Getting Sick in Public!

Hey kids, have you heard? It's the newest sensation that's sweeping the nation! All the cool kids are in the know, so go ahead and give it a go! Be sure your friends film it, funnier than a blow to the groin video!

Good grief. I haven't been sick in public since I was a kid and that pretty much scarred me for life. (After gorging myself on popcorn, candy and soda at the movies, my parents thought it'd be a wonderful idea to go out for pizza. On my mad dash to the bathroom, I didn't quite make it, and a woman screamed. Actually screamed!) So...after this traumatic incident, you better believe I was totally mortified about what happened last weekend.

My wife and I are still testing the waters of our pandemic era, but we miss eating out. So I found a new restaurant that bragged about two--count 'em, two!--patios. With the weather suddenly nice, we decided to invite a couple friends and outside we sat.

Now, I have to detail this important interlude: Lately I am prone to having mega-honkingly-humongous vitamins stuck in my chest and I can't even get liquid down before they come splashing up again. It also happens with dry chicken. And sometimes when I skip a meal in anticipation of the culinary delights ahead of me or I get excited and speak without properly chewing my food (I know... I'm a barbarian). This occurs three or four times a year. The last time I remember it happening was Thanksgiving. But I knew it was coming, so excused myself to the bathroom, back in time for pumpkin pie.

I've told a doctor about this occurrence and she brushed it off as acid reflux.

(I remember having a conversation with my mom about it:

"What did the doctor say?"

"That I have acid reflux."

"Spit-up," she says, nodding with authority as only mothers can.

"No, not 'spit-up,' whatever that is. The doctor called it acid reflux."

"Right. Spit-up."

"No! It's not spit-up! It's acid--"

"I know, Stuart, I know! You don't have to yell at me! Spit-up!")

Anyway, I don't think it's acid reflux, nor do I think it's spit-up (which I'm still not sure what that is). It's not stomach related. More of a choking thing.

My wife thinks I may have a "constricted esophagus." Which sounds kinda bad-ass. At least much more so than "spit-up." Besides, it would go right along with my "deviated septum." Which is what I put on my social media profiles: Hi, I'm Stuart and I have a constricted esophagus and deviated septum." (I think this explains why I'm on a few watch lists.) If only I had a narrow urethra, then I'd have the trifecta of cool. But there I go again, getting digression all over the place.

Back to the restaurant, I didn't heed the warning signs. Dear God, I wished I had. I suppose I knew it was coming, starting with a few up-top hiccups (not the deep kind that rattle your rib-cage, but from up on top of my throat). I even said, "Uh oh."

Jokes were made, my buddy suggested scaring me. Ha ha ha all around. My wife quietly urged, "Go to the bathroom."

But I stuck it out, thinking I could fight the rising tide. I have before. If only I could get past that blockage. I started drinking more water (what little I could swallow) which just made it worse.

Sure enough, I felt the tide rise and surge. Not wanting to cause a scene, I whipped the cloth napkin to my mouth. I would've ran to the john, but of course the armada of servers decided to descend on us at the same time (There were at least five servers bringing food out, no kidding; the only thing missing was Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" over the speakers.). So I was stuck. Sitting there throwing up, trying to swallow it back down, coughing into my napkin, and filling it with all sorts of awful stuff. Meanwhile, several servers are trying to ask if I had the filet. My eyes are watering, vomit's running down my shirt, and Chad is asking if I had the filet.

Dizzy, I stood, dashed all the way inside and through the restaurant, pin-balling off of employees and customers, and barely made it into the bathroom. (And when I say "into" the bathroom, that's kinda not accurate; it's a new out in the open, unisex line of stalls. I'm certain those enjoying their dinners were appreciating my calling the dinosaurs.)

Thoroughly humiliated, I splashed my face and slunk back to our table. Everyone inquired as to how I was doing, but I really just wanted to get outta there.

As we left, the army of servers were all extremely polite. We ran a veritable gauntlet of them, opening doors for us, wishing us well, thanking us... major overkill while all I wanted was to die a quiet death. The staff was either thrilled to get rid of me or worried I'd sue over choking.

Yep, my first bout with public sickness since childhood. Only this time was much, MUCH worse.

So, let this be a cautionary tale. If your body speaks out, heed the advice and go to the john before it's too late.

Speaking of getting sick, meet Richard "Tex" McKenna, teenage guy witch. He's got problems, man, has he got 'em. Caught between two warring high school gangs, a mysterious goth girl, and a vengeful ghost, Tex barely has time for school and the requisite bullies. But he gets revenge on one bully by hurling on him (okay, okay, I know it's not that big of a deal to the book, but I had to tie it into the blog post some how!). Read all about it in book #2 of the Tex, the Witch Boy series, Tex and the Gangs of Suburbia!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's the Most Stressful Time of the Yearrrrrrrr!

Sing with me, everyone! Huzzah! The holidays are nearly over!

No more fruitcakes (no, no, not the food...that ONE uncle. Yeah, you know which one I'm talking about). Say goodbye to the wrasslin' wranglers of the store aisles, the ones who give soccer players a run for their money. So long to false smiles when you open a box of tighty-whities (I killed the snickers when I threatened to model them). And no more uncomfortable hugs. Especially uncomfortable hugs.

I think I'm the only one who has a problem knowing when to hug. Hugging protocol isn't in my armory. In my family, if you accidentally touch someone, the knee-jerk reaction is to jump like an Olympic kangaroo. Yet, there's my wife's family, the huggin'-est family around. No problem with that, as I love 'em all, truly I do. I think it's nice, actually. So I studied and watched them. Maybe it's an Oklahoma thing, I naively thought.  When the Fed Ex man rang the doorbell, I put what I'd learned into play, welcoming him with a big ol' bear hug.

