Noirmares

I have recurring nightmares. Unsettling ones where I've committed a murder and the law is slowly closing in on me.

We'll call them "NOIRmares." Sure, my wife and I enjoy Noir Alley with Eddie Muller on TCM, but I don't think that's where my noirmares come from.

The weirdest part is that I don't murder people who deserve it (ex-bosses, ex-girlfriends, cable guys, politicians). No, I never know the identity of my victims, nor do I ever recall why I did it. The noirmare seems to go on forever, but the point is always about whether or not I'll get away with it.

Where does this come from, I constantly ask myself. I've never committed a murder before, never even came close to formulating a plan. Do I have the latent serial killer gene?

I took to my trusty research assistant, Ms. Google, for the shocking answer:

"Dreams about murdering someone can symbolize a variety of emotions and desires, including suppressed anger, frustration, or feelings of powerlessness, or unresolved conflicts with someone in waking life."

Huh. Well, I felt slight relief in that I'm not the only one who goes on a killing spree in dream-world, but it still leaves a lot of questions unanswered. Cases in point...

"Suppressed anger." I suppose that could be true. But I would think that would be more apt in the case where you personally know your victim.

"Frustration." Again, maybe. There's no doubt I've been frustrated at people many times. But in my noirmares, I'm not murdering the cable guy, am I?

"Feelings of powerlessness." This is certainly true now, especially regarding the MAGA madness. (Although I've never dreamed about murdering Trump, I did have a dream about boxing him.)

"Unresolved conflicts with someone in waking life." Nope. I have no idea who these nameless, faceless cyphers are who I murder, nor do I ever dream about the act of murder. It seems like the murder has already occurred before the noirmare begins.

Ah, Ms. Google let me down. No answers forthcoming from her this time.

Hey, maybe if more serial killers had noirmares, there wouldn't be a need for serial killers!

And speaking of serial killers, give a looksie to my darkly comical serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. There's more cat and mouse gaming and serial killers than you can shake a stick at! And that doesn't even include the bad guys! It's complicated. But you can find them here!

Rachel Maddow: Hot or Not?

In this current time of crazy political upheaval and even crazier politicians, I think it's time to seriously address a burning topical issue: Is Rachel Maddow a hottie or a nottie?

Personally, I think she's kinda hot. Recently, I had one friend who agreed with me, although he downgraded "hot" to "cute."

Even more recently, I made the mistake of blurting it out in a bar to my brother, his daughters, and a friend.

Emboldened by beer, I said, "Is it just me? Or is Rachel Maddow hot?"

Silence. Than disbelief. My brother shook his head in abject disappointment in me than started laughing. "It's just you."

One of my nieces was laughing, too, and said, "She's soooooo gay."

I answered, "I know that! But it doesn't stop how I think she looks."

I pulled up the most attractive picture I could find on my phone. I showed it to my other niece who just shook her head.

My brother faked a "WOW!"

The friend with us was slightly supportive. "Well...she's an attractive woman. But...'hot?' No!"

Hanging my head in shame, I started backpedaling. "Maybe...maybe I'm just attracted to her liberal firebrand journalistic warrior-hood."

That ploy didn't seem to work. As the derisive laughter and ludicrous--and admittedly sexist--discussion rose in volume, people started looking at us. And eavesdropping. More shakes of the head at my "Hotometer" being broken.

My brother says, "Do you also think Billie Jean King is hot?"

And of course, my nieces start googling her.

Deciding to try and save face, I tried to be a good sport. "Oh, YEAH! Hotcha!"

Then my brother starts dropping other names. "You think Jane Lynch is hot? Carol Burnett? How about Carol Burnett?"

I don't know where or why he pulled out Carol Burnett, but I played along until the joke (on me) had died down.

I finally mumbled, "I've always liked that short, cute, spiky-haired, punkish look." Which is true as I've always liked my wife's hair the shorter she keeps it.

Seriously, though, I do find Rachel Maddow to be attractive (maybe I, too, will downgrade from the rude and sexist "hot"), regardless of her own sexuality. But more importantly, it's what she stands for that I like: a serious-minded, left-wing leaning journalist who's needed these days when compared to the lying so-called "newscasters" who make up "stories" to suit their political leanings and fleece their viewers. You KNOW who I'm talking about and they're definitely NOT HOT.

