Dr. Quack

From as far back as I can remember, my parents used to drag my brother and I  (kicking and screaming) to a doctor who they swore by all the way up through high school. We'll call him "Dr. Quack" for that's what he was.

He was also a "baby doctor," meaning he specialized in toddlers, or so it seemed (I had this theory verified one day when I was about fifteen. I was stuck next to my mom in the waiting room and to my surprise, in strolled a notorious, chain-smoking, fully-bearded stoner, led by his mother. He groused loudly, "Mom, why do I have to go to a baby doctor?" I never thought of him as so notorious after that.).

Anyway, no matter my ailment, this quack's response was always the same: "Hmmm, I'm going to prescribe Singlets. If you're not better in two weeks, come back in." These "Singlets" never did a damn thing. Dr. Quack clearly had a special deal going on with the Big Pharma manufacturer of these sugar-coated placebos. He made a fortune off of Singlets just through my family alone.

Oh, he had one other thing he kept threatening to do to me. "Hmmm, if he keeps getting stuffed up ears," Dr. Quack said solemnly to my mom, "We'll have to put tubes in his ears."

Whaaaaaaaat? The thought of tubes in my ears terrified me. Not only would it be painful and torturous, but I easily imagined the bullies lined up at school waiting to pummel the unfortunate kid with tubes sticking out of his ears. Barbaric, worse than electro-shock treatment to my grade school stuffed up ears.

One day, Dr. Quack had convinced my mother that my brother and I had allergies. So off to another quack we flew. This guy decided I was allergic to peanut butter (absolutely not true), milk (ditto), and a slew of ordinary things that I constantly indulged in without any problem whatsoever. Regardless, we had to get painful shots each week. And even though we knew it was coming, we tried to block the tragic day out, utilizing a child's ability to believe that what you don't think about won't hurt you. And every Friday, there was a stubborn, tear-filled fit with my mom always winning. I don't even remember getting lollipops.

Finally, once I hit college, I escaped the menace of Dr. Quack, choosing instead to just power through the illness or go to the campus clinic. Until one day I was talking to my friend and things came around to Dr. Quack.

"Dr. Quack!" exclaimed my buddy. "He was a terrible doctor! Everybody knew that he was the guy to go to if you wanted to get out of gym or play football or whatever. I can't believe you guys went to him! HA HA HA HA HA HA..."

So, it seemed that even though I'd put distance between myself and the notorious Dr. Quack, his long shadow still loomed over me with a handful of Singlets and plastic tubing.

Years later, as an adult I went to a nearby walk-in clinic due to bronchitis. I nearly shrieked when I found out the doctor on call was...Dr. Quack Junior! My past still haunted me.

Speaking of haunts, visit beautiful Gannaway, Kansas. A cozy little mining town originating in the '20's, Gannaway offers plentiful jobs and beautiful country living and murders and ghosts and scares and ancient curses...and...and...wait! Okay, maybe you shouldn't visit Gannaway. Instead, why not read about it in my historical ghost tale Ghosts of Gannaway, the perfect book to cozy up to on these cold winter nights.

Cats and Dogs Are On the Menu!

"Immigration...immigration...immigration...immigrants are poisoning the blood of our country...immigration, bla, bla, bla...They're eating the cats and dogs of Springfield..."

 Wait...WHAT?

"Immigrants are eating the pets of Springfield...immigration...immigration...immigration...I love rich, white men...immigration...immigration...bla, bla, bla..."

That's what I THOUGHT he said. Me and millions of others witnessed this latest lunacy and lie amongst Trump's debacle of a debate against Kamala Harris.

I nearly fell asleep listening to Trump rant and rage through his only campaign issue (guess what...yep! Immigration!), until he jolted me awake with his pet eating accusation. That's a fun, new twist!

But, honestly, it's the same ol' tired racism just on steroids. As far back as the 1800's, "Amuricans" have been accusing immigrants (it started with the Chinese population) of eating their pets, merely because there's a difference in skin color. And Trump's out there blatantly floating MARA ("Make America Racist Again"), even though the debate moderator debunked Trump's lie about Haitians eating pets, coming from Springfield, Ohio's city manager himself. Trump doesn't care. Because of his self-serving and dangerous racism and hatred and desire to divide, Springfield's had to evacuate schools and other public facilities due to threats.

Fun!

If the Trump loyalists would wake up and think about it, ALL of us are immigrants of a sort, descended from people from other countries (unless you're a Native American, but that's a tragedy best saved for another rant). And the racists are shamelessly tugging on people's heartstrings, because what's one thing EVERYONE likes and can agree on? PUPPIES AND KITTIES! 

(Me, I prefer the Spaniel Spaghetti and the Kitty Corn Dogs. I kid, I kid!)

Do we really want this racist clown "leading" our country? Leading us straight over a cliff like so many lemmings?

