The Sporting Way

The nature of high school sports has changed since I was in school. (Not that I ever participated--oh, hell no!--but I've observed things.) 

My nephew plays freshman basketball in Oklahoma. Recently, they played out a tournament where they got trounced. My mother-in-law sat at ringside, keeping us posted of the slaughter via texts. When my nephew finally chimed in, he said the other team had a guard that was just killing them.

Here's why...

 Now, recruiting has been going on in high school sports for some time, nothing new there. But when they start recruiting adult athletes from the pros and college teams? C'mon!

"He's big for his age," the coach might say in a local press conference. "Um...and...he got held back a couple years."

A good dozen, maybe.

My nephew explained it that because of Covid, the opposing team had to put in seniors to replace the ailing underclassmen. At least that's the official line, wink, wink. All's fair in sports and Covid, right?

It's like David and Goliath, only this time David got thoroughly trounced.

Bad influence uncle that I am, I told my nephew to "Tonya Harding the guard's kneecaps." Sports, right? My mother-in-law jumped on me and said that even when my nephew's team accidentally knocked down an opposing player, they'd help them up.

Huh.

From all the action photos my nephew has showed me, he thoroughly enjoys feeding elbow to the other team. Maybe he'd been on good behavior that day since grandma was in the house.

Anyway, this isn't an isolated incident...

Meet Antonio. 

That's Antonio lurking over his teammates. Antonio's a foreign exchange student who can't speak a word of English. Talk about culture shock: Antonio's still probably dazed by being plucked out of his country and dropped into the Midwest. (I wonder how the coach communicates with Antonio...but it probably doesn't take much to pantomime putting the ball into the hoop and SLAUGHTER!).

Judging by the looks of Antonio's mustache and height (not to mention he's as wide as a house), I'd say the other team's star player is pushing late 20's. But, hey, I'm sure he's getting good grades in Oklahoma.

What's it all mean? I dunno. But clearly, "bad sportsmanship" isn't relegated to just the "pro" coaches and agents any longer.

While on the topic of the underdog facing overwhelming odds, pity poor Leon Garber who has the police, sanctioned hit men, various serial killers, and the ex-company he used to work for all after him. Really, all Leon wants to do is scratch that itch by killing bad guys. It's complicated. But uncomplicate things by checking out the first book in the Killers Incorporated trilogy, Secret Society!  

 

Camping!

I don't camp. Never have, nor did I believe I ever would. Even in cub scouts I feigned being sick so as to miss a camping trip. And boy, am I glad I did! My fellow cubs came back hornet stung, sun-burnt, and scratching their poison ivy rashes. So it's no wonder I don't fancy myself a camper. 

That is, until a couple of weeks ago. Suddenly--inexplicably--I found myself deep in the mountains of Oklahoma (spittin' distance--as the locals say--from Arkansas) in a cabin in the woods. Horrors! 

How did our pioneering ancestors ever make it under such barbaric circumstances?

Just how had this happened? I dunno, not really. My wife probably told me we were going on this trip with her family while I was knee-deep into a movie or something. Doesn't matter. There I was...camping.

Typical camping activity: Everyone fiddling with their phones

 

Now, my family still claim that I wasn't camping. My father-in-law laughed and told me I never would've made it camping with his father and father-in-law. He's right. After hearing his tale of how he had about froze to death in a tent while deer hunting, I couldn't think of anything less appealing.

I don't EVEN want to know what this strange creature is.

 

"Dear, this is hardly 'camping,'" said my wife.

I said, "But...but...we're in a cabin in the woods! And there's nature stuff, and Dick and Perry, and serial killers, and Deliverance psychos, and lotsa crap surrounding us! We're camping!"

Roughing it around the campfire with a Margarita

 

My sister-in-law added, "Don't forget about the tree-frogs."

"TREE FROGS?" I shrieked, while whirling around on the deck, looking for these insidious creatures to start falling upon me. Just as I don't believe that sticks should walk (a terrifying sight), I'd never heard of such a frightening prospect before. I like my frogs on the ground where I can see them, definitely not waiting to bombard me from the huge trees above.

My nephew wielding weapons so as to fend off the deadly Tree Frogs

 

All week long, my claims of camping were ridiculed. Okay, okay, the cabin had air conditioning and even Wifi, but for God's sake, the signal was really spotty! Talk about roughing it! And sure there were wineries and breweries twenty minutes away to occupy my great outdoors-man daytime activities, but at night, a myriad of critters, varmints, and who-knows-what buzzed, clicked, shrieked, hooted, hawed, cawed, and laughed. Camping!