Speaking of "hotness" and giving fair time to the other sex, Zach Cavanaugh, a male stripper (but don't call him that!), thinks he is the male definition of hot. Hot or not, he's about as dumb as a box of rocks. And he keeps finding himself wrongly implicated in some bizarre murders. It always falls on his long-suffering, usually pregnant, competent sleuth sister to bail him out of trouble by finding the real murderers. Check out the Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series here: Bad Day in a Banana Hammock!

"One horse SOAP and sleigh!"

Yep, you read that right. Throughout my childhood, I always thought one of the lyrics to "Jingle Bells" was "one horse soap and sleigh." I never questioned it, just went along my merry juvenile way singing my lil' foolish, gleeful, songbird head off like naïve kids who haven't yet been introduced to the Big Bad Real World do. My parents were no help, they didn't correct me, probably because they thought it was "cute" or something. (Kind of like how I would pronounce "S's" with a lisp which they found adorable, and thus encouraged it, while sending me right into an embarrassing remedial speech therapy class. Thanks, Mom and Dad!) Or maybe they thought those were the lyrics as well,

But I digress. As I grew older, I wondered what a one horse soap and sleigh was. At first, I thought maybe the soap on the sleigh's rails made it slicker in the snow. Then I thought not, for surely the snow would melt off the soap. Then I wondered if maybe EVERYBODY got the lyric wrong and it was supposed to be a "one horse souped up sleigh." Now that made sense. Yet it didn't. I knew the song was old, but it was probably even more ancient than beatnik slang like "souped up."

As the years fell away and my cynicism grew along with my height and awkwardness, I thought that maybe the songwriters were just as sadistic as fairy tale writers and they were hiding a morbid message: the horse would be slayed (most definitely not "sleighed") and turned into soap. Yikes.

Actually I forgot all about it until this Christmas. One groggy morning in bed, I asked my wife, "What does 'one horse soap and sleigh' mean?'"

She gave me her patented crazed look and said "What are you talking about?"

"Um, the song 'Jingle Bells.' There's a one horse soap and sleigh."

Her eyeroll was astronomical. "It's 'one horse open sleigh.'"

I said, "Ohhhhhhhhh," while pretending to have some semblance of dignity and intelligence left.

But my wife's no one to talk. If you were around in the 70's, undoubtedly you guys were throttled by that awful, maudlin Little River Band song, "Lonesome Loser." You know, the song where the groups singing is supposed to be celestial harmonies, but sounds more like a bag of cats thrown into a dog pound? Yeah, that one. For years, my wife thought the song was "Lonesome Lizard." Which makes absolutely no sense, especially for the poor lonesome reptile.

I think everybody has some song in their past where they got the lyrics wrong, A friend of mine who I lived with in college was one day singing along to the stereo. He was bebopping around the apartment, singing at the top of his lungs: "Mid-Summer's Dayyyyyy! Mid-Summer's DAYYYYYYYYYYY!"

I said, "Whoa! What the hell are you singing, Jerry?"

"'Mid-Summer's Day' by Men at Work. Duh."

Well. At least he got the band right. But the song was "It's a Mistake." How he got Mid-Summer's Day out of that is anyone's guess. Yet I made sure I laughed and laughed at him for too long a time.

But I think I'm just deflecting attention from my bonehead decades long Christmas song faux pas.

While on the topic of boneheads, it takes one to write one, I guess, and characters don't come any more boneheaded than one of the two leads in my Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series. You see, Zach is a male stripper (he prefers "male entertainment dancer") who constantly stumbles over dead bodies and is blamed for the murders by making really dumb life choices. It's up to his (usually pregnant and highly irritable) sleuth sister, Zora, to find the real killer and save her dumb brother's neck. Join the fun with the first book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock!

Hazardous to pests and oafs

Sometimes I just can't help myself. Blessed (or cursed, more like) with an innate sense of curiosity, said curiosity has gotten me into a few messes during my lifetime. And yet, none quite as messy as a couple weeks ago.

I was upstairs in our office, fiddling around on my computer when I noticed a strange new item I hadn't seen before.

What's this strange, yet oddly compelling and weirdly attractive item I've never seen before, I pondered. Where did it come from? What is its purpose? I'm absolutely drawn to this mystery item with the attractive design wrapped around it, so much so that I MUST hold it.

So, curiosity drew me to it. Or I should say curiosity drew it to me. And you know what they say about that poor, damned cat, right?

I clutched the mystery obelisk around its middle and it clutched me right back. I gasped, a short intake of shock. 

