BEHOLD...the Spotted Dick!

Spotted Dick!

Go on. Think about it. Now say it out loud. It's okay. Presumably you're at home while reading my blog, so it's fine to say it out loud. Unless you're killing time, loafing at work. Then it's completely acceptable to whisper it.

Spotted Dick.

See? It's funny! The older I get, the more juvenile my sense of humor becomes. (Clearly what the ubiquitous "they" say about wisdom coming with age haven't met me.)

I've been acquainted with "Spotted Dick" before. When I first read about it in my younger days, I gave it a passing chuckle, then stored it away in my brain's Department of Useless Information, where things lay dormant for a couple of days until completely abandoned.

But before last Christmas, I stumbled across a mention of Spotted Dick again (somewhere...doesn't matter where). The important takeaway is it struck me as extremely funny.

Now, those not acquainted with the notorious "Spotted Dick (and be very thankful you're not)," may believe it to be a peculiar STD, something one might acquire on a less-than-cautious Tinder hookup.

Au contraire! Thanks to the magic of Ms. Google, I learned all about Spotted Dick. For I knew, if I were to get away with bandying the term about at Christmas-time, I'd better be prepared to back it up with knowledge and feigned innocence. Forearmed is forewarned (or "foreskinned is foredicked" or something like that).

It turns out that Spotted Dick is a traditional British steamed pudding, served over the holidays, usually made with suet and dried fruit. Yum. Or...not. Maybe if you're a bird. It just may be the British version of fruitcake. (But I imagine our friends overseas hate fruitcake as well.) 

Anyway, I committed the stuffy definition to memory, preparing to enlighten my family at Christmas, knowing full well that it sounds rather...vulgar. But, hey! I had history to back me up! What's the fuss, Gus?

I did manage to rope in one of my nephews to join in the hilarity by dropping "Spotted Dick" at every opportunity, and it warmed my juvenile heart seeing him explain to GMa: "What? It's a traditional British steamed pudding." Even my bro-in-law joined in the merriment until he finally put the kibosh on it.

But it got me thinking...why in the world would someone name a pudding "Spotted Dick?" 

My imagination drew me back to a loo (that's British for bathroom, yanks!), where the conversation unfolded like this...

"Ouch! Ugh! Arrrrrr..."

"What's the matter, Harry?"

"I dunno, mate. It stings when I urinate."

"Hmmm. Let me take a look."

"Okay. Here..."

"Blimey! Harry, that looks like my Mum's holiday pudding! I think you've got a case of..."

Spotted Dick! Hahahahahahahahaha...

Of course, further research shows that "spotted" comes from the dried fruit (raisins, etc.) in the pudding. And back in the day, "dick" sometimes referred to plain pudding, perhaps related to the word "dough."

Naturally I'm not the only wisenheimer to run at the mouth about the joy of the Spotted Dick moniker. Throughout time, someone proclaimed it a "manly type of pudding," clearly running with the double entendre. Even the press jumped in on the fun: in 1892, the Pall Mall Gazette ran a story proclaiming "the Kilburn sisters satisfied hundreds of dockers with soup and Spotted Dick." I'll bet they did (snicker). Surely, by this time, EVERYONE was in on the joke.

Even within the hallowed halls of the Houses of Parliament, the restaurant staff took it upon themselves to rename the pudding "Spotted Richard." I rest my case!

So during the next holiday season, join in the fun! Wow your Grandma with your knowledge of a traditional holiday British steamed pudding! Impress your aunt and uncle with how worldly you are about British treasured foods! Astound your visiting clergy person with great tales of an overseas culinary confection! But mostly, relish the opportunity to use the term "Spotted Dick" as many times as you can possibly get away with!

Yes, since I won't allow myself to write about our disastrous and shameful current White House administration, I'm reduced to blogging about Spotted Dick jokes. You're welcome!

If you enjoyed that dip into juvenilia, surely you'll get a bang out of my Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series. The title alone of the first book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, should alert you to the high-brow sophistication and enlightenment that can be yours here. Again...you're welcome!

Merry Smokemas!