Well, turns out I still have a bit more to learn.

Anyway, Christmas time. I used to look forward to the holiday. Not so much anymore. Call me a curmudgeon or a realist, I'm okay with both.

Yet this Christmas was different in many ways. For instance, I only heard the cloying "Santa Baby" song whenever we went shopping. Usually it's a mainstay that digs into your head like a dentist's drill. But on Christmas day, the song of choice seemed to be "Let It Snow,"  a song I loath because the sentiment is treasured only by children and drunk television weathermen. Obviously the singer lives in Florida.

This particular holiday was filled with more than its fair share of excitement, not the particularly good, cozy gather-around-the-fireplace type, either.

A niece I adore decided to get married on December 21st in Midwest Kansas, home of winter blizzards. So, that Saturday morning at 6:30 a.m. (my wife's a hard-charger), we set off for Hays, attempting to stay one step ahead of "Storm (I think they named it) Dumbledore." You know, the storm that blew the socks off everyone in the States (Canada, I'm looking at you!).

We got there okay, albeit bleary-eyed, delirious, and pumped up on caffeine and sugar. My daughter woke up in the back seat, yawned, and with a happily contented tone said, "Wow, that trip wasn't so bad." Even though she's 21, I grounded her for life.

BOOM! Flat tire after lunch. 22 degrees outside. (Merry Christmas, everybody!) Freezing, yet determined to show my masculine side, I changed the tire in, say, fifty-five minutes. Much cursing ensued. Icing on the cake? My wife ("accidentally," she says) kicked me in the nose. Grease-stained, sniffing, and broken-nosed, we're just in time for wedding pictures.

It was a nice and festive wedding. "The Washing of the Feet Ceremony" was interesting. Word of advice to anyone who plans on doing this in the future...wear loose socks.

The next morning (6:30 a.m. again) I'm dreary and suffering a bad back from the lousy hotel bed. And the ice machine, birthing baby cubes right outside our door, kept us up all night. (Happy Horror-days!) But I pulled up my big-boy britches 'cause it was time to go to Oklahoma to celebrate Christmas with my wife's family. At one stretch, the highway was covered with huge chunks and stalactites of snow. It felt like we were four-wheeling (it's a Midwest thing, folks, don't worry about it). And we nearly got stuck in the parking lot of a "Pilot" store getting gas.

And these stores...you know, I never knew there was such a variety of "quick in and out stores." I think we visited them all across the Midwest. There was the aforementioned "Pilot," the downtrodden "Stop-Shop (home of the world's filthiest bathrooms)," numerous "Kum-n-Go's (tee-hee)," and, of course, my personal new favorite discovery, "The Wood Shed." I'm telling you, "The Wood Shed" is Nirvana. It's what the Stuckey's of my childhood used to be. Their logo is great, a Beaver or something glaring at you with googly eyes. When you open the door--just like a carnival funhouse--a ginormous fan blasts you with a ghostly groan and a seriously threatening whirlwind of heat. (While I was waiting for my wife, I amused myself by watching newcomers freak out when they crossed the Barrier of the Damned.)  After you survive tornado alley, a giant blow-up snowman with an evil grin looms over you! Fantastic! And the bathrooms...the glorious, wondrous, old-fashioned, smelly bathrooms with antiquated machines boasting of  mysterious treasures such as "Big Wally" and other enticing sundries. Plus there was a plethora of crap for tourists to get suckered into. Gave me Christmas chills.

Then the trip turned nightmarish. My wife ran over a red squirrel in the highway. His eyes still haunt me. Took me seconds to shake it...

Had a great time with my wife's family. But I was sleep-deprived and loopy the whole time (kinda' like how I was during college). I found myself drifting off on many occasions--taking a Scrooge-like trippy side-trip--looking down on the proceedings as if I'd died or something. Maybe I did for a minute. With a turkey leg in my mouth.

The undisputed highlight was my mother-in-law's riveting rum-cake performance. She taunted us with a rum-cake she'd discovered in the freezer after a year. Then she decided to taste it - the plan was that we'd all get some if it hadn't gone bad. She sat down at the table with much deliberation, fork dangling over the tantalizing, yet ultimately terrifying, chocolocity (new word!). We sat on the edge of our seats, awaiting the final verdict. But my mother-in-law has nothing on Hitchcock. Ever the master of suspense, she'd lift a forkful up, then drop it back on the plate to recite another amusing anecdote. Many, many times. Finally! We had lift-off! And it was good. And tasty.

It's over!

Merry Christmas everyone and God help us one and all!

Tex and the God Squad is here! Before the New Year! Get used to it!

So I paraphrased a gay rallying battle-cry but it seems somewhat appropriate considering the content of the newest Tex, the Witch Boy book, the final one in the trilogy.
 
The first two books in the series have been leading up to this one. Everything's about to explode. I tried (don't know if I succeeded; you guys be the judge) to make it bigger, badder, more expansive in action, setting, and, especially, relevant themes. Plus, all of the characters' storylines are resolved. For better or for worse. And if you've read the first two books, you KNOW everyone's expendable. I'm a sadist. But as a writer, finishing the series felt sad, yet somewhat satisfying. However, it's time to put the kids to bed.
 
Tex and the God Squad tackles teen suicide, gay and lesbian issues, religion, bad food, tornadoes, competitive witches, a hooded murderer, satanic cats, a runaway car, a deadly paintball competition, and questions about what to do with one's life post high school. Sounds as traumatic as a Swedish art film, doesn't it? But, not to worry, there's plenty of humor and romance to smooth over the rough parts. Plus, Elspeth's back (if you don't know who she is, go read Tex and the Gangs of Suburbia).
 
