The Wise Guy of the Round Table

 

Several weeks ago, I managed to get (most of) "the band" back together. Just as we had done over 40 years ago, laughs were spilled, beers were drunk, and stories were told. It seemed like not much had changed in all of those decades. Except, of course, there were quite a few more pounds and quite fewer hairs. And a lot of the stories dealt with all of our aches, pains, and operations. Kinda like battle wounds.

After my brother came back from the bathroom, he shook our friend's hand next to him.

He said, "my hand's not wet from washing it."

After much giggling and groaning, he further elaborated, "I don't bother washing my hands after going to the bathroom. Why bother? Your hands just get dirty again opening the bathroom door."

"That's very sound advice," I opined.

"You can learn a lot from me," he replied.

What an extremely wise man.

While on the topic of wise guys, meet Charlie Broadmoor, a struggling stand-up comic, who wishes for more of an audience. Unfortunately, a demon is in his audience one night. One who Charlie mercilessly teases about his comb-over. Things quickly go downhill from there. Read all about it in my darkly comic horror tale,

Demon With A Comb-Over.

Spring Break: Senior Style!

PARTYYYYYYY! (Or not.)

As an educator, my wife has been on spring break this week. And while students everywhere have been departing for warmer climates, tropical pool-side bars, and more debauchery than Hugh Hefner ever imagined, where have we been?

Giving our bathroom a makeover. During my wife's spring break, I've been busier than in some time. Oh sure, I can gripe and kvetch about my back and my swiftly spreading arthritis, but it hasn't stopped my wife from assigning me numerous tasks of Herculean magnitude. (Now I would be remiss if I didn't confess that my wife does 90% of the work. She's a master of tools and expert at flipping. The only flipping I'm comfortable with is the bird. But to her this is "fun.")

This isn't the kind of excitement I remember, lo those many years ago during our action-packed and nutty spring breaks. Back in the day, my pals and I would travel to Texas or Florida and from what I can remember of those trips (which admittedly isn't much, mainly due to the non-stop flow of beer), it was a markedly different experience than now.

As I write this, I'm staring at the ginormous box that contains our new toilet, a one-piece monster that weighs 150 pounds. I barely got it off the stoop (and that was by rolling it) and up one step. I'm dreading the moment when we have to carry the beast and lift and position it perfectly.

Whereas my pals and I used to go spring-breaking, now I'm excelling at back-breaking. We used to guzzle beers and snarf chili dogs. Now, it's aspirin with a Pepto-Bismol chaser. At least we're still swimming. But instead of the ocean, I'm swimming in sweat. We used to jump into pools fully clothed. Today my wife accidentally triggered the water shut-off and soaked me, fully clothed of course. And as opposed to chasing girls, I'm chasing a few hours of untroubled sleep (curse you, prostate!).

One of these years, I'm hoping my wife and I "enjoy" an actual, leisurely spring break. But with the caveat that we're still in bed by 8:00 p.m.  You know...taking a walk on the wild side!

If you too are looking to stroll down the wild side, look no further than my book, Corporate Wolf. Sure, it's a darkly comical, satirical, bloody, mystery horror suspenser about werewolves in the corporate world, but part of the tale is "semi-autobiographical," ripped from my interim years. Check it out here!

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.

Front Yard Olympics

Every two years, my wife and I become experts on the Olympics. "Holy cow! Did you see the way she perfectly landed that triple Sowkow?" It just comes naturally.

So, by extension, it would seem only natural that I decided to have a one-man Olympic event in my front yard for all the neighbors to witness.

I had just come off a long weekend of baby-sitting my daughter's bratty dogs (an Olympian event of endurance in itself). Tired, wearing dirty clothes, and arms loaded with a suitcase and a refrigerated bag containing numerous beers, I wearily climbed the front five stairs to gain entrance to my much-missed house.

Except my arthritic knees had a different plan. As if in slow motion, I reached the top of the stoop, wavered backwards, and gravity took me backward down the stairs and onto the sidewalk.

My first thought was hmmm, this must be how Simone Biles feels while flying through the air. My next thought was Oh my God, I'm gonna die on the sidewalk. Finally, I pondered the nature of my unusual and extraordinary decision to forego clean underwear that morning because I wanted to get home as quickly as possible. Then I heard my mom saying, always wear clean underwear in case you get in an accident.

All of these thoughts transpired as I flew backward and through the air in a matter of seconds. I wish I could say I planted my landing beautifully like Simone Biles, but alas, the judges would've penalized me big-time for my crash landing. I banged onto the sidewalk and bounced into the yard.

Mercifully, my elbow took the brunt of the crash, saving my head from a concussion or worse. Dazed, with cartoon birdies dive-bombing around my head, I looked around. Scattered throughout the yard were numerous beer cans and dirty clothes, shrapnel from my ammunition-loaded bags. 