Our family was gathered during the holidays in Oklahoma. Laughs were shared, memories recalled, and anecdotes told with vigor. Business as usual...until my oldest nephew opened his Christmas gift from family in Portland.

A pack of cigarettes!

Wow! Happy Holidays! The true meaning of Christmas!

My nephew was looking at his gift, turning it around, searching inside for some secret hidden gift. Nothing but tar and nicotine.

"Whatever," he muttered.

My younger nephew said, "It's not even a full pack of cigarettes" like they'd been ripped off or something.

There was stunned silence until the sheer hilarity of it all floored us.

My bro-in-law took some pictures and sent them to his brother (the gift giver) in Portland. 

My niece wrote back, "I wrapped all of those gifts and I SWEAR I don't know how those cigarettes ended up in that gift!"

There was much speculation. Was it a joke? One conspiracy theory had my Portland nephew planting it for unknown insidious reasons.

I guess we'll never know.

Anyway, nothing shouts Christmas more than family gatherings, eggnog, and cigarettes!

Happy holidays and smoke 'em if you got 'em!

Happy Horrordays!

Here in the West household, there's an annual Christmas tradition that's proudly observed by...well...just me, I suppose. It's a dark alley to wander down (especially at night and by yourself), but my wife won't take a stroll with me. (Okay, maybe my daughter and sister-in-law might partake on occasion, but they don't live here, so that leaves me and the sofa).

For you see, I've taken it upon myself to watch every blasted Christmas horror film ever made. From the 70's and 80's, I've discovered such gems as the original Black Christmas (forget about those remakes), Christmas Evil (John Water's favorite film!), and my personal favorite, Elves (of which I'm alone in that assessment, I'm afraid. But where else can you find Dan Haggerty playing a haggard department store Santa doing battle with an evil German cabal of elves who're trying to resuscitate Hitler? Yow! There's also a wicked stepmother who tries to flush the heroine's cat down the toilet! Why, it gives me Christmas warm fuzzies just thinking about it! Good luck trying to find this gem, though).

But where do you go after you've seen all the '80's and '70's classics time and time again? Why, to the present, of course. And if you thought the '70's and '80's output was bad, wait until you check out these stinkers. We're talking bottom of the barrel crap that barely resembles film, some shot on video. Most of them star plastic-enhanced, tattooed "starlets" and strung-out, carboard men. Most of the plots feature a (very unlikeable) group of friends who decide to Christmas holiday in the California woods while a stalker Santa hunts them down in various, gory ways (usually the only thing the budget goes toward). Ho, ho, HORRIBLE! And c'mon! It's hard to get into the Christmas spirit when it looks like Summer. Christmas is the only day I want snow, but it damn well better be present in my Christmas horror movies, by gum.

This year was a particularly dire trudge. I've suffered through such crapsterpieces as Santastein (um, yeah, the only worse thing than a bad Christmas horror movie is a really bad Christmas horror COMEDY movie), Werewolf Santa (ditto!), Santa Jaws (snooze), and other timeless classics.

Why do I keep punishing myself, you ask? I dunno, just call me the Cineaste Sadist, I suppose. But there's a silver lining...kinda...somewhere...if you're likkered up and squinting with your eyes half-closed: occasionally I'll stumble across a real gem. One of my new all-time favorites is Anna and the Apocalypse, the only horror comedy Christmas musical about zombies and the end of the world. I know, it sounds like it wouldn't work. But it does. And it's great! Every year my daughter and I watch it and never get tired of it.

A Christmas Horror Story is kinda fun, featuring William Shatner as a lonely Christmas D.J. who gets progressively hammered while on the air, the perfect opportunity for Big Bill to ham it up and chew the pork for Christmas dinner. 

Santa's Slay is pretty entertaining and funny, although its rewatchability is limited, at least for me. But the flick features a big cast (most of them slaughtered in the opening minutes like James Caan and Fran Drescher [and who hasn't wanted to slaughter "The Nanny?"}). It also features a fun stop-motion parody segment of the Rankin-Bass children's shows of the '60's.

Krampus is good, but everyone knows about that one.