The great outdoors-man finds himself inside a winery

 

I should count myself lucky, I suppose, as I only had one truly tragic camping mishap. Half asleep one morning, I reached for a tube of toothpaste on the bathroom countertop, squeezed some out, and brushed my teeth. Thinking it tasted..."funny"...I checked the tube. I'd grabbed my bro-in-law's hydrocortisone. More shrieking ensued. Camping.

Just one of the many, many dangers of camping

Inexplicably, the locals seemed to have kinda a crush or something on Bigfoot. Everywhere you looked there were Bigfoot statues, Bigfoot shops, and Bigfoot beer.

Getting chummy with one of the locals

For God's sake, we were in such savage country, the locals even took to eating the Bigfeet (Bigfoots?)! When in Rome, do as the Romans do...We ordered a plate of Bigfoot Balls. While certainly not as ghastly as Rocky Mountain Oysters (nothing is), I imagine there's an entire mountain full of castrated and angry Bigfoot guys roaming around.

So much for the camping tradition of pork and beans

The wildlife wasn't content to stay outdoors either. One look at the room my wife and I shared with our nephews shows the obvious proof that a wild, enraged beast of some sort (maybe a castrated Bigfoot?) went on a rampage strewing clothing and other items everywhere! Camping!

When animals attack!

I was glad to get back to civilization after having braved it in the woods for several nights, living on the edge of danger, and barely escaping with my life. Now that I've actually--finally--been camping, I think I'm pulling up my big boy outdoors man shorts and ready to do it again. Although next time, I'd prefer a cabin with a hot tub. Yeah... Camping!

 

Speaking of Bigfoot, there's a rousing tale of the big lug in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. It features tugs to the heartstrings and limbs ripped from bodies. Bonus! Read it while camping.

Fester's Party Barn

Hey-ho, something different this week at Twisted Tales as I hand the reins over to guest blogger, friend, and sister-in-law, Julie Pederson McQueen. Why am I doing this? Because I found her recounting of a recent family vacation horrifying and hilarious, the way we like things around here. (Oh! And because the last time I tried to keep up drinking with Julie, I ended up with a broken leg! That's the kinda gal she is, just sayin'!). Take it away, Julie...

So as I sit here, self quarantining with my family, it reminds me of another time that I went through hell...enter "Fester’s Party Barn," located in Piedmont, Oklahoma. Friends had told us of the fun and charm of this "quaint" tourist trap, so we loaded up the family. But wait...let’s start at the very beginning. First, it’s 98 degrees out & WINDY.  Second, the drive, the endless, torturous drive! Picture this: happy family on an October day heading out on an adventure to the pumpkin patch, anticipating the petting zoo, hayride, big slide, oh my! And of course, pumpkins!!! What could be more fun?!?! Turns out, staying at home.

Fester's Party Barn is in nowhere land. We get lost and the boys start complaining. We, being parents, threaten to “TURN THIS CAR AROUND AND GO BACK HOME!” If only we had done that. However, on the wings of a prayer and dumb luck, we finally arrive at Fester’s Party Barn with excitement in our minds and our hearts.

So I’ve mentioned it’s October, time for Halloween, but it’s 98° outside and incredibly windy. Upon arrival, my husband and I, paste on our excited faces, and rouse the troops by shouting, “Yay! Come on, we get a free pumpkin, there’re animals to see, a hayride, a corn maze, and a big slide! Let’s go!!!” We forge ahead, fighting the winds of the plains. We may as well have been singing, “OooooOklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!” Parking far away, we enter the (according to friends) beloved Fester‘s Party Barn. 

At the ticket booth, we discover our Groupon (yes, I said Groupon) doesn’t work. The accommodating clerk gets us the nice fat discount anyway. Good thing, too, because after it was all said and done, it should’ve been free. First stop at Fester's is the “petting zoo”. So two minutes in there, yeah we’re done, let’s move along. There's hand sanitizer at every stop, which might've been our first clue. (Keep in mind, this is before Corona virus time.) So we move past the petting zoo and look at the other animals--donkeys, horses--Really, I'm not sure what they were because I think I blocked it out. 