Then there's the villain of the tale...an evil religious sect called "The Clarendon Baptist Church." Well. I live in Kansas. Part of Kansas's sad burden to bear is they host the heinous Westboro Baptist Church. Sorry, sorry, sorry...on behalf of all Kansans, I apologize.
 
You know, I don't understand how any church--sect, cult, call them what you want--proclaims to spread the word of God when their message is full of hatred, intolerance and ugliness. My understanding of Jesus (and I'm no expert; smoke coils off me whenever I enter a church) is that he was open to everyone regardless of beliefs, sexual orientation, or you know, anything. Kinda' like how my niece described Martin Luther King, "Just an all-around good guy."
 
I don't know much about religion, but I certainly understand bullying. And the WBC is one of the biggest bullies around.
 
Read the book and watch Tex take 'em down.
 
http://www.amazon.com/Tex-God-Squad-Witch-Boy-ebook/dp/B00H9HPIA4/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1386949387&sr=1-1&keywords=tex+and+the+God+Squad 
 
(Psst. Keep this on the down-low, but Elspeth returns in her own book next Summer).

Bunny-Foo-Foo Is Dead

Apologies to everyone, but my dog ate Bunny Foo Foo.

It doesn't thrill me, but it's my job to report the facts.

Couple days ago, I kicked my Dog Of Destruction, Zak, outside. After that, the quiet, calm atmosphere that overlay the house was unsettling. No barking, tearing of furniture, dropping of dog-toys in my lap. It was quiet. TOO quiet. Just like the war films from the forties.

When I opened the back door, I saw something horrific, unsettling, something I'll never forget in my life.

Two grey, long legs drooped out of Zak's mouth like the world's worst walrus mustache. Blood splattered his jowls. Somehow his tongue worked its way around the (half) carcass to show just how tasty his impromptu yard meal was.

Yet he didn't look like a demonic hell-hound. His eyes were round and full of good-time fun, his demeanor one of "hey, look what I did!" His tail wagged more than a politician changing his mind. He was dang proud of his catch.

Panic set in. I didn't know what to do.

First thing? I called my wife, couldn't get ahold of her. Crap.

Second thing? Told my daughter about it while she ate breakfast. Explained how she'd better watch out if Zak licked her (Essential step? Probably not, but I did derive a little sadistic satisfaction out of her reaction. Let's call it payback for all the sleepless nights she's caused me.).

Third step? I donned blue rubber gloves (the kind only TV show medical examiners and housewives in commercials wear), snapped 'em up past my wrists. Grabbed a shovel and a trash bag. Whipped on a painting mask like I was a rock star. Took it off again so I could moisturize, because my wife says I must, then put it back on. Slapped the shovel in my hand and said, "Let's do this" in a gravelly voice.

Zak decided it was a good time to play "keepaway." After futilely chasing him around the yard, I went inside, tried a different tactic. Enlisting my daughter in the war against grotesqueries, we concocted an elaborate plan to lure him inside while I bagged the gory Grail.

My bravado failed me once I approached the half-bunny. Hugest half-rabbit I'd ever seen in my life. I'd like to think Zak didn't gnaw off the top half.

But the other option was even more unsettling...Monsters. Under the deck.

Movie Guilt: Aliens & Zombies

So, recently I watched two very different films.

My wife and I saw Ender's Game in the theatre. Was it a good movie? I dunno. It was entertaining enough, but it hit upon all military-based entertainment cliché's. Tough Sargent, intensely evil (for no good reason) competition, obligatory love interest (and we know how soldiers like to hook up in the face of battle), and an underdog, who despite all odds, rallies his team behind him into a cohesive fighting machine.

Sigh. Been there, seen that. Soldiers in space. The underrated (albeit, admittedly fascist) Starship Troopers did it better. Plus it offered exploding alien bug creatures. And Neil Patrick Harris as a nerdy bug-killing expert. Since we all know Harris is openly gay, I thought I'd already paid my liberal cinematic dues.

But sitting through Ender's Game, I couldn't help but feel guilty watching it. I mean, the author, whose book the film is based upon, Orson Scott Card, has made his viewpoints regarding gay marriage quite clear. It ain't pretty. Yet there we sat, a bag of popcorn perched between us, taking in the CGI spectacle.

My wife cited a news story she listened to that suggested we should donate to a gay cause if we paid to see the movie to balance out the inequality. Not a bad idea. But where to start? I offered up donating to the "Bugs In Space Need Love, Too" program, but was quickly shot down. Guess I missed the point.

But aliens (friendly ones, of course) should be allowed equal rights as well. I wouldn't oppose an alien and human marriage, as long as the alien signs a prenuptial contract not to eat his partner's face.

No one rallies for aliens (except for "E.T.," and he doesn't count, because we all KNOW he's just a hunk of cutesy, Spielbergian plastic).

No love for zombies, either, even though they're real. Duh. What with global warming, toxic waste dumping, and run-afoul, mad scientists, I'm surprised zombies aren't more of a political hot-topic now.

Which brings me to the other film I watched several nights ago: Zombie Strippers.

Oddly enough, I didn't experience an iota of guilt watching it.

It's The Most Spookiest Time Of The Year...

It's the most magical time of the year. Everything's turning orange. The air outside is crisper than a cracker. My wife's donning turtlenecks. Leaves are starting to fall, crackling with a pleasant crunch underfoot (until I have to rake). Deranged serial killers are lurking behind trees wearing plastic masks...wait, what?