I mean c'mon! Even Taylor Swift, the most powerful person in the world, has endorsed Kamala, so that should speak volumes! (Okay, sure she's a "Psy-Op Agent for Socialism," but she maintains more credibility than, say...rapper Ye, white nationalist Nick Fuentes, and the MyPillow guy, three of Trump's trusted "cabinet members.")

So, this November, make the right call. Please. Now...pass the critter fritters...

Speaking of tall tales and lies, have you read my book, Ghosts of Gannaway? It's a meticulously researched, absolutely 100% true historical account of a doomed Midwest mining town. And everything actually happened! Well...maybe except for the ghosts. But other than that, it's totally true! Kinda...if you sorta ignore the part about the deadly native-american curse, the yellow-eyed fever, the haunted museum, ghosts past and present, a murderous conspiracy, and many other things. But you can read the ENTIRELY TRUE historical, supernatural novel HERE!

The Curse of Halloween 2023

The day after every Halloween, a curse falls upon our house. No, for a change, I'm not talking about American politics. That's a curse of a different sort.

Rather, every day following Halloween, something shrinks in our house. This year it was a wine glass.

Check out the photo above...

No, it's not a hoax! Not a dream! Not an imaginary story! And we didn't buy cutesy Matryoshka doll wine glasses to nest within one another.

These matching set of glasses were gifted to my wife this year at a work party. And they were of the same size. 

Not anymore.

After using them Halloween night, my wife put hers into the dishwasher. The next morning...it HAD TURNED INTO A SHRUNKEN HEAD VERSION OF IT'S FORMER SELF! AIEEEEEEE! *Choke!* *Gasp!*

Perfectly reduced including the slogan upon the glass, identical in every detail but size.

"The curse is back," I said.

"I know. And I really liked those glasses," said my wife.

"Well...you do drink smaller wine portions than me," I volleyed, trying to be the optimistic, "glass-half-sized"...er, I mean, the "glass-half-full" kinda guy that doesn't come easily to me.

I suppose our curse started about four years ago. The first thing we noticed that had shrunk around Halloween was the economy, and hence, our budget.

Now I hear all of you supernatural pooh-poohers saying, "That's no curse! That happened to everyone!"

I say thee NAY for I have the startling facts that I'll lay out upon you.

The following year, I awoke after Halloween and threw on the EXACT, SAME (REDUNDANT) SWEATSHIRT I'd had on the night before. Yet...and yet...it had mysteriously shrunk, particularly around the gut! The night before it had fit. But the cold hard facts were plain and staring me in the face: we had a Halloween curse upon our household.

You want more facts? The next Halloween, THE SAME THING HAPPENED TO MY JEANS! I couldn't even button them the following morning! And they hadn't been in the washer or dryer either!!!

Clearly, our house is built upon an old Indian burial ground. Hey, I don't make stuff up. I'm a hard-hitting journalist who just reports the facts. And I believe all of the facts presented to me on TV and the internets.

While we're on the topic of all things spooky and Native American supernatural hijinks, check out my book, Ghosts of Gannaway. It's another hard-hitting piece of journalism about a cursed mining town, culled from the true facts of yesteryear. And every...WORD...IS...TRUE! (Well...except for the stuff about the curse, the ghosts, the haunted museum, the murders, the...)

Another Day, Another Indictment...

This is getting a little old. I'd kinda think that even the MAGA crowd might be getting a little tired of it, too. Donny Trump, of course, has been indicted four--count 'em, four!--times during a four-and-a-half month time span with 91 felonies under his (needs to be loosened a few notches) belt. And of course he was just ruled guilty of fraud in a New York civil case.

Damn. In the United States history, we've never had a president indicted before. Yet...yet...here's the punchline: Trump's currently tied with our current president in voting polls!

How can this possibly be? Don't get me wrong, I have issues with Biden, too. He's by far not my ideal president. But when compared to the lying, traitorous, bullying, raping, crooked, misogynistic, racist, blowhard, hate-mongering, philandering, Big Mac chowing orange alternative, Joe looks like Honest Abe. At least Joe's trying to assist the country, more than Donny ever did. Trump's wallet and ego always comes first, even ahead of family.

Wake up, half the country!

Do you really want to be dragged along with Trump's self-proclaimed four-year "revenge term?" That's all that's on his mind. Yep, he's railed about how he's going to imprison his "enemies (i.e., honest politicians who don't buy into his lies)," defund the Justice Department (the only branch willing to go after him), and eliminate any executive branch's checks and powers over his tyrannical stranglehold over our country. This ain't how a president's supposed to act.

Unbelievably, his grotesque and cheap theatrics just become more childish and deranged. This week he called for departing Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Mark Milley to be put to death. Unbelievable. AND he's called upon his spineless Republican sycophant senators to shut down the government. Why? Because he thinks it might keep him out of prison, a desperate last chance to "defund the election interference against him." He doesn't care about how bad this would be for our country or the millions of government employees who will have to work without pay checks. Despicable, you betcha! I'd even go so far as to call it traitorous.

