having had very unpleasant experiences with her in the past, I decided to bypass her checkout lane and opt to stand in line behind a bunch of other shoppers at the next lane (I'm betting they, too, had similar horrible experiences with Ms. Krampus).

But, alas, she spotted me. And yelled at me as usual. "Hey! Hey, chubs! Come on over!. Nobody waiting. What're you, dumb or something?" That may or may not be what she was screaming, hard to tell with her accent, but it was too late...she'd ensnared me into her checkout line.

Immediately, she started in on the abuse. "C'mon, c'mon, I ain't got all day! Get that stuff up here. Let's go!" (Actually, it looked to me like she DID have all day since smarter shoppers than I avoided her like the plague.)

Fast as I could, I unloaded my cart. But apparently it wasn't quick enough for her. "Quit yer dawdlin'! Buy the gum or don't, I don't give the damn!"

I tried to make a little small talk, hoping to charm her with an irresistible grin, but instead I probably looked like I had to go to the bathroom.

I said nothing and hauled ass out of there. She didn't even earn a "thank you" from me, not that she ever offered one. I wondered how she still had a job. Perhaps the stress of the holidays was getting to her, but then I remembered that she was like that the year round.

To get back in the holiday spirit, I went down the street to the post office. And waited. And waited...

All during the time I inched closer, I kept my eye on my other holiday nemesis: the Oliver Hardy lookalike postal employee. But that's where any resemblance to Hardy ended. Always grumpy, always yelling, always rude, I hoped to get any clerk but him. (When I got back to work, one of my peers told me he hated the "big fat mean postal worker" so I took solace in knowing that I was not alone.)

"Next," he bellowed, looking at me. "C'mon, c'mon, you want a mailed invitation?"

Like a dog with its' tail between its' legs (or Oliver asking for more porridge), I scooted up to his nook. "Ah...um...I need to mail this package. And hope it gets there for Christmas."

He grabs the box I'd taped up, looks at all six sides, then says, "This is unmailable! You've got an old address on here!"

"Oh, well it's an old box. I'm reusing it. You know...heh...keeping it green," I said and began to work at peeling the old label off. 

Then he said, "You're just not gonna help me at all, are you?"

Although, it seemed to me like I was doing his work for him.

Our hellish transaction completed, I got outta there fast.

The next day was time for me to take my mom shopping (which I've written about before...extensively). During the Christmas season, it's extra joyous. But I tried to work up that old holiday joy that yesterday's two clerks did their best to sour.

Everything went well (ish) until we reached the checkout line in the grocery store. This short, potato-looking woman stared at us, sizing the two of us up. In another nearly unintelligible accent from a country unknown, she asked my mom, "Is zere anyzing else to help with?"

My mom, frugal as ever, said, "Say, didn't you offer some program for every dollar I spend?"

Oh boy, I thought. We're gonna be here all day.

"Yezzz! If you spend zo much money, you collect points and trade zem in for free plastic ware."

They went back and forth for a while, my mom not understanding the process (or the clerk's accent) and the potato clerk unable to explain the program in a clear and concise manner.

Finally, I intervened. "Mom, the more money you spend, the more points you get, and say if you hit 500 points, then you can get some plastic container for food."

"Well," said mom. "How do they know how much I spent? I've already spent a lot of money here. Does that count? Or is it highway robbery?"

Like a magician, the woman displayed a small pamphlet from seemingly out of nowhere. "Here, take zis. It explainz everyzing."

At my wit's end, I reached for it. Suddenly the clerk yanked it away from me. I lunged in again. This time she hid it behind her back like a schoolyard bully keeping the ball away from me.

"No," she screamed, "I zaid I'd give it to her. Not you!" She pushed it into my mom's hand. "Here."

Trying not to blow a gasket, I said, "She can't hear very well. And she won't be able to read it. She's has macular degeneration." 

"Iz she really?" The ultimate insult. Like I'm trying to steal some lousy gold-plated plastic ware pamphlet from my mother by lying about her condition. Ms. Potato studied my mom who was now holding the pamphlet one inch in front of her face and upside down, perfectly illustrating my point. 

Disgusted, I took the pamphlet of immeasurable pleasures from mom and tried not to throw a hissy-fit; a hissy-fit the likes that the grocery store has never seen before. I considered asking for the manager, but hey, it was Christmas. And I wanted to get out of there.

I dunno, gang. Does this kinda stuff happen to you during the holidays?

Or is it just me? I think it's me. It's gotta be me...

Happy holidays, everyone!

On the other hand, if you'd rather celebrate your "horrordays" in a different manner, check out all of the Grinning Skull "Deathlehem" Christmas short story collections. A perfect counter-balance to all of the Hallmark movies and cherub-faced tykes and impossibly happy carolers and endless, cutesy Christmas songs that are impossible to escape. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow Over Deathlehem (because I have a story in it), available here! Also, all of these story collections' profits go to benefit the Elizabeth Glazer Pediatric AIDS Foundation.

Cooking the Oven

You know how people say "when it rains, it pours" in reference to a streak of bad luck?  I think that is perfectly appropriate for us during the last couple weeks. Except "when it smokes, there's fire" would be even more accurate.

My wife calls it an "exciting" day. I think "horrendous" would be more apt.

