When Angels Die...

My wife and I were enjoying a sparring match of words and wits. So what else is new?

"Every time you get in a mood to do outside work, you never leave me a clear path in the garage to get the trash/recycling bins out," I said. (Side note: I don't think we've had a car in the garage since we were married. It's a place to store junk when there's no more room in the house or basement. Or Hell.)

"Well..." she rebounded, "...every time you help me with a project, I have to clean up after you."

"That's simply not true," I objected.

"Ha! Oh yes it is!"

"No, it's not," I calmly stated. "Because I don't help much with your projects any more. My back and knees, you know." (My go-to "get-out-of-jail-free" card.)

"And every time you cook," she continued, "I spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning up the mess after you," she fearlessly lobbed back at me.

"Yeah? Well, every time you go shopping, our living room looks like an Amazon warehouse," I countered.

"Fine," she said, "but every time you open stuff, you leave your trash laying on the counter or a table."

Hmmm. I have to admit, she had me there. But I ain't nothin' if not an underdog and who doesn't love a come-back? I thought long and hard and came up with this non-sequitur gem of Trumpian proportions: "Well...every time you kvetch at me, an angel dies!"

Case closed, another win!

Speaking of total nonsense, check out my comic thriller, Chili Run. Beyond the rather *ahem* disturbing title, it's based on a dream I had where I was forced by bad guys to run across downtown Kansas City to retrieve a bowl of chili. Naturally, in nothing but my tighty-whities, a recurring nightmare that  a lot of guys are familiar with. You can find Chili Run here, the perfect thriller for the reader on the go.

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! 

Six Degrees of Bob Berdella, Kansas City serial killer

Kansas City's had its share of notorious serial killers. Terry Blair killed at least seven women in the KC metro area. There's good ol' Robert J. Gross, who'd been happily stalking and killing massage parlor workers for decades, before finally being caught. How about Lorenzo Gilyard, a trash company supervisor, who was suspected of killing 13 women, colorfully known as The Kansas City Strangler? I guess working trash must've been stressful. Casting the net further, of course, Kansas gave birth to the BTK Strangler. You're welcome! Oh, and the Westboro Baptist Church.

But perhaps the killer with the most notoriety was Bob Berdella, aka The Kansas City Butcher, aka The Collector. Or at least he scared me the most. For I had several near encounters with him, my version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, I suppose.

For those who don't know, the short story is Bob was actually a relatively well-known Kansas City fixture, hiding in plain sight. Many knew him as a civic-minded citizen, who helped to form the Hyde Park Neighborhood Crime and Watch Program. Long out of the closet, he took in young male hustlers and attempted to get them off of drugs. Soon he started capturing, torturing (for up to six weeks!), and killing young gay men, disposing of them in handy-sized chunks in trash bags at the landfill. All of this took place at his home at 4315 Charlotte Street.

Now, at the same time, one of my closest friends lived directly one block over at 4315 Harrison Street. It was ideal for our group of pals, as A) he was the only one with a house at the time and we could all crash there (it had, like, four floors and endless rooms!); and B) it was within walking distance of our favorite nightlife area, Westport.

Many wee hours were spent stumbling home from the bars to the house on Harrison while Bob was busy directly behind us pouring Drano down a poor hapless victim's throat. Even scarier was another friend, who was particularly directionally-challenged after drinking, spent the night mistakenly on Bob's front porch! Lucky for him, Bob must've slept through his intrusion, otherwise he would've seen it as a Christmas miracle, no doubt.

But you know, in our stupid and immature youthful naivety and false feelings of invulnerability, we never worried about the crime-ridden neighborhood, let alone ending up as shish-ka-Bob-Berdellaed!

Speaking of Westport, Bob ran a booth down there called "Bob's Bizarre Bazaar." The little shop specialized in selling odd items from around the world. Now, the booth was inside another building called "The Westport Flea Market," a very unusual joint comprised of dozens of booths lining three walls and a hamburger restaurant (that had crab races on Sunday nights!) in the center. I spent many an afternoon and night in that joint while Bob undoubtedly watched me gnawing on a burger. (The place still prides itself as "the best burger in KC," but the Berdella fallout wasn't the greatest publicity for meat-eaters, as you can imagine.)

I never went into his booth, but was familiar with it. I'm pretty sure I even saw him sitting on a stool there a couple times. Another friend of mine did visit there once with a date (talk about a memorable date!), where Bob displayed a human skull for sale. At the time my pal thought it was fake, now, not so much. One thing about Bob, he had clever ways of getting rid of his victims.

