Beware The Archies!

I'm still haunted by quite a few things from my childhood: lima beans...bullies...Dad's belt. But perhaps the scariest, lingering component of my childhood was "The Archies."

(Disclaimer: I'm purposefully omitting The Banana Splits and Davey and Goliath, otherwise this post would be wayyyyyy too long.)

But consider The Archies. For those mercifully not in the know, they were a fictional bubble-gum pop band taken from the Archie comics and shot to "super-stardom" on the Saturday morning Archie animated series. Their most famous song, the insufferable "Sugar, Sugar," sold over six million copies and landed as number one on the pop chart in 1969.

And they were cartoons.

Let's ponder this for a minute. America fell in love with a fake, animated pop band. I wasn't immune to their phony charms either. Every Saturday, I'd plop my nerdy butt down in front of the TV, just waiting for The Archies to take the stage. When I heard "Sugar, Sugar" on the radio (over and over and over), I'd think of the merry madcap adventures of Archie, Reggie, those two identical (other than hair color) animated hotties Betty and Veronica (my version of Ginger and MaryAnne), and especially Jughead, that irascible beanie wearing, hamburger chowing, lovable rascal. To further tickle my naïve and gullible childish sense of cartoon band admiration, Jughead's dog, "Hot Dog," would sometimes conduct the band. Cartoon heaven!

Except in retrospect, it was cartoon hell. And when I grew up, I felt flummoxed, just as I suspect others of my generation did (although, then again, over half of America wants a convicted criminal as president, so I probably should give up on guessing what goes through their minds.). I destroyed my Archies' 45 single collection (although looking back, they might've been worth something), that's how deeply my sense of betrayal by cartoons went.

So I started thinking: what kind of monster would unleash such a propagandist ploy to subvert children's wills and turn them into a cartoon worshipping cult?

Don Kirshner, that's who. It turns out that Kirshner had put together a previous "fictional" band, The Monkees, in 1966. But unlike The Archies, at least The Monkees were real actors hired to be in the fictional band (and later, actually morphed into something not bad in their own rights). But this wasn't good enough for the evil Don Kirshner. The members of The Monkees started rebelling, getting uppity, and Don wasn't having it. 

Thus, he created the first animated pop band and the rest is history. Because Don knew that cartoons wouldn't pull a diva number on him. Oh, sure, he hired studio musicians (over twenty through the years) to sing and play instruments, but if they started getting big heads, boom! Fired and easily replaceable.

Poor guys. How would you like your claim to fame be that you sang in The Archies?

"Get out. You weren't in The Archies!"

"But...I'm the guy who sang 'Sugar, Sugar,' and--"

"Shut up! Everyone knows that was Archie Andrews! Liar!"

So, America, wake up! Don't get swayed by orange-haired, animated pop singers! And for that matter, don't be swayed by orange, vile, convicted criminal presidential candidates either.

Speaking of things that rarely make sense, consider fifteen year old Dibby Caldwell, the daughter of a Hangwell, Kansas mortician. Not much makes sense in Peculiar County; witches lurk in the shadows, a menacing creature haunts the skies, and the dead refuse to stay dead. Not to mention the fact that a mysterious killer stalks the streets. So come on down to Peculiar County and stay for a spell. Just don't set up roots, at least not roots six feet under.

Knee Fun in 2024

My 2024 has started out with a bang. Or at least that's what it felt like to my knee. For over two months, I'd been suffering severe knee pain, completely jacking up my mobility and ability to do stuff.

It all started in mid-November. I woke up, thinking (more like mentally screaming), "Say...my knee sure does hurt."

For weeks I suffered. My wife watched me hobble around (finally busting out her antique collectible cane), shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She'd been down this path with me before.

"Do something about it," she said. "Go to the doctor."

For you see, going to the doctor is completely against everything I stand for. A) I hate it; B) it takes forever; C) things usually have a way of rectifying themselves; D) it sucks (did I say that already?); and finally, the Big E) I'm always worried about some life-threatening disease the docs may accidentally uncover. Why...I'd almost rather ask for directions when lost than go to the doctor. Almost.

At long last, one morning I woke up and it felt better! "Honey," I said, "I'm finally on the road to improvement!"

"Uh-huh," she answered.

Alas, the next day, the constant, agonizing pain had returned. With great sacrifice, I hauled myself upstairs to our bedroom and finally conceded. "Hey...I think I need to go to Urgent Care in the morning."

"Hallelujah," replied my wife.

Okay, the next morning, a Sunday, I found out when Urgent Care opened. My plan was to get there at that very moment, thus limiting the endless waiting time. Before the doors opened, I was there, banging on the doors with my cane.

The doctor saw me, a speed-talker, and gave me a quick cursory examination. "I don't think it's broken, can't say about torn ligaments, I doubt it, but we'll give you an x-ray anyway, take lots of Ibuprofen, ice it until we call you, next!" spat out Dr. Over-Caffeinated. 

Later that morning, the nurse called. "Um, yeah...Dr. Speed-Overdose says there's just some mild arthritis there. No big deal. Take Ibuprofen."

Translation: "Why are you wasting our time and resources? Stay home, you cry-baby, take some aspirin and shut up."

Yet...yet...the constant pain continued. One more month goes by. In absolute despair, I picked an orthopedist on-line and gave his office a call. After I left a message, two days later(!), a nurse calls me back.

"At this point, we're two months out from being able to get you in. You're better off getting into one of our walk-in clinics."

"Two months?" I railed. "That's worse than trying to get somebody to fix our fence. Have you ever tried to get someone to just mend your fence? I mean, it's crazy! They either want to replace the entire fence or...Hello?  Are you still there? Hello?..."

So. I gave in. It became decided. The next morning, my wife (who was working from home that day) graciously said she'd drive me to the clinic. (I actually think she likes to go with me on medical appointments because she realizes that I'm terrible with giving accurate medical background information). 