Mortified, I sat up, thinking Wow, it's good to be alive. I'm really thankful that no neighbors witnessed--

"Hey, Stu, are you alright?"

Crap. One of the young neighbors across the street had come running out, having witnessed my Olympic trial through his window. 

Incredibly humiliated, I continued to sit in the yard in dirty underwear, waiting for the neighbor to go away. But he didn't.

"Ah, what's up, Joel?" I said in a nonchalant manner. 

"I was just looking out the window and saw your fall. Are you alright?"

"Yeah. My arthritis just got to me and gravity did the rest." I considered asking him how he would've rated my landing.

"But you're okay?" He looked about the yard in bemusement at all my beer cans and dirty clothes scattered throughout.

"Just a bruised ego, that's all," I answered, still sitting there like I had planned it that way. 

But that wasn't the only thing that was bruised. My back, legs, knees, shoulders, and elbow hurt like mad for two or three days after that. But at least I finally got to experience life as an Olympic champion. (With dirty underwear.)

Speaking of greatness, meet Zach Caulfield, a champion "male entertainment dancer (aka, a stripper)." Go on, just ask him. The problem is Zach constantly stumbles across dead bodies and more often than not, gets blamed for the murder. It falls upon his weary, much put-upon, usually pregnant sleuth sister to find the guilty party to save her idiot brother's hide from jail. Read the wacky antics and mystery and adventure in the Zach and Zora comic mystery series!

Boys Weekend!

I hadn't had a bonafide "boys weekend" in about twenty years, so I jumped at the chance when "Tom" and "Darren (Note: to protect the innocent, names have been changed so I don't get sued.)" invited me to go to Darren's Summer lake cabin in backwoods Oklahoma.

Now, I love both these guys, met them back in my college dormitory way back in the stone ages. But due to adult issues (soul-deadening work, marriage, kids, divorce, trauma, stuff), I hadn't seen them in about half of my lifetime.

I wondered if things would be awkward or if we could pick up right where we had left off thirty years ago. 

The answer is "YES, you CAN go home again." Honestly, it was like things hadn't changed since college.

Well, with some exceptions...

First of all, we three still enjoy our most favorite thing about college: BEER. Yayyyy! And it flowed pretty much non-stop at the cabin that weekend. The great equalizer.

When Tom and I finally arrived at the cabin from Kansas City (we were talking in Tom's truck and ended up missing our appropriate exit, thus delaying our arrival by an hour-and-a-half), it was clear that Darren had begun without us. So we had some quick catching up to do, so sooooo much beer drinking, we forgot to eat dinner.

Soon, we lapsed into imitating old college professors and an annoying girl from our dorm, and reminiscing about good (and some not so good) memories from college and the years after. We caught up on family, friends, careers, everything we could think of. Sometimes, stories were repeated often because with all of the flowing beer, it was hard to keep up. In other words, nothing much had changed in forty two years. Except...

Okay, there were a lot more pounds and a lot less hair, to be expected. And then we lapsed into what all 63 year old men talk about: health issues. While Tom and Darren broke out their cigars, drinks in hand, we went around sharing our medical trauma and history. And we all agreed that once you hit 60, it's all downhill from there. (Okay, Darren said it was 62 for him, but it's still in the range).

Scars were shown, heart monitors displayed, massagers brought out for bone-on-bone arthritic knees, wounds marveled at, operations deliberated on, hemorrhoid stories shared with gusto, and just an overall wonderment permeated we three kings of Oklahoma as to just how we got in such shape and why our bodies had started to betray us so quickly. (Surely it had nothing to do with our mutual admiration for beer.)

It seemed like just yesterday, we were living wildly at Naismith Hall in Lawrence, Kansas (home of the Jayhawks!), and having the time of our lives, the whole world in front of us and we on top of it.

Age happens.

Politics does, too. This topic I had been dreading. Not only is the whole country divided (thanks to a certain orange abomination and convicted felon), but it's struck several chords of disharmony amongst my divided friends in Kansas City. I have yet to have a good, mutually eye-opening conversation that ends well with anyone on the opposing team.

Now, Tom and I were firmly in the same camp as we talked through a lot of our fears and anger and worries about what passes for politics these days as we drove to Oklahoma. But I knew Darren was defiantly and proudly in the other camp.

By and large, we kept politics out of the round-room convo Friday night, but it crept into our lakeside chats by Saturday morning. Amazingly, things were kept civil, but of course no minds were changed. As I knew they wouldn't be. When Darren wanted to start whipping out his phone to show "proof" of his arguments, I tried to steer the pow-wow away and back to decrepit, blue-haired advertising professors who barked (long story).

