Duh, My Dear Watson. DUH!

My wife was watching a new show. I asked her what it was.

"Watson," she said, clearly wanting me to shut up.

"Well...what's it about?"

"He's Watson!" She explained this like she had made everything clear.

I stared at her, confused. "Okay....but what is it about?

"He's Watson! You know...from Sherlock Holmes. Duh!"

Looking at the screen, this didn't remotely resemble any Watson I'd ever encountered.

"Does it take place in England?" I asked.

"No."

"Huh. Does he hang out with Sherlock Holmes in the late Victorian era?"

"No. Quiet."

"Is he a rotund, white Brit who wears a top hat, smokes a pipe, and has a walrus mustache?"

"No. He's Morris Chestnut!"

"Then he's not Watson," I defiantly concluded.

"Can I please watch my show in peace?" She sat, remote pausing the show, while I got the glare which was short hand for SHUT UP. So I wisely bailed.

How many iterations of Sherlock Holmes and Watson can TV possibly fling at us? Besides the usual suspects like the fairly faithful adaptations from PBS, we've had Elementary, Sherlock and Daughter (blasphemy!), The Baker Street Boys, The Irregulars, Mademoiselle Holmes, Miss Sherlock, and Moriarty the Patriot (!). I'm surprised there hasn't been a Sherlock Hound...oh wait...there was an anime series.

C'mon network TV, get it together! The streamers have left these brain-dead guys in the dust. There still content on serving up the same, dull, by-the-book, no surprises lawyer, doctor, cop, and billions of boring initials only police specialty shows (NCIS, CSI, LMNOP, ETC.) Is it any wonder, I rarely watch any network TV shows any longer? And I'm not alone either.

They've even served up a new version of Matlock, for God's sake. But instead of the Ritz-eating, cracker-barrel, down-home charms of Andy Griffith, we now have an old salty, lying woman pretending to be dumb and trying to find out which lawyer killed her daughter. Or something. Whatever. Not that the original was any classic, mind you. But do better, Hollywood! You guys at the four big networks (and there used to just be three in my days, whipper-snappers!) haven't done anything original in decades, perfectly happy to spew out the same old, trite case of the week junk, where every serial killer is tidily apprehended by the end of 41 minutes. (CBS--which stands for Chronically Bored Seniors--are still the worst offenders.)

I'm just dreading the day when they start remaking the 70's slate of "handicapable" detective shows. For those not old enough (or trying to scour their brains from these scarringly dumb shows) to remember,  we suffered through such gems as Ironsides (a detective in a wheelchair), Barnaby Jones (a senior citizen detective nearing stroke status), Cannon (an obese detective who couldn't run), and...my personal favorite...Longstreet (a blind detective!!!). I mean...c'mon! Who would hire this "A-Team?" If they come up with "Itchy Britches," a detective show featuring a protagonist suffering from Irritable Bowel Syndrome, my TV's going out the window.

I guess I shouldn't groan and kvetch too much. Instead of the "dark ages" when we had to rely on three channels to force-feed us whatever junk the brain-trust at Hollywood deemed suitable for our glass teat nurtured brain cells, we have thousands and thousands of channels of crap from which to choose. 

Or we could, you know, just read a book.

And, hey! I just happen to know where you can find some books! Look no further than my Amazon author page available here!

BAM! You've Just Been Old-Manned!

Last week the nice young couple across the street were vacationing in Barbados (we're lucky to get to Oklahoma!). Before they left I received a text from the guy asking if I'd keep an eye out, pick up packages and mail. No problem!

The morning after they got back, he texted me and wanted to know when he could pick his stuff up. With our dog pack, it's easier for me to just meet him outside. So I met him on our stoop.

"Hey, how was Barbados," I asked.

"Oh, man, it was great. The weather was warm, I surfed a little, and swam with the turtles," he said. I didn't pursue it further, but I hope that wasn't like "swimming with the fishes."

"Then you come back to this," I splayed my hand at Kansas.

"Yeah." He stared down at his feet like he couldn't tolerate standing in Kansas.

"Okay, here's your packages and mail." I handed over the bounty.

"Thanks again. Well, I'm going to get out of your hair," he offered, seeking a speedy getaway.

"What hair?" I asked.

"Heh, yeah. But I gotta run." He hitched a thumb across the street.

"Oh, okay, I don't mean to hold you up," I said, while doing just that.