A couple days ago, my wife was baking cookies for an event at her place of work. Suddenly (calmly) she says, "Oh, great...the oven's on fire." While she's taking it in stride, just another day in the kitchen, I've already hit the "panic button," ready to call 911, the fire department, the armed guard, whoever. 

My wife takes the handy-dandy kitchen fire extinguisher to it, but that didn't put it out as it was an electrical fire (the so-called "electrical element" or some such gizmo was the culprit). So my wife runs down to the basement and shuts off the power to the range.

(All of which goes to show everyone that in the case of a zombie apocalypse, my wife should be the one to take charge. But I digress...)

I said, "ahhh...aren't you supposed to cook what's inside the oven and not the oven itself?"

"Oh, shut up."

For a while, we were both stumped on how to handle such a situation. 

"Um...who do we call to fix it? Is it fixable?" I asked.

"I don't know," replied my wife, "I've never had this happen before."

In the meantime, my wife starts pulling out various pots and pans. "Here," she said, "you're going to have to improvise while you cook."

I looked at the strange proffered cooking gadgets, wondering what the hell she was on about.

"You can grill food in the small grill and nuke the rest of it." 

Needless to say, dinner was a very interesting  (and not very successful) mess that night.

The next day, my wife comes home from work and says, "I bought an oven. It'll be here tomorrow." (I guess my meal was THAT bad.)

No moss on her, I thought great, problem solved, now I can get back to cooking the way God intended us to cook.

Except it opened the door on a ton of new problems. When the delivery men finally dropped it off (on the coldest day of the year, natch), I stared at the cockamamie device, wondering what sort of strange, robotic machine has my wife unleashed?

Where's the buttons? The knobs? How do you turn the damn thing on? Timer? WHAT timer??? Calgon, take me away!!! ARGHHH!

Apparently, my wife hadn't realized she had bought a "smart" oven. And clearly it had outsmarted me in every way. It didn't help that in this day and age of "keeping it green," there was no damn manual.

As I write this warning of robotics gone amok, we've only had the oven for a couple of days and I'm still trying to figure out the basics (and creating imaginative strings of curse words in the process). 

Give me a "dumb" oven any day. 

While I've got "dumb" on my brain, I'd be remiss if I didn't pimp my Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series. Hands down, one of the protagonists is the dumbest character you'll ever read in a book, satisfaction guaranteed! (Thank God, Zach's detective sister, Zora, is along for the crazy ride to offset Zach's dumbosity.) Start at the beginning with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and continue from there. All the books will be on the test.

Drunk Raccoon!

You've all heard of the film Cocaine Bear, right? (If you haven't, you're missing out on a very funny and creative flick). Well, move over, Cocaine Bear! There's a new impaired mammal in town...It's Drunk Raccoon (aka Trashed Panda)!

Two weeks ago, during the Thanksgiving weekend, a raccoon found itself up in the rafters of a liquor store. It fell through the ceiling tile and into the store, whereupon it decided to trash everything in sight and in the process, trashing itself. My kinda guy!

But I wonder what led up to this liquor store siege...

Did the Drunk Raccoon wake up one morning and  declare, "Eureka! By jove, I've got it! Today I shall trash the local liquor store!"

Is it a warning to humanity to take care of the earth and the other inhabitants upon it? Lest we be overrun by millions of drunk raccoons, worse than any Planet of the Apes movie you could ever imagine, enacting revenge for our careless destruction of our planet?

Or did Drunk Raccoon do it on a dare?

"I'm bored, Hank."

"Me too. Nothing to do but scavenge around in old trash cans, Chuck."

"Hmmm... I just got an idea! You see that store down there? The one where the hairless apes always go into?"

"Yeah?"

"Hank, I'll give you a day's worth of nuts and berries if you go down there and bust up the joint! C'mon! What do you got to lose? It's early morning, no people in sight, and you're already wearing a mask to keep your identity a secret!"

Silence. Interminable silence while Chuck's cognitive wheels turned. "You got yourself a deal, Hank!"

Either way, I'm still left wondering why Drunk Raccoon would decide to throw all of the bottles around and breaking everything in sight. Perhaps he "pre-gamed" with some booze before the mammalian act of destruction. Or he just panicked and went on a rampage. Whatever the case may be, Drunk Raccoon lived up to his moniker and got absolutely hammered by mixing all kinds of booze (deadly for us weak humans!).

When the store opened that morning, the first employee at the scene of the crime found Drunk Raccoon sprawled out on his belly, passed out in the bathroom (I don't think he made it to the porcelain shrine.).

Happy endings abound! Animal Control scooped him up and took him to a shelter where he sobered up and was then released into the wild. And Drunk Raccoon had quite a story to tell his grandkids.

But Drunk Raccoon's notoriety didn't end there. The liquor store created three new drinks in his honor: the Rye Rascal Sour, Midnight Masked Gin Fizz, and of course, Trash Panda Old Fashioned. Something for the entire family!

Even better, over $156,000 was raised for the Hanover County Animal Protection & Shelter by selling Drunk Panda merchandise! So put a smile on your grandchild's face this year and get him that Trashed Panda hoodie he can proudly wear in his classroom!

Well, by cracky, while we're thinking about destructive, furry creatures of the night, you may as well go over to Amazon and check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the satirical, darkly humorous, werewolf horror thriller that you know, you want but have been too embarrassed to admit it! Find it here!