Okay! Being the Halloween season, I'm doing my due diligence and delving into horror films. And man, have I delved. I won't hit you up with every loser I struggled through. But I'll mention the noteworthy (for various reasons) films. Get used to it. I'm going to do this each year.

*Possibly the biggest surprise to me was the remake of Fright Night (2011). I hadn't expected to like this in the least, after having suffered through so many poor remakes of horror "classics (debatable term)." But this film is surprising, funny, well-acted and sharply-written. I actually like the original, but I think the filmmakers, for once, improved on the original recipe. Recommended.

*Well, anything Guillermo DelToro touches is (usually) golden. He produced Mama, and it's a pseudo-classic. I sorta' freaked out on the feral kids, but that only hints at the spooky moments here. Very scary film. Too bad the last five minutes nearly derail the whole damn thing.

*Dead Silence. Sigh. What can I say? It's not very good. Pretty much sucks in fact. But. Anytime you
toss in a ventriloquist dummy, with those dead, yet alive (SQUIRREL!) eyes, I'm terrified. And there's some pretty freaky imagery throughout the whole film. For the ladies, Ryan Kwanten (Jason from True Blood) stars and thankfully keeps his clothes on. Still can't act very well.

*Hey, punch in that Duran-Duran eight-track tape and welcome to the eighties! The Newlydeads is truly awful. It has some sorta', maybe, kinda' plot about a transvestite ghost, a hero the film  apparently doesn't mind is a murderer, some psychic woman, fun decapitations, and lots of trees. If you're a fan of blowsy, big-haired, blond women in "mom jeans (the kind they wear up over their navel and wide at the hip like my dad used to wear)"--and admittedly, I'm a closeted fan--this is your film. I loved it for all the wrong reasons. Most I laughed all year.

*I bought into the hype and checked out three Boris Karloff "horror" films. Man, am I stupid. Night Key, The Black Castle, and The Climax (um, not a porno film). Obviously trying to leach onto Karloff's success in Frankenstein, all of these films' trailers claim to be the "most terrifying thing since Frankenstein." Yeah, right. The first two are mediocre melodramas. The Climax is horrifying alright. It's a friggin' musical that features one of those god-awful, bird-chirping, warbling singers from the forties. She'll make your tooth-fillings ache. And the lead guy's one of those rosy-cheeked, earnestly high-pitched voiced dudes who'll make you want to pull your hair out. I call unfair. And definitely not recommended. Any of 'em.

That about does it. I'd love to hear about everyone else's Halloween viewing.

Stay spooky.

Return Of The Christian Werewolf Erotica!

I swear. Some time back, I joked about writing a Christian, werewolf erotica novel. You know what? It's been my most popular blog post thus far. So, I'm going with another entry. Y'all better be careful for what you wish. I'm now contemplating unleashing (rabies and all) a whole novel full of this idiocy.

Fair warning, folks. The heat level's gonna' rise! So, tuck in the little ones, grab a glass of wine, settle back and sizzle.

Clears throat. Okay, here we go...

I nibbled on his ear like a communion wafer. His furry unibrow raised up to Heaven, his toes bent down to Hades. He gazed at me, howled, then asked, "Do you...do you...watch Fox network news?" The question didn't need to be answered, no time for words. Nothing mattered but the moment. I grabbed his pointed ears like handlebars, pulled him down next to me. A true gentleman, he lapped at his privates. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. He jumped up, circled the bed several times like a dog before a nap, panted, then fell back in bed. His tongue lashed out at my face. After wiping his saliva off, I maneuvered my way on top of him. Being an internet-certified pastor, I quickly delivered a marriage ceremony. Now I could truly enjoy the pleasures of his lupine body, no sinning involved.

"Ethel," he moaned. "Oh, God..."

"Yes, praise him," I replied.

"You're the first human woman I've been with."

"And the last..."

"No, I mean, really, arooooooo! I've only been with were-men before you."

"What?"

Ooh! I've just turned my Christian erotica werewolf novel into a GAY Christian erotica werewolf novel! This suckah's gonna' sell through the roof!

Okay, what do you guys think? I'm either going to Hell or becoming a millionaire.

Working title is "50 Fleas Of Fur."

No government? Fine. No taxes

Well, crap, we no longer have any government. Weird, right? So far there's no rioting in the streets, looting, or embarrassing flash-mobs in the malls. And since we're still civilized in the malls-the last bastion of humanity-we just might weather through this.

So a bunch of tea party (pinky fingers uplifted, of course, while they sip their drinks) members and republicans threw a hissy fit because they didn't get their way. Cry me a river and let me urinate in it. Sorry for the vulgarity, gang, but I'm pretty pissed.

The One Percent is gonna' come out of this just fine and dandy, probably better than ever, thank you very much. Interest rates are going to rise. The high and mighty decision-makers will sit back in their leather recliners, stroking their white cats in their laps, and giggling at the misery they've wrought. Can't ever get enough money, after all, and that's what it's all about. Meanwhile, lots of people are hurting, government funded programs now defunct. And hard-working folks are losing their jobs.

Why? We know the answer. Greed and stupidity.

SO what's the upside? Not a damn thing. But I'm thinking of forcing an upside. If the so-called decision-makers of the United States decides there's no more government, then I'll back them. That means I shouldn't have to pay taxes anymore, right? Hell, yeah. It's a revolution started on my sofa!

Fight the man!

My Wife's A Serial Killer!

I woke up this morning angry at my wife. When I got out of the shower, I told her as much.

"Why?" she asked. "Did I flush on you again?"

"No." For once it wasn't that. But she does have an uncanny knack of flushing the upstairs toilet as soon as I enter the shower downstairs. Makes for an eye-opening, genital-shrinking, freezing way to kick off your morning. "No, you woke me up at four A.M. because of what you did in my nightmare."