One step down the front steps, I stopped him. "Hey, we're going to be out of town from the 23rd to 27th or so. Could you maybe pick up packages? You know how it is...I still have late gifts trickling in." I offered a little chuckle, which wasn't reciprocated.

He scowled. "Uh...yeah, I can do that." He turned around and took another step down.

I pulled out my best Columbo imitation. "Just one more thing. Your decorative candy canes?"

"What about them?"

"The three in front of the door aren't lighting up."

One more step on his getaway. "I think I remember that when I set them up."

"Oh."

"I'll shoot you a text when we leave. You know, just a friendly reminder."

"Gotta go!" He practically ran down the yard and into the street to the safety of his house.

It wasn't until he slammed his door that I realized I'd just "old-manned" the young neighbor.

I was reminded of the time nearly thirty years ago when I first moved in and was the youngster on the block. My arms loaded with grocery sacks, I got out of my car and heard the old man across the street calling out my name.

Crap, I thought. Caught!

Sure enough he began to leisurely stroll across his yard. To speed things up, I met him in the street. Maybe a speeding car would put a quick end to our sure-to-be agonizing convo.

No such luck. As the groceries in my arms grew heavier and things started melting, the old guy kept me out there for twenty minutes. To make matters worse, he wasn't wearing his hearing aid, so I had to speak up and repeat bland niceties about the weather at mega-levels. I told him that when I trimmed the front hedges, I developed terrible poison ivy.

"I coulda told you that there was poison ivy in the bushes," the only helpful thing he said. Just too late.

I kept looking down the street for a runaway vehicle. Finally, he said, "well, I'll get outta your hair." (This was back when I actually had hair.)

My arms aching, I pitched a sigh of relief as I escaped inside. I had been "old-manned."

Yikes. I guess what goes around comes around. I hadn't thought my conversation with my young neighbor was too long, or too old-manly, or too dull, but my unwitting victim apparently did. I just never thought I'd be doing any "old-manning."

Just hope those young whippersnappers stay outta my yard. Well, time to put on my gravy-stained sweater and head down to the cafeteria for the early bird hour.

Speaking of all things autobiographical, check out my book Corporate Wolf. Many of the things that happened to our hapless protagonist happened to me in my tenure in the big business sector. Well, except for the werewolf stuff. And the gruesome murders (although there were several coworkers who I envisioned meeting gruesome endings.). Come for the corporate satire and stick around for the dark humor and horror and mystery of Corporate Wolf.

Anti-Easter Celebration!

With Halloween recently passed (and the nightmarish election having been held), I thought this would be the perfect time of year for a heart-warming Easter greeting.

Nah...not really...

But I have an old college friend, who is a card-carrying atheist, who every Easter conducts a ritual that warms the black cockles of his atheist heart. And it makes me giggle.

Each Easter holiday, my pal chooses to go to the Walmart in the most bible-thumping, Trump-fist-bumping Kansas county (and the selection is HUGE), and visits the Easter candy aisle. There he proceeds to turn all of the chocolate crosses upside down, thus giving Satan due diligence.

He has a routine--a well-practiced one--where he busies his free hand idly picking up something, while the devilish hand flips the cross. He prefers to finish the entire chocolate cross display (at least the candy crosses in front), thus making his definitive statement. And every time, he fervently hopes he won't be caught in the act. (I have to wonder what the punishment would be if he was caught? Who knows? In this redneck, bible-hurling, evangelical county, they might reintroduce the Mike Pence Gallows™.)

I truly wish I could be a fly on the wall when the holier-than-thou patrons (and employees) discover my buddy's annual holiday tribute to sacrilege. I wonder if the poor beleaguered manager is assailed by an angry mob who vows never to shop at his Walmart again. Or if they picket the store (because everyone knows that Walmart is EVIL anyway). I lay awake at night, chuckling, just imagining the various scenarios when the blasphemous chocolate display is discovered. Might they go as far as to bring out an Easter cam next year?

I don't know, but I hope my devilish friend keeps up the good work (by the way, he's also one of the nicest guys I know).

This got me wondering about the "true" meaning of the upside-down cross. My first encounter with it, of course, was the film The Exorcist in the 70's. There, Linda Blair kept having it turned upside-down over her bed by presumably satanic forces, not to mention *ahem* other unmentionable things.

Online, I found two wildly disparate explanations for the symbol. In Christianity, particularly Catholicism, the upside-down cross is meant to represent the humility of Peter, who wanted to be crucified upside-down because he wasn't worthy of dying like Jesus had. That's the pope's story and he's sticking to it.