But I'm hard pressed at this moment to come up with other instant classics. Yet I keep sludging down these dark Christmas alleys, with hope in my heart and coal in my stockings! Happy Horrordays!

Speaking of Christmas horror, be sure and check out the Christmas horror short story collections from Grinning Skull Press. There's a ton of 'em (I'm in one of them somewhere), all good, and you can start here. Plus all proceeds go to the Elizabeth Glazer Pediatric AIDS Foundation, so win-win!

Sump Pup

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he okay?" I asked.

"He's fine. Just mad."

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

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

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

Holiday Traditions: the Good, the Bad, and the Ridiculous

With the onslaught of the holidays (and yes, I do mean "onslaught"), I'm always prone to thinking of lost loved ones. And no one looms larger in my fond memories than my mother, the undisputed Queen of Christmas.

Every Christmas, it was always the same with her.

"Mom, what would you like for Christmas?" I'd ask every year, rendering me the poster boy for Einstein's definition of insanity.

"I don't want anything. Just for us to be one big happy family." This was her maddening stock answer, yet we continued to play the game yearly. It was maddening for several reasons: A) It didn't help anyone; and B) I'm not so sure we were ever "one big, happy family."

Don't get me wrong. There were good and happy times, but there was also a lot of discord over the years. And, no, I'm not blameless either (Hello, bad boy teenager years! Where've you been? Never mind.). Maybe when we were kids, I might've considered us a "big, happy family," but then again I remember being bullied and beaten by my older brother. I had big, happy bruises to show for it.

But I digress... I believe Mom looked forward to the holidays more than anyone in our family and she was a staunch believer in tradition. For crying out loud, she kept up the Santa Claus routine up until we were in college. Did we object? Not really. Why, I hear you asking? Probably because it made her happy.

She was such a traditionalist that one year when I suggested we have Christmas at my house because I didn't want her doing all the work, she looked at me like I'd just admitted to murdering Santa Claus.

Her jaw dropped. Her gaze stabbed me with visual icicles. "Why, Stuart...you KNOW I have Christmas every year. You KNOW that!"

Sacrilege! Never again did I dare to bring that up.

Another Christmas tradition was going to church on Christmas Eve. Oh, man, did I ever hate that, especially as a kid. It's miserable enough for children to suffer through a stuffy sermon while awaiting the Magical Day of Christmas to arrive, but the church my parents chose to torture us with was incredibly mind-numbingly, butt-deadeningly long and dull. At times, those services could last up to two hours . In fact, it wasn't just at Christmas, but every service I ever attended was excruciatingly unendurable. Pretty soon, the church expanded into several locations and the preacher couldn't keep up so he videotaped himself from another church.  

(Much to my nieces' amusement, I nicknamed it "Super Extended Video Church," and swore that the preacher was recording his message because he couldn't be bothered to get out of bed. While my nieces were amused, my mom wasn't so much.)

And then there were the family breakfasts where we traditionally ate at a hotel's buffet. This is where my mom would attack us, holding out her plate, asking everyone around the table in turn, "Would you like some of my food? How 'bout it? No? What about you? Take my bacon! TAKE IT!"

Now, I suppose it had something to do with my mom's midwestern upbringing, always displaying her Missouri graciousness and hosting even while dining out. But I really didn't get it. It's not like all the food we'd care to eat was less than six feet away in the buffet line. I suppose she wanted to save us that unnecessary six foot walk. Or something.

There were many, many more traditions that we adhered to, mostly of my mom's (and dad's) making. And we continued them up until my mom passed away, even though we'd outgrown a lot of them or even if some of them no longer made sense. Keeping the traditions alive made her happy, and seeing her happy put a kick into my step as well.

So, every Christmas, I do get nostalgic and think back on the nutty, crazy, goofy, silly, yet ultimately endearing traditions that we shared as a family. For at least one day out of the year, I suppose we were "one big, happy family," warts and all. Old traditions have somewhat fallen by the wayside as I suspect they do in every family, while new ones are forged and the circle continues. Mostly, though, I miss my parents. I tip my eggnog to them and now you guys have gone and got me all mushy. And I hate being mushy.