When the story broke, we all watched it from the perceived safety of the house on Harrison Street. Suddenly, it didn't feel so safe any longer.

On the topic of serial killers, check out my darkly-humorous trilogy of thrillers about beleaguered serial killers under fire. And they're the good guys! (Wait until you meet the bad guys...) That's Secret Society, Strike, and Killer King. Ask for them by name!

My Adventures with Whizzo the Clown

Growing up in Kansas City, I watched "Whizzo the Clown" at every opportunity. The Midwest's answer to Bozo the Clown (he of the frightening four-foot wide perf), Whizzo amused my childish sensibilities with his outlandish antics and silly slapstick. Viewing him through an adult's eyes, it's a more terrifying experience, somewhat akin to watching a manic man suffering an on-air mental breakdown, complete with floppy feet-shoes, a pizza-large hat, a bag of tricks, and non-stop gibberish.

First things first, I've never really liked clowns. Not that I'm scared of them (even though they are creepy). No, I just never found them funny. In fact, more often than not, I felt sorry for them. My first visit to the circus, a clown lost his pants. I was mortified for him. My fellow classmates were busting a gut, while I, sensitive soul that I am, felt extreme empathy for his pantsless humiliation. (Been there, done that...story for another time).

So... It wasn't until my family took me to the same circus, when the clown AGAIN lost his pants, that I forced out guffaws. I finally understood. Clowns were supposed to be funny. Even though they're not.

That's when I embraced Whizzo. I didn't consider him overly hilarious, but wanted to be his best friend. Take him out for a soda and pizza. Maybe tell him to tone it down a little bit, because he was always shouting, stuttering, flabbergasted, and running around at a Three Stooges-on-speed pace.

I begged my mom to take me to  Whizzo's show. Instead I got stuck with being on "Torey Time," an insipid show about an adult in a pork-pie hat and his hand puppet pal, "Ol' Gus." Only thing good about it was "Gus" and he didn't even show up for the show. They told us he'd be put in later. RIP-OFF!

Anyway, after that traumatic event, I had to settle for being a member of the cheap-jack "Whizzo's Birthday Club." Basically, this amounted to a paper membership card supposedly signed by Whizzo himself. No cake, no gifts, nothing. RIP-OFF NUMBER TWO!

At this time in my childhood, I'd pretty much decided to leave my relationship with Whizzo behind. Besides I started noticing girls ("Gosh, she sure has a nice smile."). And so it went for many, many years, until suddenly, through fate's sense of whimsy and irony...Whizzo entered my life again.

One of my first post-college jobs was at a small public relations firms (RIP-OFF TO ALL OF OUR CLIENTS!). My boss told me that tomorrow I'd be driving around a celebrity to several publicity interviews.

"Who's the celebrity?" I asked.

"Whizzo the Clown," she said.

Huh.

"Whizzo can't drive because of his huge feet," my boss explained further, like this was not uncommon.

So, absolutely not knowing what to expect, I fired up my Celica, and picked up Whizzo. A small car, we had a hard time leveraging Whizzo into the passenger seat. Damn floppy feet almost didn't make it, let alone that pizza hat, frilly collar, and baggy pants. And his big bag of props. (Then again, I suspected all clowns were contortionists, having been trained properly with clown cars).

Good Gawd, I thought, is he gonna be honking his horn and whacking me with his "Hissy the Goose" prop the entire day?

But instead of belting out his voice-hoarsening non-stoop shtick, he was a relatively reserved and lovely man. He introduced himself, we shook hands (no joy buzzer), and he maintained an indoors voice. 

Real name Frank Wiziarde, he'd grown up performing different acts in his family's small traveling circus, until he developed the Whizzo character in the '50's. I had no idea he still had an active television show. 

We talked a bit more, then Whizzo cracked the window and reached into his suitcase of tricks. Instead of a rubber chicked, he pulled out a package of cigarettes.

"Mind if I smoke, Stuart?" he asked.

Actually, I did, but that's not what I told him. "No, go right ahead."

He did, man, did he ever. A chimney, he'd stop only to hack and hawk loogies out the window. Once, while idling at a stoplight in downtown, a couple of teenagers crossed in front of us. They pulled a clown-worthy double-take at Whizzo riding shot-gun in my dirt and rust-covered Celica. Quickly, Whizzo lowered his cigarette, jabbed it into the ashtray. Then he smiled and waved frantically at the lookie-loos who waved back, their smiles nearly as big.