Of course, this was during the worst snow blizzard in years. Oh so carefully, my wife plowed through packed and backed up snow covered streets, the visibility less than two feet ahead of us with the wind blowing wildly. All the while, my knee screamed for relief, any relief.

Finally...finally...we made it. Not sure how. Naturally, we parked at the complete opposite end of the long-ass building we needed to go into. Limping through the blizzard, I traversed the snowy and dangerous winter lands until we landed in the right section.

After seemingly hours of electronic paperwork, I handed it back in. That's when the receptionist said, "Well, the clinic doctor isn't here yet. I hope she does make it in, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know."

"Gee...thanks."

Fortunately, it wasn't too much longer before she did make it in.

"Hmmm," the physician, not much older than the cheese I ate last night, said, "betcha what you need is a cortisone shot in the knee."

"Bring it!" Of course I'm no fan of shots, but anything to alleviate my suffering.

"It usually lasts about three months, then you'll need to come back for another one," she continued. "Does that sound like something you'd like to try?"

"Oh, HELL yes!"

After filling out some scary paperwork that absolved them of my accidental death, she brandished a hypodermic in front of me.

"Okay, when I put this in, you'll just feel a little prick."

"'A little prick?' Hah. I can handle that. Um...I don't mean I can handle a 'little prick', heh, if you know what I mean, I mean to say, AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! The pain! Make it stop! How much longer is this going to go on???? AIEEEEEEEE! Oh! What happened to the 'little prick?' The pain! Boss, it is zee pain!!!!"

In the icy cold agony of the shot, I'd accidentally channeled Herve Villechaize from Fantasy Island. 

The process did seem like it'd gone on forever, like acid burning up my knee.

At long last it was over. I limped back through the storm to the car.

And by cracky, once night hit, I started to feel relief! Sweet, sweet relief! On top of the world, the next day, I actually went out and shoveled the sidewalk and driveway (of course it took me about five out-of-breath attempts, but I did it!).

Sadly, the shot's effects only lasted about two weeks and now I'm back to Ground Zero of Pain.

My wife's on me to call another orthopedist.  

"Been down that route already," I said.

"Try again."

Humph. I hardly see the point. I'm thinking of finding a nice witch doctor on-line instead.

While I'm thinking about witches, you'll find an entire coven of witches (along with other ghosts, spooks, beasties, and things that go bump in the night) in my book, Peculiar County. It's a wonderful place to visit (kinda), but trust me, you don't want to settle there.

Nightmare in Aisle 26

My grocery store has decided to change up its "perks" program. Ordinarily, this shouldn't be an issue. But it's different when the damn program doesn't work. (For the uninitated, the "perks" program gives the grocery shopper gas savings and special deals on food; my wife and I used to not believe in such crass mercantilism and invasion of privacy, but with the gas prices what they are these days, we've become believers.)

So, I have an established card with the old "perks" program. Stupidly, I thought it'd just roll over to the new program. But, no, things aren't ever that easy. Before my weekly grocery shopping run, I stop in at the customer service desk. But there's no customer servicing to be done and no one in sight. I wait...and I wait...and I wait. Meanwhile, just a few feet from me is a young clerk, standing there, doing absolutely nothing but avoiding eye contact with me.

Finally, a woman appears. I asked "Do I need a new perks card? Or what?" (Because I'm already getting a little huffed.) A deer caught in the headlights, her eyes flutter to and from, panic overtaking her. 

"No," she finally says, "but you'll need to activate the new program."

"Great! Activate me!" I proofer my old card like it's Willy Wonka's golden ticket.

She refuses to take it. "No, no, I can't do that. You'll have to wait until 9:00 before the lady who's going to do it gets here."

"Okay, whatever, guess I'll go get my shopping done." Usually it only takes me about ten minutes to whip through the store. But since I had a grueling 25 minutes to kill, I took my time, lollygagging around in the medical aisle, reading all the labels like some kinda weirdo.

Ding! 9:00! I head back to the customer non-service desk. "Hi! I'm back. Where's the perks lady?"

"Um...she's not here yet. Why don't you go do your shopping and come back?" she says, while I'm leaning on an obviously full cart.

Suddenly, the non-helper kiddie clerk starts shouting, "She's here! I see her, Jan, she's here! Finally, she's here!" (I realized the kid's job was to rat out other employees and not much else.)

So, the new woman (who seemed to me to be much too old for green dyed hair, but whatever, it takes all kinds) rolls up to the the customer service desk and the initial woman--Jan--fills her in. "Marsha, you've got to start activating the new perks cards."

"What?" Marsha is stunned by this news, her mouth opening and closing like a land-locked fish. "Nobody told me that!"

"Well, they just told me. This gentleman has been waiting for you." Jan juts a thumb at me while they both pretend like I'm not there.

At long last, Marsha pastes on a smile and turns to me. "Follow me."

I follow her to a desk with a "Perks!" sign on it near the front door. Marsha then starts playing with two different tablets, growing more agitated and flustered.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the system's not letting me in." Then she whips her phone out. "Let me try on this."

So, I'm waiting and waiting and waiting, standing in front of green-haired Marsha fiddling around with two tablets and her phone. "It's just not working, sir. Hang on a minute." She gets up to leave, takes a look at me, then decides I look suspicious and comes back to gather her electronics. "I'll be back shortly."

Meanwhile, another older woman with a very menacing glare rolls an empty cart up next to me. I say, "Looks like this might take a while."

"Yeah, I can see that," she says, staring at me while not seeing me, not really. "While we wait, perhaps you'd be interested in seeing my nails. They please a lot of people."

Okay, my supposed ten minute grocery gathering trip just grew stranger. "Oh, um...sure...let's see your nails...or whatever."

She stands up from leaning on her cart and wiggles her fingers, giving them that special jazz hands touch. Little eyeballs and ghosts and spiders adorn the tips.