Happy holidays everyone and enjoy your traditions, new and old.

The Beauty of Slop-Pots

Holidays sure are funny. Not really funny "ha ha (although they can be that as well)," but it's a time of sharing and gathering with family and loved ones and you never know where the conversation will lead.

Oh, sure, I can bring up how corrupt Donny Trump is, but when your family is all on the same team, where's the fun in that?

So, I suppose it was inevitable that our holiday chatter eventually wound its way around to outhouses.

"Man, it sure is cold out," I said with an extraordinarily lousy segue. "I would've hated to have to go out to an outhouse and perform my duties. I mean, freezing cold and butt splinters."

Forks were dropped all around the table, but interest rose.

"I would've hated it, too," said my mother-in-law. 

"And why in the world did they have half-moons carved into the doors?" I asked. "Is it to give ventilation? Maybe a spot of moonlight to guide your through your bidness?"

Like magic, electronic gadgets were whipped out. My wife being the fastest supplied the answer. "Yes, the moon was for ventilation and moonlight, but also it was widely acknowledged as a sort of sight language for those who couldn't read. The crescent moon represented a derriere."

While I couldn't quite see how a crescent moon resembled a butt, I said, "Ohhhhhhhhhh," anyway, not wanting to be the dumbest guy at the table.

"Well, another option for certain families was a 'slop-pot,'" offered my mother-in-law.

"Oh? Tell me more," I said as I shoveled a forkful of casserole into my mouth.

"They were ceramic jars with lids for people who didn't want to go out into the cold."

"Huh."

"And sometimes they'd be beautifully decorated."

Suddenly, a whole new world of wondrousness opened up to me. I began to see slop-pots everywhere, planning my next bodily function. Besides there were seven of us and one bathroom.

"So that's what that is in our bedroom," I shouted in a very Sherlockian manner.

"No...that's a spittoon. You'd have to have very good aim," said my mother-in-law.

"And in the hallway...it's a bigger slop-pot!"

"Don't you dare use that, Stuart. That's a butter churner."

See what I mean? Slop-pots everywhere. And before that fateful day, I'd never even heard of them!

Soon, the dinner conversation drifted to potty chairs. "For the wealthier women at high society tea parties, it was considered polite to excuse yourself and use a potty chair," explained my mother-in-law.

"Wait...what?"

"It was usually a wooden chair that had a hole cut out in it with a ceramic bowl beneath to catch stuff. Some of the bowls were beautiful."

"You mean...these hoity-toity ladies were soooooo caught up in their tea parties, they just dropped trou right in the middle of the she-bang and let it drop because they didn't want to miss anything? And no one cared?"

"Well...the chairs were in dark corners of the room and--"

"Gross!"

See what I mean? A whole new world of essential information. Soon, I had another "A-HA" moment.

"Wait a minute..." I said. "My mom had one of those potty chairs in her basement. When my brother and I moved her into an apartment, we secretly threw it away because she didn't want to throw away anything."

Jaws dropped, but forks still remained high.

"You didn't..." gasped my wife. "You threw out... It was a very valuable antique!"

While I mourned my perhaps hasty decision to toss it out, the notion of a "potty chair" going up at an expensive antique auction absolutely fills me with delight. Beauty surrounds us!

The more you know...

Speaking of essential information, while researching the first book in the Zach and Zora comical mystery series, Ms. Google led me down some dark alleys regarding male strippers, places that I'd care not to revisit ever again. So please help my hard-earned research pay off and check out one of the books, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies. Only YOU can help to erase the horrific imagery and videos that's scarred me for life!

 

Good Ol'-Fashioned Holiday...ah, never mind...

With the holidays upon us, tradition means a lot to our friends and families. Unless you're stuck in 2020, of course, where most traditions such as family gatherings are thrown under the bus (for good reason).

But even with daunting obstacles in our path, the world is still finding variations on the old holiday traditions by masking, distancing, and going Zoom crazy (not to mention drinking, internet spending gone wild, and the outta control growth of facial hair). 