Next, we head to the refreshment/gift shop area for room temperature waters all around! I did mention it was like 98° right? Anyhoo, with brave parent faces strapped on, we say, "Hey, let’s do the hayride! Because it takes us to the corn maze that leads us to the big giant super duper slide!” We get on said hay ride, sans the hay, and we’re sitting on benches. A cyclone of wind  carries my husband's hat away. 

Apparently, we'd been through a drought, so the corn maze is chest high for the boys, at best.  We wave at each other in the next rows, say, "hello, whatever." My husband, ever the cheerleader, rallies with, “It’s gonna be all right guys, come on we can do it, the big slide is ahead!” The “big slide" isn't so big, the size of the slide I had on my jungle gym when I was five. Our older boy was good sport enough to go down it even though he rode down it with his arms crossed, looking really annoyed. It was awesome. That was the best part. 

Then we got back on the wagon ride (no hay, remember?), went back through the nonsense to pick out our free pumpkin, the choices about the size of my hand. At this point, everyone's cranky. The boys were like, “I don’t even want a pumpkin!” I was kind of the same but trying to salvage a little bit of adulthood so I wouldn’t leave my husband alone in his attempts at fun, but the rest of us were done. We put our “pumpkins” in the back of the car--because the cup holders were full--and drove home in silence.

 
Hey, guys and gals and monsters, it's me again, the usual author of this blog. While we're all hunkered down, trying to avoid the Vile-Cooties, and what-not, take back to reading. Your eyeballs ain't gonna like staring at a telephone and/or TeeVee screen for too long. Here're my (ahem) totally non-biased recommendations: http://bit.ly/StuartRWestBooks

 

Return to Oz

A couple years ago my wife and I visited the Amazon and I recounted that trip here. Today, I'm taking you on another tour, one just as exotic...to Oz, Kansas! You're welcome!

Of course it's not really called "Oz," but that's what some of the townies call it. It's a small Kansas town where my daughter ended up through convoluted reasons I'm sure she wouldn't care for me explaining. First things first, though... Everyone get it out of your system and say it with me: "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto!" There. Everyone happy with their lil' joke, one that Kansans have NEVER heard before and one that never gets old? Good. Let's go!

Oz doesn't have much. There's a Main Street and when I say "Main," everything is based off it. 

There's a courthouse, a mortuary, a Chinese restaurant cleverly named "Chinese Restaurant," a couple of dollar stores, a kazillion churches, three tattoo parlors, yet, not a single grocery store in the entire town! Lore has it that the last guy (the mysterious "Ron") who ran the market got run out of town for his crooked ways. 

We're talking John Brown country, the home of the famed anti-slavery bad boy/hero whose cabin was made into a museum.

But what is Oz truly famed for? Why it's extremely creepy and run-down mental institution! 

 Just take a look at these pics and tell me how in the world someone's mental health could be improved by their confinement within these brick walls and wired fences. It's enough to drive someone batty. 

On our drive-through and walk-about tour, I couldn't wait to get out of there.

We followed a strange, wooded and harrowing gravel road to nowhere ending in a locked gate with an ominous large black "X" painted across the faded sign. 

Even eerier, there was someone sitting off the side in a station wagon with tinted windows, the engine running. When my daughter hopped out of the car to take a photo, I told her to hurry up and get back in. We hightailed it outta there before we got chainsawed, my eyes glued to the rear-view mirror. We still couldn't figure out what that guy was doing there, weird place to take a lunch break.

Time works differently in Oz. My daughter's house needed a ton of work, including an emergency fix of the bathroom sink's plumbing. The first guy who answered the phone got the job and changed our lives forever. Because that's how long it takes him and his brother to fix things: forever. Amiable enough, and eventually getting around to doing good work, they don't believe in rushing anything. They'd show up for an hour, then say, "hey, we're gonna go grab a quick bite of lunch, and be back in a minute." Two hours or so later, they'd return for another one hour work detail. And on and on it went. My daughter and I figured they'd found a wonderful cafe in Oklahoma they liked to dine at. Regardless, time is fluid in Oz and no one seems to be in a hurry, catering to their bellies their top priority.

Folks there are nice as well, for the most part. Lots of waving and polite driving, unlike what I'm accustomed to in the big bad Kansas City metro area. Cordial to a fault, sometimes you can't get out of a long-winded conversation with a convenience store clerk or get the pick-up truck in front of you to move faster than 5 MPH. Still, it's almost refreshing after the heart-attack hustle of KC.

We wound up our tour of Oz at the town's sole bar, "Cookies." 