In my dream, a friend of hers called, asked her if she'd be interested in killing someone. All in the name of science, of course. At first she declined. But I saw the spark in her eye, her killer cogs turning. Soon, she said she'd like to do it, wanted to know if I'd like to join in on the weekend excursion. I hemmed and hawed, then gave into her. It went against my better judgment, but I saw how much it meant to her. So six of us got a motel room (three couples, three double-size beds) and proceeded to collect three people to murder. I chickened out, lay on the bed with the pillow over my head while the wacky antics ensued around me. At some point my in-laws showed up. The next morning it was time to check out. But there was a strange Hawaiian-shirted cop in the room, asking questions. The cops were closing in and...

I woke up. Couldn't believe my wife put me through that.

But that's unfair, I feel you thinking. You have to understand, I'm the guy who grounded my daughter years ago because of her behavior in one of my dreams.

The weird thing is, this is a variation on a recurring nightmare I have. I'm always somehow involved in a murder (usually an accident), I try and cover it up using the most convoluted methods in the world (yet at the time, they make perfect sense), and the cops are ready to nail me.

Huh. I told my daughter about these nightmares a few days ago. She launched into full-on psychoanalytical mode. She said, "Dad, either you feel guilty about something or...all of the macabre events you write about are getting to you."

Maybe I am taking my work to bed with me.

Doggy Dreams

As I sit here watching my dog go through the rituals of REM sleep, I have to wonder what exactly do dogs dream about?

His eyes flutter beneath his lids.  His paws, first back, then front, kick out and shake.  Maybe he's in a vast field,  pursuing the most delectable bunny ever. But the whimper tells me otherwise. Could be a doggy nightmare: vacuum cleaners roaring and coming at him, no way out, surrounded on all sides.

Or perhaps it's a heavenly dream. Shredding the mailman like an industrial-strength mulcher. Sitting back afterward, working a toothpick between his teeth, and sighing. "Ahhhh, that was a particularly tasty mailman. Hate those guys."

Either way it's gotta' be less frightening than our dreams. Right?

A few nights ago, I had a nightmare. Woke up in a cold sweat. Sure, it's a cliché, but sometimes clichés are more truthful than we'd like to admit. I was in college again, forced to take an advanced dance class. First session (and we were all required to bring uncooked meat as an introductory token), the professor asked every student to demonstrate "what we got." Well. I ain't got nothin'. Talk about horrifying. My idea of dancing is planting my feet, swiveling my hips, and thrusting my arms out, hoping not to hit anyone. Every student was exceptional. My turn was crawling closer. I prayed for the class to end before my turn. Then I'd go straight to the office tomorrow and drop the class. But there was still plenty of time left. What to do, I wondered, as I held my blood-dripping pound-and-a-half ground beef? "The chicken dance?" The "Macarena?" Gyrate like an epileptic madman like I did in college?

I woke up before I had to show "what I got."

Maybe I'm not being fair to dogs. Who's to say their nightmares are less frightening than ours? All I ask, is next time you see your dog dreaming? Give him an extra pat on the head, tell him, "I know, I know," and toss him a bone.

Man Of My Dreams With Faith Andrews

My friend, Faith Andrews, has written a great romantic epic entitled Man Of My Dreams. Dreams details a young housewife forced to face the shocking realities of her life. Has she made a mistake in marrying her first love, the father of her two daughters? Or should she have held out for her unrequited high school crush, who is suddenly in her life again? It sounds like a hand-wringing Harlequin tale, and it most definitely is a romance tale. But it's so much more. Extremely well written, Andrews takes us deep into Mia's awakening--uncomfortable, raw, and real, somewhat of a late-blooming feminist manifesto. (I know this sounds weird coming from me, right? The original Kansas curmudgeon himself. But there's no denying Andrews's fantastic writing.). Faith has been brave (naïve? stupid?) enough to come aboard for a chat.
*Faith, I'm dying to know...how much of this is autobiographical? Is (was?) there a Declan, Noah, and Grace in your life? 

First of all, I just want to thank you for so many things. I’m so happy we’ve had to a chance to become friendly and share each other’s work. You’re one of the coolest people I’ve met in a long time and I am so grateful for all the insight and advice you’ve passed along to me in these last few months.

Okay so on to the nitty gritty…There are definitely parts of this book that have been picked and plucked from my real life. I am a stay at home mom of two very spunky little girls while life is never truly boring when you’re home day in and day out manning (er, womaning) the ship, life does get monotonous. Shout out to all the stay-at-homes out there…this is hands down THE hardest job there is. Yes, it’s rewarding and precious and priceless watching and experiencing everything first hand, BUT it can also suck the life out of you sometimes, make you feel like you’ve lost your sense of self, like all you are is Mrs. So and So, Julia and Leah’s mom. Which leads me to why I even started writing in the first place…I decided I was too young to let my dream slip away. So when these stories starting talking to me and begging to get out, I wasn’t at all surprised that the characters emulated so many of the real life people I’ve grown to love throughout the years.

Declan—definitely based a lot on my husband. Gorgeous, dreamy, has all the it-factors, although, my hubby doesn’t sing and better yet, he doesn’t cheat.

Noah—everyone has a Noah, whether he’s an old flame, an unrequited love, a “what if” or just a man in your dreams. I, personally, dream a lot about the past and high school and all that good youthful, carefree stuff…I can’t help who pops up in those dreams and sometimes I’m surprised by my own subconscious and wake up like, “Really?” But I do want to set the record straight by saying that I am not pining over any lost love. Noah for me represents wanting to stay young and all that teenage angst that, in hindsight, feels so damn good. He’s a trip down memory lane and a heart thumping reminder of youthful crushes.