In college, I was far from political. Didn't really care about politics, to be frank. I had more important things to think about: beer, girls, friends, and grades. And Darren called me out on that. He was right. I really didn't start getting political until the Obama era. When my wife said to read the news once in a while. (And we all know how that ended up.)

So some things had changed: Politics. Weight. Health issues. Age. Life. But in many other ways, it was like we'd never broken up the band and for one fun weekend, we were living like college-aged rock stars with great camaraderie once again.

And I can't wait to do it again. If I can get my walker up the stairs and get a new supply of rubber underwear for those incontinent nights, that is, you damn young whippersnappers!

While on the topic of people who refuse to grow up, pity poor Zora, a beleaguered, often pregnant sleuth who has her hands full with numerous children and a man-boy husband. But when her vacuous, dunder-headed, immature, yet good-hearted male stripper brother keeps finding himself suspected of murder, Zora has no choice but to find the real killers and keep her nitwit brother out of jail. Read the zany, comedic mystery romps that comprise the Zach and Zora series available here.

 

Medical Fun In My Swinging Sixties

Ah, yes, another week, another medical crisis. Folks, do whatever you can to avoid your sixties. Once I hit 60, it all started slaloming downhill like an out-of-control bus driven by a blind man on an ice-covered highway.

One day my wife says, "Hey, they're having heart scans for calcium build-up for a discount. I think it'd be a good idea if we did this."

I paused the TV and said, "Yeah, sure, sounds great," while having no idea what I was signing up for.

Okay, let's fast-forward to after the test (which was no big deal). Immediately, I get a call from a panicked nurse.

"Mr. West..." She sounded hesitant, a lowly assistant fated to deliver bad news.

"Yes?"

"Um, we got back the test results on your heart screening and...ah...your calcium levels are off the charts!"

Pause. Silence. Sooooo many crickets.

"Am I...am I...dying?"

"No. But you need to make some lifestyle changes."

"Wait...but...wait..."

"We'll send results in the mail."

I did indeed get results in the mail. Very non-specific results which said I was in the high calcium plaque level.

My wife dragged me to a cardiologist and he said, "Hmmmm. These results aren't very specific." 

"That's what I said, doc!" Defiantly, I stood my ground. "What can we do about this plaque in my arteries?"

"Well...get Roto-Rooter, maybe." Clearly tickled with himself, I let his joke falter beside my stone face. 

"Outside of that," he continued, "I'm going to order a stress test and echocardiogram." 

I groaned as he laid out the details of what this entailed.

Couple weeks later, I'm at the hospital awaiting alongside a buncha other old folks in walkers, wheelchairs, and lugging around oxygen tanks (straight from the casinos) to get into my three hour testing grounds. What life must feel like in an old folks home; the ghost of Christmas Future, ho, ho, ho.

The first nurse out of about a zillion, an amiably sleepy guy, comes to get me and explain the lay of the land.

"Now, I'm gonna stick this needle in your arm and then get an IV going."

Suddenly, I'm having PTSD flashbacks from sadistic Nurse Wretched from my days of being a lab rat in a skin study. "But...but, Josh," I whined, "my veins are really tough to find."

He says, "I'm an expert. It's boring to me, really."

Well, far be it from me to wake amiable Josh out of his going-through-the-motions sleepwalking on the job, so I let him do his job. True to his word, he hit it spot-on. Then he takes me back to the death waiting room. Where there's a horrendous drilling sound shaking the walls. Terrified, I look around at my "peers" to see if they're as fearful about the tortures awaiting them as I am, but mercifully for them, they don't have their hearing aids turned on.

Josh slides back in and gathers me up for my echocardiogram. "Meet Gunner, he's a really nice guy," he says and deposits me into the curiously monikered "Gunner's" hands.

"Get your shirt off and lay down facing me, arms up over your head, knees bent, butt back," he orders. The intern with him grimaces when I strip and attempt to do an awkward, backwards pirouette up onto the table, the least comfy contortionist position you could ever attempt. Sadists, the whole lot of them.

Gunner says, "Well, you don't really have to stick your butt out...I just think it's a fun lil' ice-breaker." Gunner and the intern giggle. I turn fifty shades of red.

Soon they're gelling up my chest and searching for my heart.

"Hmmmm..." says Gunner.

"'Hmmmm?' I repeat. "Is that a good 'hmmmm' or a bad 'hmmmm?"

"Well...according to the readings...you're already dead. But I'm sure the machine is just on the blink again." Gunner winks at the intern with a grin. "Pretty sure."

When I'm finally done with the comedy stylings of Gunner and his silent sidekick, Josh snags me again and takes me into another room. A nurse comes out and says, "Hi, I'm Natalie...and I'm here to stress you out."