"Cookies needs to be experienced, Dad," said my daughter. So, we pulled into a gravel-filled parking lot in front of a large tin shed. Not knowing what to expect, my daughter grinning, we entered the domain of the doomed. One guy held up the bar. Behind the bar was a listing of specialty drinks, every one of them filthier in name than the last. The menu carried one type of food: grease.

Not even a passable pool player, my daughter talked me into a game after a few beers. Little did I know we were in the middle of a pool tournament. I proceeded to shoot the cue ball off the table onto the tournament players tables. My daughter, red from embarrassment and laughter, said, "Dad, I'll be in the car!" I hurried after her.

We ended at the infamous "Whistle Stop," a diner that advertised $2.00 tacos and beer. Bargain! My daughter was acquainted with the owner, a customer of hers. However, the seated woman was rather chilly with us and sorta looked disgusted that we'd ordered beers, the only sign of trouble we'd had in Oz.

The next day, when I got home, I experienced a sorta surreal culture shock. "Huh," I said aloud, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." My wife rolled her eyes.

Hey, have you ever visited Gannaway, Kansas? It's just a hop, skip, jump from Oz, set a little west of there. My "travelogue," Ghosts of Gannaway, details all of my research of the haunted little burg. It's a nice place to read about, but trust me...you DON'T want to visit.

Throwdown at the Honker Inn Part #2 (or Return to Hellbillyville)

So, last week I detailed the first part of my epic confrontation with a crazed, psychotic woman and her giant cowboy protector in an Oklahoman hotel. (Here's a handy link in case you forgot...go on, I'll wait. Ready?) 

Now the truth can finally be told! 

I had barely escaped Long Tall Tex and rode the elevator down to the lobby...

The doors swoosh open and Daisy is happily helping a customer.

I said, "I hope you saw or heard what just happened!"

"Yeah," said Daisy (and the customer agreed), "That guy was holding the elevator open so I couldn't get up there!"

Okay. It's one flight. 19 year old Daisy could have taken the stairs. I'd been doing it all day.

Looking like a man tossed into a pit of feral cats, I waited until Daisy finished with the other late-night customer. He smiled at me. I attempted a smile back. My heart wasn't in it.

"Daisy, you need to call the cops, " I said once she'd finally finished her Customer Service.

She tried to pacify me with Millenial logic.  "I took care of the problem earlier. That couple next door to you went out and left their boys behind."

"For tacos," I clarified.

"When they came back, I think she was drunk and--"

"I know she's drunk!"

Ignoring me, Daisy continued. "I think they had a lover's spat. She's upset. I hate to call the police over one little mistake."

"One little mistake? She attacked me! The crazy beeyotch tried to kill me!"

"What? She attacked you?" Daisy posed a very concerned face, one I'd get used to, which ultimately meant nothing.

"You had to have heard it!"

"Oh... I'm gonna have to make an incident report. I really don't want to call the police. But I have to with an incident report. I've never had to do an incident report before."

I'm thinking, Yeah, in your long three week tour of duty.

"I guess I'll have to call the cops."

Finally! By this time, I'm sick of it all. "Daisy, just change our room. I want to get some sleep. Safely."

Daisy grimaces. "I can't give you a new room. We're booked to capacity."

Well, I know that's not the truth. Every hotel always keeps a few rooms open. Just in case. I think this situation merited a big, honkin' huge "Just In Case."

"Daisy, you didn't do your job. Otherwise I wouldn't have been attacked! There's a psycho killer next to us. Look again!"

Daisy looked. She said, "Oh. Wait a minute. Yeah, I found something, I can put you in room 107."

"Fine," I said. "But it's gonna take me a while to rouse my wife and pack."

I went back upstairs. America's Sweetheart has her door open, clearly eavesdropping. For the first time all night, her room is deathly silent. Quietly, I shook my poor wife awake and kept my voice low, doing my best to fill her in.

When we go back downstairs, TA-DAAAAA! Ms. Congeniality is in the hizzy. Chatting amiably over the counter with Daisy, laughing. Miraculously wearing a calm face.

She sneered at me and said in her manly-man's voice, "What, are you leaving?" A missing toothed smile crossed her lantern jaw.

I smiled back, said, "No, we're changing rooms."

She bulked up her square shoulders, came at me, fists bunched. "You think this is funny?"

Good God. Friggin' terminator.

"No," I say, "there's nothing funny about assault."

Her new best pal, Daisy, pipes in with, "Don't engage him! Don't engage him!" 

