Tripping My Wife's Trigger

There are many things I do or say that bugs my wife. Off the top of my head, she loathes when I say "Yessireebobcattail!" I'm not sure why; I don't even think she understands. But hate it, she does.

But the absolute worst offender? Read on...

Years ago, my family was out at a restaurant celebrating someone's birthday. When they brought out our salads, my brother and I oohed and ahhed over how great the blue cheese dressing was. 

 "Man," I said, "I could drink a gallon of this."

"Same," replied my brother. "What about good gravy? Could you drink a gallon of that? I sure could."

"Oh yeah," I agreed. Then in a sudden inspirational burst, I added, "That's because we have the exact same genetic chemical makeup."

Okay, besides the ridiculous redundancy of the sentence ("exact same" kinda bugs me, too), I understand the impossibility of having the same genetic chemical makeup as someone else, even family. But when I saw how it bugged the scientific mindset of my wife, I wouldn't let up. First, she responded with eyerolls. Later she said how stupid it was.

Of course, my brother and I rolled with it, sometimes perfecting it to the point where we recited it in unison.

My daughter took up the cause, as well. She and I really perfected the routine, in perfect sync every time. She even added on to it with "Oh my GODDDD!" Which worked out extraordinarily well.

"You know why we both love dogs?" I'd ask.

Together, my daughter and I: "Because we have the exact same genetic chemical makeup, oh my GODDDDDD!"

My wife went back to eyerolling, knowing full well we weren't going to stop the insanity. Soon enough, we even enlisted my daughter's boyfriend's son in the game.

Go on, try it on your loved ones. It's fun! (NOTICE: I'm not responsible for any resulting fighting or marital problems.)

Speaking of games, there's plenty of cat 'n mouse games going on between a couple of serial killers and the evil corporation who's using them like pawns. Heads are chopped, dropped, and swapped in my darkly comical suspense thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated, available here.

BANNED!

I suppose it's my fault really. No one to blame but myself. To fully comprehend the following tragic tale of insanity, jump with me, if you will, into the wayback machine...

When my daughter was younger, she liked to sing. She appeared to know practically every song in the world and I'm not really sure how she learned them as I brought her up on a steady diet of alternative rock. But soon enough, my wife and I enrolled her into singing lessons. (Strike number one: Encouragement!)

Then I created an even bigger mistake. I introduced her to musicals. First, I showed her some of my favorites such as West Side Story. Appearing to really enjoy it, I sought out all of the musicals for her I could find.

And woe unto us for the day she discovered the musical, Rent. First, we watched it several times. Then she showed it to all of her friends. I grew so sick of watching--and especially hearing--Rent, that I considered hiding the DVD. But that didn't stop my daughter. She bought the soundtrack and sang along at the top of her voice in her bedroom and worst of all, the shower.

Her showers were always hour-long affairs, but they weren't quiet ones. Every night we listened to the same  musical selections from Rent. No choice. No escape.

"I'm going to go AOOOOOOOOOOOOut tonight!" issued from the shower over and over and over again, finally stamping all over my nightmares.

Enough was enough and I threw down the Mean Parent gauntlet. "Hey!" I said. "From this day on, I'm officially banning show tunes from being sung in this house!"

Of course the rule didn't stick. But to this day, if I even see the title Rent, I grow sweaty and fearful and nauseous. Let this tragic tale serve as a warning to parents everywhere. Ban show tunes before it's too late!

This has been a Public Service Announcement from the Agitated Father Coalition.

Speaking of teens in trouble, it doesn't get much worse for high schooler Tex McKenna. He's bullied, struggles with the principal, is discovering love for the first time, and suddenly has a target on his back from a potential serial killer. Complicating matters is he has just discovered he's a witch. Check out Tex and friends adventures and mystery in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy here!

The Royalty of Weird

The other day I asked my wife if she could do my laundry. (Now before all the feminists get in an uproar, my wife kindly volunteered to take this task over from me because my knees went the way of disco and she doesn't want me crashing down the basement stairs.)

I said, "Thanks, honey. Could you start with my unspeakables?"

"Okay," she replied, "but it's 'unmentionables,' not 'unspeakables'."

"Have you seen my underwear?"

Pause. Blink. Finally, she hit me back with her most often used retort. "You're weird."

To which I responded, "Yeah? Well, you married weird."

BOOM! Mic drop. Even she had no witty comeback for that one.

Now. Let's get something straight. There's nothing wrong with being weird. I pride myself on being weird. It's far, far, far better than being "normal" or even worse, boring.

And it's worked out well for many people. There's Weird Al...and...um...Gary Busey...ah...Donny Trump?

Okay, so I can't use celebrities as a shining example of the success of being weird.

My wife won't admit it, but I think she's good with weird, too.

We're the royal King and Queen of Weird, our kingdom is Weirdopia. And I love my weird queen.