"Ohhhh, that's really....ah...that's really...you must really like Halloween."

Ms. Spooky-Fingers face puckers up and she glowers at me. "Why would you say that?" she says and shakes her head.

Thankfully, Marsha rode back in to my rescue. Completely out-of-breath, she huffs out, "Okay, I think we've got it worked out." She starts back to fiddling with her armada of electronics. Again frustration sets in. "Hmmm...I don't know why...wait! Here we go!"

Over to the side of us, the little kiddie clerk narc pumps a fist and shouts, "Yesssssss!"

Marsha begins to quiz me about my life. By this time, we've gathered quite a group of "Perks Desirers," many of them grumbling about how they couldn't sign up online or how they've had to come back several days or how their savings wasn't counted at the gas pump. But Marsha is relentless, asking me my address, phone number and age in front of the crowd at my back.

Suddenly, Marsha "Jeckyll and Hydes" back into frustration again. "Why won't this let me in? It was working a minute ago! Why the... What's going on with...DAMMIT!" She counts to ten, takes a breath and says to me, "I'm sorry, sir. Why don't you go do your shopping and come back."

I sigh and wave a game show hostess hand over my full (now melting) cart.

She excuses herself again and bolts, leaving me at the mercy of Ms. Spooky-Fingers again.

"I don't care as long as I'm out of here by ten," she says. "I've got to go get a shot in my eye again."

I sigh, do an internal eyeroll and know full well I shouldn't get sucked into her spiderweb of craziness. But I can't resist, either due to the social niceties of humanity or just dumb curiosity. "Ohhh? Do you have macular degeneration?"

Again, she gives me the evil eye. "Nooooo! I had a stroke in my eye! Can you believe that?"

"Um, well, no...I guess not. Did the...ah...doctor say how it happened?"

"No! I was on the phone waiting for six hours, too!"

Please, Marsha, please come back, please come back, please bring your green-haired self back and...

My prayers worked! Marsha reappeared like a green-haired, out-of-breath genie!

"I'm sorry it's taking so long. Yesterday, the system went down. I've got to talk to the assistant manager about this."

So, we're all waiting for the assistant manager to come down and pull a perkish hail Mary. I'm stuck between Ms. Spooky-Fingers and Marsha of the Green Hair getting angry at electronics. Finally, the little rat fink clerk shouts, "Ahoy! Here she comes, Marsha! She's here!"

Some young kid (I've eaten potato chips older than her) enters the fray and says, "I'm sorry, everybody. The perks system is down again."

There was a good hour-and-a-half shot out of my day. "Well...how am I supposed to get my gas points?" I ask in a pissy manner.

"Oh, the old cards still work."

Huh. Imagine that. Maybe they should've told me that ninety minutes ago. Just another perk of the store, I guess.

Speaking of perks, you'll receive absolutely none from reading my books. But I would recommend you do so anyway. And why not start with my ghostly mystery, Peculiar County? (It's my personal favorite of all of my books. There's your damn perk!)

The Big Apple Battles Beantown!

No, we're not talking a new civil war (not yet, at least; that may be coming after the upcoming 2024 election farce). But recently I heard someone on TV refer to Boston as "Beantown."

I said, "Wife, why is Boston called 'Beantown'?"

"Boston baked beans," she replied.

Well, I probably could've figured that one out eventually, though I chose not to because I'm married to The Human Google. Sure enough, the intronets Google corroborated my wife's information, proving her right once again (one of these days I'll trick her up.) But travelling tip to the wise and wary: if you find yourself in Boston, don't call it "Beantown" to the locals, unless you're looking to get your arse kicked. Apparently, they hate it.)

My wife hit me back with "Why is New York called 'the Big Apple'?"

Excitedly, my fingers flew to Google, hoping to finally--FINALLY--one-up her on knowledge. Naturally, the answer isn't an easy one.

"Experts" don't readily agree on "the Big Apple's" secret origin story. (And to these "experts," I say, "Get a hobby.") My favorite (since debunked) myth has the moniker being coined because there was an infamous madam who ran a brothel named Eve. What would make the most sense, of course, would be the term being coined because New York state is America's top apple grower. But nosiree! It has nothing to do with fruit.

The most widely accepted explanation comes from a 1920's sports writer named John J. Fitz Gerald (who has already lost credibility with me because he pretentiously has four names. Oh, la-dee-dah!). While covering horse racing in New York, John J. Bla, Bla, Bla overheard two jockeys saying they were going for the "Big Apple," meaning the money/trophy/prizes. No real explanation given. Just accept it and move on.

Of course Mr. John J. Yadda-Yadda-Yadda took it and ran with it, cutting out the middlemen and the prize money, and began to refer to New York as the Big Apple. Check out his typical "sports writing:"

The Big Apple. The dream of every lad that ever threw a leg over a thoroughbred and the goal of all horsemen. There's only one Big Apple. That's New York.

Yow! No wonder the guy has four names! This is writing my high school teacher would've loved. But thanks to Mr. Etc., Etc., Etc., a New York tourist board snatched it up in the '70's for a huge promotional blitz and the rest is history. 

Which got me thinking about other famous American big city nicknames. There's "The Big Easy" for New Orleans, of course. This one needs no explanation since the locals prefer the easy life of partying (or maybe it began during prohibition when you could get booze easy-peasy). Either way, these guys aren't like those uptight Beantowners and adore their nickname.

Likewise, Las Vegas' moniker "Sin City" needs no explanation. Not with gambling, prostitution, and Frank Sinatra and his rat pack running rampant through the city. 

Seattle has a slew of nicknames. "Emerald City" is perhaps the most famous, due to all the greenery (but couldn't that hold true for a crapload of other cities, too? By the way, if anyone would like to mow and trim our "greenery," I'm open to offers.). It's also called "Rain City (not for me!)" and "The Coffee Capital of the World (thanks, hipsters!)."