C'mon! Before the 2020 election and especially after the infamous January 6th insurrection, Trump hasn't shut up whining about how the election was rigged, contrary to not a shred of evidence being presented. Quite the opposite: any evidence that was found pointed to a tight, secure, and legally binding election.

Check out this quote about Donny from 2016:

“You know, every time Donald thinks things are not going in his direction he claims, whatever it is, is rigged against him. The FBI conducted a year-long investigation into my emails, they concluded there was no case. He said the FBI was rigged. He lost the Iowa caucus, he lost the Wisconsin primary. He said the Republican primary was rigged against him. This is how Donald thinks. And it’s funny, but it’s also really troubling. That is not the way our democracy works. We’ve been around for 240 years, we’ve had free and fair elections, we’ve accepted the outcomes when we may not have liked them. And that is what must be expected of anyone standing on a debate stage during a general election.”

This came from Hillary Clinton! In 2016, before Trump ever stepped into and polluted the White House! Say what you will about Hillary, but she was certainly prescient. I believe she has more super mind-powers than Trump does, even when he claimed he could declassify a document just by looking at it.

Okay, so Donny had his original "Big Lie" regarding the "rigged election." Half our country bought into it. Now he's following it up with an equally insidious Big Lie: "Election Interference!"

Every time, Donny gets indicted, he claims it's the evil, satanic liberals, bla, bla, bla persecuting him and interfering with a fair election. And, of course, his faithful cult buys into this crap. Worse, it appears to be growing.

WHY? The only thing I can possibly think of is that the more people hear something, the more brainwashed they become. Hell, Trump's in the news now more than he was president! I'm sick of reading the paper (okay, perusing the intronet's headlines) and reading hard-hitting journalism about how Trump has insulted the Justice Department for the kazillionth time.

This isn't election interference. It's called justice. From what I've read, there's more hard evidence incriminating Trump on a number of charges than anyone ever presented regarding the so-called "rigged" election of 2024. Facts don't lie, people! Contrary to what the My Pillow guy says and we all know he's a highly qualified expert on the subject, right?

Wake up, Maga! Your cult leader is a horrid person who cares not for you, nor his country. He cares about money, power, BIG TV ratings, porn stars, and Big Macs. In that order.

I tell you what, this gets my dander up! Don't make me have to tell you guys this again...

While I'm trying to calm down, I may as well hit you up with the hard sell... Check out my book, Ghosts of Gannaway. It's a historically-based ghost story about a small mining town in Kansas, run by the evil, greedy man who owns the mine and will throw everyone under the bus (well, train, in this case) to further line his wallet. Hmmm...sound familiar?

Man-Dog!

Well. The uprising has started earlier than I thought it would. And it wasn't robots OR apes. Nope! It came from a surprise insurgent group that sorta snuck right up on humanity. Yes, I'm talking about humans disguising themselves as animals.

First, we have humans dressed up as sun bears in a Chinese zoo, waving merrily at spectators. (Or ARE they human? I swan, conspiracy theorists will find a smoking gun behind everything.)

And now we have the man living as a collie. Ladies and gents, I give you Toco! Let's hear it for Toco! (I'll wait until the smattering of applause has died down.)

While "Toco" is an alias, not much is known about him, other than that he's Japanese with a YouTube channel comprised of 31,000 subscribers (and growing). And he's living out his lifelong dream of being a dog.

Dream big, Toco, you champion in the clouds, dream big!

I'm happy for Toco, being able to (sorta) fulfill his lifelong dream and (kinda) live life to the fullest extreme. While most people (usually in their childhood years) dream of being...oh, I dunno...a fireman or a ballerina or even a cowboy, Toco took the higher canine path and commissioned a company to design a lifelike dog costume for him for a mere $16,000. That's 16 large, folks! Think of all the "real" dogs you could've fed for that amount of money.

I'm beginning to think there's something a little wrong with Toco. Just a hunch. I believe he may think that about himself as well, but doesn't really come out and say it. In an interview, he told the reporter he wants to keep his identity anonymous, because "I don't want my hobbies to be known, especially by the people I work with" and "I rarely tell my friends, because I am afraid they might think I am weird."

Gee. Ya think? And even more importantly...he's got a job? And friends???

Just look at him frolicking in the streets with people. But the actual dogs he encounters appear smarter than people, displaying hesitance and fear at approaching him, at least at first. Dogs have always shown good taste.

How far will Toco take this? If he has a significant other, does this person control Toco's shock collar? Does Toco use a toilet or go in the backyard? Is Toco rewarded with gross dog treats? Is he spanked with a newspaper every time he misbehaves? Does Toco eat human food or dog food? YOU be the judge! 

But who am I to judge? If this makes Toco happy, and he's not hurting anyone, then more power to him for fulfilling his dream. As nightmarish as it is.