Like I'm the wild animal.

Shocker, the badger backs off, trying to make a good impression, and commences buddying up with Daisy. Half-asleep, my wife's barely hanging onto the counter.

I turned to the delightful dominatrix, and said, "You know, all I wanted was sleep. We were just going to change rooms. But now you're down here trying to rewrite things."

"Don't engage him, don't engage him, don't engage him," chants Daisy, the most fickle hotel clerk in the universe.

"Whatever. Call the damn cops," I said, as I guided my wife over to the sofa. A cooking show was playing on the overhead TV. It wasn't about tacos.

Daisy finally phones the cops, but to my dismay, my nemesis is over there, dictating the "facts." Making sure everything is correct, at least in her meth-skewed world-view. Then Daisy, while describing us as an "elderly couple," mentions our designated new room number (twice!), along with my wife's name and phone number, right in front of Ms. Sunshine.

I quit listening. There wasn't any point.

The call is in. The Incredible Hulk stomps outside to await 5-0, ready to get the first word in. The law arrived and talked to her first. A lot. Finally, a friendly cop grilled me. Never asked me my name or to see my I.D. He did look at my wife kinda funny, though, because she was sitting upright but with her head hanging, eyes shut. I explained about her minor operation and pain pills, told him she slept through the incident.

He asked me if I kicked the door in. I said, "No. I'm wearing tennis shoes. I'm not a cop, nor am I that strong. I did kick the door once in a childish fit of sleep-deprived anger and told her I was calling you guys, but I didn't kick the stupid door in."

It was explained to me that since the cops didn't witness the Battle Royale, if I brought charges of assault, basically it'd be my story against her lies. And she had a "witness" in Long John Cowboy (mysteriously never questioned, nor seen again, obviously still jaw deep in tacos).

Last thing I wanted was to go to court ("Judge Judy?") with my arch enemy, especially out-of-state. I had no intention on spending money and wasting any more thought or time on The Creature From the Crack Lagoon. She'd end up in prison eventually without my help.

I told the cop, "Forget it then. I'm done. She has kids. Those poor, poor kids. I just want sleep. Unless she's gonna keep pursuing this crap about my kicking down her door."

He nodded, walked off. A police pow-wow was held in front of the traitorous Daisy. One officer went outside to consult with his charge.

Ten minutes later, Hurricane Helga stormed through the lobby, redder than a fire hydrant, ready to blow a blood vessel. For the first time, her bluster had vanished and she didn't say a word or even look at me.

I imagine the chat with the cops went something like this, "You should go in there and thank your new best friend 'cause he just saved your ass. Otherwise, I'm'a giving you a breathalyzer (which you'll fail), a drunk and disorderly, physical assault, child endangerment, you want me to go on?"

Officer Friendly comes over, says, "Folks, you're fine. Let me know if I can do anything to help you."

Meanwhile, my once BFF, then ex-BFF, now BFFF again, Daisy, says, "Okay, I can check you guys into room #107." Like, the Pillbillies hadn't heard the room number enough.

"No thanks," I said, "I don't feel safe with my special friend in the same hotel. We're outta here." Officer Friendly gave us an empathetic nod.

So Daisy checked us out. Under the name "Alabama Ball." (Good Gawd, people, never, EVER stay at this hotel. But, oh what fun I'll have if we end up getting "Alabama's" credit card info!).

I thought about asking Daisy who she thought looked more like someone named "Alabama Ball:" us or my combat opponent? It would've been a waste of breath.

Daisy won't even comp us for the night. She says she can't. Whatever. What's one more little lie between pals?

It's after three in the morning and we hunt down another hotel. But the doors are locked. A friendly-looking woman opens the doors. I took a deep breath, prepared to tell our tragic story. My wife wisely interceded, said, "Do you have a room?"

"Oh," she said, "I can't really check you in until I'm done doing the weekly audit. I'm sorry. It may be another hour or so." Then she looks at us again. "Okay, give me your information, I'll check you in later."

"Thank you!"

She said, "You guys looked so tired and you've clearly been through something. I had to do it."

From the worst of humanity to the best. We needed that.

I still never got to sleep, pumped up on disbelief and adrenaline, constantly reliving the psychotic encounter in my mind's cinema.

Remember, folks, it could happen to YOU! 

Speaking of true tales of horror, check out my new tale of non-fiction, Corporate Wolf. You'll believe a werewolf can plan objectives and delegate tasks!