I say, let the merriment continue! Sing carols to each other via Zoom (frankly I'd prefer that over the excruciatingly uncomfortable visit upon my doorstep)! Reach out to friends and family and that guy who bullied you in eighth grade and let them know you're thinking of them...well, maybe not the bully; if you told him what you're thinking, it could very well start a new round of bullying.

One of our newest traditions is a very Christmas decorated bathroom. Shower curtain, towels, soap dispenser, other stuff. My daughter named it "Santa's Bathroom," clearly the place where Santa delivers his, um, gifts.

The important thing is, no matter what your holiday traditions are, do carry on. Find safe alternatives, but keep the spirit of the holidays healthy. Keep hope alive.

I gotta say, though, some traditions are probably better off buried.

These days, office holiday parties end up in mandatory diversity and/or sexual harassment training seminars, so cut it out. "Elf On a Shelf" is pure big business hokum mass-manufactured to give children Christmas nightmares. The song, Baby, It's Cold Outside? No. We don't need creepy, date-rape holiday music. Tinsel's probably about as healthy as bathing in fiberglass. Yard inflatables? Let's stick a pin in the damned monstrosities and turn them into wiggly windy guys found in car lots. I could go on, but I won't...

Wait. I think I will. Has anyone ever tried "figgy pudding," let alone know what it is? Furthermore, why is the singer so damned demanding? (Okay, hold on, now I'm curious. Well, figgy pudding sounds a lot like a kind of fruitcake. We can do without that, too.)

Some holiday traditions you can't kill with a hand grenade. They come back more times than Jason or Freddy or Michael. A lot of my past family gatherings usually resulted in some racist remarks. Granted, the guilty parties have tempered it in recent times, utilizing a kinder, softer sort of racism...wait, scratch that. There is no such qualification. But no matter how much I'd tried to stomp the racism out, it somehow kept sneaking back in around the holidays. Time of the year, I guess. Or more likely, the only time during the year I'd see some family members.

That tradition's not going to happen this year, though. On the 25th, it's just my wife and I. And it feels like our first Christmas together in a weird way. No stress, no travel, no awkward political conversations, no racism, no family discomfort! 

Now, bring me some of that damn figgy pudding. Don't make me say it again!

Happy holidays, everyone! Stay safe.

And speaking of the "horror-days," I would encourage everyone  to check out Grinning Skull Press' annual Deathlehem series, seven books containing all the Christmas horror tales you'd ever want stuffed in your stocking. Not only are these tomes chock-full of great prose, but all proceeds go the worthy Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow over Deathlehem (which contains a stellar story by a certain writer who's too damn humble to mention himself by name).

 

Computer Store Clerk Melt-Down!

I suppose it's my fault, really.

In what kinda world would anyone be dumb enough to go to the computer store to buy an external disc drive on Christmas Eve? A fool's world, I tell ya. 

Not only did I brave the menacing crowds, the insane drivers, and waits that made the lines at Disneyland seem like a cakewalk, but I had to go back to the store twice. (No one ever told me that a "floppy" external disc drive is different from a DVD drive; even with a hundred salesmen milling about and it'd be a cold day in Hell before I'd ask someone for help). Anyway, I brought the wrong disc drive home, plugged it in, cursed, drove back to the store, this time taking twice as long because of the congested streets.

But here's where things turned really dangerous...

After waiting my turn in line, the meek, older than me, bespectacled bald man waved me to the counter.

"Well?" he said, clearly as sick of the Christmas crunch as I was and assuming the onus should be on me to start the give-and-take without the need of opening pleasantries.

Ashamed of my computer illiteracy, I explained the situation.

His brow furrowed as he appeared to be looking for something he'd lost. "Where are all of my pens?" he barked.

"Um...I'm not sure," I mumbled.

"Fine, whatever." He jut his arm out, pointed toward the back of the store. "Go get what you need and come back."

I did. The line had doubled. As I slowly inched closer, I noticed Mr. Personality's color had darkened, an explosive  bouquet of mad-as-hell red.

Finally end game was in sight! The surly clerk snatched the proffered disc from my hands, slapped it down, sighed, and said, "Look, is this just a purchase?"