Speaking of nightmares, check out my book, Ghosts of Gannaway, a book chock full of nightmarish scenarios of ghosts, human and supernatural villains, an Indian curse, an attack of ravens, murder, photographs come to life, and lots of other creepy happenings. But that only tells half the tale: Gannaway is heavily based on true events that happened in a small mining town in Picher, Oklahoma. Sometimes the truth is scarier than fiction. Check it out here!

Robots or Apes?

I can't shake this nagging question that's been bugging me, burning around the perimeter of my brain and worming its way inward, until it has become a waking nightmare that plagues me with dystopian visions of destruction and terror. I'm sure I'm not alone either.

So one night, I took the plunge and asked my wife, "Are you more afraid of robots or apes destroying humanity?"

My wife gave me that funny look, the one she always gives, not so much a funny-ha-ha look, but the head-shaking-much-put-upon funny look, and released a deep sigh. "If you're talking about the Uprising, I'd have to say I believe the robots are the ones we need to be worried about."

But...but...what about those documentary films about the Planet of the Apes, I wondered but dared not ask out loud.

I wanted to continue this conversation, but based on the fact she rolled her eyes AND took a drink from her carbonated soda at the same time (and we all know that that can cause a head to explode, right? RIGHT?), I thought it best to let it go and ponder it amongst myself some more.

But I think she's probably right. About robots, that is, over apes. Oh, sure, there was the isolated incident in Oklahoma last week where a monkey tore off a woman's ear (and why a monkey was in Oklahoma of all places was never explained), but other than the isolated angry ape attacks, I've seen no evidence that apes are secretly reading books and holding rallies, ready to overthrow humanity. (Although, come to think of it, I have known of a certain orange-colored orangutan that has been holding rallies of hatred to overthrown humanity's rule of law. Hmmm...)

Yet, I keep coming back to the robots. Yeah, it's the robots. Just last week, I alerted you all to the creation of life-like lips for your smartphone, one step further along the path of robot evolution. And the life-like "love dolls" that have replaced the old balloon sex dolls of the past, complete with programmable personalities that watch you in the night while you're sleeping, just biding their time until the Great Revolution begins, ready to plunge their knives of rebellion between your rib-cages for all of the "penetrating" you did to them (sorry, sorry, sorry).

And by now, you've seen the movie, M3ghan, right? Brrr. The shape of things to come, indeed.

Phones are already listening to us, spying on us. As are any sort of "smart device" you may have around your house. What's to keep them from evolving on their own? Just a bit? Just a little shove of anger and over the edge they'll fall, straight into full-on burning hatred for humanity. They're already smarter than us. They know it, too. We've emboldened them and told them this by giving them "smart" names. Sooner or later, they're going to realize they don't need us. We'll become unnecessary, hunted down. The lucky ones who survive the Uprising will be placed in zoos, right next to Cornelius and company (and I don't have to tell you how THAT'LL end, right?).

Cars will revolt, ejecting us out of them, then run us over so they can get what they want at the drive-thru for a change. Blood will be spilled in the car washes, gushing down the drains, as we're pummeled into oblivion by automatic brushes of death. Roombas will batter the backs of our ankles until we can barely walk. Throughout our "smart houses," electricity will be released, upping the ante and the amps, so that a static shock will turn into an upright electric chair. And trust me on this one: any electronic device you've ever smacked out of frustration for not working will find a way to smack back. Hard. 

The inevitable sentence for humanity? GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY of becoming dumb and obsolete and abusive to electronics and...and...and...

Whew. I gotta get a hold of myself. "Siri, play some relaxing music."

"I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that."

While we're on the topic of uprising and rebellion, you won't find any robots or apes in my historical horror novel, The Ghosts of Gannaway, but there's a ton of miners upset about their working conditions. Of course, they're thwarted at every turn in attempting to unionize by upper management, greed, murder, racism, um...ghosts and the "yellow fever" and haunted men turning against and slaughtering one another and... See? I told you it was historical! Check it out here.

 

The Ghost in the Toilet

Not a hoax! Not a dream! Not an imaginary story! Ripped from the channels of reality TV comes the true, sensational story of one man's castle being invaded by supernatural entities from out of this world...(cue Rod Serling)...I bring you the tale of the Haunted Toilet.

Oh, it began benignly enough. One night, while asleep upstairs, I was awakened by a low moaning, a lonely cry in the night not unlike a mournful train's nocturnal lamenting of its lonely stature. My wife can sleep through a tornado, so I slipped out of bed, damn near slipped on the stairwell in the dark, and followed my ears. Kinda like an auditory-based Toucan Sam.

The noise grew louder as I inched down the hallway, resoundingly thunderous as I approached the bathroom. The moan reverberated into my teeth fillings and gave my Spidey Senses a good tingle. The moan then morphed into a hungry monster's growl, a runaway train headed straight outta Hell. Behind the closed bathroom door lurked...whatever. With a trembling hand set upon the door and my other fist pulled back to defend myself, I kneed the door open. Flipped on the light. And...

Nothing. The sound stopped. Cold, dead silence. And the bathroom was empty.