However, popular culture, particularly in recent times, has adopted it as a symbol of anti-Christianity or Satanism. YOU be the judge!

So, if my pal ever gets popped into jail for his blasphemous anarchy, this is a surefire court defense. "Hey, if it's good enough for the Pope, it's good enough for me." (Then again, traditional back county Kansas Christians sorta always sneer at Catholics, so cue the Mike Pence Gallows™ again!).

While I'm waxing over all things satanic, check out my darkly comical horror novel, Demon With a Comb-Over. In it, a hapless stand-up comedian runs afoul of a demon by making fun of a demon's comb-over. Things go really downhill fast after that, so downhill, the tale ends in a confrontation in Hell. Check out all the macabre fun here!

The Crazy, Cuckoo Case of the Calamitous, Covert Cotton Ball Cup

(Or..."I Love Alliteration!")

So, there I was in the bathroom (if you're having your morning breakfast with coffee, I'd suggest you wait until you finish before you read this very important post...).

Back to the bathroom... 

The day started like any other, the sun roasting the mean city's sidewalks like eggs on a hot griddle. I was kicking back free style in my man cave (or what passes as my man cave, the john), attending to business, any ordinary day, when she walked in. The dame could've stopped traffic on an ice-covered freeway during rush hour. She had more curves than the crookedest street in Francisco.

The dame was my wife.

"What're you doin' here?" I asked the dame. "Can't you see I'm doing man's work? This ain't no place for a dame. Now, beat it, scram." I sprayed a can of Lysol, hoping she'd get my drift.

"Why are you being so weird?" she said.

I finished my business, getting rid of last night's whiskey. I wanted to shave, but couldn't, not with some dame hanging onto me. "You need an armed escort, lady? You heard me, beat feet!"

Things happened fast. We jockeyed for space, arms flailing around one another for towels and soap and toilet paper and make-up, a vertical game of Twister. Suddenly, my elbow smacked the cotton ball cup sitting on the back of my white throne. I watched as the cup shattered like a puzzle and the white balls snowed down upon the tiled floor.

"Now look what you did," she shouted, her lips drawn back in a ferocious, feral, yet enticing sneer. "Be careful!"

"It takes two to tango, baby, see? You can't lay that calamity on my broad shoulders alone."

"Quit being weird! And pick up your cotton balls!"

"Lissen up, toots, and lissen good, before I take you over my knee and give it to ya! They ain't my cotton balls, see, you're the one who brought them in here."

"Uh, no I didn't. You did! And speak normally!"

"You're not hangin' that rap on me, sister. I ain't standin' for it one iota, not for one second. I'm a man and men don't have no use for cotton balls just like men have no use for nipples!"

She glowered at me like Johnny Law grillin' me under the hot lamps. Only thing missing was a phone book and rubber hose. Finally, illumination blinked behind the dame's headlights. Her full lips formed a perfect "O," the kind I could get lost in for days.

"Ohhhhh," she said, "Mom must've put the cup there the last time she was here."

"Well," I said, tilting my hat back so the dame could get a good view of the victory in my peepers, "this looks like another--"

"Stop it."

"...another case wrapped up by me. Now I could use a good, stiff--"

"Cut it out!"

"...drink to wash the dirtiness outta my gritty street life and detec--"

"I'm going to work." And just like that, she was gone. She blew into my man cave like a whirling dervish and vanished like some kind of hallucinatory siren from the depths, her hold on me still strong, until I began to doubt if she'd been real or just a lingering fever dream from my two-day hangover.

Until she got home from work and wanted to know why I hadn't picked up the cotton balls.

--From the case files of Stu West, P.I.

Wow! Pow! Swak! If you want more hard-boiled thrills, chills, and blood spills (none of that sissy cotton ball stuff), check out my Killers Incorporated trilogy, a darkly comical thriller series about serial killers and conspiracies, not for the faint-hearted! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lights Out 2: The Crappening

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the house...

And just like a crappy movie sequel that nobody wanted except for creatively-deficient and greedy Hollywood execs, our electricity went out again. Six days after the first traumatic five day, four night ordeal.