I force a laugh while remembering a couple of past stress tests I've taken. Pure hell where they put you on a treadmill until you're ready to pass out and your heart explodes. Thankfully, with my arthritic knees, that's an impossibility for me now.

"I'm going to inject you with chemicals that will increase your heartrate. It might feel pretty weird for you," she says.

Wondering how "weird" things might get, I ask the burning question that's flaming through my brain. "Ahhh...has this ever given anyone a...you know, heart attack?"

"Well..." she drawls, digging deep into her nostalgia closet, "there was this one guy who apparently had a heart attack. But it turned out that he was high on cocaine and it simulated a heart attack. If it's any consolation, he loved it."

"Um...yeah, Natalie, that makes me feel soooooo much more comfortable."

After the injection, I'm awaiting for the spasms and seizures and freak-outs that are sure to accompany it, but not much happens. I get jittery (what else is new?), anxious (status quo, says my wife), and headachy, but no big freak-out.

They keep checking on me. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah...just a little anxious, but nothing new."

"Ummmm...your heart rate's off the charts, though."

"Is that...good or bad???"

"Normal," says Natalie.

A little dizzy, I sit up and wait it out while Josh comes back in to sleepily look me over and whisk me away to a tubular machine where he takes multiple pictures of my chest.

And finally, I'm released! Released into the wilds of wheelchairs, walkers, and oxygen tanks. Now...where's my cigarettes?

Speaking of making really stupid life choices, Tex McKenna, teenaged, angsty male witch, just can't help himself. I mean, why else try and find out the identity of the killer who's systematically taking out his high school's bullies (not that Tex will miss them all that much)? Soon enough, Tex and his small group of loyal allies are also in the killer's sites. Check out the mysterious, thrilling, funny, scary, suspenseful, romantic, paranormal adventures of Tex and company in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy!

Ol' Dry Eyes

Just when I think I've hit the wall on my body betraying me in myriad forms (the horrific price of aging), my eyes start freaking out on me. I'm not just talking about the new floaters (which always look like bats swooping just outside the line of my peripheral vision), no-siree-bob-cat-tail! Now I've been diagnosed with "dry eyes."

Which seems to me to be a misnomer. My eyes won't stop tearing up, so how in the world can my newest ailment be called dry eyes? I'd think "swampy eyes" would be a more apt description.

For instance, last week when I went to the grocery store, floods were gushing from my eyes. By the time I got to the check-out, the clerk was giving me a funny look (with her perfectly normal dry eyes). Surely, she must've thought I'd had one of the saddest encounters in the produce section that any man had ever suffered. Or I was just bawling because the prices were so high.

I've tried eyedrops, over the counter and prescription (even the pharm tech commented "those are some damned expensive eyedrops!"), and none of them have helped much. Oh sure, it's a temporary salve, but just minutes later, I'm "hitting the bottle" again, singlehandedly keeping the eyedrop industry in business. (And at $135 dollars for a tiny vial, you'd think the drops would last longer than five minutes.)

Out of desperation, I told the pharmacist of my dilemma. "I had that same thing," she said. "They ended up cauterizing my tear ducts. Worst pain I've ever felt."

On that hopeful note, I visited my optometrist. "Doc," I said, "you've gotta help me! I walk around looking like I've just seen Bambi's mother die!" With great reluctance, I added, "My pharmacist said they burned her tear ducts." (For some reason, I couldn't grasp the word "cauterized" at this moment of near panic.)

The doc looked at me, perplexed. "Well...how about I put temporary plugs into your tear ducts and we'll see if that works. It's a lot less final than cauterization."

First, I thought why in the hell didn't you tell me you could do this before I spent $135 bucks on a tiny bottle of worthless eyedrops? Next, I thought this sounds tantamount to torture.

"How invasive is the procedure, doc?" I asked, attempting to swallow the golf ball lodged in my throat.

She shook her head. "Ah, it's nothing, nothing at all."

Several minutes later, I've got my chin and head strapped into a torture rack while she takes out extremely long--and terrifying--tweezers, attempting to grasp miniscule plugs. Now, I don't know about you, but to me, eye surgery is the scariest sort of procedure I can think of. And when I see tweezers growing, growing, growing in size and moving closer to my eye, I start to panic.

"Um, doc, maybe I think I'll change my miAIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEnd!"

"There," she says, "one down, one to go."

With the eye she'd just put the plug in weeping profusely (not giving me much hope), I considered making a fast getaway. If I can swing her magnifying torture machine gizmo around to smack her, I'd be able to feign right, jag left, and bolt for the door. Yeah, that's my plan and I'm going to...

"Hold still, this won't hurt at all."

"No, no, no, no, Doc, I, ahhhh, forgot I have a very important appAIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEtment!"