Speaking of all things weird, here's a strange little weird book of mine: Chili Run. It's kinda a lark, a comedic crime thriller based on a dream I had about being forced to run through downtown Kansas City in my tighty whities (or is it "tidy whities"? That's one controversy I've never resolved.). It's complicated. The hijinks ensue right here!

Monster Cat On The Loose!

By now, you guys know I'm a dog-lover. It's not that I hate cats...I'm just allergic to them.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Well, it is about my being allergic to them. If you put a cat around me and I happen to touch near my eye, it's all over. I turn into a crying, sneezing, wheezing pink-eyed mess.

But back to dogs. Dogs are fiercely loyal, full of character, funny, loving, doting, sloppy, playful, and depend entirely on humans to take care of them. It's a nice feeling.

Cats are...cats. They're quiet, sneaky, scary, boring, and when they feel like it, they'll bite or claw you for no reason. Just for the fun of it, I suppose. They're like goldfish. Only meaner. And did I mention I'm highly allergic to them?

So, the other day, I was tasked with going to this strange "feed and seed" store in the middle of the city to get dog food. After I figured out how to enter the place (it's like an Escape Room), the first thing I noticed were three cats running across my path.

Uh-oh.

The old guy asks how can he help me. I felt like saying by getting those damn cats away from me. Instead, I say, "Just picking up some dog food." Quickly, I scuttled toward the dog food, hefted a big-ass bag up and hoped to get out of there before I turned into a wet, soppy, crying mess.

But the old guy behind the counter had a different idea. "Ah! You're getting the bison!"

"Yeah. Nothing but the most expensive for our dogs, I guess," I said, while eyeballing what seemed like a dozen cats twisting and scampering around me.

The old guy wasn't put off by that. Must've been a slow day for him. "Well, golly...it's good stuff, though."

"I guess," I said. "But I've never tried it."

The ancient clerk looks at me. Blinks. Finally guffaws and slaps his knee. Meanwhile, one particularly clingy kitty was rubbing up against my legs. I could feel my eyes starting to water.

"That's a good one, yep. Had me going for a while. Yessir...'never tried it.' Heh." Suddenly he drops down behind the counter.

I'm wondering if I should call 911.

Like an ancient jack-in-the-box, he springs up with a scrawny mean-looking cat in his arms. And thrusts it toward me. "Here's my bison! What do you make of this mean fellow?"

Instinctively, I jumped back. "Oh...he's, um...thanks!" I grabbed the dog food and raced out of the store (once I found the exit).

Next time I go there, I'm wearing a mask, protective eyewear and a Hazmat suit. I swan...

Speaking of things that are furry and not so adorable, check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the only werewolf, horror, murder mystery, dark comedy, corporate satire out there!

I Was A Secret Smoker!

Come with me if you will and let's take a trip in my handy-dandy way-back machine...

In 1979, all the cool kids were smoking. (Or so I thought at the time.) I didn't want to be left behind so I joined the smoking contingent some time in Junior High. (And, yes, before you ask if everyone jumped off a cliff, would I? Why yes, yes I would, thank you for asking!) Anyway, I kept this disgusting habit up all throughout high school and college.

When I graduated from college, I quit cold turkey. Of course I put on 100 pounds, but that's another story...

Soon, I lost weight, got married, put on another 100 pounds. Then got divorced. Now...it's not for everyone, but due to my world-famous patented "Divorce Diet Plan," I lost another 100 pounds. However, I picked up smoking again after ten years off the crap.

Let's speed up the way-back machine. Eventually, I met my current wife, got married, and continued to secretly smoke. Oh, I tried many times to quit, but one month was about as long as I ever made it. (My wife is totally against smoking; of course, I am too now.)

So I kept up the gross habit off and on for several years, always hiding (sometimes not successfully) the evidence. It helped that my head was shaved; easy to wash. 

And I had secret smoking clothes hidden in various places, consisting of gloves, a stocking hat, a coat, etc.

One day I took a drive. Went to the local park, got out my long overcoat, gloves, stocking hat, all sorts of winter gear. The only problem was it was about 70 degrees. A dog-walker was standing nearby staring at me. Suddenly she rushed away, dog in arms. No doubt to go call the police about the park pervert she just witnessed, dressed in very suspicious clothing for Spring.

After this, I decided: "Hey, maybe I should make a lifestyle change. Before I get arrested."

My wife caught me again. Initially she was furious. But came around, understanding it was an addiction and helped me quit. Finally, my friend, Chantix, did the trick. I've been smoke-free for many years now. And ask any ex-smoker, the smell that wafts off of people at Walmart is more offensive than it is to never-smokers.

Speaking of keeping secrets, Leon Garber's got a doozy. Now it's not nearly as bad as smoking (natch), but it's right up there. He's an accountant by day and a serial killer by night (but don't worry! He only targets the worst people around!). But this is just the start of Leon's problems. The sinister corporation that Leon has aligned with has now targeted him and he doesn't understand why their beautiful working relationship has changed and his contract has been terminated. Find out the reason why in my darkly comical serial killer thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated!