Mercifully, it was a lot less severe than the first go-around, but it was still agonizing. I couldn't believe it. I'd just got accustomed to having, you know, the simple things in life--lights, air conditioning, the ability to cook--and so naïve me, I settled into my comfy electric love-seat again. And outside, the winds picked up. Sirens wailed. Hail from Hell pounded down. Our larger dog jumped up into my lap (nearly rupturing me in the doing), her heart pounding against her chest. And the lights flickered. I moaned. Another flickering. I groaned. A third time, I'm getting angry. And on the fourth?

Ka-Blam! Crackle, snap, pop, baby, transformers blew all in a row like a string of firecrackers. Lights out! Again.

This time, I'm screaming and cursing at the top of my lungs. I'm pretty sure I heard a collective wail of agony and torment from around the neighborhood, as well. And there I was, stuck in the electric recliner again like a never-learning goofball.

But since our first outage, I'd developed a network of street-long neighbors who kept each other appraised of the situation. Seeing as how there wasn't anything else to do, I took to my phone and it started dinging away with panicked texts from our newly-formed neighborhood alliance.

To all of us, it just seemed cruel that the mad gods of climate change had decided to hit us again after not even a week-long respite.

I knew where to go on my phone to check out the damage and to see if we'd get a quicker response this time. Apparently, whatever the problem was, it showed that if affected about 100 of my neighbors, so I assured my network of pals that we'd get higher priority this time. My best informant (the last of the hold-outs to stay home from the last storm) took to her car to cruise the neighborhood and scope out the problem. An entire power-line at the end of two blocks had completely fallen down, blocking off the street.

So my initial assessment was correct: it's a major problem that would get immediate attention. However, it was also a huge-ass problem that would take time. And I wasn't reassured by the power energy company's on-line, rote complaint about "we're doing the best we can, bla, bla, bla, but it's raining outside, you suckers may have to wait a a couple days, bla, bla, bla, company line and read between the lines: you're gonna get hit with hella price increases next year due to these storms."

But as I said, this time things didn't seem as severe. It helped immensely having my wife home with me during this outing. Just several hours earlier, she had just got back from helping her mom out with projects for a week and was definitely happy to be home. You know...relaxing in a nice, cool, electricity-filled home.

But as the ubiquitous "they" say: misery loves company. (Seeing as how she'd missed the entire first storm, I was more than happy to share my misery pain and suffering and First World Problems I'd endured.)

While still stuck in my mandated reclining pose, she came downstairs to join me, flashlights lighting the way. We sat in the darkness for a while, just chatting. Finally, she said, "Well, I'm going to bed." Me? I wasn't ready to go to bed at 9:00 on a weekend, so I sat in the dark with my phone, investigating, complaining, trying vainly to get a human's response to no avail.

When I finally stumbled up to bed, I was hot, sweating, miserable. Until at 2:00 A.M., whizzzzzzz...the lights came back on! The air conditioning window unit kicked on! Huzzah! Hooray for the power company!

Then again, it's getting kinda ridiculous. Every time our power blows out (and it does so a lot in our heavily wooded area), we suffer as do the power and light workers who trudge out into the storm to fix things. But they keep applying Band-Aids to the problem, instead of fixing the deeper issue: why not bury the damn lines like everybody out in newer suburbia has had done?

Okay, I had to gripe! I hope--nay, I pray--next week at this time, you won't be reading about a third power outage. I write this as thunder is booming outside and the rain is crying down.

Sigh...

Speaking of traumatic times, every time I think I've got problems, I consider poor Shawn Biltmore. Shawn's a corporate drudge on the lowest rung of low ladders at a heartless, soulless corporation. He also hates his job, has women problems, and has just been bitten by a werewolf. Hijinx ensue in my bloody, darkly comical, horror mystery, Corporate Wolf. Check it out here before the next full moon!

A New Crackpot Group!

I've discovered a brand spanking new nutty group. At least they're new to me! This is exciting! I feel like I've uncovered a rare new species!

It's...the "Flat Earthers!" 

Now to be certain, let's draw the distinction between several other fringe groups... 

First, you have your Middle-Earthers (hobbits and trolls and Gollums and big, ol' hairy feet on little tiny guys). As far as I know, they don't look for conspiracies and are either extinct by this point or are hiding out in Greenland or wherever. I don't consider them a threat.

Then you have your Highlanders. No, I'm not talking about a secret cult devoted to the automobile of the same name, but rather, a group of fanatics who worship a silly pseudo-fantasy franchise filmed on the cheap (usually in Canada) regarding lopping off heads for some wonderful reason. While I don't believe this cult to be a threat to society, they can certainly be annoying, particularly when they quote the shows. However, I wouldn't worry about them too much, because as they like to say (in a booming, deep, theatrical voice), "There can only be one!" Hence, I'm putting them on the endangered list.