The doc sat back, sighed, clearly just as happy to be finished with the grueling procedure as I was. In a snarky voice (maybe meant to imitate me), she said, "There, Stuart...the torture is over." The accompanying finger quotes she used told me that she'd obviously never had the process done to her.

As I left, my eyes squirting oceans, the check-out gals had the gall to ask me for payment. This time the tears were real once I saw the cost.

Speaking of big man-babies, you oughta get a load of Zach Caulfield, male entertainment dancer (not a "male stripper," thank you very much). This guy's heart is in the right place, but his general motivations in life are strictly on a third-grader's level. So, when he constantly finds himself stumbling over dead bodies, it always falls on his competent, usually pregnant, highly exasperated sleuth of a sister to bail him out of trouble by finding the real murderers. Read the wacky mystery adventures of Zach and Zora available here!

The Trap (and Welcome To It)!

Usually, Snapchat is utilized by my daughter, brother and myself for sending ludicrously filter-altered pictures of ourselves to torture our family and friends on a daily basis. You know...like God intended Snapchat to be.

But the other day, my daughter sent out a Snap, nothing in the picture but darkness, with this thought splayed across the blackness, "Waking up is hard. Don't do it. It's a trap!"

At first I thought, wait is this some sort of nihilistic emo-drudgery bull-stuff or maybe a cry for help? Then I thought how funny it was. And thought-provoking.

Waking up--and staying up--is indeed hard. (Just ask my wife who sets a barrage of alarms and triple snoozes them all. So does my daughter, actually, except her alarm is a horrendous air siren-like sound that could wake up the dead. Me? I wake up when a fly sneezes.) 

But how is "waking up" a trap?

Let's break it down...

We're all conditioned to wake up at a certain time throughout our life-cycle. As children, mean ol' Mommy and Daddy wake us up to go to the dreaded school. Same thing goes in high school and college, but by then, you're on your own, hopefully life's lesson having sunk in without perhaps not-so-mean-after-all Mom and Dad having to aid you in getting up by this time. 

 After school, you're definitely on your own. Or at least, I would hope you're waking up all by your big-boy self. Unless you're a millennial, of course, who's moved back in with your parents (16% of today's millennials have taken the horrific return to roost plunge).

Once you enter the work-force, it's all over. You have to wake up every day at a certain time. Or else you move back in with your parents. Therein lies the trap. Call it the "Parent Trap 21st Century Style."

And why are we subjected to The Trap? As I implied, the programming starts from childhood. In fact, even as babies, you're expected to go to sleep and wake up at a certain, predictable time (and we all know how well that works, right?). This early training prepares you for a life of drudgery in the work force where waking up is mandatory. This is the price we pay for living in a capitalistic country.

"But, Stuart," I hear you thinking, "are you trying to tell us that people in socialist and communist countries don't have to wake up at a certain time?"

Hold the phone, folks, put down the pitchforks and don't pack your bags yet! Of course said countries have to wake up at certain times as well, whether it be to go stand in bread lines or go to the factory or super-secret KGB training or whatever. In fact, it's one of the very few things (outside of eating and sex) that unites humanity across our great world: the forced trap of waking up.

Now, before you all start thinking that retirement is sounding better and better because you won't be forced to wake up at a certain time, I've got news for you... Hello, prostate!! Sheesh, I can't remember the last time I slept through the night without a nocturnal bathroom run.

Also--and here's the most unfair, ridiculous rub of all--once you get older, the ability to sleep late vanishes! Poof! Like an evil David Copperfield waved a wand over your shrinking, shriveling body and said "abra abra cadaver, I wanna reach out and wake ya'." (Apologies to the Steve Miller Band; not that I'm a fan, mind you, but I can never resist an easy joke.)

I remember all through college, when I possessed the preternatural ability to sleep until noon or sometimes even later (probably didn't help that I'd just gotten in about five in the morning). But once you get out of school, the sleep late gene begins to dissipate. By the time you're in your "golden years," you're up before the roosters.

I'm telling you, avoid the trap, heed my daughter's sage advice! Just get used to your parents' basement, you can adapt.

On that cheery note, y'all could probably use a laugh. If so, check out my Zach and Zora comic mystery series. The first title in the series, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock pretty much tells you what kinda humor you're in for. Hey! I didn't say they're great books, but if like me, your inner 12-year-old needs a release, have at it! Get 'em here!

I See Dead People! Or Something...

Well, another day, another new physical ailment. The curse of growing old I suppose. My wife tends to see that glass as half-full. Not me, I'm a hole in the damn bucket that's not fixable kinda guy. I know that makes me unpleasant to be around (just ask my wife), but let's see how you react when everything in your body hurts.

But I digress...

You guys know what "floaters" are? No, I'm not talking about the dead stiffs TV cops pull out of the river and I'm definitely not referring to the after-effects of people who have too much fiber in their diet (if you know what I mean and maybe we better just stop talking about that right now).