I never knew Miami was called "The Magic City." Apparently, this came about because when immigrants first came to the land, they relied on the Miami River for abundant and easy-to-get food and POOF! Miami practically became a city overnight. (Of course now Florida history books will rewrite this: Miami is called "the Magic City" because white people magically rule!)

Naturally, I assumed Denver being dubbed "The Mile High City" was something smutty. No such luck; it's due to Denver's 5,280-foot elevation point. Boring. Next!

Philadelphia is "The City of Brotherly Love," a nice (albeit sexist?) little moniker named by a Quaker based on the Greek words for love (phileo) and brother (adelphos).

I know why Chicago is called "The Windy City," and trust me, you don't want to be there in the Winter.

All of this research made me curious about my city's nickname. Of course, my lil' suburb wouldn't have a nickname (unless it's "City of Remarkably Poor City Planning" or "City of Mutant Art"), but I wondered what Kansas City nicknames were out there.

"City of Fountains." Okay, we have a few, but I doubt more than any other big city. There's "Cowtown," which I find offensive (but I wouldn't go to blows over it like those blow-hard, bad boy Beantowners). "Cradle of Jazz" I kinda like, but doesn't "cradle" sort of imply that Kansas City was a baby in the creation of jazz? I think not! We should be the "Old Man Diaper of Jazz."

"Gateway to the Southwest" is kinda cool, I think, but it pretty much poo-poo's our city as a turnstile to Bigger, Better things found in the Southwest. And who came up with the ludicrous "Paris of the Plains?" Not only is it not even remotely accurate, but it's embarrassing. I have a bone to pick with the public relations firm that coined that monstrosity!

Then we have the "BBQ Capitol of the World." Well. I wouldn't argue, but try bringing it up to folks from Memphis or North Carolina or Texas or...

Finally, we have "The Heart of America." I'm going to rest on this one, your honor, not because we're the sweetest, nicest folks you'll find in America, but because we rest smack dab in the middle of the country. Case closed! (Now I'm going to go see if my wife knows all this...)

Speaking of geographical nicknames, 15-year-old Dibby Caldwell lives in a rural Kansas town nicknamed "Peculiar County." For good reason. Dibby's dealing with corpses that won't stay dead, witches, a mysterious killer, ghost dogs, a haunted tree, a hanging judge back from the dead, and something that flies the night skies of Peculiar County. Come on down and visit Peculiar County. Tell 'em the mortician's daughter sent ya. They'll be waiting...

Enjoy the Magic of the Movies!

I love the B&B Theaters, a humble little Midwest chain of multiplexes, I really do. There's a lot to love, starting with the recliners that make it feel just like home! And the theaters are usually so empty you can scratch yourself just like at home, too! But, man, the B&B's are beginning to annoy me.

Take "Enjoy the Magic of the Movies," their catch phrase. A little bit goes a long way. Every employee says it and they try and say it with a straight face, too. 

Of course they never say it with any conviction either; it's always just kinda mumbled, under their breath as if they were sorely embarrassed by having to spout it and why shouldn't they be? I defy anyone to try and say "enjoy the magic of the movies" without doing a spit-take! Go on...say it in front of a mirror. I'll wait. See what I mean?

Every time these poor humiliated, minimum wage earners are clearly forced to utter this inane declaration (B&B Theater Employee Handbook, Rule 1.7, Subsection 17), I'm absolutely certain they question their life decisions in how they ended up here and wonder if it's not too late for college. Or the military.

I do remember one fresh-faced kid who actually tried to spout it like an overly-caffeinated Doug Henning. If memory serves me correctly, he even added a little magical hand flourish.

"Enjoy the MAAAAAAGIC of the movies!" Hand up, grinning ear to ear, he awaited my response.

So blown away by his strange, yet oddly endearing enthusiasm, after hearing it repeated on auto-pilot by so many other prior employees, I was at a loss for words. Finally, I mustered, "Thanks, um, you too."

I never saw this "magical boy" again. I imagine I caught him on his first day. Before desperation had set in and he quit, opting to go over to the competition where they didn't demand you spout such nonsense.

Now, keep in mind, just like every other retail outlet these days, the B&B theaters are woefully underemployed. There are no longer people working the ticket registers. Instead, you go directly to the concessions stand where four teens await to spread magic all over you. So that's one less time you'll have to hear "Enjoy the Magic of the Movies." That's something, at least.

But this underemployment is getting out of hand. It's to the point where you pretty much self-serve yourself the concessions. And when you're shelling out twenty bucks for a drink and popcorn, wouldn't a little service be nice? Nope. They hand you a cup and an unsalted, unbuttered bag of popcorn and point you toward the row of machines, which is a bonus layer of Hell.

Let's start with the "butter" machines (or that strange deep-urine yellow-colored thick oily substance that passes for butter). Out of eight butter machines, only two work. It's been that way forever. A couple of the non-functioning ones have been battered because some brute didn't get his quasi-butter. I would think they'd get some guy out to fix these butter machines. But apparently the Fake Butter Machinery Union guys are on strike. Not much magic there!

Then you need a road-map to operate the soda machines. There are about a thousand options (and this is an improvement over the old days when the only sugar-free option was Pepsi), but most of them taste like sickly sweet colored water. I tried a sugar-free grape option (gross!), a sugar-free cherry limeade option (even grosser!), and finally landed on a "Sprite Lymonade (which tasted like seltzer water, but at least it wasn't grotesque)." But getting there proved to be the real up-hill battle. 

The theater uses touch screen machines that're pretty stressful. The machine does not want to give you any time to make your decision because it's a big stupid-face bullying machine. There are unnecessary menus within menus and I felt lost in the labyrinth of sub-menus, with no way out. When I waffled, the screen bullied me into making an under-duress decision and snidely claimed, "I'm sorry, but your time is about up." Then it had to gall to show a ten second countdown timer. Like it was going to blow up if I didn't make a decision. In full-on panic mode, I caved in to machinery terrorism and landed on the Sprite Lymonade button, a choice I regretted later.