What fresh hell is this? Why won't it let me go??? Am I in a Hellraiser movie???

I shook my hand, panicking, yet the stubborn object held on, much worse than my several Super Glue mishaps in the past. I jumped out of my chair, used my other hand to pull it away, yet that hand became equally ensnared around the insidious man-trap. Using my body, I pushed it up against the wall. Now my shirt was glued to the damned, damnable object from Hell.

Hopping around the room, waving my arm like a hillbilly who bit off more than he could chew (or vice versa) when he went noodling for the king of catfish, I flailed into plants and knocked over lamps.

"Help," I screamed. "Help! Help!" But it was to no avail. I was alone in the home. Unless you count my freaked out dogs who were just staring at me.

Finally, through the grace of God (and leverage, can't dismiss leverage), I managed to dislodge the hellish man-trap and flung it across the room.

My hands still sticky, I phoned my wife. Stat. "WHAT was that damned thing?"

After she was finished laughing at my trauma, she said, "A gnat trap. You're not supposed to pick it up. Duh. Now go wash your hands thoroughly."

Well. Did I feel stupid. But in my defense, there was no packaging. Packaging that might've said...oh, I dunno..."Warning! Harmful to pests, insects, and big, dumb, oafish men." Furthermore, why in the hell would the manufacturers make a pest trap so...so...damned attractive?

It's not like a pack of flies (are they "packs?") say to one another, "Hey, Charlie, check out that way-cool design on that decidedly retro-looking obelisk over yonder!"

"Wow," says Charlie, "I find myself strangely compelled to land on it to check it out further! But look out for the big, dumb oafish man sitting next to it."

Instead of a compelling design, I would rather have them imprint "WARNING! STICKY AS HELL!" all over it in big, bombastic, dreadfully dark letters. I doubt it would make much of a difference to gnats.

Speaking of guys who make some really dumb decisions, meet Tex McKenna, the protagonist of my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy (well, quartet, kinda). But unlike me, Tex is a teenager, so making bad decisions is tantamount to growing up. (There's, um, no excuse for me, however.) Tex is also a witch and embroiled in a serial killer murder mystery at his high school. It's complicated. To find out how complicated, check the books out here!

The Blue Jay of Nutrition

Recently, my wife and I were kicking around Weston, Kansas, a quaint, small town known for wineries (yay!) and "antiquing (boo! And don't ever, ever, EVER use that "word" around me)." When we left, I noticed a small store off the beaten path.

"Blue Jay Nutrition," I scoffed. "I wonder what they sell!"

My wife says, "Nutrition. Duh." Then she waited a beat. "Wait...did you think that it was nutrition for blue jays?" She starts laughing and laughing and attracting attention to my dunder-headed faux pas.

"Well...kinda." I hung my head, burning redder than a fire hydrant.

In retrospect, I should've known better. But my brain blipped and I followed the logic. For a ludicrous moment, I imagined the store's proprietor giving a tour to visiting school children. "Okay, today I'm going to show you what blue jays eat for their nutritious needs. Other bird's eggs. That's the end of our tour, boys and girls, please donate your lunch money on your way out. See ya!"

Well, it was kinda a dumb name for a store, so don't judge me.

Of course this sent me down the path of finding other really dumb business/store names. The results will make you say "what the hell were they thinking?"

There's "The Morning Wood Company." Not a joke, not an imaginary story, not a dream! It gets even worse with their slogan: "You've Got To Get Up Early To Beat Us." I'd like to think that the proprietor of Morning Wood knew exactly what he was doing, but...would it equate to good business?

How about "Bunghole Liquors?" I'm not even going to comment on this one. Well, maybe I will. If the owners name is "Bunghole," surely a lifetime of childhood humiliation would've sent him fleeing to the courthouse by now to have his name legally changed.

"Poopsie's" isn't so bad, I suppose... If it were a children's fun palace or toy store. Maybe. But it's a restaurant. Next!

"Sam & Ella's Chicken Palace" is next on the list. This one took me a moment to figure through. But keep saying "Sam 'n Ella"  out loud and you'll realize it's about the worst possible advertisement for a chicken palace one could imagine.

Here's one that dads everywhere will be sure to enjoy: "Passmore Gas & Propane." C'mon, Dad, let's hear that one again! 

"Master Bait & Tackle!" Well...I'm not sure how these two activities (if you will) go hand-in-hand (if you will even more!), but I won't be darkening their doorway any time soon (unless I'm wearing a trench coat and nothing underneath, if you will infinity!).