No more digressions!

Back on point... The floaters I'm referring to are small specks or "clouds" that move across your line of sight. They become detached from your retina (or the vitreous connected to it) and there ain't no cure for it. Great! It's gonna kinda be hard to get used to this...

Why, I remember my first floater like it was yesterday... In fact, it was yesterday which is why I remember the specifics. Cue flashback music and swirly screen and...fade out...

It hit me suddenly. Stepping out of the shower, I turned my head toward the towel rack and suddenly a wisp of black smoke swam by me, then disappeared. I freaked out. Surely all the horror films and books that I'd consumed had come back to get me with a vengeance, for the Haunting of Stuart West had begun. I turned around, hoping for some rational explanation and the ghost zipped by me again. Standing in the bathroom, dripping wet and naked, I let loose an ear-piercing scream, much worse than when my wife spots an arachnid. Even my deaf dog came to see what was the matter.

Soon enough, all sorts of spirits and wisps were speeding by me, toying with me, always in the corner of my eye, but never staying long enough to solidify.

I did what any mature, responsible adult would do: I called my wife at work.

"Hi...um...I'm seeing dead people," I said.

Silence. Quiet. Dead quiet. Deader and quieter than the spirits haunting me from the periphery of my vision.

Finally, "What?"

I explained. And she explained to me what they were.

"Floaters? I thought that was what you might find in the toilet if you've had too much--"

"Don't be dumb," she said. Then she told me that there was nothing to be done about them. 

So I have to get used to them. I haven't yet. Once I've temporarily forgotten about them, a sudden turn of the head will bring them back to haunt me again. I'm trying to learn to embrace my constant new buddies, my ghostly apparitions piggy-backing onto my eyesight, but it's a chore. I'll never again take for granted those victims in horror films who are going through similar hauntings.

But I'd much rather have the kind of floaters you get when you've had too much fiber. At least they're not constantly with you.

Hoka-hoka-hey! While I'm battering you with juvenile humor (I'm six years old!), why not check out my incredibly juvenile Zach and Zora comic mystery series? The first book's title is Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and the humor just goes careening downhill after that. But don't take my word for it! Check 'em out yourself right about here!

Sardinia!

Several weekends ago, my wife and I thought it'd be a great idea to go to "Boulevardia," a two day outdoor music and beer festival (two of my favorite things wrapped together in one big package meant especially for me!) in downtown, Kansas City. With 70 musical acts on tap, I thought what could possibly be the downside?

Well... A) I'm not as young or fit as I used to be; and B) the weather! Oh, my God, the weather!

Leading up to the event, I kept my eye on the weather, tracking the long-term forecast with intense scrutiny. What I'd been on the lookout for was rain, tornadoes, the usual fun stuff of the Midwest, only maxed out by global warming. Things looked good! 85 degrees as the high for both days, no rain in sight. And then...the forecast heat kept inching up, bit by bit, day by day. Until it hit 101 degrees on Saturday. With the humidity really, really high as well.

Crap.

Alright. I pulled up my big boy britches and prepared. I imagined a musical montage (cue the theme to "Rocky"), while I tried on all of my old shorts, stashed at the bottom of a drawer beneath our bed. (Of course, I think we'd want to cut the part out of the montage where none of my shorts fit and I had to make a mad dash to Target for new ones. Hey, don't blame my weight gain! It's the damned humidity  making all of my clothes shrink.) 

So, armed with shorts, a hat, water bottles, sun screen and other life essentials (we looked like Hawaiian be-shirted campers), we headed for day one of Boulevardia. Day one wasn't bad. It started at 5:00 p.m., so most of the blistering sun had fallen and there was a nice breeze. But by the end of the night, when headliner Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats (one of the main reasons for our attendance) took the main stage, we found ourselves in the middle of a huge, jam-packed mob situation. Hundreds and hundreds and thousands and hundreds of fans were squished together like sardines in a can.

While Rateliff was awesome, several things impeded my enjoyment: 1) I was sweating like a stuck pig and feeling claustrophobic; 2) the ever present threat of Covid (this was our big "coming out" party; we had forgone masks completely for the first time in a while); and 3) I kept thinking "wouldn't this be an ideal place for a mass shooting?" 

Which is sad, really, that that's what was going through my mind. I kept imagining ways to smuggle a gun into the event, which wouldn't have been tough at all, instead of just letting go and enjoying the concert. A very depressing current state of affairs in which we live.

But it wasn't all bad. Where else could you see "Saxsquatch," some guy who puts on a Bigfoot costume and plays the saxophone, covering a lotta maudlin hits of the '70's and '80's? (How in the world he managed not to pass out in that heat, in that costume, was beyond me. Unless...could it be? Naw. But, wait...maybe, just maybe...he was a REAL BIGFOOT!)