Chatty Cathy

While I was waiting in one of the hospital beds for my second cataract surgery, an older woman was escorted by me and deposited in the bed next to me.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know," she started. "My mother had it and now I have it. It makes me sick sometimes."

"Hmmmm," said the clearly uninterested nurse.

"Yes, it's true." Totally unable (or unwilling) to read the room, she continued on relating her complete family history. "Now my father never had it and my sister doesn't have it, isn't that funny?"

"Huh."

"But my sister has GERD. Do you know what that is? Well, it's when stomach acid comes back up. I don't have GERD but I have Crohn's disease. Did I tell you that? Yes, I was diagnosed with it back in..."

The nurse politely excused herself and ran for cover. However, the anestheologist soon became her second victim.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? It was diagnosed back in the 90's and it causes me to--"

"Do you smoke?" The anestheologist was not nearly as patient as the nurse had been, abruptly cutting off the old woman's reciting of her medical history.

But she remained hellbent on being heard. "No, I've never smoked. It's kind of disgusting if you ask me. My dad, he smoked. And that's what got him in the end, the cancer. But I've never had any desire or interest to--"

"That's interesting," replied the anestheologist. "Excuse me."

She rushed off but my bed neighbor was not discouraged as she latched onto another poor passing unsuspecting nurse.

And the hell began all over again. "I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? And my mother had it but my--"

The nurses all had a hasty escape plan, but alas, I was bed-ridden and helpless. I wished fervently for the drugs to kick in and put me to sleep. This was far worse than the unseen guy who sits down on a toilet stall next to you and wants to chat about the baseball game last night. Far, far worse.

Mercifully, after another half hour or so of her incessant rattling, I was wheeled away to surgery. With a smile on my face. Probably a first time for that reaction.

Early the next morning, I had a post-op visit scheduled with the doctor. My wife and I sat in the waiting room. The door opens and it's Chatty Cathy again! She sits across from us. And a fresh new hell opened up all over again.

"Did you have surgery yesterday, too?" she launched.

"Yes, I did. I--"

"What color are your eyes? I can't see from here. Did you have surgery for distance or close up? I had surgery to fix my close vision. Can you see better? I think I can. I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? Yes, it's true. My mother had it before me but my sister never had it. Isn't that funny? But she has GERD, do you know what that is? It's when your--"

"Stuart?" I nearly kissed the nurse as I escaped the nefarious clutches of Chatty Cathy. 

God must've been particularly unhappy with me those two days.

Speaking of which, check out my book Godland. It's a midwestern nightmare. Farm noir. Suspense and horror collide. You've been duly warned!

Church On The Road!

The other day my wife  and I were cruising down Shawnee Mission Parkway, a pretty busy strip in the KC metro area.

A van was in a hurry and rudely cut us off. On the van's paneling, a huge logo was emblazoned reading "Resurrection Remodeling!"

"So much for driving the way Jesus would," I said. "Wait...Jesus didn't drive, did he?"

Soon, another van zoomed up alongside Mr. Resurrection, this time the panel blared out "Almighty Guttering."

"Oh," I said, "there goes his partner!"

God is all around us. And He drives terribly!

I'll be here all week, ladies and gentlemen!

Impromptu High School Reunion

It all started with Doug. Doug was a fun guy who I had been close friends with off and on since grade school. Over the course of time, families and crap happens and old friendships kinda fall by the wayside.

So I was surprised to get a message on Facebook from Doug. "Hey, just a blast from the past," it read. I was shocked (because the last time I'd run into Doug and family was at a local eatery and the reception I got from them was sorta chilly), so of course the first thing I did before responding was to check it out and make sure it wasn't really some creepy middle-aged troll in his mom's basement.

It was really him! So after a few months of hemming and hawing around, we decided to meet at a local bar. "Blast from the past" didn't even begin to cover it. We reminisced about past good and bad times, much hilarity ensued, copious beers helped, and we ended up shouting "TEQUILA!" at frequent intervals.

About a month later, Doug invited me to join him at a neighborhood brewery. I soon found out he was sorta a "VIP" there, or more likely a "frequent flier." So we bellied up to the bar and beers were downed. Soon, Doug was waving at a woman at the end of the bar. 

She came over and it took a minute, but I recognized her as well. It was a girl we'd gone to grade school, middle school, and high school with. She had always been very friendly and likeable and (as both Doug and I had thought) innocent and angelic. Man, were we fooled.

I knew she didn't recognize me at first. So I jut out my hand and offered my name. Recognition flooded her and she launched into a solid and long hug. 

"Oh, I haven't seen you in forever!" she exclaimed, embracing me and patting my back like a TSA agent. And I had changed quite a bit in "forever."