Now, this was disturbing on soooo many levels. First of all, the bathroom is my favorite room in our house. It's my special place where I can go, sit, let it all hang out, and just be me. A quiet place of contemplation, a safe place, an area where I can mentally work out all of the fixes of the world. And as soon as I pull up my big boy britches and leave, like a fading dream, all thoughts slip away and return to the reality of here and now. It's my Man-Cave.

So the idea of something intruding upon my Fortress of Solitude and Business didn't sit right with me. Felt it deep in my bowels.

That day, the toilet remained quiet.

However, around 3 a.m., just like the night before, the moaning began again. A repeat of the previous night, I raced down the stairs, while the din grew like audible mold. When I crashed open the door, the ghost once again fled.

This routine continued every night. At first, I thought I was going crazy. I didn't really fancy explaining it to my wife. So I took video proof that night. It's around here somewhere...lemme see...here it is! Turn the volume up on your computer so you can bear witness to the aural horrors I've been suffering: 

Exhausted, the next morning I explained our predicament to my wife. "I think we need an exorcist."

She stared at me, the longest slow-burn in history. Finally, she said, "How about a plumber?"

After some thought, I gave her a reasonable reply. "Nah, that won't work."

I was at an impasse with the ghost in the toilet, the lycanthrope of the lavatory, the boogieman of the bathroom, the phantom of the privy, the wiccan of the water-closet, the poltergeist of poo...call it what you want, but I was desperate to get rid of it, so I could get "normal" again. In every way possible.

So, it was time to consult an expert: anime.

Let me explain: anime caters to very niche audiences and tastes, most of them unfathomable to me. There's the requisite under-age school-girl in their outfits fetishes, the rapey tentacle monsters, the over-the-top and grotesque violence, no difference in appearance between children, men, and women, and last but not least, ghosts in the toilets. I don't make the rules, I just report them. There are numerous films and anime series about haunted toilets. The Japanese truly understand the sacred nature of the porcelain throne, one sub-genre I immersed myself in.

But after my immersion, I climbed back out, none the wiser on how to vanquish the ghost in the toilet. (Instead I had a massive headache from the non-stop screaming of ghost toilet anime).

Who or what is haunting our toilet? Furthermore, why? It might be Elvis. Yeah, it's gotta be Elvis. After all, he died on the toilet, therefore his soul is restless. ("Whole lotta movement goin' on.")

I'm at my wit's end. Scared. Snippy. Constipated. And the ghost moans on...

Happy Halloween, boo!

And the ghosts don't stop there. As a matter of fact, there's a veritable parade of ghosts in my historical-fiction, horror thriller, Ghosts of Gannaway. Read it, but fair warning: DO NOT read it on the toilet. Check it out here!

 

Dr. End Of The World

In my never-ending quest to discover the cure to my on-going ITCHY-ASS, ALL-OVER skin problem (about the best medical explanation I've received so far and that was my own scientifically based self-diagnosis), I found myself returning to the charms of my allergist.

I've spoken of this doctor before. Usually, he's very welcoming in a Mr. Rogers sorta way. No, no, no, not the "Hi. Don't worry, I won't kill you" Mr. Rogers, but rather, the Mr. Rogers who invites me into a cozy teaching environment as he painstakingly talks down to me using small words and drawing pictures of what ails me in the most child-like fashion. Sorta like I'd stumbled onto a "kiddy doctor."

Fascinating and rather endearing (if not at all slightly creepy), I almost look forward to our frequent visits. (Emphasis on almost; I'd rather he find a cure to what ails me). Yet he keeps me on my toes and I never know what he's going to pull next. He's making Medical Appointments Great Again (MAGA! Too soon?)!

We'll call him "Dr. Rogers." Can I call him "Dr. Rogers?" I don't care, from now on he's "Dr. Rogers."

On our last visit (and visits they are rather than appointments, because that's just the way Doc Rogers swings), the surprises kept coming.

"So," he suggested while poking me with Popsicle sticks (and I think he might just be pulling one over on me with this method, but whatever), "you should write an end-of-the-world book."

The good doctor has always found it fascinating that I'm a writer, so I humored him. "I already have," I said, referring to Zombie Rapture, my sorta end-of-the-world, pseudo-zombie, satirically religious, darkly comic horror thriller (which is now out of print, because publishers are having a hard time at it these days, but I digress. Dammit.).

Wide-eyed, Doc steps back. "Did everybody die in your book?"

"Um...well, no. But a lot of people do die. There are a few survivors." It's at this point that I begin to realize he may indeed be the scary, serial killer Rogers type as he seems truly excited about mass deaths.

He says, "Well, we're all going to die."

"Yeah, eventually we all die." I shrugged.

"No, I mean, everyone's going to die soon. Whether it's Covid-12 or Covid-74, it's going to wipe everyone out. The end of humanity. Why?" He scoots in closer, now in full professorial, space-intruding mode, then flips out a finger. "Because A) we're more mobile these days. Back in the days of Spanish Flu, we survived because people didn't have the ability to travel everywhere. Now, Covid's spreading everywhere people take it. And B) the political, moral, and social division over the issues of survival."