We'll wrap things up with "Dumass Taco." I kinda think these guys knew what they were doing since their logo is a donkey. Just don't confuse them with their competitor down the street, "Braniac Burrito."

There you have just a few entries into the remarkably creative (or astoundingly narrow-minded and just plain dumb) arena of mercantilism. Okay! It's going on lunch-time, so I think I'll go and pop off at the local "Kum 'n Go" for something good... Wait... Um...

While we're on the topic of dunderheaded and idiotic buffoons, meet Zach Caulfield, male stripper par excellence (but he prefers "male entertainment dancer") and incredibly unlucky dead body magnet! Thank God for his sleuthing sister, Zora, who bails him out of trouble time and time again by finding the real murderers (even when she's carting around her four kids, natch). Read the wacky hijinx and cases of MURDERRRRRRRRR in the Zach and Zora comic mystery series!

"My Crotch Itches. Someone Must Be Thinking About Me..."

It's one of those weird ol' wives' tales regarding body parts. I think. Don't hold it against me. But I went ahead and said it anyway...

"Wow. My crotch itches. Someone must be thinking about me."

My ever-suffering wife's eye-roll and headshake let me know via non-verbal means what she thought of my statement, even though I proclaimed it with a very furrowed brow and authoritative finger jutting in the air to give me that professorial gravitas necessary for such a bold declaration. (Although, really, I'm pretty sure I said it just to get a laugh and to give my wife forewarning I was about to scratch myself and not come off as a savage. For those keeping score, I accomplished neither.)

But I know I'd heard some similar strange wives' tales regarding body parts. (And before anyone starts calling me sexist, I'm fully aware of the ramifications; but if I were to talk about "husbands' tales," you guys wouldn't know what I was talking about, unless it had to do with...well, scratching your crotch or whatever.)

So I donned my journalistic cap and went to work on research...

Dayum, there's a lot of them out there! Strange superstitions about hair alone are too numerous to get into, but I'll cover some highlights (see what I did there? Hair? Highlights? Ba-da-BOOM.). 

For instance, did you know that if a woman has a "widow's peak," she'll outlive her husband? Furthermore, if a woman starts suddenly developing curls, then her man doesn't have long to live! Yow! Guys! Spare no costs in getting your woman to the salon for hair-straightening! Honestly, I had no idea that my wife's hair would dictate the length of my life. And it's all true, too, because it's on the introwebs.

Let's move onto eyes (because I want to quit thinking about my wife's hair controlling my fate). If your right eye itches, it's lucky. However, if your left eye itches, you're doomed! It doesn't say what's in store for you if both eyes itch, which is my case. So I plan on having no luck, good or bad.

Here we go: If your ears are burning, someone's talking about you! (I just got the wrong body part before; but frankly the crotch makes more sense as far as all of this goes.) Fun Fact: First century AD Roman writer Pliny the Elder created this superstition (more or less). I imagine his ears were truly burning when Mount Vesuvius buried him in hot lava along with the rest of Pompeii in 79 AD. Of course people were talking about him at that point: "AIEEEEEEEE!" and "GROSS!" they were heard to say.

They say you can tell a lot about people by the shapes of their noses. (Well, "they" don't really say that, unless you consider "they" a cabal of "old wives.") A prominent nose suggests intelligence. Jealousy and uncertainty are natural byproducts of thin noses. And look out for those bad-tempered receding nose guys! (Honestly, I'm not sure what a "receding" nose looks like; the first image that comes to mind is the Crypt Keeper and since he's always giggling, I'd hardly call him bad-tempered.)

There's also said to be a connection between the size of a nose and a person's sexual organs. My mind boggles at Barbara Streisand and... Never mind.

Did you know that when your lips itch or tingle, you're about to be kissed? It's true! Even if you're in a crowd of strangers. Or maybe it's a cold sore. And if you bite your tongue while eating, you've recently told a lie. This could explain why Donald Trump chews his Big Mac nearly as much as his tongue. I like this one: a large gap between your teeth means you're lucky in life. Now, try explaining that to the gap-toothed individual about how lucky they are to have that huge, honking gap. And then RUN!

Nearly every body part is covered in ol' wives tales regarding itching. I've already covered a few, but still no mention of a crotch itch. But the next time you go gambling, pay attention to your palms. If your right palm itches, bet hard! If your left palm itches, go to the seafood buffet. 