To make matters worse, before the movie started, the B&Ber's had the gall to taunt me with an advertisement about a man enjoying his time at one of the soda machines. With an expression of out-of-control ecstasy, he started hitting all sorts of buttons, proclaiming things like "Fresh," "Fun," and "Exciting!" He sped this up, deliriously happy, rocking it like a pinball machine, while animated stars and firecrackers and bunnies and crap exploded all around him. Then...wait for it..."Enjoy the Magic of the Movies!"

Well. That wasn't MY experience with the machine. I never remember seeing the "Orgasm" button, for instance.

But there was a bit of magic to be had during the film (a fairly routine horror film). During one the of the movie's nighttime "scary" moments, the screen went completely dark with the audio still rolling. My friend and I sat in the dark waiting for something to light up the screen. I said, "Um, I don't think it's supposed to be this way." My doubting buddy kept on, until he finally acquiesced. (Naturally, theaters in their never-ending quest for cost-cutting rendered projectionists obsolete years ago).

Or was it a truly innovative tour de force of movie-making ingenuity leaving the viewer to imagine unseen horrors for a ten minute stretch?

Either way, I call it...MAGIC!

While I have magic on the brain, there's a ton of it lurking around the more frightening perimeters in my book, Peculiar County. The tale of a Midwestern mortician's daughter and her dalliances with ghosts, a murderer, witches, and something creepy that takes flight in the night, it's as close as I'll ever come to writing "magical realism." (At least I think so...it's been quite a few years since I studied literature, so maybe I'm just full of it.) Be that as it may, feel free to visit haunting Peculiar County right about here!

Hey, kids! It's Snack Night!

After college, a lot of my graduate friends from the University of Kansas settled in the same Kansas City area, and we shamefully continued to act like college kids for many more years. On Friday and Saturday nights, we could always be found down in the Westport area (lots and lots of bars within walking distance, the trendy area at the time), closing down the place every weekend.

But along with old traditions, several new traditions were forged. There was the tradition of going to Don Chilito's for Sunday hangover lunch. Don Chilito's (which long-time blog readers may remember my writing about before) was a particularly terrible Tex-Mex restaurant with awful food, but we found it perfect for ourselves, immensely enjoying the camaraderie and comedy. (I know...it doesn't make sense to me now, either.)

However, the new tradition that I enjoyed the most was "Snack Night." It began small. When my brother and I lived together in a rented house, every Sunday we'd go to the grocery store and just stack our respective grocery carts full of ludicrous snacks. The worse it was for you, the better. 

I remember the check-out clerk always looking at us funny, when one of us would unload the cart onto the conveyor belt. There was ice cream and syrup, potato chips, french onion dip, crackers, cookies, Lil' Debbie's artificial sugary nothing-cakes, corn chips, salsa, drumsticks (not the chicken variety, mind you, but the dipped in chocolate and peanut ice cream cones), hot fudge, cheese dip, jalapenos, hot sauce, candy bars, you name it, it went onto the conveyor belt. And not a vegetable to be found, thank you very much, no siree Bob!

Then the other West brother would follow, emptying his cart onto the belt while the clerk just kinda gawped at us. It wasn't unusual for us to rack up fifty to sixty bucks in crap each week. (With inflation, it'd be about three times that much now).

But that was just the first step in snack night. While we'd gorge ourselves silly at home, we'd make a point of watching the worst possible film available.

That was my job. I'd study, read reviews, scan the latest video releases, and pull a winner (i.e., loser). (Side note: Hey, Millennials! You whippersnappers ever head of videotapes? You kids today and your instant streaming don't know how lucky you have it! Why, back in my day...)

Some of the highlights of our movie viewing included Cool As Ice, the ludicrously, unintentionally hilarious film starring nominal white rapper, Vanilla Ice, as a bad-ass, nominally rapping (natch), romantic lead. His slow romantic ballad and the ensuing slo-mo montage has to be seen to be believed.  

 Road House was another favorite, one of the dumbest, yet most inexplicably popular films we'd ever seen, where a bar bouncer in "Kansas (complete with mountains in the background!)" has a national reputation as the best bouncer in the world! My favorite scene is where the lisping hero (Patrick Swayzee) takes the bad guy's (perpetually sneering and grinning Ben Gazarra) girlfriend home with him to his house. While they're "making love," Ben Gazarra steps out on his veranda and watches them...RIGHT NEXT DOOR! And then there was Over the Top, of course, the heartwarming and pulse-pounding tale of a down-on-his-luck, yet lovable lug (Sylvester Stallone) who attempts to win back the love of his snot-nosed, annoying son (played by some snot-nosed, annoying kid) by dragging him to the utmost of importance arm wrestling championships.

I think you kinda get the drift of the entertainment we desired...no, craved. Perfect match for the quality of "food" we consumed. (Too bad there wasn't ever a film about a hot dog eating championship; that would've perfectly met our Snack Night requirements).

Snack Night grew in membership. First one college pal joined, then another, and another, until word on the street turned it into a mini-phenomenon (not really, but I'm a writer). Soon, we had about a dozen to fifteen guys crammed into our small and modestly furnished living room, crowded around a small TV with a beat-up Korean VCR on top of it.

Snack food wrappers littered the floor. The microwave was kept busy, constantly dinging. Nachos were burnt, eaten anyway, and spilled. Ice cream melted and was eaten with a straw. Chips crunched beneath our feet. The refrigerator was always packed, the food spilling out onto the kitchen countertops. It truly looked like a battlefield and as they say, War is Hell.

Or Heaven, eye of the beholder and all.

Now, there was an unspoken rule about Snack Night. It wasn't ever truly defined, but we had a no girlfriend policy. (Usually.) It's not like we were Spanky and Alfalfa's He Man Woman Haters Club. No, it wasn't like that at all. I kinda think that any woman we knew at the time considered our barbaric ritual as too utterly grotesque for them. I'm pretty sure they were right, too.

