Total Duck-Up!

There's a relatively new start-up tech company in the San Francisco Bay area called "Stripe." They're apparently huge and growing at a rapid pace, claiming Amazon as one of their customers. I guess they're kinda a big deal.

But...but...recently they laid off 3.5% of their work-force. If you're a Stripe customer, this is reason enough to worry about who you've entrusted your tech needs to, never a comforting sign.

It gets even better: in the termination email, Stripe laid off the people with a picture of a cartoon duck.

Ta-daaaaahhhhh! What a "duck-up."

If I were Amazon, I'd be shopping around for a more competent tech company. (I mean, you're Amazon, for Gawd's sake! It's not like you wouldn't have companies frothing at the mouth to jump on your evil corporate giant shirttails.) 

"Tech" is supposed to be Stripe's area of expertise. Yet, they couldn't lay off employees via email without a cartoon duck accidentally slipping into the happy tidings of joy. (And what exactly does "US-non-California duck" mean? This taken from the actual duck that waddled its way into the layoff missives? Is this part of Trump's evil agenda to rid the US of all immigrants? And is this his new mascot? It'll probably be saying "You're fired...from the US!" soon.)

What's next? Police officers and doctors handing out business cards displaying a cartoon puppy with huge eyes saying, "Sorry your loved one died. Let's 'paws' to remember them. How 'bout a hug?"

Or maybe morticians will sit grieving loved ones down in front of a wacky cartoon with a dunderhead continuing to die in terrible accidents, with his ghost slipping out of the body, a huge smile pasted on his face, happily proclaiming his catch-phrase, "It ain't over yet, folks!" as he excitedly speeds Heaven-ward.

This is just...it's quackers is what it is!

No explanation came from the head honchos of Stripe. Just the usual cookie-cutter, boiler plate, "bla, bla, bla apologies to everyone who's been effected by this and bla, bla, bla." 

I'm sure this made all of the duck receivers feel loads better.

I won't even mention that in the same termination emails (a very chicken--{not "ducky" in the least}--way to lay people off, BTW), the wrong final work dates were given. Okay, I did mention it. But bad Stripe! Bad!

How does this happen? It's like Colonel Sanders suddenly forgetting how to make fried chicken, so will only serve liver and onions from now on. Tech is what Stripe is known for. Do better!

Speaking of "quacking up," meet Derek, a mild-mannered Midwesterner just trying to make ends meet and live a comfortable life in suburbia, USA. But something's bothering Derek. Something's not right with the new neighbors. And...is there something else residing in he and his wife's house? Something not living, yet not dead? Or could Derek be having another mental break like he'd had years ago? Find out the answers in my (hopefully) chilling ghost story, Neighborhood Watch. (Good luck finding it, though, it's currently between publishers. C'mon already, somebody snatch it up again!)

Everyone's New Favorite Hobby: Voyeurism!

In the great 'tine of 2020, I would imagine I'm not the only one who's taken up the fine art of what I like to call watching the neighbors. However, my wife refers to it as spying or worse, voyeurism.

Let me clarify something... I've pretty much been a voyeur for the last eight years, the length of time I've been working from home. Nothing happens in my 'hood without me knowing about it. And I've seen some really interesting things. There was the goth daughter of "Captain America" who used to secretly smoke at the back of the house. One day I waved at her and she flew into full-on panic mode. (Like I'd ever rat her out to "Captain America". Couldn't stand the guy with his outdoor Neil Diamond sing-alongs and grill daddying.)

There was the ludicrous neighbor who used to take his beer cans into the street, spread 'em out, then drive back and forth over them in his pick-'em-up truck. Keep in mind this was before recycling. His huge-ass grin kinda explained it all.

Then there was the huge-ass blow-out I witnessed (aurally, not visually) by the neighbors catty-corner to the back of our house. The husband came home midday to find his wife in the arms of another man. Things got heated and loud. And I scribbled down notes, fodder for a future book.

Of course I wrote an entire book about the weird, mysterious and rude neighbors across the street, Neighborhood Watch. You'll have to read it to find out their story. (Coda: after the book came out, the dreaded neighbors packed up in the middle of the night and left, leaving behind all of their belongings. No one knows why and no one's seen nor heard from them again.)