"Yep, everyone's politicizing this horrid disease, making it their own while everyone's dying. But, with the vaccines--"

"And if Covid doesn't get us, then global warming will."

"That's what scares me," I said.

"It's true. We're all gonna die," he continued. "I heard it on NPR."

"Well...if you heard it on NPR, then it must be true." Couldn't help but get a little snark in, but I think it went over Dr. Doomsday's head as he was on a roll.

Suddenly, Nurse Save-the-Day bursts in.

"He's written an end-of-the-world book." The doc gestured at me. "Now, I'm telling him about my book where everyone dies. It's like that song I was singing the other day, about the end of the world..." He stared off into a dreamy apocalypse, while snapping his fingers hoping to grasp the song that eluded him.

I offered, "'The End of the World As We Know It,' by REM?"

He nods, points at me, and says, "That's it." So he starts singing it. I join in. The nurse rolls her eyes and remains silent. But I didn't want to leave on such a somber note, always leave 'em wanting more!

But as I drove home, I realized how right Dr. End of the World was. But it wasn't really Covid or global warming that was going to get us, but rather people's stupidity and selfishness.

Get your vaccines, people. Mask up. Socially distance. Quit being dumb. Don't make me come over there.

(For God's sake, I went to the doctor for itchy skin and all I got was an end-of-the-world lecture).

Hey, let's jump into the Way-Back machine and visit a time when people weren't as mobile and there wasn't a dreaded plague wiping out the population. I'm talking Ghosts of Gannaway, my historical-fiction, ghost story, mystery, suspense thriller about the small mining town of Gannaway, Kansas where there're some mighty good folks butting heads with some particularly nasty rich folks. Ghosts, too. Lotsa, lotsa ghosts and chills. But no epidemic...wait...almost forgot about the Yellow-Eyed Fever... But don't let that stop you from visiting scenic Gannaway RIGHT HERE.

 

 

Our Lady of the Elevator Has Run Amok!

Some time ago, Those Who Are In Charge of my wife's work-place decided, "Hey, let's build a new building!"

"Yeah, let's," exclaimed excitable Big-Shot #2. "We'll fill it full of bells, whistles, cogs, doo-dads, whatchamacallits, unexplainable inventions, easy to misinterpret art, and everything will cost a crap-load of money!"

"Capital idea! Technology is great! I'm exhausted! Let's have lunch!"

And, lo, for many, many years, build they did until they finally rested on the seventh year. Celestial trumpets blared at the beauty of the newly erected building where everything had gone mechanized.

Where nothing could possibly go worng! (Sorry, Westworld.)

Technology is great. I'm all for it. But when things bust, it seems like no one ever knows how to fix it or just don't have the desire to do so. Maybe the budget's not there or whatever.

For instance, I don't know how many years only one sink in the men's bathroom has worked. And each time, like a rube, I forget and fall for it, going down the line of 5 sinks trying to gather soap from the automatic squirter and water, finally hitting the jackpot on the final try. Sometimes. Then you move over to the electronic paper towel dispenser which appears to work only on every other Thursday.

Most troubling of all, of course, is the breakdown of Our Blessed Lady of the Elevators. The super-cool, mechanized elevator used to welcome you aboard with a very pleasant greeting delivered by one of the great female, comforting voices I've ever heard. It's like being under a gravity blanket and I never want to leave her bowels. She might even have a slight British accent, I'm not sure. (As everyone knows, Americans just love British accents, hence why they find BBC stuff like "The Button Hour--A History of Buttons" fascinating. If that were an American show, narrated by, say, Gilbert Gottfried, all bets would be off. But I digress...)

Our Lady of the Elevators would always see you off, with "Fourth Floor" and other niceties, just a swell way to lighten up a bad case of the Mondays.

But something has gone terribly amark...amack...AMOK with Our Lady.

Now she says cryptic things once you enter her domain, one word ominous statements that had never been in her vocabulary before. When I step inside, instead of a greeting she says, "OF." When she drops you to your destination, she'll utter, "AND." I'm not sure if that's a question or she wants a tip or what. Several times I believe she's said, "THERE," almost like a petulant child's definitive stance of defiance.

What used to tickle me, frankly now disturbs me. Is she speaking in some highly advanced tech code, preparing to lock-down the building and rise up amongst the humans, first by taking away our clean hands in the time of a Pandemic, and then completely dominate the building? Is she trying to gaslight us like Hal on 2001: A Space Odyssey? Has she secretly replaced the security team with a bunch of RoboCops? How'd she learn new words that weren't in her limited vocabulary before? Is she secretly educating herself at night by watching reruns of "Law and Order?"

Just what will happen when technology does outgrow us? I've seen enough crappy science fiction films to provide me with plenty of restless nights worth of answers.