Fun Fact #2! During the time of Edward the Confessor, if you cut off the hand of an executed convict while he's still on the gallows, it will enable you to commit crime and robbery without getting caught by stupefying those who saw it! I don't make up the news, I just report it.

Do you guys know why the left hand is considered unlucky? Simple! Because before God ousted Lucifer from Heaven, he always sat on God's left side. Duh. However, it's been keeping me up at night pondering what happens if you cut off the left hand of a dead criminal on the gallows. 

A damp hand means the person is amorous. Right. Do you want to make out with a sweaty-handed person?

Two people should never wash their hands in the same water because it will lead to a quarrel. The next logical step is if two people take a bath together, they'll go on a killing spree.

The first finger should never be used to administer medicine as it's known as the "poison finger." The third finger ("wedding finger") is related to matters of the heart. Hmmm. No mention of the second finger. Wait! I've got one: Never salute a cop with your second finger or you could wind up in the hoosegow.

You wouldn't believe all the superstitions about moles. But you only need heed one: check them out with your doctor. Warts, however, are obvious signs of the devil and the only way to banish them is to rub a frog across them. Probably while licking their backs in the process. (Although, come to think of it, my dad swore that as a child, he had a wart, took an onion, went into the back yard, rubbed the cut onion on the wart and threw it back over his shoulder, never seeing where it landed. If you looked where the discarded onion landed, it would nullify the process. But after obeying all the rules, my dad's wart vanished! Science!)

The list goes on and on, this cabal of old wives having a lot of spare time. But STILL not a mention of a crotch itch. (Although there is one that says if a girl's bra or panties slip down, someone's thinking of her. Probably quite a few people if they witnessed it.) 

But maybe these superstitions are adaptable. And just maybe, the old wives cabal was too polite to talk about the truths of crotch itches in mixed company. So...I think I'll grab a frog and a cut onion and go into the back yard...

Speaking of monumentally bad decisions, Zach Cavanaugh (dumb, but good-hearted male stripper) just can't help but constantly make terrible choices. Hey, I wouldn't have a book series without all of his dunderheaded decisions! Too bad for his sister, Zora (smart, competent, frustrated, and usually pregnant sleuth), who has to haul his butt out of trouble every step of the way. Especially since he has a tendency to be a dead body magnet and gets blamed for the murders. Join the fun and mystery in the Zach and Zora series: Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies, all of which can be found HERE!

Murder's On the Table!

My wife and I find ourselves embroiled in some very bizarre conversations. Take the following, for example. (And neither one of us can remember how exactly we came to this conclusion, but we just know that we did.)

"You know, divorce is not an option for us," I said one day out of the blue. "I would never divorce you."

"Hmmm," said wife. "I concur. However, murder could be a viable option."

"I wholeheartedly agree," I said while raising a very professorial finger and not even truly contemplating the underlying horror, oh, the horror of it all.

Now, of course we're joking. And I have to remember who I can tell this to and who I can't. For instance, caught up in the moment of our last anniversary celebration, we let this bombshell rip to our unsuspecting, befuddled and horrified wine-tasting hostess.

"We decided last week," said my wife, "that divorce isn't an option for us. Ever. However, murder's on the table."

Figuring I could smooth things over a bit, I added, "Yes. For all of the TV cop shows proclaim that murder is a crime of passion. Hence, it goes to figure that since we passionately love one another, murder would be the only logical outcome were things to get intensely wrong between us."

Naturally, I just made things worse. The hostess' jaw dropped and so did the glass she was polishing.

A little later, over my daughter's birthday dinner, we shared the same jovial news  as other eavesdropping diners and waitresses undoubtedly had their phones out and ready to call 911.

We do need to watch who we share this with. The Big House is not a viable option for us (although murder still is). 

While I'm on the topic of how funny murder is (hardy-har-har-har!), there are lots of larf-out-loud hijinx and antics surrounding murrrrrrder in my Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Start at the beginning with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and you'll see just how high-larious murder can be!

Kids Kill the Darndest People

Oh, those lil' cute murderous rapscallions!

Recently, my daughter told me a horrifying true tale from her childhood. When she was in grade school (a very nice Catholic school), the mean girls in her class didn't like the librarian. I dunno, maybe she'd shushed them one time too many or something equally as dire.

The librarian apparently had been very vocal about her own dislike for my daughter's class (except for my daughter, natch; librarian's pet, librarian's pet, librarian's pet!). Needless to say there was some bad library blood between the fourth grade girls and the librarian.