Now everyone's catching up to my hobby, including my wife. While she's not really people watching, she is spending time looking out the upstairs window. In the past, we've had quite a few varmints pass through our Kansas suburban backyard in the past: a great granddaddy of opossums who liked to stay out all night and crawl beneath our deck in the mornings; squirrels that attack by throwing acorns when we leave the house; birds who just love to use my car and deck for target practice; bunnies (my wife's bane) who devour the garden; and a mysterious creature that leaves huge piles of scat at the bottom of our walk-out basement (a bear, gotta be a bear, based on the size of the pile. One with a sense of mischievous humor).

But I digress. Last week, my wife's in her upstairs office, supposedly working, but in actuality gazing out the window into the neighbor's yard. She pounds down the stairs and in a hushed voice, tells me to come quickly. In the neighbor's yard sat a large, horned owl. Just hanging out in a tree staring at us. Tossing some of that voyeurism right back our way. And if you've ever had a stare-down with an owl (with those large terrifying, unblinking orbs of eyes), it's no contest which species always wins.

And a lil white baby owl!

Stranger yet, it's broad daylight. A portentous omen? A sign of luck? Or one goofy owl who can't tell time.

Anyway, my wife claims there was a smaller one hanging out with it earlier, but I never saw the two. Just that big large dude with the unblinking gaze into my soul.

What's the point of all of this? I dunno. Maybe nature's looking right back at us during the 2020 'tine.

But in lock-down, there's not a whole lot else to do. Who would have ever imagined watching movies, reading books, drinking beer, and overeating would ever get boring? 

I've read we're supposed to shut off the idiot box and take up a hobby. Enjoy real life. Enjoy the outdoors.

That's what I'm doing! Enjoying "real life" and the outdoors through the wide-screen bay window of my house! MUCH better than TV. (Pass the popcorn and crack open the beer! I'm not sure I recognize that new car in front of the randy nurses' house!).

Week four of captivity...

Stay safe.

B.O.M.E. aka, "Basement of Monstruous Entities"

You've heard of C.H.U.D., right? A middling '80's horror film regarding "Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers?" Now do you remember it? The late John Heard and Daniel Stern? No? Doesn't matter. (Come to think of it, I believe I worked with several C.H.U.D. at my last job.)

Anyway, welcome to "B.O.M.E.," the Midwestern cousins of the C.H.U.D. Maybe not the entire Midwest, but my basement, for sure.

I first became aware of these terrifying nocturnal monsters when my wife decided we had to clean up the basement. Until that point, I had used the basement for a repository for all of the crap I thought I might find useful later down the road. You know, I'm talking large Styrofoam packaging pieces, broken chairs and lamps, ages old and mildewed children's toys, you name it. Far from a hoarder (but probably straddling the hoarder border), I never met an empty box I didn't like.

Anyway, the clean-up process was vast, requiring a rented dumpster. We filled that big boy up with at least 10,000 moldy videotapes, my empire of dirt. That was tough as I unloaded box after box of my lifetime savings into the dumpster. Hell, who woulda thought videotapes could get moldy?

Then the process of cleaning down the old, lumpy stone walls came next. You see, this ain't no yuppie finished basement we're talking here. It's a perfect place for a haunting. Built during one of the wars, the basement is a mess of bad wiring and plumbing, crumbling stone walls, the site of many a flood, webs of gargantuan arachnids, inexplicable leaves, and...yes, monsters.

"Honey," I called out to my wife, "you gotta come see this." I stood before a crevice in the wall, fingering an orange gelatinous goo (for you see, apparently I've not learned anything from watching '50's horror and science fiction movies).

She joined my side. "What?"

"Look...you ever seen anything like it?"

Clearly frustrated, she said, "No, get back to work."

But I knew. Yes, I knew the truth. B.O.M.E.

I had forgotten about them for several years. But they existed, I knew this in the darkest recesses of my haunted mind. One insomniac night as I lay in bed, I heard proof of them.

Thump...tump...timp...timp...thump...

I sat up, terrified. And listened to make certain it wasn't part of a half-lucid dream.

TUMP! Timp...timp...timp...

I lay in bed wide awake until the sun rose, listening to the horrific, foul creatures of the underworld using the network of our heating ducts for their transportation highway. Taunting me because I slept right next to a main vent. 

THUMP!

 I imagined all sorts of nightmarish creatures: there were man rats with huge, bulging eyes and teeth a bunny would be envious of; slithery, goo-dropping, albino slugs with large glaring eyeballs that waved on antenna stalks; and little orange-colored, bad-haired, narcissistic monster men taking over the basement.

My wife awoke shortly after the calamity had stopped. I told her of the monsters in the basement. She responded with a "yes, dear" and patted my poor, lil' over-worked head. 