"What I remember about you the most was your wavy red hair," she said.

"Yeah, um, it's been some years since I've had that. I remember playing against you in a chess tournament in sixth grade."

She said, "Did you beat me?"

"Yes," I replied, "but I think I cheated." (No "thinking" involved. I had her in check and didn't call it out. So when I took her king, she fought me a little on it until she kindly acquiesced.)

We talked about fellow class of 79 graduates and gossiped and then she regaled us with some wild stories. In sixth grade, she went to a sleepover and brought vodka! (In sixth grade, Doug and I didn't even know what drinking was.) Then she told us how she and another "angelic" good girl painted some bawdy slurs about our heinous vice principal on the school steps.

Wow! All these years, she and her sidekick had us fooled that they were sweet innocent girls who never got into any trouble.

Soon, another guy wandered up to our small group and said, "I just had to say hello before I go." Another class of 79 grad! Unbelievable (although I'm not too sure that the newcomer and I actually remembered one another). But more stories, more good and bad times, and lotsa tea was spilled.

Later I asked, "who else is gonna show up? Bob Bellman?" ("Bob Bellman"--NOT his real name--was the notorious high school bully who ran over my friend with his car. But you can read all about that in my book, Tex the Witch Boy.)

Doug and I outlasted the other two grads and drank the day away with the promise that we'd all get together again soon and invite even more graduates from the class of 79.

Now that I'm waxing all nostalgic and crap about the days of high school, now's as good a time as any to pimp out my book, Tex, the Witch Boy. It's a mystery, thriller, paranormal, comedy, romance tale largely detailing my traumatic days of high school. Read for yourself why our vice principal was so heinous RIGHT HERE!

Fun With Eye Surgery!

I swan (and you all KNOW how much I hate swanning), once you hit a certain age, it all goes careening quickly downhill from there. Take my latest checkup with my optometrist...please!

"Stuart, your cataracts have grown," said the doctor.

"Um...does this mean surgery?"

"I'm afraid it does."

Of COURSE it did. So off to an ophthalmologist I went, my wife riding shotgun. When the nurse tested my left eye, apparently I couldn't even read a six-inch tall single black letter. Which prompted my wife to laugh (tough crowd, tough crowd).

So Dr. Doogie Howser (I have shoes older than him) came in and told me he was going to hack off my cataracts.

"Wait...what? Wait!"

"I'll go in there and slice your cataract off and replace the cloudy filter on your eye with a new filter."

"AIEEEEEEEEEEEEE," I said.

The day of the procedure I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything. Already it had started out miserably.

When I got to the surgical center, there were over a dozen people (all appearing disgruntled) in the tiny waiting room. Once they called me back, all sorts of fresh hell broke loose.

They handed me paper after paper (with the tiniest print ever; ironic, yes?) that I couldn't read and told me to sign them. Then the nurse put me through a barrage of questions. ("Name, date of birth, favorite boy band, etc."). Once they found a bed for me, they took me into a massive room with about twenty beds, with a variety of people laying on them, looking like some kind of war-time hospital room. There were moans and groans and snores. I very much wanted to get outta there.

A different nurse came in and went through all of the same damn questions again ("Stuart West, April 1961, Back Street Boys, etc.") and they began to put eye drops on me.

"To help numb your eye," said the nurse.

"Ahhh...please give me a lot of it," I said.

Then I noticed this old, shaky, bald, hunched over man wobbling around, clearly in worse shape than I was. I wondered why they let this clearly out-of-it patient roam freely through the room until he stopped by my bed and picked up a chart.

"Hi, Steve, I'm--"

"Stuart," I corrected even though he had no interest in getting my name right.

"I'm Mark, the anesthesia nurse."

Pause. Blink. Ponder. He waited for my response. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Really?"

"Now this chart says you're...160 pounds and 5'6" tall..."

"Yeah, no. That's a mistake," I said. "A big mistake."

The wrinkles on Mark's head crinkled like ripples in a pond. "Hmmm. Now...which eye is being operated on?"

"My left one," I said.

"You left your eye where?"

"No. My left eye. Left!"

"You left your eye where?" Mark repeated before finally cracking a smile.

"Ohhhhhhhkay, I see what you did there, Mark. Eye humor." I so wanted to tell him that his joke wasn't funny nor did it even make sense, but I was kinda at everyone's mercy.

"Are you feeling pretty relaxed after the medicine we gave you?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I haven't had any medicine!"

"Hmmm." With that Mark waddled off to the guy next to me where he continued to harass the patient with his tired, same ol' schtick.

Soon they began to roll me into the surgical room, aka "The Polar Experience." Cold doesn't even begin to describe it.

"How're you doing, Stuart?" asked an unseen nurse.

"Kinda nervous. Um, could I get some medicine to relax me? Maybe? Please?"

The nurse laughed. Then strapped my head down to the point where I couldn't move. "Dr. Howser works under a microscope, so don't move a muscle," she directed.