Grace—my real life BFF, Tara, and so many of my other close girlfriends rolled into one. What girl doesn’t need a Grace…the voice of reason, the confidant, the shoulder to cry on, the person you can laugh with until your sides ache. I’m lucky enough to have some pretty first-rate, amazing girlfriends. So, yeah, Grace…even if she pisses Mia off with some of her “butting in,” she is essential to the story.

 *While you were writing the book, did you have a clear vision of how it would end? Or did you change your mind several times? As a reader, I changed my mind several times of how I'd like to see it end.

 Clear. As. Day. I knew from before I even started to write it that it was going to end the way it did. I wanted Mia with who she ended up with for so many reasons. That’s not to say that I wasn’t heartbroken for the other guy. (I’m being vague, I know, sorry, but I don’t want to give anything away).

*Did you consider having Mia shun both the "men of her dreams" and forge her own path before committing to a serious relationship?

You’re not the first person to bring this up, in fact, two of my critique partners wanted me to do this. This would have made it more of a women’s fiction than a romance. Mia’s growth was very important to me and even while juggling her emotions for both Declan and Noah, I think she was able to find herself. But staying true to myself as a writer and reader, I’m a sucker for a happily ever after. Again, without giving anything away, I believe Mia needed to experience IT ALL for the final outcome to be worth it. I hope that makes sense…does it or am I just defending Mia because I hate to put her out there as a girl who got to have her cake and eat it too. Regardless, by the end of Man of My Dreams, Mia knows who she is and what she wants, but I believe the man she ends up with is an integral, engrained, molecular part of the make-up of who she is.

*Music plays an important part in your book, deftly dredging up a sense of '90's nostalgia (wait, the '90's are already nostalgic?) by mentioning several songs and bands from the decade. (And thanks for banging on Chumbawumba's "TubThumping!" That's one of those damn songs that worms its way into your head and won't leave). It's funny how music can sometimes evoke a sense of time and place better than a handful of pretty words. Comment?

I get knocked down, but I get up again…sorry, did I just get in there for the rest of the day??? Isn’t it INSANE that the ‘90s are considered nostalgic? Talk about making a person feel old. I absolutely love music, all types, styles and genres, for the most part, but the soundtrack to Man of My Dreams is, essentially, the soundtrack to my teenage days. Killing Me Softly by the Fugees was on at EVERY house party at least 2 times a night. I remember sitting around at a friend’s house and literally belting out the words with all of my classmates. Listening to that song is like traveling back to that night in a time machine. It’s so crazy how a song can do that to you and almost all of the songs I mentioned in the book have made some kind of mental impact.

*Gotta' talk about the sex scenes! A while back you told me the sex scenes weren't that graphic. Um, maybe I need to read some erotica to see what those are like! HooWEE! Steamy! You pull no punches and put us right in the middle of the, ah, action. Very raw and real, I thought. Not a question, but what have you to say for yourself?

I’m blushing! Like seriously, fifty shades of red. What do I have to say for myself? Can I quote Austin Powers here…I don’t even think I can do that (blushing again). In all seriousness, I actually despise writing sex scenes. I don’t feel I’m any good at it. I’ve read a lot of romance and erotica since the breakthrough of Fifty Shades of Grey and my scenes from Man of My Dreams don’t even hold a (semi-stiff) candle to what some are capable of. If I got the point across and made you feel something and wasn’t clinical about it then thank you! Seriously, I can’t believe I’m talking about this. I just hope the reader gets the warm and fuzzies (and maybe some butterflies and tingles) when they read those scenes…alls I’m sayin’.

*Four-fifths of the way through the book, you pull off a very interesting writing choice. You switch the narrative point-of-view to that of a first-person male character. Now, did you have any males read this part? Is this the way you see men? If so, we're in trouble. I thought he came off as sort of an arrogant, self-centered, petty, foul-mouthed lout! Was this your intention? Or was it to gain sympathy for what was happening in his mind?

This question kept me up pondering, worrying, over thinking, slapping myself in the head. I really do NOT see all men as fowl-mouthed, arrogant, self-centered fools. Some definitely are though…you can’t deny me that. But this is Declan and I had SO much fun writing him. My girlfriends who read the book loved these chapters; they liked getting in his head, seeing inside the mind of a horny college guy, someone who is so confident outwardly and possibly inwardly, but who has a lot of little faults and insecurities. Deep down Declan is a loving, caring, charming man who loves his wife, his kids and the life they have together. BUT and this is a big BUT and where he may come off as a jerk, he’s put all his eggs in one basket and like Mia, feels unappreciated at times. I do hope that the female readers (and heck, you male readers too) empathize with Declan in these chapters and finally understand what he is all about.

*What's next on Faith's writing plate?

I’m working on something really fun, and sexy and dramatic all at the same time. It’s called Little Brother. Talk about an arrogant, alpha male…Marcus Grayson is for all intents and purposes a man-whore but when his older sister’s childhood friend, Tessa Bradley, comes back into his life (with a whole lotta baggage) Marcus finds himself battling with his bachelor-for-life motto and his newfound intrigue with Tessa, the forbidden fruit. This book has been so much fun to write…I’m about halfway through and I’m aiming for a January/February 2014 release.

*When and where can we read Man Of My Dreams?

Man of My Dreams is scheduled to be released on September 19, 2013. I will be self publishing through Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo and CreateSpace so keep a look out and hey, add it to your to-be-read list if you think it’s something that might tickle your fancy.