When the light turned green, he fired up another cigarette. He turned to me and said, "Can't have fans seeing Whizzo smoke." He grinned, chuckled, and coughed.

At the first radio station, I escorted Whizzo inside where quiet (TOO quiet) introductions were made. Once the lights struck and the "quiet" sign lit, Whizzo was on! His voice amped up several decibels, he shouted and spat his way through nonstop nonsense that was exhausting to listen to. Yet as I watched him, I grinned just like everyone else in the studio.

I forgot what he was promoting (some charity, I believe), but Whizzo was a true showman in every sense and restored my lost childhood faith in him. Sadly, he died several years later, but I'm sure he's madly racing around that big three-ring circus in the sky.

Meeting him--finally--was definitely NOT A RIP-OFF!

Speaking of clown make-up, check out the frightening make-up on the cover of the just rereleased final book in my Secret Society trilogy, Killer King. Maybe this will tip those straddling the line of Coulrophobia over into an unhealthy fear of clowns!

Night of the Living Pretentious Guy

Once a year in Kansas City--always during the coldest week in January, it seems--the annual tradition of "Restaurant Week" occurs. A great deal of hoity-toity restaurants conspire to offer fancy-schmancy dinners for $30 and lunches for $15. It's a great way to try joints we've only read about, always mean to try, and then forget about them. And if you like bisque, you're in luck. (But you've gotta really like bisque; lots and lots and lots of bisque).

At one of these upper-scale joints (so upper-scale, I had to actually iron khakis!), we found ourselves enjoying some excellent food. However, the place was dark and murky, full of interior bubble windows, adorned with odd, swooping walls, and splashed with dour and shimmering aquas and teals: the ambiance of an aquarium. Worse, the tables were so close to one another, I became extremely familiar with the waiter's butt.

And then THEY sat down next to us. 

At first, they seemed harmless enough: an older couple and a younger couple (I envied the guy because HE got to wear jeans). That's where my envy stopped. Desperate to impress the older couple (I kinda assumed they were the younger gal's parents), the young guy wouldn't--couldn't--shut up. When he wasn't bragging about himself, he let the world know about his seemingly endless array of impressive best friends who'd done everything from curing cancer to revolutionizing the world of cuisine.

"My best friend's the head chef at The Drunken Antler," he bragged. "I guarantee it'll change the way you see beef."

An actual quote! (The only way I ever see beef is on a plate; definitely NOT the cute barnyard animals. But now that this has been imprinted on my brain, I just might have to go vegetarian.)

"When you go," Mr. Hotcha continued, "I need to be the one to take you. I want to study the look of satisfaction on your face."

Noooooooo! Trapped, nowhere to go, uncomfortable in my khakis, I was held captive to the relentless pontificating.

"My other best friend is a world-class mixologist in Portland. He's created some top-of-the-line tastes and drinks, the best anywhere."

Make it stop! Please!

But the younger guy didn't. I don't think he could. Like a Hyde persona, the driving force of pretentiousness swept him away. He monopolized our waiter (although to be fair, I got a lotta butt-face time with him), and soon Mr. Too-Cool-For-School somehow roped the bartender into his growing cult. 

This time the older guy (run, potential father-in-law, run fast and hard!) reiterated all of Mr. Young Pretentious Guy's brags to the bartender.


The bartender, squirmy and ill-at-ease, jut out a stand-up comic's hand, and said, "You know, I just mix drinks, and sometimes, you know, I add stuff to 'em. You know." With a perpetual grimace on his face and a finger working loose his collar, the bartender couldn't wait to escape back to the safety of his bar. We felt his pain.

Having run out of best friends to yak about, Mr. Pompous decided the time had come for him to wax on about himself. And wax on he did. "The other day, I gave a presentation (snootily pronounced "PREE-san-tation"), and made sure to run long, carrying over into our lunch break. I've found that's the most efficient way to present my case and keep the nay-sayers' questions at bay. Quite an effective tool."

Only tool I saw was sporting trendy and perfectly manicured 5:00 shadow.

We gobbled and got out before the pretentiousness rubbed off on us.

Beware the pretentious, ladies and gents. They're out there. Waiting. Lurking. Pontificating.

There's not an ounce of pretentiousness in Nightmare of Nannies. Just good ol' fashioned mystery and stoopid comedy.

One click away keeps the pretension at bay!