Dr. Howser whizzed in (at least I assume it was him) and said, "Okay, we're going to start now. You won't feel a thing."

"Promise?"

The operation began. A series of bright lights blinded me (well...blinded me even more than I was) while a nurse kept squirting stuff into my eye. Soon I could see and feel something working around the perimeter of my eye. Cutting into it!

"Alright, we're halfway through. I cut out the cataract," said Dr. Howser.

"Great," I said, tied down and at a loss for words.

"We're in the home-stretch now." Soon enough it was done. They unwrapped me and put a plastic "shield" over the eye. 

"Wow," I said. "I can already tell that I can see better." I wasn't really sure if that was true or not, but I couldn't think of what else to say.

"Well..." said Dr. Howser. "That was a huge cataract."

They wheeled me back into the war room, where I immediately hopped out of bed, ready to get the hell out of there before they started hacking at my eye again.

The following week was recovery. And I had to wear the horrible eye shield every night while I slept. But I had got through it. Until in two more weeks when Dr. Howser will slice open my other eye.

AIEEEEEEEEE!

Speaking of things that make me scream, I have to make a blatant plug for my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. It's full of horror, humor, and twists. But I'm especially proud of the final novella, "The Underdwellers." I believe it's the the scariest and most intense thing I've written. But don't take my word for it! Lay down some bucks and find out for yourself right here!

The Politeness of Brits

The politeness of our friends across the sea, the British people, never ceases to amaze me. It even extends into popular culture.

The other day I was watching an old British cop movie where the policeman (or "Bobby," if you will), pulled a pistol. He hollers (but never too loudly, mind you) after the fleeing criminal, "I shall fire this gun in the subjunctive."

Yow! You won't hear that in American cop films today! No, you'll more likely hear something along the lines of "You have the right to remain silent...forever, mother f@#$er!"

Sigh. Talk about the "ugly American."

This behavior even extends to trash TV reality junk. Lately, my daughter has hooked me on some of the trashiest TV shows in history. One is called "Love Is Blind," a ludicrous foray into bottom of the barrel humanity at its ugliest, involving numerous scandals, lying, cheating, and overall bad behavior. (Addictive though it is).

Not so the British counterpart of "Love Is Blind." Therein, the participants are exceedingly polite, scandals very rare and usually reduced to nothing more than a quick peck on the cheek that has not been revealed. In other words, very boring trash TV.

Now...why is this? Part of the reason must pertain to the old "keep a stiff upper lip" idiom usually associated with the British, wherein they generally remain calm and stoic in the face of potentially upsetting situations. Of course this can't be true all the time. Even Hugh Grant's gotta lose his temper on occasion.

Their polite behavior definitely isn't a result of their weather! No, they face ugly, gray, rainy skies on a nearly daily basis.

Maybe the British accent puts a delightful sheen on everything they say. Take for instance, a radio chat show about the importance of buttons, wherein the heavily accented host makes buttons sound fascinating. But this doesn't go any further into explaining their actual behavior.

I can definitely explain part of the "ugly American" behavior, a difference in our politicians. I've read a lot about their lousy leaders, but at least they don't rant, rave, rape, belittle, bully, lie, and ignore the US Constitution like a certain horrific president of ours. "Lead by example," so the ubiquitous "they" say.

(Following our shambles of a presidential election, BBC reporters were astounded at our choice of American presidents. All I can is "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry....")

But no, I believe that the overall politeness attributed to the British comes down to cultural norms. Ms. Google, my research assistant agrees with me, where she explains "politeness and good manners are seen as important in British culture passed down through generations." (The only American "Norm" I can think of is the overweight barfly on "Cheers.")

Collectively, we as a nation could learn a lot from our British friends (and please, let's remain friendsies despite the actions of our president!).

Hey ho, speaking of ugly Americans, there're plenty of them staying at one of the Midwest's finest bed 'n breakfasts, the Dandy Drop Inn. See how I, as an author, corrected their bad behavior in my horror thriller, Dread and Breakfast!

Mom's In The Army Now...

Even as a kid, I was a tree-hugging pacifist. So when I first became aware of the draft, the possibility of my being torn from the safety of my parents' protection and thrust into battle terrified me.

So at the age of six or so, I cried, "Mommy...I don't wanna get drafted!"

My Mom hugged me and said, "Shh, shh, shh. Don't worry. If you get drafted, I'll go with you."

That worked--temporarily--to assuage my childhood fears.

But I started thinking of the larger ramifications...

"Oh great googly-moogly! My eyes have to be playing tricks on me! Either that or you knuckleheads have finally driven me around the bend! Private West! Is that your mother behind you?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"My stars and garters! Now I've seen everything! Both of you drop and give me 20!"

"Yes sir!"

Or maybe this scenario...

"Hey, West! Is your mommy gonna dig your foxholes for you?"