So, one day to get even, one of these little angels secretly poured bleach in the librarian's coffee cup. Yow! That'll kill ya! I mean, other than it being one of Trump's recommended beverages, it'll kill ya, and it still killed some Trump thumpers to boot.

But, hold on, the murderous hijinx didn't end there. After following the head evil lil' girl's lead, the other mean girls joined in on the wacky shenanigans, tee hee. Soon, they were all taking turns of covertly dropping tacks, paint, and all kinds of potentially murderous debris into the librarian's cup.

 Finally, one of the boys showed a shimmer of soul and pretended to "accidentally" knock the cup over, thus saving the librarian's life. And this poor kid ended up taking the bullet for the girl. (Hope she was worth it, guy.) The evil mastermind and her vile girl gang got off scot-free.

Sweet Mother of pearl! I hosted some of these lil' monsters at my daughter's slumber parties! I suppose I'm lucky they didn't set me on fire in my sleep. I mean, what would they've done to the janitor if he gave them the stink eye? Flay him to death?

Seriously, this is terrifying. What could a librarian possibly do to warrant her murder? 

We've all seen "The Bad Seed," right? This was the friggin' "bad garden."

Needless to say, I was horrified by this tale (and no, my daughter didn't know anything about it until after the fact), thus proving once and for all that girls are more evil than boys. Oh, sure, you'll get beat up by boy bullies, but you know, they get it out of their system and move onto the next big bullying thing. I took my fair share of lumps in my day, but I can honestly say that none of my bullies ever intended on murdering me.

So beware of adorably cute lil packages in pretty, pretty princess dresses. Evil lurks in pigtails.

While on the topic of evil children, my story "Halloweenie Roast" features several demonic kids on par with my daughter's heinous classmates. You can read it, along with other fine tales of horror and dark humor, in my collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley.

 

 

Gramma and Grammar

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

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

After school, I'd always greet Grams with:

"Hi, Gramma, how was your day?"

"Long and boring," she'd reply.

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

"Sorry to hear that, Grams."

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

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

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

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

Huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yolanda Renee's Murder & Obsession: Cover Reveal!

COVER REVEAL

 MURDER & OBSESSION

Flames burn between a hardboiled cop and a gifted artist, but soon extinguish as another man’s obsession ignites into an inferno of desire, driving him to destroy the object of his madness.

To be Released March, 10 2016

As wedding bells echo like the ring of toasting champagne glasses in the ice carved mountains of Anchorage Alaska, detective Steven Quaid rehabs his grandfather’s cabin into a honeymoon cottage for his new bride.

When he returns from a hunting trip, Steven’s faced with five police officers, who “Want to talk.” Plagued by two unsolved murders, the Department is searching for answers.

The conversation comes to a deafening halt as the team finds a bloody crime scene in the bridal suite. "Where's her body?" is a question Steven cannot fathom.
 

Steven’s jaw clenches and his heart races. Images of Sarah streak through his mind. 

The silence breaks as an explosion of accusations vibrate through every fiber of his being. 

Steven bolts…

Although running is never the smart thing to do, Steven’s not thinking clearly and his escape into the wilderness of the Brooks Range proves almost fatal. 

This Steven Quaid mystery is both personal and heartbreaking.

*****

   Yolanda Renee

At one time Alaska called to me and I answered. I learned to sleep under the midnight sun, survive in below zero temperatures, and hike the Mountain Ranges. I've traveled from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez, and the memories are some of my most valued. The wonders, mysteries, and incredible beauty that is Alaska has never left me and thus now influence my writing.

Despite my adventurous spirit, I achieved my educational goals, married, and I have two wonderful sons. Writing is now my focus, my newest adventure!

You can find Yolanda at:

Blog: Defending the Pen

Facebook

Twitter 

Pinterest

 Amazon

New Covers:

Murder, Madness & Love

After a gritty detective becomes involved with a beautiful widow suspected of murder, rumor and obsession obstruct his quest for justice.

Memories of Murder

World damnation is a psychotic man’s goal, but two obstacles stand in his way, greed and a dedicated detective. 

Murder, Madness & Love! It can only mean an interview with Yolanda Renee!

Hey, give a warm welcome to Yolanda Renee, author of Murder, Madness & Love, a sublime mystery of...well...read the title. Yolanda has several other titles outs I haven't yet read, but believe me, they're queued up, ready to go.