I searched the basement (in the daylight, mind you) for physical proof of their existence. I found more orange goo. And strange pyramids of sticks, cracked acorns...and were those...bones?

I questioned my sanity until one fateful night when my wife heard them, too.

They're down there. Oh, yes, they are. And your basement may be next!

While on the topic of my spooky basement, it did inspire one of the creepiest hauntings I've committed to paper in one of my earliest books, Neighborhood Watch. Read it with the lights one. And don't say I didn't warn you. Like all of my books, it's 100% true!

Anthromoporphism Rulz!

It's probably unhealthy to attribute feelings to a discarded sofa.

When I threw out my well-used, crappy sofa at college, I felt sorry for it. It looked so forlorn sitting on top of a dumpster, kind of like an unloved red-headed stepchild. (Yes, I know that's an unfortunate, awful stereotype, but growing up red-headed and oddly different from the rest of my family, it applies). 

I bid my old friend, Sofa, farewell, hoped it'd find a second life elsewhere.

Inanimate objects always get to me. Empathetic to a point, I fall in love with coffee-makers, conduct yelling bouts with toilets, demand that fire alarms quit chirping. My gang. 

Don't even get me started on my best friend, Roomba. She actually talks. Sure, her dialogue is limited to warnings about being recharged or her desire to be moved and restarted, but it's nice to hear her voice. Bonus points in that she cleans the house while I sit and write. Ah, Roomba...  I apologize for stepping on you that one time.

Sigh...

I work at home. Loneliness is next to insanity.

My wife pretty much thinks my preoccupation with anthropomorphism is ludicrous. That may be. But she's never debated a hot dog before either, so she clearly doesn't know what she's missing.

Hey, while we're on the topic of insanity, check out my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. There are quite a few people lurking within the pages who have more than a few screws loose. 

Halloween Scares!

Boo! Sorry, sorry, sorry. Didn't see you drinking coffee there.

Give me a break, though, it's Halloween. The scariest time of the year. Now, color me jaded, but in my annual mini holiday horror film-fest, I'm finding fewer things actually frighten me. Zombies? Ho-hum. Werewolves? Don't make me laugh. Vampires? What, pray tell, is scary about sullen male models who sparkle? Ghosts? Well, maybe. If they're real. But I've never had an encounter. I sit here, bravely writing this in the daylight, basically challenging ghosts to come visit. (Of course if they did, I'd end up shrieking like a little girl, but let's not dwell on that.)

So. I started thinking...what does scare me? The answers may shock you. (Or send you cruising elsewhere in indifference.)

1) The police! I dunno what it is about these guys, but they terrify me. If one's holding the door open for me at a convenience store, I freeze up. Avoid eye contact at all costs. It's almost as if they can read into my guilty soul, that they know I cheated on one college exam. Or they can foresee the evil in my heart I'm gonna' think about next week. J'accuse! Don't even get me going if one happens to be following behind me in my car.

2) Heights! This one's weird. I wasn't always terrified of heights. Up until about ten years ago, I was a daredevil, bravely (stupidly) riding the tallest, craziest, most dangerous roller-coasters in the world. One of them I can't believe I survived. A run down amusement park was home to this dinosaur, a relic on worn and rickety wooden tracks. Fairyland Park it was called, a less than apt name. Anyway...I didn't even know I'd developed a phobia of heights until my daughter and I visited a (supposedly haunted) lighthouse in Florida about ten years back. I went looking for ghosts, found a new fear instead. At the top of the lighthouse, I couldn't look down, glued to the wall. Other visitors found the cowering big guy hilarious. Shut up! It's strange new fears can develop over the years. So look out. I'm just sayin'.

3) Personal search history on my lap-top! I'm sure the government's got a list on me already. I'm probably considered someone to watch (just not in a, you know, cool trending way). For my books, I've researched quite a few questionable topics: witchcraft, serial killers, lock-picking, guns, satanism, poison, arson, meth labs, the fun never stops. And now, male strippers. Basically, my whole life is wrapped up in this lil' lap-top. Available for anyone with a clue about hacking to see. Especially The Government. Big Brother never has to leave the sofa again.

These are just a few of the things that terrify me. Brrr. Makes me long for a good old-fashioned poltergeist haunting.

How about everyone else? Do you have any actual haunting stories? I promise I won't laugh (much). What scares you?