"You boys shut up before I come over there and scratch your eyes out!" (This was my mother's favorite terrifying threat whenever she thought her darling little boys were being mistreated.)

So I took my concerns back to my mom. "Mommy...you wouldn't really scratch the other soldiers' eyes out, would you?"

"It depends on how they treat you," she replied.

This scared me, but at the time bigger issues started to swim around in my boyish brain. "Why don't ladies get drafted?"

"Because we have babies."

"Oh." I pondered this. It made absolutely no sense and just seemed unfair overall. "Well...why don't men have babies?"

"Because they go to war," she replied without hesitation.

Which just confused me even further. Besides the very odd correlation of giving birth to war, I didn't understand the world at all. And it just got more confusing as I grew older.

Matters weren't helped when my parents rarely told me the truth about anything when I was a child. (Don't even get me going on the topic of sex.)

My takeaway from this nostalgic reexamination is this: If you get drafted, bring your mother. And always wear clean underwear because you never know when a tank might run over you.

Now that I'm being nostalgic and all about my parents, check out my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy. My protagonist's parents are based on my own (although--to my knowledge--my mom was never a witch). The fun starts here!

Noirmares

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sexism in Hollywood

Take John Wayne...PLEASE!

You know, I've never really liked John Wayne. I thought his acting was more wooden than Pinocchio. (I know, I know, not a popular opinion, un-American, bla, bla, bla. You should hear what I think about Tom Hanks! I'm digressing...) But over the years I wondered if my initial assessment was too harsh, perhaps even wrong (After all, I figured, sooooo many Americans can't be wrong in their judgment, right? RIGHT??? Wait...never mind...).

Alas, I was correct. One note acting in a plethora of films, always the same character, I again couldn't understand his astounding popularity. But the worst of it was how he treated women.

Sure, he pretty much treated everyone in his movies like crap ("Injuns," young people, comical sidekicks), but the way he treated women was truly despicable. Condescending as all get out, women were objects to be ridiculed, laughed at, relegated to secondary status, and God forbid should a woman ever have an opinion about anything. In one particularly hard-to-take movie, he even grabbed a woman and put her across his lap to give her a spanking!

Before you think I'm heinous for picking on "The Duke (and what's with his weird sorta hip swiveling walk?)," this attitude in old-time Hollywood persevered in nearly every film of the period.

Don't even get me started on that beloved musical, "Seven Brides For Seven Brothers," a jaunty tribute to caveman behavior and raping and pillaging. But it's okay, 'cause you can sing along!

Women were never given choices regarding anything, particularly if it had something to do with their feelings. Feh, who cares what some silly little lady wants or doesn't want? They exist to please and compliment men, of course.

And the horror stories I've read about major Hollywood stars raping starlets is unbelievable. (I won't name names here, but Dr. Google is your friend.)

How is this relevant? Because it's the sort of America that today's ruling political party would love to see us return to. And by skippy, they're doing a damn fine job getting there.

I mean, hey, if our president can rape and denigrate women, why can't we all?

Okay, now that I've got my dander up, let's talk about a different kind of beast: the corporate raider. But the particular corporate raider I'm talking about is also a werewolf. Check out all the wacky, bloody shenanigans in my darkly comic, horror thriller, Corporate Wolf.

Spring Break: Senior Style!

PARTYYYYYYY! (Or not.)

As an educator, my wife has been on spring break this week. And while students everywhere have been departing for warmer climates, tropical pool-side bars, and more debauchery than Hugh Hefner ever imagined, where have we been?

Giving our bathroom a makeover. During my wife's spring break, I've been busier than in some time. Oh sure, I can gripe and kvetch about my back and my swiftly spreading arthritis, but it hasn't stopped my wife from assigning me numerous tasks of Herculean magnitude. (Now I would be remiss if I didn't confess that my wife does 90% of the work. She's a master of tools and expert at flipping. The only flipping I'm comfortable with is the bird. But to her this is "fun.")

This isn't the kind of excitement I remember, lo those many years ago during our action-packed and nutty spring breaks. Back in the day, my pals and I would travel to Texas or Florida and from what I can remember of those trips (which admittedly isn't much, mainly due to the non-stop flow of beer), it was a markedly different experience than now.

As I write this, I'm staring at the ginormous box that contains our new toilet, a one-piece monster that weighs 150 pounds. I barely got it off the stoop (and that was by rolling it) and up one step. I'm dreading the moment when we have to carry the beast and lift and position it perfectly.

Whereas my pals and I used to go spring-breaking, now I'm excelling at back-breaking. We used to guzzle beers and snarf chili dogs. Now, it's aspirin with a Pepto-Bismol chaser. At least we're still swimming. But instead of the ocean, I'm swimming in sweat. We used to jump into pools fully clothed. Today my wife accidentally triggered the water shut-off and soaked me, fully clothed of course. And as opposed to chasing girls, I'm chasing a few hours of untroubled sleep (curse you, prostate!).