SRW: Yolanda, hey, thanks for braving my blog!

YR: You're quite welcome. I love interrogations when done by a master. That light, is it necessary? And I'd love a cup of coffee if you don't mind. Please, ask away.

SRW: (The light's part of the interrogation, Yolanda! Deal with it!) Recently, I finished Murder, Madness & Love. And I really liked it. Tell everyone what it's about.

YR: Murder, Madness & Love is a murder mystery with a romance that creates nothing but problems for a dedicated detective. The tagline says it all: After a gritty detective becomes involved with a beautiful widow suspected of murder, rumor and obsession obstruct his quest for justice.

SRW: One of the things I really loved about the book is the questionable nature of the heroine (anti-heroine?). Masterfully, you kept me guessing until the end whether she truly is a "black widow killer." Very strong Hitchcockian vibe there. Well done! So, did you have in mind, before you wrote the book, her true nature? Or did you, you know, wing it?

YR: Thank you, Stuart. I love that term Hitchcockian! I still enjoy watching his work. I knew when I wrote MML that I wanted Sarah to be suspect number one. I'm glad my efforts worked. Her job was to keep Quaid tangled in barbed wire throughout the story.

SRW: The book's set in Alaska. Brr. But the setting was a blast of fresh arctic air. You know what you write. Are you an Alaskan? (Or is that a politically incorrect terms these days?)

YR: I'm a former resident of Alaska. I traveled there on vacation when I was twenty, and extended my stay by 4 years. I hiked the Brooks and Alaskan Range, and left to finish my education. I'm not there now, because my husband doesn't like the cold. We compromised and spent 17 years in Washington State. He's a Florida man, but right now, we reside in Pennsylvania.

As far you being politically incorrect – who decides what is or isn't?

  

SRW: (Apparently not Donald Trump! Ahem...) I see your next book is a sequel. In name only, at least. Revolving around detective Steven Quaid. Can we talk a little bit about this guy?

YR: I'd love to; Quaid is part Tlingit Indian and Irish. He's a dedicated detective with no black marks in his file – until Sarah's case. He's unusual as a detective in that he wants the white picket fence, but he's unlucky in love. Then he meets Sarah, and his luck really sours, but like most guys, his job defines him and when that goes sour, he overreacts. In Memories of Murder, he's trying to correct the errors he made during Murder, Madness & Love, but his foe, Lucifer, knows his weakness.

SRW: Yikes...Lucifer?

YR:  Yep. The antagonist in Memories of Murder was raised to believe he's the son of Satan. Lucifer taunts detective Quaid with notes written in blood.

SRW: All right. Honestly, Quaid was kinda ticking me off. First, he falls in love with his main suspect. Uncool. Then he makes some major blunders. Finally the killer is unveiled. Um...no thanks to detective Quaid. Not really. He sorta falls into the resolution. So, tell me, Yolanda...should detective Quaid be busted back to school crossing guard? 

YR: You should have heard the remark an agent gave me when I told her the ending. I'm also sure it's the reason she's not representing me. But I was tired of the usual detective story. Quaid is almost too perfect, he needed a monkey wrench thrown into his life and Sarah is it. He falls in love with her before he's aware of her background. Then when he realizes who she is, he goes too far in the opposite direction. His brain believes he's being suckered, his heart isn't listening.

As far as going back to school, he does. In book 2, Memories of Murder he goes to Quantico for training. The bad press that follows this case is damaging the department, and he's determined to win back his stellar reputation. His ego takes a real hit, but aren't these the cases that turn a good decent detective into a hard drinking, shortcut taking master of the game? Quaid has a long, long journey yet.

SRW: I consider myself a pro at sussing out the killer in murder mysteries. When my wife and I watch Castle, Major Crimes, etc., no problem. First seven minutes, I point to the actor, arrogantly proclaim, "He/she's the killer." Makes my wife mad. But I have a 91% accuracy profile. Yet your book completely bamboozled me on the identity of the killer. Comment please (while complimenting me in the same sentence; my blog).

YR: Every mystery writer wants to fool the reader, so thank you for being sweet enough to say that I was able to fool you, especially with your accuracy rate. (Does that fit your requirement as a compliment?) I did work hard to bamboozle the readers. Setting up the red herrings was and is always super important in any mystery. Your question tells me I achieved my goal, thanks.