There's the Outlanders. This group I truly don't understand. I've heard raves--from fans and critics alike--about how wonderful their show is. I sampled half an episode which was TOO much for me. Romance in historical Scotland? Blech. The less said about this group, the better.

Finally, we have the Furries. And they're another ball of fur altogether. And, um...I really don't want to talk about them.

Which at last brings me back around to the Flat Earthers. These kooks insist the world is flat. Despite all science to the contrary ("Socialist, Marxist, evil liberal lies!") or even the actual photography of our planet's spherical shape ("Fake news! Filmed in a Russian warehouse!"), they refuse to believe the truth.

But since when has the "truth" ever got in the way of these fringe groups' outlandish beliefs?

Wait. It gets even better. To my hilarious delight, a district chair in Georgia, Kandiss Taylor, recently blabbered on about the Great Globe Propaganda Conspiracy.

Having recently uncovered biblical "evidence" that the earth is flat, she said "I turn on the TV, there’s globes in the background … Everywhere there’s globes. You see them all the time, it’s constant. My children will be like ‘Mama, globe, globe, globe, globe’ — they’re everywhere. Every store, you buy a globe, there’s globes everywhere. Every movie, every TV show, news media — why? More and more I’m like, it doesn’t make sense. And that's what they do to brainwash!"

Yow! Now, please keep in mind, this is a "lawmaker," deciding what happens in the lives of her constituents. And know that she babbled all of this nutty nonsense on her podcast called...you guys ready for this?...wait for it...here it comes..."Jesus, Guns, and Babies!" Personally, I can't think of a better title, can you? Why, the three items just go perfectly hand in hand.

Well. What do we expect from a grown woman whose name is "Kandiss." (Hey, Kandiss, leave the politicking behind and get back on your dancing pole!) Furthermore, a little background shows that after losing the last Georgia governor race, Kandiss proclaimed "It's rigged! I won! They cheated!" This coming from the candidate who scored 3% of the public vote to the winning governor's 73%. (Oh, the damage that the Orange Don has wrought on our country!)

I know that crackpot fringe and culty groups have been around forever, but the number of conspiracies and groups have skyrocketed since the grotesque MAGA movement (not to mention a disturbing increase in racism). Of course, we all know how Trump was ripped off in the last election. And how liberals are cannibalistic, baby-eating, Satan worshipers.  And did you guys know that the proceeds to girl scout cookies goes to fund abortions? I heard that gem recently.

I suppose it's too much to ask for our politicians and leaders to actually get around to doing something good or maybe something that the constituents actually care about or possibly helping those in need. Instead we've got a guy (who could possibly become our next president!) wasting millions of tax-payer dollars on fighting drag shows (*Gasp!*) and Disney World ((*Choke!Gag!*). 

Then there's those stupid globes which keep me up at night.

I'm sure we'll be seeing a bill banning globes in our future. They're just so...damn mean and round and WRONG!

While we're talking about nuts, there's a veritable tree full of them running around in my Killers Incorporated trilogy of thrillers regarding a conspiracy (AHA!) revolving around a nefarious corporation (PROBABLY LIBERAL!) that supplies services to serial killers for a fee. Until you cross them as did poor Leon Garber, our serial killer hero. But he's a good serial killer! It's complicated. Read all about it here in the first book, Secret Society.

The Pie-Tin Nap Trick

I'm a big believer in the power of naps. Well, hang on... Maybe not so much when I was a kid. I remember going to bed at like 6:00 while I heard my friends outside playing and the sun still hung bright in the sky. Parents have the dumbest rules some times.

But I digress. In college, I couldn't even begin my daily studies until I'd napped, usually put to sleep by some God-awful, boring text book.  Of course, that may've been due to the previous night's late partying, but that's a story for another time.

Awesome author Ray Bradbury was a big proponent of napping, claiming it helped to boost his creativity. President Ronald Reagan loved naps. In fact, I think he might've mastered how to nap with his eyes open. Sometimes he fell asleep amongst his cabinet members and always wanted to "sleep on it" before making any decisions. Props to the Prez for mastering the art of napping anywhere and in front of anyone.

But naps are funny. I've found that increments of 45 minutes work best for me. Anything longer or shorter just makes me feel groggier. Bradbury claimed that short naps of five to 15 minutes were the best.