One of these years, I'm hoping my wife and I "enjoy" an actual, leisurely spring break. But with the caveat that we're still in bed by 8:00 p.m.  You know...taking a walk on the wild side!

If you too are looking to stroll down the wild side, look no further than my book, Corporate Wolf. Sure, it's a darkly comical, satirical, bloody, mystery horror suspenser about werewolves in the corporate world, but part of the tale is "semi-autobiographical," ripped from my interim years. Check it out here!

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!

The Day the Earth Swallowed Me

Just another ordinary day. No, scratch that. Unlike our horrible Winter, it was an unnaturally beautiful February day. No snow, no ice, no winds, no tornados...just the temperature hanging out in the terrific upper '60's. And it felt great.

So Spring Fever beckoned me to sit out on the deck and watch my dogs do their business (an old guy hobby I've developed; you've gotta take your fun where you can find it.).

Now, our senior (mostly blind) dog was lagging behind as usual. So, I ventured out into the yard to gather him up and carry him inside.

With dog in arms, my arthritis dwindling due to the warm temperature, everything was going extremely well!

Naturally that's when Mother Nature decided to play a nasty trick on me. Halfway through the yard, the deck and back door into the house well within sight, BLAMMO!

The hell?...

I'm not sure what happened to our dog, but my entire right leg had fallen through the earth. Incredulous, stunned, I was stuck in the earth, my leg dangling below me into a hellish crater.

My first thought was This can't be happening. My second thought: My God, what kind of huge-ass creature burrowed this cave beneath six inches of top soil and is it going to eat my leg off? Finally, my most realistic thought occurred: I've stumbled into The Mole People's den!

Panicked, I began to yell and holler for my wife who was working upstairs. And it was the first time I ever cursed our house for having great sound insulation.

Stuck in the earth, no one to hear my cries for help before the Mole People devoured me, I weighed my options. My phone wasn't with me, so that was out of the question (never again will I belittle kids for having their phone glued to their hands). And as in the James Franco film where he cut off his arm to survive, that option seemed unlikely as I had no cutting utensil and my teeth couldn't reach my thigh.

If only one of our neighbors would look out the window, they would see me with the earth enveloping the entirety of my right leg and my left leg buckled beneath me in an agonizing contortionist's squat. No time for embarrassment!

The dogs were no help. The two younger ones just stood on the deck, wagging their tails while watching me squirm in pain. (I think they thought I was "taking care of my business.") Finally, the older, near-blind dog walked up toward me and I tried to shoo him away. If he fell into the hole, I wasn't sure we could fish him out as the cave felt like it went all the way to China (like in those informationally accurate cartoons I learned geography from).

I was on my own. With a great Herculean surge of energy, I unfolded my bent leg. Using my arms, I pushed through the surrounding mud (created by a foot of recently melted snow) until I got a good grip on the ground and pulled my leg out of the hole. It was still intact! Clearly, the Mole People were still slumbering.

But I couldn't get up. My arthritis was on fire, aggravated by my plummet into the earth, my knees, back and toes screaming for relief. Plus I had nothing to leverage my way up to standing.

Survival instinct kicked in. Using mostly my arms I pulled myself-- half-slithering, half-crawling--through wet grass, mud and dog poop. Lots and lots and LOTS of dog poop. Finally, I reached the deck where I was able to hoist myself up on my battered legs.

That was when my wife finally came to the rescue. She came into the kitchen and stopped at the open back door when she saw me.

Painted all the pretty (and smelly) earth-tones of mud and doggy-poo, I must've been quite the sight.

"Oh my..." she said, her eyes widening. "What happened?"

I explained. Carefully, she went out to the new hole in the yard, put her phone inside and took pictures. A vast cave just like I had thought, but that wasn't the weirdest part.

"Whoa," she exclaimed. "There's a concrete wall down there!"

I hobbled my way toward the excavation point, careful to stand as far back as I could. I couldn't see the wall, but her picture showed me the proof.

That's when my thoughts swam from woe-is-me tragedy to big-bucks-bonanza for us!

Obviously, we'd discovered Al Capone's TRUE vault, full of stacks and stacks of cash and Jimmy Hoffa's body! Eat it, Geraldo!

Then my wife sorta brought me back down to earth. "I don't know who to call in this situation."

"The press! Our financial guy! Everyone who's ever hacked us off, so we can rub our new riches in their--"

"I'll call our insurance agent," she said, ever the voice of reason.

The insurance agent told us to call the city. The city guy came out and said, "Not our problem. It's an old septic tank. Maybe an old cellar."

Boom. Fizzle, fizzle, fizzle... All of my dreams of fabulous monetary wealth went up as fast as my leg went down into the earth.

But...who do you call to restore the earth? I'm sorry, Mother Nature! Don't take it out on us! We recycle and do what we can to preserve our earth. Blame it on the Maga's! Make THEM fall through their yards! 