Hey, if you're looking to jump start your scares, consider some of my books:

Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of humans? I do!: Godland

 A paranoid paranormal tale in the vein of The Stepford Wives: Neighborhood Watch

How about a suspenseful zombie tale with some laughs and a major twist: Zombie Rapture

A decades spanning ghost story based on true events (sorta). On sale now for only .99: Ghosts of Gannaway

Heavenly Planned Obsolescence

Over the past several months, the fickle gods of car problems ("Heavenly Planned Obsolescence") have had it in for me.

Just as my daughter's car finally--FINALLY--was fixed (a tragic, eight-month long experiment in stress involving the mechanic running from the law...a tale for a different day), the car guys in the sky decided to shower down more grief.

Not too long ago, my wife and I bought a new car, a Highander, purportedly one of the best autos on the road. We settled into post-car purchasing bliss. Then I made the tragic mistake of taking it to my mechanic for a final check AFTER I'd bought it. Turns out it IS a great ride. Except the engine sucks. Something about the blocks separating. "A flaw," the mechanic said with a million-dollar grin. A flaw? Dang engine was gonna' drop out. 

So we got it fixed. Then the engine started leaking oil. Back to the mechanic. "A manufacturer flaw in the fix-it kit," he said, this time doing a really crappy job stifling his laughter. There may as well have been dollar signs rolling in his eyes. How many flaws can a highly-recommended auto have in one life-time?

I love the car. It's great. Rides like a dream. Has a cassette player. A cassette player! Everything about it's sweet. Except, of course, the engine. Kind of a big deal, I think. If nothing else, maybe I can sleep in the Highlander like a docked boat in a driveway.

Three more trips to the mechanic. Each time the engine light came on. Still not fixed.

Meanwhile, my wife's car has its own headaches. Flat tires, goofy computer system, some piece of plastic crap dragging the road like cans on a newlyweds' car. I swear I've spent more time these last several months in auto mechanics' lairs than I have in church over the past ten years.

I'm in my own car circle of hell, a nightmare that loops round and round, where it stops, nobody knows.

Television Trauma

We pay a lotta' cash each month to watch TV. Yet, over the past three months, the service has been sporadic, images freezing, the system kicking us out with rude messages like, "I'm sorry, but you suck, you can't watch TV now."

I won't name the provider (yet). But we've had ten different fellas out over the last three months.

Some of them quite swell; one hobbit wanted to hang with me and waste out his hours. Fine, your dime, whatever. But each "technician" has a different diagnosis ("Your frim-fram is set to stun," "Looks like your dig-outs have been compromised by gophers," "You should only use your microwave when you're not watching TV," "Have you heard of electronic Shingles?") They all have solutions, none of them work.

Most of the guys are nice. 75% of them look like ruddy-cheeked "Larpists" with teeny-tiny Game of Thrones goatees.

One dude was the Zen-Warrior of TV Maintenance:

Me: "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Zen-Warrior of TV: "Coffee? Hmm, coffee. I don't believe I've experienced the fixation of coffee in many moons. These days I evolve with Taekwando and study Winnie the Pooh books. I wouldn't consider sullying my temple with caffeine."

Okay. That's fine. Just fix the damn TV.

None of them have. The biggest problem is one hand doesn't know what the other's doing. A stray finger scratches my belly, promising glorious rewards (or at least, a working TV stream). The other punches in our phone number and inanely asks, "Are you satisfied with how your problem was resolved?"

GAH!

Makes me long for the olden days when we had three (four, if the weather was in our favor) channels. Sure, it sucked, having to choose between Lawrence Welk or Hee-Haw, but at least we could depend on the choices.

Ten Ways on How To Be A Great Waiter and Not Suck

During my trip (and subsequent imprisonment) in Grapevine last week, I encountered surely one of the world's worst waiters ever. Let's call him "Nelson (because that was his name)." Combative, non-communicative, just plain bad table etiquette. He mistakenly delivered baked beans instead of refried. My wife told me to let him know about it. No thanks. After the fight he put up over his bringing flour instead of corn tortillas, I didn't want things to escalate to violence. Still, he got the last word in. When he swept my plate out from under me (without asking), he dropped the knife in front of me. No apologies and he could've put my eye out!

Now I'm no waiter, never have been one, yet I do have empathy for those plying the fine trade of Waiting. And, as always, I'm here to help. Hence, Stuart's Easy School of Good Waiting for the low, low price of three $39.99 installments . Order now and you'll receive a free doily and a videocassette of Nelson in (in)action. Take notes.