We survived the first day, no great shakes. But day two was an entirely different affair. It started out hot at 11:00 A.M. and just got blazingly worse. In my youth, my friends and I went to these festivals non-stop and the heat and humidity never bothered us. Here, it was a case of survival where we constantly sought out shade. We grew clever and pulled chairs into little rock islands with tree coverage. I wet down a wash cloth and put it on top of my head beneath my hat, no matter how dumb I looked. We ended up at various musical stages, at this point dictated by the amount of shade coverage offered.

When my wife moved onto the Maker's alley, I was near collapse. Like an old fat man, I found a tree and plopped down beneath it,  chigger bites preferable over heat stroke.

All around me young people laughed, gathered, drank, stood out in the sunshine. You know, being annoying. Young people suck! Get offa my lawn!

Once my wife returned, I told her I'd had enough. In small increments, we made our way out of there, stopping beneath trees, finding abandoned seats, naturally pausing for beer, until we finally landed in God-made, natural air conditioning.

The moral of the story? Just wait until you get old, damn whippersnapper!

Hey, now, don't open the doors to the ol' folks home for me quite yet, but floundering stand-up comedian Charlie Broadmoor is beginning to feel the weight of his mortality weighing on him. Things don't get any better when he inadvertently heckles a demon during one of his nightclub gigs. Now, he really feels that ol' life time clock ticking. Read the Amazing True Story in my book, Demon with a Comb-Over, available right here, right now! 

Wait! 60? That can't be right!??!

Turning 40 didn't bug me. I didn't even flinch at tipping into 50. But when my wife reminded me that my upcoming birthday would be my 60th, I freaked. It felt like I was taking the first doddering step toward the early-bird hour at the cafeteria. I swear to God I thought I was gonna be 59! 

"Do the math, dear," said my wife.

Well, math's not my friend, and it certainly wasn't this time. After struggling and counting on my digits (I had to borrow my wife's fingers and toes, as well), I finally came up with 60. Ta-dahhhhhhh!

Everyone had always told me that 50 is the big one. The one where I'd go out and buy a convertible, get hair plugs, and start (God help us all) wearing Skinny Jeans. But 50 didn't bug me, not one bit.

But 60! Man. No wonder my body's betraying me. Let's see...we're looking at getting winded by walking up stairs. Losing hair in the most mysterious of places only to see it migrate to most unwelcome new areas. Forgetfulness ("I didn't put that there!" "Well, then who did? The dogs?" "Yes."). 

And it seems like the older I get, the more crap I'm starting to lug around whenever we go on extended drives or trips. I put everything into a bag (but I'll never call it a "fanny bag." That's for you young whippersnappers.). What's in the bag, I hear everyone asking? Well, there's moisturizer, a top-of-the-line, retractable back-scratcher (I call it "The Claw"), several different chargers (why can't these impertinent young enterprising punks make one charger for everything?), a Kindle, a bottle of ointment for itchy skin, and soooooo many pills.

Back in the day, I went from no pills to a multivitamin every day. Arranged by my wife, that seemed like a big change in lifestyle for me. Now, I'm taking more pills than Seth Rogen at a party. I'm taking pills for bones, for heart strength, for eyesight. Hell, I'm even taking fiber and that's the one area I've never needed help with. I'm as regular as a cuckoo clock. I don't even know what half of the pills are or what they do, but it takes up a good chunk of time every morning, swallowing handfuls of the blasted pills.

My eyesight's getting so bad that I really don't like to drive at night. Things get blurry and you never know when my addled old man brain might take a detour and get lost.

When I first moved into my 'hood, I was the young whippersnapper, the old neighbors around me dying off left and right. Suddenly, I'm the grand ol' man on the block, the neighborhood historian. When did that happen? Even worse, when I talk to the new youth splattered around the block, I find myself embarrassingly trying to sound younger than I am.  "Hey, that's cool" and "I'm down with that" and "What's up?" and "Twenty-three skidoo, kiddo!" (Okay, I'm kidding about that last one. Even I'm not that old.)

For God's sake, I'll absolutely know I'm pretty much finished once I start watching the CBS ("Chronically Bitchy Seniors") network. Even worse, I might actively seek out "Matlock" reruns.

As I sit here writing this, in my gravy-stained Mr. Roger's sweater, my fingers cracking like a playing card clipped to the spokes of my bike back in the olden days of yore, I have to wonder how in the world I'm ever gonna handle 70.

Wait...I gotta go. There's some damn punk kids playing in my yard!