I scratched my head. He scratched his. "No, I'm returning one drive for the other. Ah...remember?"

Befuddled (one of his two emotions, the other being Explosive Anger), he closed his eyes, shook his head, and said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah..." When he opened his eyes, immediately he began searching for something again. This time I knew it was his lost mind.

"Dammit," he blurted. "There were four pens before I went to lunch! Not even a lousy half hour! And there were four pens! Four! I come back and there's not one!" He starts swatting the register and knocks over an empty coffee cup, presumably the abandoned home of runaway pens. "Never a single Goddamn pen to be found when you need one!"

Okay, by this point my collar inexplicably tightened. Eyes lasered in on me, Lookie-Loos wanting to know why I'm torturing the "nice" old man behind the counter. 

A woman rushes over, possibly the assistant manager. "What's the problem?" she asks me.

"Um, well...there's no problem, just--"

"Somebody keeps stealing my pens! I had four of 'em! Four pens! I'm gone for 25 minutes for lunch, I come back, and they're all gone!" He throws a knick-knack at the register. "Is it too much to ask for just one pen?"

I pat down my coat pockets, hoping to find a pen to ward off the visual daggers being lobbed my way.

Clearly addled, the assistant manager begins playing peek-a-boo behind the counter, popping up and vanishing down again, on a futile pen search.

Finally, the manager goes behind the "returns" wall, and mercifully brings back a pen.

Mr. Congeniality snags it from her and clutches it hard. No one's gonna pry that pen from out of his death grip or God help them if they try.

He finishes the long drawn out transaction and releases me with a friendly, holiday bark. "Next!"

I rush from the store, heart hammering, thankful I escaped with my life. Watching a man melt down over pens was scary. Shooting spree scary.

After I settled down and settled into traffic again, it finally dawned on me: the guy never used his pen for anything, not a single drop of ink spilled. I guess it's the principle that counts.

Happy holidays!

Speaking of crazy people, if I were you I'd probably avoid those folks stranded by a Winter storm at the Dandy Drop Inn. But, by all means, do read about it: Dread and Breakfast can be purchased here!

 

Christmas Caroler Massacre

Okay, now that I have your attention via my unashamedly titled post, I'm in a quandary...

Not too long ago, my daughter moved into her first house. I'd asked her if she'd had any trick or treaters during Halloween.

"No, I don't think they come down my street," she answered.

As a parent, that didn't set too well with me, just add that to my worry-list, but that's not for now. I said, "Wait until you get your first Christmas carolers."

Ah, I remember mine, lo, forty-one years ago, and how awful it was.

I shouldn't have answered the door. I really shouldn't have. But I did. Before me stood  a fully dressed, Dickensian group of carolers. I recognized the head singer, all teethy smiles and glazed eyes, the God-Squadder who lived caddy-corner from me, the guy who wouldn't quit pushing The Word to me.

Absolutely, inevitably quicksand-stuck, I wanted to slowly close the door, tell them they'd made a big mistake. However...even though I'm a bit of a curmudgeon and a hermit, I still have a heart.

They proceeded to sing. It was the longest Christmas song in history. My forced rictus grin stretched, ached, began to tremor, my upper lip twitching and forcing my tell. I felt like the Joker while constipated, not a lot to smile about, but you kinda have to muscle through it. 

Finally, the song finished. I wondered what I should do. Should I tip them? Give 'em a ten-spot, tell them to call an Uber and get the hell outta here? Invite them in (never a serious option)? Offer them cookies? I had no cookies. But I had cigarettes and chips and beer and NyQuil, the important ingredients to a young and dumb bachelor's lifestyle.

While I was pondering the proper response, they launched into yet ANOTHER song.

 I felt like a turtle on his back, legs slowly flailing, a car hurtling down the highway toward me. 

At long last, they completed their epic three-hour (at least it felt like it) performance. All smiles on their end. My face twitched, unused smiling muscles taxed, craziness taking over.

I hollered, "YAYYYY! Thank you, thank you very much. Happy holidays."

After shutting the door, I nearly passed out.