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18072325-man-of-my-dreams

 

Living Like A Pioneer!

We came home from a vacation recently to a very unwelcome surprise. Our electricity was out. Being stuck in the Midwest, occurrences like that aren't uncommon, pesky weather always the culprit. But after sleeping in a hotel bed for several nights, I was looking forward to getting reacquainted with my own bed. Except it was, like, ninety degrees or something in the house. Grumbling, we unpacked, then repacked, prepared to head off to my mother's house, where the beds are lumpier than a sack of potatoes.

But I decided to take a stand.

"You know what?" I said to my wife while getting into the car. "I will NOT give into terrorism! Forget it. Let's rough it and stay. If the early pioneers lived without electricity, so can we!"

My wife agreed. So we cracked open a bottle of wine and sat out on the back deck. I do believe pioneers drank a lot of alcohol.

After the first glass of wine, I suggested to my wife that perhaps we could stream a movie on our Kindle Fire. Then when the battery ran dry on that, I had an elaborate back-up scheme in motion involving using several laptops to watch a DVD.

"Not very pioneer-like," was her answer.

Huh. How'd the pioneers do it again? Just what in the world did they do for entertainment? I mean, I know Daniel Boone wrestled bears or something for fun, but that's not really my style. And the bear-wrasslin' was no doubt an off-shoot of alcohol drinking. I mean my idea of roughing it is having a hot tub and cable TV in a cabin. Ooh, and air conditioning. I don't think we were meant to live outside. Bugs and sticks that walk and wrestling bears and Jason...

Soon, fatigue set in. We got out a card game, played it outside by candlelight, and the bottle of wine drained. The darker it grew, the more I missed electricity.

Finally, the power and light man strolled into the neighbor's yard. We cheered him, hoisted our wine glasses high. And we finally had something to watch, better than a movie, real bonafide entertainment! And just like the pioneers, we truly had a stake in the outcome.

Novel Openings With Katie L. Carroll

Today  Katie L. Carroll, author of YA book, Elixir Bound, is going to tell us the do's and don't of good novel openings. Take it away, Katie!
 

When I started writing my first YA novel, which eventually turned into Elixir Bound, I really had no idea what it meant to write a good novel at all, never mind one with a good opening. To land a publisher or agent, though, a great—not good—opening is crucial.

 

Over the course of the nine years until my first book was published, I’ve learned a lot about how to write a solid opening, mostly by learning what not to do.

Don't Open with an Adult POV

One of my first professional critiques by an editor from a big house taught me this important lesson. It may seem pretty obvious now, but at the time I felt justified starting from the point of view of the main character’s father. He was passing the torch of the Elixir’s guardianship to his daughter, so shouldn’t the story start from his point of view? Umm…no. Start with the character you most want your reader to care about.

Don’t Open with a Cliché                                  

Some things have been done so frequently, readers (and editors) are tired of them. Avoid opening with weather (“It was a dark and stormy night”), having a character look in the mirror and describe herself, or having a character waking up.

Don't Open with Backstory

You’ve spent months developing an intricate fantasy world, complete with magical creatures, evil villains, and full languages J.R.R. Tolkien style. Awesome! All the details will help enrich the story and immerse the reader in your world. Just don’t throw all of it into the beginning. Weave it in gradually as it pertains to the main character and the conflict. Even in contemporary novels, you have to be careful of too much backstory. The reader doesn’t need to know what your main character was like growing up, her whole family history, or what she had for breakfast.

Don't Open with Gratuitous Action

In an attempt to grab the reader’s attention right, you open with your main character into a dark forest at midnight with an animal chasing her. The reader’s probably thinking What a great start to this paranormal romance. I wonder if she’s going to fall in love with the creature. If it turns out your story is actually about a high school senior who has one more chance to score high on the SATs to get into college, you’ve got the wrong beginning. Only start with action that pertains to the main conflict.

Don't Open with Generalities

An ideological rant or a general statement about life isn't a good place to start a novel. Openings like this can sound preachy (a huge no-no in YA); they are often somewhat obvious; and when it comes to divisive issues, they can alienate a reader who may have the opposite opinion. Long narrative descriptions fall into the generality category as well. You can paint the most beautiful scene with your words, but if a reader doesn’t have an emotional connection to latch on to, you might lose them right from the start.

Setting It Up Right

So now that you know what not to do, you’re probably asking, “What should I do?” My advice is to try out a few different openings. Work on fleshing out the voice of the character, establishing the main conflict of the story, and setting the tone of the piece. Have a professional critique done (if you can afford it) or have other writers look at it to. Then look deep inside yourself and see if the opening feels right to you. Does it accomplish what you’ve set out to do?

Admittedly, I didn’t follow all these rules with Elixir Bound, but it was a long process of critical thinking and compromise that got me to a point where the story landed a publisher. After revising it to start with the main character’s point of view instead of her father’s, I had another professional critique done of it. The editor thought it was too heavy on backstory and description. She was right: I had this long passage with a snowstorm and descriptions of two different forests.

So I cut all that and started right in with action from the main character. I read both the old beginning and the new one to several other writers during an impromptu critique session at a conference. They agreed the new opening was too abrupt and had lost some of the dark tone the descriptive beginning had provided.

I didn’t scrap either one but combined them. I included one strong descriptive image of the trees and the snow, and then got right down to the action of the character. The snowstorm, a possible weather cliché, was important to keep because it was the inciting incident of the story.