While we're chatting about old things (my back hurts!), check out my historical ghost saga, Ghosts of Gannaway. Not only does it take place in the '60's (peace, brother), but a dual timeline plays out during the Great Depression (kinda what I'm facing now). Oh, and it's scary, too.

Gramma and Grammar

Based on age and "wisdom," how much lenience should we allow our grandparents?

The only grandparent I ever got to know well was my grandmother and she truly confounded me, her cracker-barrel cynical wisdom profoundly baffling.

After school, I'd always greet Grams with:

"Hi, Gramma, how was your day?"

"Long and boring," she'd reply.

Even at an early age, I saw this opening to our ritualistic conversation as a mere prelude of horrors to come.  Yet I stupidly plodded on, the living definition of "insanity:" doing the same thing over and over and expecting things to change.

"Sorry to hear that, Grams."

"Can't see nuthin', can't do nuthin', ain't good for nuthin'," she explained very helpfully.

I swear to Gawd, by the time I tried to work through the double (quadruple?!) negatives she'd hurled at me, I didn't know where she stood. 

Typically, I'd just move on (hey, I had high school problems at the time and the whole world revolved around me, dammit!). Other times when I told her my day spectacularly sucked as well, she'd reply with this horrific bon mot:

"Bah! School days are the best days of your life."

Huh.

Grams must've gone to a high school full of unicorns and rainbows and coke in the water fountains and mutually loving pals with no mean cliques or bullies.

I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, I truly did. But somewhere between her mangled grammar and whiskered tough-love, I threw in the towel.

"Gramma," I said, "school days are terrible! They're the worst days of my life!"

She replied, "Feh. 'Cain't' never did nuthin'."

She was speaking Yoda-speak before Yoda was even a twinkle in a muppet's eye. And I still don't get it. I mean, what kind of message was I supposed to take away from "school days are the best days of my life?" That everything was downhill from there? That I should just pack it in now, save myself a lot of grief? She certainly didn't seem very happy.

And then there's "Cain't never did nuthin'." I had no clue who this "Cain't" guy was (some biblical dude, no doubt), but why was it relevant to me that he did "nuthin'?" Furthermore, Grams must've been having such a blast in her school days, she forgot to pay attention in English class.

Well... Grams odd wisdom and cynicism is apparently hereditary as my mom's carrying on the same proud tradition of not making sense and trying to bring everyone along for her trip to despair, worse than Eeyore on downers. I'm aware of it, hope that I don't fall into that dark trap, even though my wife says I do some times.

So I need to watch it. After all, Cain't never did nuthin'. (Oh! It all makes sense to me now! All of it! Every last mangled word!)

I got hairs in low places...

Now that I've inserted that infernal country song earworm in your head...you're welcome!

Hair's a persnickety beeyotch.

Speaking from a male's perspective, the older you get the more apt it is to vacate premises where you'd like it to be and migrate toward unexpected places. Go figure.

I've been balding for a while. No problem, I own it. But, geeze, who wants hairy ears? It's like the follicles decided to abandon their proper head roost and move a little south, set up camp on my lobes. Crikey, the first time I noticed a long hair jutting from my lobe in the mirror, I shrieked. I looked like I'd stepped straight out of a Dr. Seuss book: the oddly baldly, fully woolly lobe-a-teer, with a long hair from ear to there.
What kinda cosmic joke is this? I don't understand what possible good a long hair sticking out of an earlobe can bring. It's not like it fights off bugs or pests, so eat it, Darwin. Conversely, maybe God's having quite a laugh on us. 

I'm not alone in nature's malicious malady. Some time ago, I had dinner with a friend and I couldn't take my focal point off of his ears. We're talking bushels of bristles. If someone had lit a match near him, the entire restaurant would've gone up in a wildfire. Next time I saw him, he'd performed some much needed spring cleaning. Clearly, his wife finally had "the chat" with him. (It happens; my brother's in-laws gave him a Christmas gift of a nose and ear trimmer. Talk about tough love.)

Likewise, my legs have become as hairless as a French bicyclist. I could be a leg model (except, of course, that people have told me I have the legs of gnarly Ents).

My daughter has buckets of hair. Even though she moved outta the house a couple months ago (and only stayed a couple of months), I'm still finding her hair everywhere. Taunting me. "Nah, nah, you had your day."

It's like that Dashboard Confessional song... "Your hair is everywhere..." Just not in good places, and clearly not what the band meant.

Maybe it's time we follicularly challenged made a stand. Start trending it, become the new too-cool-for-school. #BraidNoseHair. #HairyEarsHaveFeelingsToo. 

Speaking of hairy situations, things couldn't possibly get worse for the unfortunate (and secret-holding) weary winter travelers tucking in for the night at the creepy Dandy Day Inn. If you have hair, it'll stand on end when you read Dread and Breakfast! Hair-raising guaran-damn-tee!