I like Christmas. I'm not a Scrooge. I just kinda have invasion of privacy issues. Especially when people want to sing at me. One of the roughest work-outs I've ever been through. It's truly weird.

Happy holidays, everyone, no matter what you celebrate. But, please, don't sing on my doorstep!

While I'm talking about cold, wintery work-outs, why not--during the holidays--check into the Dandy Drop Inn. I understand there's a huge winter-storm brewing and if you're caught out in the midwest, the Dandy Drop is a fine, fine place to warm your toes. Maybe lose your head, too, but not every place is perfect. Make a reservation with Dread and Breakfast, the perfect winter holiday thriller.

 

The Christmas Goldfish Massacre!

Ho, ho, HORRORS!

Gather round, kiddies, as I tell you a true Christmas tale; one of pathos, heartbreak, terror, and stupid fish...

Years ago, when my daughter was a wee lil' lass, I thought it'd be cool to get her a couple of goldfish for Christmas. For you see, she'd been asking for a dog. I thought I'd start her out on a trainer pet. I mean, how hard can it be to take care of goldfish, right? RIGHT?

So, I enlisted my brother's help. Together, we conspired and planned and set off to Walmart to pick up the golden goods. The dunderhead West brothers filled that cart up with a bowl, fish food, junk to stick in the bowl, a pump, anything else I could think of. I mean, it was for my daughter, I wasn't gonna skimp. The last item on the list, of course, were two of the perkiest goldfish I could find. Plastic bag in hand, we went to my brother's house and set the goldfish up in their brand new bowl.

Now, my knowledge of goldfish was pretty limited. I kinda thought it was all about sprinkling some flakes on top of the bowl on occasion. Maybe tap the bowl a couple times daily to scare the fish. That's it.

But, Ken, the Walmart fish guy, set me straight. "No, no, goldfish are a lotta work. It's a privilege, not a pleasure to own goldfish. You have to change the water and clean the bowl regularly." Ken went on to tell me exactly what I needed to do. Man, talk about a full-time job.

After the first day, I thought it was time to change the bowl. Healthy water, healthy fish. I scooped the lil' buggers out, threw them in an alternate bowl. Cleaned and washed and did everything I was supposed to do.

That night, my brother calls. "Um, they're dead."

Crap. Oh well, better they die before my daughter gets them. Off we went to Walmart. Ken wasn't there, but Roger was. We explained our dilemma. Roger--king of sympathetic, puppy eyes-- nodded a lot and finally held up an authoritative finger. "I see where you went wrong. You need to blow oxygen into the fish bowl for them to breathe."

Huh. Okay, fine, whatever. I picked up a box of straws. Every chance I got, I ran to my brother's, took out a straw, and felt like an idiot blowing bubbles into the water. (The backsplash didn't taste very good either; no wonder the first two died.)

The next morning, I went over again to blow more bubbles. Alas, things--and the fish--had gone belly up again.

With Christmas fast approaching, I trundled off to Walmart again. Petey, the newest fish expert (and just how many did they have, anyway?) sold me on the ultimate in high-tech (for Walmart) pumps. "Yes, sir, this baby here, Stu ( I can call you Stu, right?)"

"Um, I don't really--"

"As I was saying, Stu, with this Turbo-Blaster Fish Air Express 3,000, you'll never have fish dying on you again."

Clearly Petey's last job had been a car salesman as he knew a rube when he saw one. I left with an armful of expensive crap and a couple more fish.

This time the Express 3,000 did the trick! The fish survived two, count 'em, two days, just hours before Christmas. Huzzah! Hark the hairy angels sing and whatever!

It was worth it. On Christmas morning, my daughter was overjoyed when I unveiled the bells and whistles and fully stocked fish bowl. A Christmas miracle.

That night, we stayed up late, cleaning out the bowl and changing the water. Just a good, instructional, warm, close father and daughter bonding experience.

The next morning I wake up to my daughter shaking me. "Dad? I think the fish are dead."

Noooooooooooooooo!

Sure enough, the sad fruits of my labor (and cash and good intentions) floated like so much driftwood.