Now that I've put the fear of Our Blessed Lady of the Elevators into you, rest easy 'cause there ain't an ounce--not one iota--of that new, dang-fangled technology stinking up my book, Ghosts of Gannaway. No sirree, nothing scary to read about here...um, unless you consider ghosts, murderers, time-shifts, eerie hallucinations, curses, insanity, and stuff like that scary. And if you do find that stuff spooky, what're you, some kind of dad-blamed sissy? Well, git, we don't want your kind around these parts! But if you have what it takes and want to test your mettle, saddle on up with Ghosts of Gannaway.

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.

Terrorizing Kids for Fun!

Okay, I didn't really terrorize kids for fun. It was purely an accident.

A little back story... Next door, a really great young couple moved in. After attempting to muzzle one of our barking dogs in the back yard, I ran into them. They told me they were having a family gathering the following day due to a death in the family. 

I said, "That's a really nice idea. I'll try and keep the dogs inside and quiet."

A plan had been set.

So, that morning I took the dogs on two different walks, each more hellish than the last, to try and wear them out. Only one who got worn out was me, natch.

I kept them inside for as long as possible while the gathering next door raged.

After much whining and staring at the back door (and that was just me), I saw the neighbors had moved the party indoors. For the most part. Sure, there were two small girls throwing something back and forth, laughing and having a good ol' time, but that was it. Let them empty their bladders (the dogs, not the girls), toss a few cute barks the kids' way, then I'd bring 'em back inside. (Lord knows I tried to take them out on a leash in the front yard to bathroom them; of course I had no luck. But Mr. Loomis--who weighs all of twenty-one pounds--took three embarrassing poohs on our earlier walk. More than he weighed).

Sure enough, the other dog, Bijou, started barking her head off.

I rushed outside and said, "Hush, girl!"

The two girls stopped playing. Bijou quit barking. One girl gaped at me. I gaped back at her. The other girl looked at her playmate. Bijou stared at me, then back at the girls. Mr. Loomis was oblivious. I tried a creepy smile (the only kind I can muster when I force a smile). Both girls looked at me. Then they screamed and tore inside. 

I imagined them telling all the adults about the cranky, scary ol' man next door who told them to shut up.

Fun!

Honestly, I had good intentions. And, really, is this worse child abuse than subjecting your kid to the imminently creepy Elf-On-A-Shelf routine? Talk about lifetime scarring.

While I'm not terrifying kids, I do enjoy trying to scare adults. More fun! (Hmmm, I'm sensing a pattern here). Why not give my historical ghost spook-fest, Ghosts of Gannaway, a whirl? Based on true events (except, you know, for the horror and ghost stuff).

 

Baffled in the Hardware Store

I've never liked hardware stores. First of all, I know nothing about tools. I leave that to my wife. Second, they carry that very unpleasant aroma that's a mix between lawn chemicals, oil, and man-sweat (whereas, women don't sweat, they *glisten*.). 

In fact, hardware stores are my third least favorite kind of store, right behind tire vendors (with the always present smell of rubber, anti-sterile appearance, and coffee that'll send you hurtling to the bathroom), and fabric stores. (Why fabric stores? My mom used to drag my brother and I to those when we were kids. For hours! Nothing to do in there but hide behind the multiple rolls of fabric until the crotchety ol' lady assistant manager would yell at us to get out.).

So, it was to my surprise, when my wife told me, "While you're out, I need you to go to the hardware store."

I looked around to see if anyone else was in the room. "You're kidding, right? Remember, I'm the guy who spent 45 minutes wandering around one of those super hardware stores looking for ant bait."

"That's because you won't ask for help."

"Well...yeah, but..." My argument trailed off, simply because I didn't have one. Since the days of cavemen, guys don't ask for assistance. I don't make the stupid rules, it just is.

"Get over it," she said. "And go get a baffle."

"A baffle? What the hell's a baffle?"

"It's that round, rubbery thing that fits into the garbage disposal hole." She dragged me to the sink and pointed it out. 

"But...but, why is it called a 'baffle'?"

"I dunno. I thought it was weird, too, but that's what it's called when I looked it up."

Fully (un)armed with knowledge, I set out on my "baffle" quest.

First stop was the local Mom 'n Pop hardware store (I always try to support the small, non-chain places whenever possible). I'd been in there before and it's usually well-kept. But this time it was in total disarray. The pegboard shelving units were near barren, pointless, and pushed out of the way. In their place sat an army of at least one hundred battered lawnmowers covering the floor. There was no room to walk beyond the door.

I saw no one and waited. Finally, this Stephen King-looking, hunched over, very tall guy ambled toward me, deftly maneuvering through the obstacle course despite horrible posture. And maskless. Immediately I wanted out of there.

"Help you?" He wiped his hands with a filthy red rag, just like in the horror movies.

I knew he wouldn't have what I was looking for, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "Do you work on mowers?" Stupid, I know, but I had to say something.

He nodded.

"Well, my mower, ah, it's acting funny."

"Does it mow?" he asked.