My wife's great grandfather came up with his own style of super-naps. And it's either an act of genius or insanity, I haven't yet quite decided.

He'd take a pie tin, place it on the floor next to the bed or couch and hold a metal spoon over it, his fist hovering above the pie tin. He'd fall asleep, still gripping the spoon, and when he'd zonk out, he'd release the spoon into the tin.

Yow! I don't know about you guys, but that's a sound I'd hate to wake up to, the sudden clatter jolting me awake. Or thrusting me into a heart attack. And it seems like great Grandpa may've just fallen asleep for a few seconds. Is that a long enough nap to re-kick-start your day?

Yet...and yet...there's a certain bit of undeniable certainty about great Grandpa's method of madness. You can be assured that you fall asleep. And you certainly don't over-sleep. It's a fool-proof plan tucked all cozy like into the nappy edges of ingenuity.

Unless your spoon misses the pie tin. But, hey, cheaper than an alarm clock!

As I said, naps are funny. It's been proven that naps are an effective combatant to corporate stress. Which might explain why I STILL dream about having a bed in my office at my last job. But consequently, I've never known a company that would applaud such on-the-job activities. 

"Smithers, where's Jones, dammit?"

"Ah, he's taking his daily constitutional, sir."

"What? I thought he moved his bowels at ten this morning!"

"No sir, that was his daily bowel constitutional. He's taking his early afternoon napping constitutional."

"Hah! Good man, that Jones! Make sure he gets a raise! And tell him to only work four days a week from now on!"

A relatively recent study at the Kyorin University School of Medicine and the University of Tokushima School of Medicine found that a 3 1/2-hour nap in the middle of a worker's shift would help reduce fatigue more than four pots of black coffee. Okay, I'm all for napping, but a 3 1/2 hour nap? That's more Z's than I log in any given night! 

And yet, when I was forced into naps as a kid and into kindergarten, I couldn't ever do it. Go figure.

Cats have got one thing right, I gotta say. These cool cats sleep 12 to 16 hours a day. Dayum! That's more like a daily coma! So cats' waking hours probably seem like the unusual part of their lives for them, the opposite for humans. Which is odd that short naps are called "cat naps." 

Another term for a short nap is the ol' "power nap." Which seems kinda like an oxymoron to me. I would think that the one Japanese worker's 3 1/2 nap should be considered a power nap moreso than a ten to twenty minute one, right? There's POWER in higher numbers!

Recovery naps just don't work, at least for me. This is when you try to make up in the daytime what you lost the previous night in sleep. Yeah, right. Tell it to my prostate.

Then we have what is called a "proactive nap." These are defined as getting a nap in before you expect to lose sleep during the forthcoming night. This seems kinda counterproductive to me, an endless rabbit hole of chasing sleep that you just *know* ain't gonna happen. I'd rather go down the bottomless Netflix rabbit hole.

Here's a good one: the "coffee nap." The definition is you drink a cup of coffee right before a nap. Huh. I also know a guy who's selling bridges in Brooklyn if anyone's interested after their coffee nap.

Finally, we have the "appetitive nap," thusly named because, well, these people enjoy napping. But I kinda think anyone who naps is doing so because they like napping. Did we really need a specially named nap for this?

The one nap the "nap experts (who are these people? Where do I sign up?)" failed to identify is what I call the "food coma nap." I highly recommend this to anyone looking for a highly effective napping experience. It started at Thanksgiving and has worked its way into my daily regimen. First...eat more than your stomach can allow. Second...pass out! It's that simple.

No matter your choice of nap styles, get to napping! Do it right now! Go nap! Nap like the wind!

I've always found that short stories are a good way to lull yourself into a nap, not too long and not too short, and hey! By coinkydink, I just happen to have written a short story collection. That's my book Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley: guaranteed to put you sleep! Pleasant dreams...

Greetings From the Magical Kingdom of Covidia!

My wife went on a business trip to Arizona and all I have to show for it is this lousy case of Covid. I would've much rather received a seashell, or a snow-globe, or even an "I'm With Stupid" T-shirt.

After four years of careful masking, vaxxing and distancing, I really thought we were gonna escape the plague. It wasn't so. As a matter of fact, two days before I succumbed, a friend of mine said, "I can't believe you guys haven't gotten it yet." Thanks a lot, "friend," for the jinx.