I'd had enough.

"They're in Heaven now, Sarah. You want a puppy?"

Happy holidays! Let's be kind to everyone this new year, deal?

Speaking of holiday horrors, how 'bout stuffing your stockings with one of the fine Christmas horror short story collections from Grinning Skull Press? All proceeds go to an excellent charity: The Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow Over Deathlehem (Fine, I'm biased because I have a frightful holiday tale in the book!).

Late-Breaking Bible News!

I know I shouldn't do it. Call me a masochist (maybe a sadist), but I'm often tempted to challenge my mom on some of her more "interesting" beliefs.

The other day, I told her global warming might destroy the earth if we continue on the toxic path we're treading.

"Mom," I said, "according to the news, scientists predict the end of earth soon."

Silence. Quivering lip. Glazed-over stare.

Finally, she says, "Well, I have Bible news, too."

"Bible news, Mom? Really? Is it late-breaking news?" All irony was lost on her. I mean, the word "new" is in "news" for a reason. Call it current, up-to-date information.

Things like this don't matter to her, though.

"Yes, Stuart," she said, "Bible news."

"Okay."

"It's all in there in the Bible, all of it's predicted. The world's coming to an end. The bible says we're in the Book of Revelations."

"Hmm." I plunged and poked deeper. "Well...maybe that's right. And the Anti-Christ is in office, unleading the country. I betcha he's got a "666" marked on his head beneath that horrible, orange comb-over."

Silence. Dead glare. Anger simmering. At long last..."Huh." That's all she said, but that single word contained more contempt for my views than all of the ranting and raving of a Facebook political "debate."

Which really makes for fun holiday gatherings, a real hoot-and-a-half! This Thanksgiving, I couldn't help myself and goaded my mother again. (It was a repeat, too, but I hoped she'd give me the same response. She doesn't disappoint!).

"Mom," I said while gnawing on a turkey leg, "you know, many historians say Jesus was black."

Silence fell over the table. Most everyone stared down into their plates. My wife kicked me beneath the table. 

My mom's fuse lit. Color bled to her cheeks. That lower lip quivered in anger again and this time, I'd pushed too far.

"Bah," she at long last spat, "what do historians know."

Happy holidays, everyone!

Speaking of which, how 'bout stuffing your stockings with one of the fine Christmas horror short story collections from Grinning Skull Press? All proceeds go to an excellent charity: The Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow Over Deathlehem (Fine, I'm biased because I have a frightful holiday tale in the book!).

The Strange Case of the Dented Forehead

So, over the holidays, I'm sitting with my wife's family in Oklahoma. Around the dinner table where all the best conversations take place.

This wasn't one of them...

We're talking about our various scars and childhood mishaps.

My wife asks where I got the scar on my forehead.

"What?" I protest. "I don't have a scar on my forehead!"

"Yes, you do," she insists.

Everyone's now studying my forehead as I bubble into a red ball of scrutiny. "Um, no I don't. Man, it sure is cold outside, isn't--"

"Then what caused that dent in your forehead?"

Again all eyes turn to me. "Oh for... I don't have a dent in my forehead!"

"It's there...right in the middle." She taps her forehead. The ball has been lobbed back to me. As in a tennis match, the rest of the family members swing their heads back and forth, anticipating the outcome. Probably won't be a score of "love."

"No it's not! I don't have a--"

"Then why is your forehead dented? I thought you told me you had a childhood accident."

Flustered, I start babbling. "Okay, I did have a couple childhood accidents. One on my knee, another on my chin. But I don't have a dented forehead. I don't have, nor have I ever had a scar on my forehead. And there wasn't some traumatic childhood accident that my parents covered up in a conspiracy to keep me from turning into a serial killer or anything like--"

"There it is!" My wife leans across the table, squinting now. "If you didn't have an accident, what's that dent from?"

"I don't know," I scream, hands up. "Intensity, I guess!"

And I think it's dinners like this that put the dent in my forehead (which I still don't believe I have). 

For even more intensity (the non-denting kind, natch), check out my suspense thriller, Dread and Breakfast.