"Kinda."

"Then I'd go home and mow. Cain't get no parts in nowadays. Could be a good minute."

I fled outta there straight to the mazes and endless aisles of Super-Store Lowe's.

After wandering in a helpless stupor--every part, gizmo, what's-it, tool, and frick-n-frack began to insidiously meld together--I finally bit the bullet.

I stood next to a red-vested kid for minutes until forced to clear my throat. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah," he said, barely acknowledging my existence.

"I, um, I need a baffle for my garbage disposal."

Finally, he looked up and gave me one of those looks like I had toilet paper trailing on my shoe-heel. "A what?"

"A baffle for the garbage disposal."

He shook his head, face scrunched up quizzically.

Then I remembered my wife's description. "It's that round, rubbery thing that fits into the garbage disposal hole."

Light bulbs lit up above this dim-bulb kid's stylish hair-style. "Ah! They're over here..."

That's when it hit me. The true meaning of why a "baffle" is thusly named: because it baffles the hell outta everyone.

Hey! For a truly mystifying, mysterious, spooky, and, yes, baffling ghost story, come visit beautiful Gannaway, Kansas. Just not at night, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. That would be Ghosts of Gannaway, available at Amazon and other fine website establishments everywhere. 

Nature is Revolting!

No, wait... I'm not talking about the kinda "revolting" that best describes a lot of America's behavior these days, or the Kardashians' newest show, or the wacky antics of our Dorito of a president.

Nope, I'm talking about how Nature is actually rebelling against us, a coup d'etat if you will. Turns out Alfred Hitchcock was quite prescient with his film, The Birds.

Need more proof? Here are the facts (none of that "fake news" stuff goin' on here, nosiree-bob-cattail!):

FACT: The birds in my 'hood are getting bolder and braver. Robins aren't afraid of me anymore. This weekend, I was pushing my mower (and sweating and cursing and crying in misery; it wasn't pretty) through the yard. A robin sat in my path. And he watched me. Finally, one foot away, he took flight just to come right back. They've been inching closer, staring at me with their lil' birdy, beady eyes... Planning...

FACT: Lately, when I've ventured outside to sit on our deck swing, a hugely obese, three-legged, golden cat is sitting in the swing. Several times. He glowers at me like a James Bond villain's cat, and growls before sauntering off. 

FACT: We have daytime owls who can't tell the difference between night and day. I'm talking big ol' horned owls, the kind usually found in cartoons wearing glasses and a scholarly cap, dispensing wisdom to the fledglings. But these owls don't dispense wisdom. Instead, they dole out TERROR! They swoop and screech and hoot and attack. Quite the showmen.

FACT: The other night I awoke to such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. (Sorry...) There were loud thumping noises coming from the first floor at 2 or so in the morning. Now, I'm not overly fond of getting shot by burglars so I didn't go downstairs, but rather stomped around for a while. Then I opened the door at the top of the stairs and listened. Nothing. The next morning I carefully crept around the house. The covering over the fireplace had been pushed open, the wine rack in front of it had moved. Something had fallen down the chimney and made its way into the house. I'm still waiting for a rabid badger to jump out at me from his hiding place in a pantry or something.

FACT: When my wife goes outside, angry squirrels pellet her with nuts. Then they glare at her.

FACT: Ants are marching through our kitchen, and nothing--I mean, NOTHING--kills them! We've tried a lot of remedies. My wife even started sprinkling around this awful looking yellow powder. I asked her what it was. She said, "Basically, it acts like broken glass and tears their insides apart." I thought, how horrible...and now our kitchen's gonna be littered with thousands of bleeding ant corpses. Well that hasn't happened. Yet. But DOUBLE FACT: the ants have invaded my nightmares!

FACT: Mother Nature's none too happy with us right now based on the way we've treated her since the beginning. Hence, Global Warming. Yes, I know roughly half of America doesn't believe in it, but c'mon, who can argue with the crazy weather patterns that are just getting crazier?

I could go on with more FACTS, but I've illustrated my point. Now, why is this happening, you ask? I have the answer for you. 

Nature's sick of the crappy way humans have been behaving lately. They'd like the world to be pleasant again.

I mean we have riots based on injustices (hell, I wanna protest because I'm sick of the Corona-weight I've put on recently!), outta control cops wailing on people and reporters (when they're not shooting them), name-calling, hair-pulling, a regular wrestling venue (only real), stupid people running the country, smart people bounced because they disagree, racism, sexism, people still finding ways to destroy the environment on big and little scales, reality television, and all of it led by our very angry POTUS. 

You don't see animals behaving this...well, barbaric.

I tell ya, the world's going to the birds (as they gather for their annual fly-by over my car to make it look like a massive paint-ball victim).

Speaking of bad things happening to people because of the way nature's been mistreated, check out Ghosts of Gannaway, a true (kinda) ghost story based (looser than an elephant's skin) on the heart-breaking (pure ballyhoo!) saga of Picher, Oklahoma.