1) Hairnets. If you have hair like the lunch-lady of my nightmares, hairnets are appreciated. Soup served with croutons and curly black hairs is simply not an option. Doesn't taste very good either (though if a customer is daring, he can fish the hair out and use it as floss ).

2) For God's sake, give me time to take a bite! Overzealous behavior doesn't suit the art of Waiting well. Sometimes, before I've even jammed a fork in my mouth, a tip-starved waiter will rush up, ask how everything is. And keep coming back. Again and again. It's a weird time-space conundrum. Can't comment until the food's in  me. Just...no.

3) Waiters, please don't chortle at our menu decision. It doesn't exactly instill culinary confidence.

4) And do we really need to know your grandmother just passed away? When the waiter starts crying, my appetite starts dying.

5) When I ask what's good, don't respond with a generic shrug and say, "everything." I don't believe you. On the other hand, when a waiter says, "I eat next door," the honesty is appreciated, but gives me pause.

6) Don't be the invisible waiter, the guy who takes an order and vanishes into the Bermuda Triangle. When a different waiter brings out a milk carton with my waiter's visage on it, I know I'm in for a long wait.

7) Know your customers. Do I REALLY look like a guy who wants to eat the Kale platter?

8) "Oh, I see someone's hungry."  Well. When a waiter says that, I fire back, "I see someone's hungry for a tip." Of course then my meal turns into "loogie city" back in the kitchen.
9) If you're gonna' serve up witty patter, make sure it's at least borderline amusing. And don't deliver your patter like a robot. Or an accountant. Bring your material to life. When you bury your face in the order pad, reciting lines like "you say tomat-oh, I say ta-mah-to (and I know you've recited it a kazillion times before)," it makes me wanna' use the steak knife for other purposes. Bad jail-bound purposes.

10) Finally, don't overdo it. When a waiter sits down at my table, wraps an arm around me, jabs a toothpick between his teeth, and says, "You know, I'm not really a waiter...," dessert is definitely off the table.

Gang, the next time you go out to eat, recite these rules upfront to your waiter. Trust me. I'm sure they'll appreciate the advice.

It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

Living in suburban Kansas is dangerous. We have bears. Couple of burly gay guys down the street. Well, they're not threatening, but still, we have bears.

Two houses down the street there's a little yappy dog, no bigger than a bowling ball. Squeaks all the time, won't shut up, you'd think his tail was on fire. To make matters worse, the dog's owners named it "Sassy." That's  reinforcing the worst behavior possible. Shall we call Charles Manson "spunky?" Same thing.

Neighbors are funny. You can't escape 'em. And you sure don't sign up for 'em. The beeyotch caddy-corner to me despises our dog because he barks on occasion. Doesn't stop her from squeaking her damn dog-toy constantly and cooing at her dog in baby-speak at the top of her lungs ("Who's a good girl? You are, that's who! Come here, sweetums! Mommy has a present for you!" On and on and on.).  "Captain America" behind the fence constantly barbeques in his T-shirt. When he really cuts loose, he brings out his speakers and cranks out some "Journey." His eight-track tape collection probably should be retired. On the other hand, "Party Animal's" awesome. 'Cause I never see her. I hear her once a month, shrieking like a banshee on her deck at three in the morning. That's okay, though. I'm forgiving. Part of being a member of suburbia.

Who I can't forgive are the neighbors across the street. For unknown reasons, the wife totally shuns us. Turns her back on us, ignores our greetings, pretends like we don't exist. Her husband (scary, hulking, shaved headed guy) "seems" nice enough, yet...something's weird.

Got me thinking. And that's always dangerous. What if the heinous woman across the street has a secret? A secret life. Something that's worth killing for.

My first adult thriller, Neighborhood Watch, is based on this premise. Yeah, it's me as the main character. That's why I didn't run it by my wife first. Don't know if she'll like it. But tales have to be told. I'm Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window watching the neighbors. Toss in a little Stepford Wives and Rosemary's Baby and we're set. Suburbia's creepy.

Bottom line...you cross me, you're gonna' end up in a book.

I'm putting the teenage characters to bed. Turn off the lights, put the kids outside, and tuck in the cat. Thing's are gonna' get spooky.

Neighborhood Watch: http://www.amazon.com/Neighborhood-Watch-Stuart-R-West-ebook/dp/B00IA6ZTIO/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1391727968&sr=1-4&keywords=neighborhood+watch

Now at an incredibly low price! Some chills to take off the winter's edge! Be there!