I suppose I should be grateful we didn't get it in the early days of the pandemic, before vaccines and boosters. Back then getting Covid was a terrifying (close to) death knell. That same friend I mentioned earlier suffered through Covid for four months in the beginning. FOUR MONTHS!

That's hard to fathom. My week of misery seemed horrible enough, walking around coughing until my chest felt hollow and sore like a rock 'n roll tapeworm was pounding a drum from inside. Single-handedly, we kept the Kleenex industry in business. While my sense of taste hadn't vanished, certain foods tasted...funny. Chicken Tortilla Soup was similar to throat-burning barf. Coke Zero tasted like metal, a sort of Coke Zero, Zero, Zero Squared. Wolfing down salted caramel cookies was like gnawing cardboard (yet oddly enough, my wife and I craved sweets throughout the illness).

And I never thought I'd get sick of watching TV. It's true! It can happen. In a high-pitch of fever, I watched an entire season of "Love Is Blind," some trash-heap of "reality" on Netflix that my daughter recommended (hey, thanks a lot!). And none of it made sense, nor do I remember a lick of it (possibly my subconscious preserving my sanity). 

During the first days of my week-long bout, fever dreams attacked with a fiery passion. I dreaded going to sleep because I knew I'd soon get back to work trying to cram a triangular block into a circular hole and not being able to understand why it wouldn't fit. Over and over and over...

Gone were the days of sympathy and empathy and pity and maybe even a little fear. When I'd tell people over the phone (struggling with my voice that had turned into an almost indecipherable frog croak), their response was "Oh, is this your first time?" or  "Yeah, when I had it, it wasn't any big deal really," or "That sucks. Say, did you see the new season of 'Love Is Blind?'"

Yet I wanted people to pamper me, bring me soup, shed a few tears, ask what they could do. Instead, my Covid bout was treated as a "been there, done that" situation. It's become commonplace, at worst an annoyance, and why the hell haven't you gotten it before now?

At least my wife was kinda pleased I had no voice for four days. 

I was even worried my dogs would get it. Stupidly, the day before I fell victim, I was eating a cup of chicken noodle soup and my dogs seemed interested. So, I took a few noodles, sucked off all the spices (being careful, after all), then fed them to my four-legged pals. Two days later when I got sick, I got all over Google trying to find out if I'd polluted our pets. I told my daughter my fears. Her takeaway? "Ohhhh, I see. So you get mad when my dog eats your food off your plate, but you think it's cute when Mr. Loomis eats your noodles. You are a hypocrite."

Whaaaaaa? I have Covid! Leave me alone!

Yes, Covidia is a magical place. It's a place of unreality, sprinkled with magical fairy dust that gets inside your head and lungs and makes you see things that aren't there. It's like Disneyland for grownups, heavy on the acid, but a lot cheaper. (But don't tell DeSantis that; he'll declare war on Covid. Wait...too late. He's already called it a "woke pandemic." Whatever the hell THAT'S supposed to mean. Tell it to the surviving loved ones of the million people who died from it, Ron.) 

Anyway, I'm on the waning days of residing in the Magical Kingdom of Covidia and I can't wait to leave the illness-ridden golden gates behind, once and for all. Yet, I just read that there's a new strain heading our way. I guess it might be a bit too early to defect just yet.

Speaking of "vacationing" in unpleasant places, you might want to stay away from the Dandy Drop Inn, a quaint yet deadly Missouri bed & breakfast. What? You like a challenge? Then your dream trip awaits you right here! That's Dread and Breakfast, axe for it by name!

 

The Return of the Human Lab Rat!

It's been some time since I filled you guys in on my amazingly unfathomable necrotic, skin-eating disease (which has thus far stumped my regular doctor, a dermatologist, several nurse practitioners, a legion of allergists, and my UPS guy {Hey, he had "Resting Therapy Face."}). And the ensuing human lab rat "study" that my allergist talked me into enrolling in for an experimental drug. (For all the horrific details, refer back to my older post. I'll wait right here until you're done reading.)

So, between being turned into a human pin cushion by sadistic nurse Carla (I kinda think she might have been blind whenever she tried to find my veins on a weekly basis), and then having two--count 'em, two!--mystery drug infusions, I still have my incomprehensible series of rashes. Oh sure, after the first infusion, I was miraculously healed up! Hallelujah! For about three weeks, then the itchiness and bumps came back with a vengeance. I suffered until the next infusion, hoping for the best. Again, it healed my skin, but this time for only a week.