While I'm whining about lost opportunities, I may as well plug a book. Hey, it's Tex, the Witch Boy! My very first book and still one of my wife's favorites. It's got suspense, mystery, murder, witchcraft (natch), humor, pathos, romance, ghosts, supernatural shenanigans, a serial killer, and I do believe there's even a kitchen sink in there somewhere. But quit reading the hype, and go buy the dang thing already!

Total Duck-Up!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

War On the Catholics

When I was in sixth or seventh grade, my family made the move to a new neighborhood, mere blocks away and across a major traffic-way from our old residence. I never could figure out the reason for the move, but years later I figured out it was to replace our two story with a ranch to better accommodate my wheelchair-bound dad.

But the reason--at the time--for the move became even more puzzling when my parents kept grousing and grumbling about "all those Catholics in the neighborhood." Another thing I didn't quite understand. I mean, what did they expect with a Catholic grade school and high school right behind us?

But as young witless children do, we blindly followed in our parents' big, couldn't-ever-be-wrong footsteps.

Now the Catholic kids in the 'hood didn't accept my younger brother and I either. They'd taunt us and bully us and call us names. And as the school was just one block behind us, they used our fenced-in yard as a short-cut going to and fro school. This drove my parents batty. Me, I was just afraid they'd do something to our senior dog in the backyard. But Rocky never came to any harm from those nasty Catholic kids, even though my parents were still up and arms about their trespassing.

After we'd had some time to adjust to the new "normal," my brother and I decided to fight back. In Winter, we'd throw snowballs at the passing Catholics, hoping to knock some Protestant sense into their heads.  Battles were waged in the 'hood, but the battle was never won or determined. Yes, just like all "holy wars." (It didn't help that one time, someone "farmed" our front yard with their car, leaving several grass worn tire tracks; undoubtedly Catholics were the culprits.)

I was beginning to think my parents didn't like anyone in the neighborhood. The old man and woman next door were very nice, I thought, and told my dad so.

He replied, "Yes, he's nice. But he's Catholic!"

As I started to grow older, I began to question this silly blind hatred. Finally, I asked Dad, "Why do you not like Catholics?"

"Because they worship Mary," he exclaimed loudly, like I was an idiot for not knowing that. "Mercy!" (My parents' favorite exclamation back in the day.)

This didn't jive well with my limited understanding of religion. Having been brought up in various protestant churches (kicking and screaming on Sundays, I might add, hoping--nearly praying--that my parents would oversleep, because it was a colossal and boring drag), it was always my understanding that Jesus' teachings ruled over everything.

And didn't he teach love and acceptance for everyone?  I mean, Catholics believed in Jesus and God, too, right? It made no sense to my (snowball-addled) young, forming mind.

The war continued for years, finally dying out to maturity (or rather other pursuits that took precedence over fighting neighborhood kids, such as girls, cars, and beer). An unlikely peace pact was made between us and the Catholics and while I don't ever recall any true "friendships" being forged, acquaintances were made and waves even shared at times. Yet the older generation kept firm in their grumbling, blinders-on, nonsensical dislike for anyone who didn't buy into their one TRUE religious belief. It was beyond silly.

Years later, after I'd divorced my first wife (who was Catholic, natch; you can just imagine how that went over with my parents), I took it upon myself to educate myself on Catholicism. After all, when we were married in the Catholic Church, I had signed an agreement vowing that I'd raise my daughter as Catholic.

It was very uncomfortable in the Catechumenal class, but the kindly nun who ran it was very welcoming and accommodating to me. And it was extremely eye-opening.

Once the "controversy" surrounding Mary came up, I sat forward, intent on finally understanding the big HooHah.

Apparently, my parents weren't the only ones who griped about the Catholics' "worship" of Mary. Kindly Sister Old Lady patiently explained that many Protestants had this negative view. "We don't worship Mary," she explained. "We hold her in high reverence. She was the mother of Jesus, after all. We think that's kinda a big deal."

After considering asking Kindly Sister Old Lady to phone my parents and explain this to them, I jettisoned the idea. They'd never learn.

But if all combatting participants would just wise up and listen to their more open-minded younger generations (I'm looking at you, too, Republicans and Democrats), I hope I see in my lifetime a move forward as a more united planet. It shouldn't matter what our beliefs (or non-beliefs) are or even if you accept the Bible's interpretation of Jesus; it's the lesson imbued that we should all strive for: acceptance, tolerance and kindness. Kumbaya and all that stuff!

Whew. Off my soapbox...

But while we're on the topic of "wars," there's an entirely different kind of war going on in Kansas one fateful Halloween night; a bitter old woman has declared war on three trick-or-treaters from Hell! It all leads to....murderrrrrr. This is just one of the darkly comical tales of horror in my short story collection Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. Check it out here!