No matter, it was a place and time where we could hang out and do whatever. Given our youth and good health at the time, no weight was gained or diseases contracted. Shocking, I know.

I'm not sure when and how Snack Night disbanded, but I'm pretty sure marriages were involved.

Hmmm. I wonder if my wife would object to my bringing back Snack Night to our house... Yeah! I'll keep it simple and only invite ten guys the first time and...and...

Nah. My health couldn't handle it now. Maybe some traditions are better off buried. (And there's no way my wife would go for it. I'm sorry, Spanky and Alfalfa!)

While I'm waxing nostalgic, I'd be remiss if I didn't plug my book, Peculiar County. If spooky nostalgia's your bag, boy, have I got a book for you. Taking place in the '60's (right before the turbulence began), Peculiar County tells the tale of a tom-boy living in a small farming town in Kansas, who stumbles onto a murder mystery. Did I mention that there are also ghosts, witches, a haunted hanging tree, something that flies the night skies, and much, much more? A book for all ages (but don't let that throw you!), it also happens to be my favorite out of my 21 titles. Come visit scenic Peculiar County here!

Drunk Angry Dad Convention

Or...back to school to my alma mater, The University of Kansas.

OR...better yet, "I went back to my old college for a day and all I have to show for it is an eight minute head massage from a drunk coed."

Well, THAT was interesting. Amazingly, my two nieces decided they wanted not only their dad to go to "Father's Day" at K.U., but they thought it'd be fun if I went along too. I jumped at the chance, having not been back in close to 40 years or so. (Oddly enough, my nieces thought it'd be funny to have us two old guys in tow. Back in the day, I would've been mortified to have my parents go to one of the campus bars with me. "Mercy, look at how she's dressed" or "I don't want to go into one of those stinky joints where they serve swill" or "Huh. Disgusting" would've been the conversation. Fun!)

Instead, the four of us set out for day drinking galore!

We started out in downtown Lawrence, where things had changed quite a bit. Back in the 1920's or whatever when I was a student, I don't think there was a single coffee shop in town. Now it was half coffee houses and half bars. The first bar we ended up at (can't recall the name, but it was a new{ish} one) was fairly unmemorable, except for the ages of the patrons.

"I can't believe all of these students are 21," I said.

"They're not," said my younger niece. "They've all got fake I.D.'s" Then she whipped hers out and explained how she got it. You send your picture to a Chinese outfit, then they create one for you that's scannable and the whole nine yards. I couldn't believe how simple it was. Back in the days of dinosaurs, when driver's licenses were nothing but paper, I remember sloppily doctoring one by whiting out a birth year and painstakingly typing in an earlier birth year. The results were pretty bad, but managed to fool the vision impaired, cranky old woman at "The Ice House," a Grandma and Grandpa convenience store that served beer, fish bait, and guns. (Note: The Surgeon General has recommended to never, ever indulge in all three things at once.)

Onto the next bar for brew and burgers, The Free State Brewing Company, which had actually just opened by the time I had graduated back before we had moving vehicles. The beers were great, although it took about an hour and a half to get food, probably because I appeared to go "Dahmer" on the waitress when I couldn't articulate that I wanted my bill to be separate, jibber-jabbering nothing but gibberish. I chalk it up to potent beers.

It was then I began to notice the various dads. Most of them were well-behaved, but behind the jolly facade, I detected some trouble brewing, with vacant stares giving away to sneers at the youth surrounding them. We'll get back to these guys in a minute.

The next bar I was excited about, Louise's. I kinda, sorta, vaguely remember the weeknights I haunted the skeevy dive with the sticky floor, one of the few bars in town to serve the Native-American populace (there was a Native-American college in town as well), most of the time found passed out on the bar counter and left alone to sleep it off. My youngest niece was afraid to enter because apparently Louise's had the worst reputation in town for confiscating fake I.D.'s. (She decided not to risk it and not drink.) 

Nostalgia can only take you so far. It was crashingly dull and dark, the only highlight being this spooky old guy who offered us his table.

We bolted and headed straight for The Hawk, the one bar I spent most of my college education in. (A little background: The Hawk was a haven for G.D.I.'s {"Goddamn Individuals"} and felt like home to my buddies. Thursday's Dime Draw Night probably helped. It was never glamorous, but tons of fun, cheap, and usually great fun. OUR place. Except for the unfortunate night when my brother joined us from rival K-State, and ran into some seething, red-faced, drunk short guy {It's ALWAYS the short guys} who accused him of knocking over his girlfriend. I entered the fray and said he did no such thing. Then Shorty McShortShort turned his ire on me and started shoving me. "Then YOU knocked her over!" he spat. The next thing I knew the bouncers pounced on me and physically threw me out onto the sidewalk. I landed on my chin and had to go get late night stitches. Ahhh, memories. When my mom had to take me up over the Summer to pay the ER bill, some nurse wrote that I'd been fighting. Fun ensued with Mom, but I'm getting digression all over the joint.)

Anyway, with great excitement we entered the den of G.D.I.'s. Only to discover the tide had turned and most of the students in there were of the Greek persuasion. Blasphemy! Then they charged a cover charge. Strike two! They'd never done that before. The place was absolutely packed, shoulder to shoulder, nothing new there. They'd even taken out the middle row of booths to cram more underage students inside, surely already breaking all kinds of fire codes. When I finally got up to the bar, I ordered a beer based on the taps on the wall.

"A draft of Space Camper, please," I ordered.

The guy smirks and says, "Yeah, nothing's on draft. The taps are just for show."

"What? That's crazy! Back in my day--"

The bartender moved on to someone less brain-addled.

We lucked out (I guess) and snagged one of the few tables. Here's where all of the Drunk Angry Dads collectively met, most of them without their offspring. We had overweight dads stuffed into too tight K.U. Jayhawk sweatshirts like sausages. One looked like Colonel Sanders (minus the chicken, hold the teenager). 