Despondent, I asked the fresh-faced, fast-talking, hipster-slang-slinging, straight outta diapers research kid, Darren, what happens next.

Darren shrugs and says, "That's it. Now they want you to lay off any kind of drug that might help you for eight weeks."

"Eight weeks?!!? But...but...lookee!" I pulled my sleeve up to show him a gruesome run on my arm. "How am I gonna hold out for eight weeks?"

Another shrug, this time accompanied by a sly grin. "I know, right? It's kinda crazy."

Well, "crazy" doesn't supply relief. Don't get me wrong, the allergists never did cure my ailment, but at best, they were able to mask the symptoms with a succession of drugs (at least for a little while) by applying kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers' "throw-it-all-against-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks" methodology. Highly scientific. But, hey, I was desperate for relief. Even though a constant diet of Prednisone had turned me into the Michelin Tire Man.

I went home and suffered for another couple of weeks until I'd finally had enough and pulled the plug. I felt guilty, like a namby-pamby quitter, but to me it was unfathomable to sit and suffer for another six weeks for no particular reason. On the bright side, I wouldn't have Nurse Carla digging into my arm every week, spelunking for gold or whatever. Bonus!

So, I launched into my apology tour. Kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers was compassionate and kind (just like his late TV namesake), of course. But then he hit me with some insanely bad news.

"Unfortunately, your last blood test showed some truly weird anomalies in your blood. The drug development company would still like to monitor your blood work."

"Wait.. What?... WHAT?"

"Your blood work showed something really strange..." While he went on to explain it in boring scientific bla-bla-bla that I wouldn't understand anyway, images of a creepy, maniacally laughing, giant Nurse Carla coming at me with a bazooka sized hypodermic with a needle the size of a bayonet burned into my brain. 

"...and while I don't *think* (inserted finger quotes) you're dying, everyone thinks it'd be best if we continue to draw your blood for the next couple of months and--"

"Dying? Wait...what? What's wrong with my blood??? TELL ME DOC!"

"It's just a weird anomaly that we've never seen before, but there's no need to panic. They just want to make sure--"

"YOU'VE NEVER SEEN IT BEFORE??? WHAT HAVE I BECOME?"

"There, there..." I barely felt his lame pat of condolences on my back. "Nothing to worry about, it's just--"

"AND IS CARLA STILL GONNA DIG INTO MY VEINS???"

"Hang on just a second." Suddenly, kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers zips out of the room and zips back in with a very inquisitive young woman. She introduces herself as the new nurse practitioner and starts questioning me about...well, everything.

Kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers finally says, "Well, she just wanted to see you. At first, based on your blood work, she thought I'd made you up. That there was no way you could be alive."

"Wait...I SHOULDN'T BE ALIVE???"

"There's nothing to worry about. We just--"

"BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SAID! ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS QUIT THIS STUPID STUDY AND SUDDENLY I'M DYING!!! I'M NOT EXACTLY INSTILLED WITH CONFIDENCE NOW!!! I JUST--"

"There, there, there. Nothing to worry about. We just bla bla bla..."

This went on for a while. And I STILL didn't get what was up with my blood. However, after two further months of Nurse Carla jackhammering at my veins, the "anomaly had cleared up."

Now calmed and relieved, I had one more stop to make on my apology tour, this time to Darren, research whiz kid.

Grinning oddly, Darren mumbled something nearly indecipherable. Either that, or I pretended not to hear what he said, the horrors just too much to process.

"What? I'm sorry, I didn't get that."

"I can get you into another study," he repeated, still grinning like he knew a very special, fun Big Boy secret.

"Great GOOGLY-MOOGLY! You gotta be kidding me! Why in the WORLD would I ever consent to doing another one of these??? The last drug turned me into some kinda weird-blooded, 50's sci-fi monster and didn't even work! Then having Carla use me as a voodoo doll every week is just--"

"We'll pay you."

"Okay."

(Stay tuned for the further adventures of "Stuart, World's Worst Human Lab Rat!")

While we're chatting about colossally stupid decisions, my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, is full of people making them. There's the cranky old woman who decides to battle three demonic children on Halloween. Hey, there's the young woman who decides to go underground--deep, deep, dark underground--in search of her missing brother. How about the man who believes his wife is cheating on him, so decides she must die? The list goes on and on. If nothing else, my protagonists should make you feel pretty good about even your worst life decisions! (If that's not a Must-Read plug, I don't know what is!) Check it out 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!