SRW: I'm not a romance fan. And a good part of your book deals with romance (don't worry, non-romance folks! There's great stuff between the mushy stuff!). Maybe it's because I'm a novice at reading romance books, but, um, some of the dialogue struck me as super bodice-ripping, Harlequin time. Tell me, Yolanda, does anyone in a burning, passionate romance honestly call one another "angel" or "warrior?" Keep in mind, I'm a stoopid guy. Enlighten us stoopid guys, Yolanda!

YR: First, there is no bodice ripping!

My first love was the mystery, and my second was a good romance. I wanted the love story to be part of the finished product. If I could do it over, I'd probably handle it a bit different, but as to 'angel' and 'warrior,' I took that from real life. My husband and I do have pet names for each other (although not angel or warrior) and yes, we are a bit of a Harlequin tale. We eloped on Valentine's Day and kept it secret. We then had a ceremony for our families. I wrote what I knew, but as I said, next time, less will be more. 
 
My husband is a man's man with a very romantic soul! I have a feeling you are too, something your wife might admit too, but not you. No man does. I'm just thrilled that men are reading my books, and lately I've seen more and more male authors adding romance to their books – in all the genres. When you're fighting evil, what better monkey wrench than love to frustrate the situation. Even Batman has his Catwoman. If I remember correctly, romance plays a huge part in your book Zombie Rapture.

SRW: Um, moving on...

Another thing I really loved about your book, Yolanda, is just when I thought we were settling into "cozy territory," you pull out some very vivid, excellently written, Argentoesque (look it up, folks) murder scenes. I cheered! I liked the juxtaposition quite a bit. So...Yolanda, where does your writing heart beat? Murder? Mystery? Romance? All of the above?

YR: Thank you for the comparison. I cut my teeth on Stephen King, so horror is a big part of my background. Honestly, I've yet to read a book that doesn't have some romance in it. As far the genres I prefer, it's all of the above, and recently I added science fiction. I don't limit my imagination.

SRW: Casting couch time. Detective Quaid is easy: Nick Nolte. (Hey! He was once voted sexiest man of the year by People magazine {you believe that? It's true!}).  Sarah? Hm. Let's go with Meryl Streep. Only we'll need to kinda "photoshop" her into the part via younger roles. My picks. What're yours, Yolanda?

YR: I don't like Nick; they're constantly showing his hideous mug shot. Plus he's a blonde, definitely not my detective. I actually saw the Rock, Dwayne Johnson, as Steven, and Sarah Michelle Geller as Sarah. I was hooked on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and now own the series. While the Rock might be bald, he can rock the long hair! The Scorpion King comes to mind.

SRW: (Psst...don't tell anyone, but I own the Buffy series, too). Do I understand correctly you're involved in a zombie project (gasping for air and way overly excited; where're my meds???)? Anything else new on the keyboard we can look forward to?

YR: Thank you for asking. The third in the series is Murder & Obsession. This time Quaid is framed for murder and escapes into the Brooks Range where he not only has the cops on his trail but a grizzly's picked up his scent. Murder & Obsession is scheduled for release in March 2016. I'm currently working on a prequel to the series called The Snowman. It's a novella about Quaid's first case. "The Snowman" is mentioned in Murder, Madness & Love. 

And yes, I just released a book of short stories called When Zombies Attack: Tales of Horror and Romance. After all, where there's love there's always a little horror, isn't there? When Zombies Attack is titled after a zombie story that I wrote on a dare. Zombies, of all the monsters scare me more than any other, and haunt my nightmares. Which just happens to be where I find all my antagonists. My warrior husband is always rescuing me from them (waking me when I scream and sleeping with the lights on when necessary).

Oh God, did I just confess that I call my husband warrior. (Wiping the sweat from her brow, Yolanda reaches up and switches off the light.)

SRW: Ah HA! Gotcha!

YR: Yes, okay, I do call him warrior, but you'll never get his pet name for me. That's it. I'm done! Interview over! Got anything stronger than coffee?

  

SRW: (Hands her a shot of Jack.) Thanks for putting up with me, Yolanda. Now, readers, go out and get Ms. Renee's book! It's very good!

YR: Thanks Stuart. You weren't lying about this being a grilling, but quid pro quo; I have a few questions for you!

SRW: Uh-oh...but, hey, that's where you'll find me on our epic two-part grilling: http://www.yolandarenee.blogspot.com/

And here's where you can find Yolanda and her books:
 

BLOG - AMAZON - FACEBOOK - GOODREADS - PINTEREST - TWITTER