He was cagey, but my niece finally captured Colonel Sanders on film (hiding behind Paul Shaeffer), proof positive he's not dead.

 

Another guy stalked back and forth in a long leather duster and sporting an equally long, coiffed mane of hair, appearing like a deranged Fabio. (We suspected this guy didn't have a teen in school, but was taking his lunch break from the car wash to check out the coeds.) A group of short (uh-oh!) middle aged men with steel-colored hair gathered at the center of the bar, nostrils inflared while gulping their expensive drinks. 

What did they have in common, I hear you asking (but not really, but it gives me a chance to segue into my answer anyway)? They were all very, very drunk and very, very angry, sneering at everyone within drinking distance. I kept trying to avoid eye contact (my two goals for the day were to A) not to get into a fight or get thrown out of a bar, because bouncers love to do that to me for some reason and B) not to get Covid. The possibilities of failing in both goals were growing more likely as the bar filled to impossibly crowded, drunken mob standards.). I also failed in avoiding eye contact with all of the drunken, angry dads, because they were kinda fascinating.

Eventually, we moved to the back of the bar, where my youngest niece knew the employee (it's amazing how many bartenders she knew throughout town). He gave us some "hot Hawk scoop." The Hawk doesn't even pay their employees in cash, just discounted and free drinks. And if you want to pay an extra twenty-five bucks you can avoid standing in the long line (like it's a hot New York nightclub or something). Add to this, the five dollar beers and my beloved Hawk had turned into a racket.

"You're paying for The Hawk experience,"  the brain-washed employee explained.

WHAT experience? Then I began to put it together what the "experience" we were paying for was: the wonderful aroma of vinegar that the employees poured over the frequent vomit; the grotesque bathrooms that hadn't been cleaned since I was a student; the too crowded, can't move, claustrophobic experience. 

Then my niece's friend explained that the worst behaved people that weekend were the dads, confirming my theory. He said they had to throw out a lot of them for being drunk and belligerent and looking for fights. Absolutely pissed off that their youthful, glory days were behind them and despising the youth around them.

It was time to move on. My nieces were hyped to get to "Bullwinkle's," a bar one block down the 'hood. Now, honestly, I couldn't see why the excitement, because when I was a student, it was considered a gay bar, but I'd never had that confirmed. But what the hey, I was game for anything, especially since I was loaded up with beer, and I imagine the drunken, angry dads wouldn't be caught dead in a place like that.

Boy, was I wrong. Bullwinkle's had turned into another redone, outdoor and indoor bar, packed to the rafters with all of the missing, drunken offspring students (the old guys were stalking The Hawk after they dropped the kiddies off at Bullwinkle's, I guess). Again, my niece knew the huge twin "Throwin' Samoan" bouncers, who gave me the stink-eye when I squeezed past them (is it just my face, maybe my breath, something else that makes bouncers target me?).

We finally pushed our way outside, where we had a slight bit more breathing room. Suddenly this fast-talking, bespectacled, hyped up hotshot came up to us yelling, "Did we win? Did we win? Did we win?" (K.U. was playing Oklahoma at football several streets over). He starts insinuating himself into our lives in a sinister manner, exchanging names, fist bumps, and his life story. Turns out he's not even a student, considered himself very old (must've actually been 21! Imagine!), was there on a work break, and wanted to meet us out later that night. All this time, I see his partner-in-crime (a quiet, grinning, ginger-haired elf wearing a ridiculous beanie) lurking in the background, just waiting for...something. He never said a word, but he really didn't have to since his partner talked enough for five people. My brother and I later figured out they were a serial killer duo: the gregarious guy lured the victim in with his fast-talking ways, while the elf would jump out and bludgeon the victim, undoubtedly with one of Santa's toys. Mercifully they moved on.

Suddenly--most unexpectedly--the K.U. Jayhawks beat the formidable Oklahoma State. Which just riled up the drunken underage students and dads even more. Over the loudspeakers, Queen's "We Are the Champions" blared. I'm just people-watching when suddenly this very young, very drunk, and very short (it's always the short ones) coed grabs my hand and starts swinging my hand, and belting out the lyrics up into my face.

Now. I've always felt uncomfortable for people who are being sung to in movie musicals. I mean, how are they supposed to react? In the films, they usually just smile and stare at the singer. I couldn't do that. Uncomfortable doesn't quite capture it. That's how I felt then. But bolstered by beer, I sang along with her. Finally, FINALLY, the power ballad ends and I reclaim my hand.

And then things got even worse. She asked if I shaved my head or if was naturally like that. I said I shaved it.

"Can I touch your head?" she asks.

"Um...well...I guess...or whatever..."

The next thing I know, she's not only touching it, but she's massaging it while moaning and continually saying, "it's soooooo smooth." Meanwhile my brother and his daughters (and their friends who we'd stumbled onto) are enjoying the show, laughing, and taking photos.

At long last (dear Gawd, at long last after a very long eight minutes) she tires of my head and says, "Okay, go back to whatever it was you were doing" or something like that and I presume goes off to find another dad.

I'd had enough. After five bars, numerous over-priced beers, and a plethora of drunk, angry dads, it was time to call my return to college done and pretty. But, man, did my scalp feel good!

Speaking of peculiar happenings and a peculiar young woman, come visit scenic Peculiar County, a place so peculiar, the inhabitants include twin sister witch librarians, a dead hanging judge, a one-armed phone operator, a gargoyle guardian, a mysterious killer, and ghosts, both of the dog and human variety. That's Peculiar County, a really cool place to visit, but don't set up residency there. The fine travel brochure can be procured here.

The Best Weapon For a Serial Killer

You know it takes a very peculiar couple to argue the merits of what would make a serial killer's most optimal weapon.

Go on, take me and my wife. (I dare you.)

There we were, recently lounging on our "love seat (a very peculiar name in itself because of the mayhem we view on TV while lovingly lounging on it)," and a hooded killer was going after people with a hook during one of our "stories."

"I dunno, honey," I said, while affecting a very authoritative voice while stroking my beard, "if I were a serial killer, I wouldn't think a hook would be the most effective choice."

"Au contraire," she says, with much more authority than I could muster. "With a hook you could swing down, up, stick it straight in, and give it an extra twist, thus making it the perfect serial killer weapon."

"But...but...you would have to have much power behind your upward swing, not to mention the downward motion, to be able to get the hook into the body. Remember, it's called a 'hook' for a reason. See my point?" (And yes, the pun was intended.)

"Nope. I'm sticking with a hook. You can do much more damage, especially with a finishing twist."

"But it wouldn't go in straight, I tell ya! A knife would go in straight! You could slip it right inside the rib-cage, whereas a hook would be bouncing off of bones left and right, thus rendering the would-be killer off balance!"

"It's the hook for me, all the way."

We discussed the finer points of a serial killer's arsenal into the night, with neither of us conceding to the other (you know...like modern "politics!")

By the way, it turns out that on this particular program, both of our arguments were moot, because the killer double-dipped, tipping his hook with poison, but that's besides the point.

So, what's it gonna be, folks? Chime in on the great debate! Hook or knife as your preferred serial killer weapon? Later, we can have a fun contest to see how many government watch lists we land on!

Speaking of all things "peculiar," thing don't get much more peculiar than they do in Peculiar County. My book details a young teen tomboy girl coming of age in a small Kansas town in the '60's. A young girl's life is plenty peculiar in itself, but when you factor in a ghost in a corn-field, a mysterious murderer, a slew of creepy witches, the haunted funeral home she resides in, and a mysterious creature that takes flight in the night, well, yes indeedy, things get mighty peculiar. This October, drop in on Peculiar County for some Halloween fun!

 

The Best Time to Diet

When is the best time to diet during the year?

NEVER!

Look, I'm sorry if I bait and switched you with the lead-in, but quite simply, the best time of the year to diet is never. This answer has been formulated using the best, most up-to-date scientific data and analysis formulation.

Let's take the seasons one by one, shall we? We'll start with Summer, since that's what we're currently suffering.

Summer is a time for outdoor fun in the sun. Along with that fun in the sun comes...what? That's right...barbeque! Summer's when you go nuts at the store, fire up the grill and toss on all sorts of fattening, red-blooded, testosterone-driven, artery heartening meats! Yeah! Okay, okay, there's always some guy who brings a healthy chopped salad to these gatherings, but never mind him. Just set him away from the meat-eaters, pat his head, and chow down. And what would fun in the sun be without beer? Of course, I'm not talking about "a" beer, either. What are we, a buncha amateurs? So...Summer's disqualified from dieting.

Leading us into Fall. The leaves turn and drop. So does the temperature. And moods. We move inside, taking the edge off the chill in the air. Wait...chill...hmm, what does that remind me of? Chill, chill, chill...Hot damn, it's chili season! As soon as that first chilly weekend hits, I dash to the store for a huge heaping of chili fixings! And you gotta have cornbread with that chili or it just wouldn't be right. Fall is also a time for everything pumpkin, of course: pie and more pie. Looks like Fall's out from the dieting plan.

Now, before we proceed with the final two seasons, you might think this post is purely food based. Au contraire! What do you need to do in addition to dieting to lose weight? Ugh...exercise. Which brings me to what I call, The Exercise Quandary. Who needs to exercise the most? Fat people like me, natch. The problem is, with my weight gain, my back and knees hurt. I can't punish that treadmill like I used to. Whereas I used to be able to knock out four miles daily on the dreaded treadmill, now I'm lucky if I can eke out one to two. Then my knees and back give out. With bad knees, that deposits me back onto the sofa. And what does one do on the sofa? Chow time!

So, The Exercise Quandary gives you a Sophie's Choice: remain fat or live with damaged knees. No contest.

Back to the seasons, rudely pushing us into my least favorite, Winter. I mean...who wants to get out in two feet of snow and freezing ice? Nope, not me, not even to get chili fixings. And when it's inhumanly, miserably cold, you need to plug gas into your body to stay warm. You ain't gonna keep warm by gnawing on carrot sticks and yummy kale. Winter's immediately knocked outta the running for dieting.

Finally, Spring! Spring is a time for thawing and renewal and moving back outside again and eyeing that grill that's been dormant for so long and...and...man, burgers with all the trim sounds really, really good. 

As you can see, top scientists agree, then, that there is simply no good season to diet. There are alternatives to losing weight, of course. My wife and I try to have a "dry" month or two every year. No alcohol. This has advantages. It's not a three month period of suffering after all. That's why I usually choose February. It's the shortest month. (Of course, any fool who tells you they're going to have a dry November or December is lying to you, not with those holidays.)

Another solution is to "juice (No, you fiends! It's not when you wear gloves that don't fit and stab your ex-wife and lover! It's fasting with juice.)." This agony goes on for only two to three days. That's what I'm doing now. The first couple hours of day one, I was all, "Hey, this is a tenable diet! No problem!" By lunchtime, my stomach's playing the blues. On day two, I mowed the yard. After a couple of rows, I started seeing stars and Ed McMahon coming back from the dead to tell me I'm a Reader's Digest sweepstakes winner. Mercifully, I accidentally swallowed three bugs which gave me a little protein boost.

So, all methods have pluses and minuses (mostly minuses). I suggest you just go get your stomach stapled and call it pretty.

Speaking of untenable situations, poor young Dibby Caldwell, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Hangwell, Kansas's mortician, is caught up in some strange doings.Witches lurk in the shadows. A menacing creature haunts the skies. And the dead refuse to stay dead. Come visit quaint Peculiar County, available right here!