My Favorite Openings

“We went to the moon to have fun, but the moon turned out to completely suck.” from Feed by M.T. Anderson

“Gram is worried about me. It’s not just because my sister Bailey died four weeks ago, or because my mother hasn’t contacted me in sixteen years, or even because suddenly all I can think about is sex. She is worried about me because one of her houseplants has spots.” from The Sky Is Everywhere by Jandy Nelson

“When he grabs Mama’s wrists and yanks her toward the wall-hanging like that, it must hurt. Mama doesn’t cry out. She tries to hide her pain from him, but she looks back at me, and in her face, she shows me everything she feels.” from Bitterblue by Kristin Cashore

“I greeted his tombstone the way I always did—with a swift kick.” from Colors Like Memories by Meradeth Houston

Elixir Bound blurb:

Katora Kase is next in line to take over as guardian to a secret and powerful healing Elixir. Now she must journey into the wilds of Faway Forest to find the ingredient that gives the Elixir its potency. Even though she has her sister and brother, an old family friend, and the handsome son of a mapmaker as companions, she feels alone.

It is her decision alone whether or not to bind herself to the Elixir to serve and protect it until it chooses a new guardian. The forest hosts many dangers, including wicked beings that will stop at nothing to gain power, but the biggest danger Katora may face is whether or not to open up her heart to love.

Buy Links:

MuseItUp - https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/young-adult/ya-fantasy/elixir-bound-detail

Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/Elixir-Bound-ebook/dp/B0093CL4OM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1375212370&sr=8-1&keywords=elixir+Bound

Barnes & Noble - http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/elixir-bound-katie-l-carroll/1113575170?ean=2940045014328

Smashwords - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/240854

iBooks - https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/elixir-bound/id567647311?mt=11

Author Bio:

Katie L. Carroll began writing at a very sad time in her life after her 16-year-old sister, Kylene, unexpectedly passed away. Since then writing has taken her to many wonderful places, real and imagined. She wrote Elixir Bound and the forthcoming Elixir Saved so Kylene could live on in the pages of a book. Katie is also the author of the picture app The Bedtime Knight and an editor for MuseItUp Publishing. She lives not too far from the beach in a small Connecticut city with her husband and son. For more about Katie, visit her website at www.katielcarroll.com, friend her on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter (@KatieLCarroll).

 

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Stuckey's: A Childhood Dream Shattered

Last weekend, my wife and I were out of town driving across the vast wastelands of Missouri. Off the highway and nestled between "Pyro City (Just take a right at "Decapitation Station," then it's right next to "Klepto Caverns." Ya' can't miss it.)" and more adult mega-stores than you can shake a stick at, sat a "Stuckey's."

Ah, Stuckey's. For those unfamiliar with the glories of Stuckey's, please let me elaborate. As a child, Stuckey's held a nearly Christmas morning-like magic aura about it. They were giant, junky stores packed with all sorts of tourist trap crap (although, at the time, that "crap" seemed like hidden treasures to my wide eyes). The stores were sprinkled across Midwestern highways, a beacon of wonderfulness to break up the monotony of long, boring highway trips. It was a joy when my parents would pull into Stuckey's. Such golden memories!

There was a vending machine where you cram your money in and, before your eyes, a plastic molded dinosaur would form! Awesome! There was another vending machine dedicated solely to practical jokes and impractical stuff all of which I just had to have! Mexican jumping beans, itching powder (which turned out to be tiny metal shavings! Cool!), black and white schnauzer-shaped magnets (the kids at school wouldn't believe it!), and more stuff that was absolutely worthless and totally priceless! There was even a mysterious, forbidden machine in the bathroom that sold cards of naked women! Viva La Stuckey's! Disneyland on a budget!

But best of all? The allure of the sweet-looking, ginormous Stuckey's Pecan Log Roll. Yet my parents never let me have one. The log was one of life's mysteries that would remain just that, a sugary concoction to be dreamed of, never tasted.

Taking pity on me, my wife pulled into Stuckey's and said, "Let's get you a Pecan Log Roll."

Huzzah!

And then it all went to Hell. The first thing I noticed upon entering Stuckey's was, um, the odor drifting out of the bathroom. Rank, very much at odds with how I expected the elusive log roll would smell. And where was all the cool crap? Sure, there was a John Wayne bobblehead, but that was about it. Gone were all the toys, magic tricks and must-have items. In their place? Cigarettes, energy drinks, lousy C.D.'s and just about everything else you could find at a typical road-stop. And the store looked different, too. The aisles were all slanted as is today's norm, with boring pre-fab, mass manufactured candy crammed in them.

As my soul sank, I grabbed a log roll, whispered to my wife, "I think I've had enough."

And the log roll itself? Wasn't worth the thirty-five year long wait.

The Truth About William Hurt's Head

Important things like this keep me up at night.

Several years ago when I was a production artist, I had a friend who worked at a competing printing company. They had huge contracts. One of their clients was the "Sci-Fi Channel."  They go by "Sy-Fy" now or some silly thing, but I refuse to play along because they're embarrassed about their "science fiction" origins. Now, they're all about reality shows ("Are You America's Next Top Alien?")  and movies with killer titles like "Sharkoctupus Versus Whorepedo."

Anyway. The Sci-Fi channel was promoting their "Dune" television series. My pal's company printed up tons of promotional bags. William Hurt got wind of it. Stopped the presses. I imagine it was as exciting, if not as honorable, as a journalist shouting to his publisher to shut down production because a larger story just broke.

Well, the reason was definitely "larger." And it nearly broke the printing company. William Hurt's head-shot wasn't as prominent as he wanted it to be. He demanded it be larger than a bus, more prominent than his co-stars.

Well. First...William Hurt's forehead already looks like it's carved outta' granite and should be on Mount Rushmore. His skull could stop traffic.

Second, thousands of dollars were laid to waste in the aftermath of Hurricane Hurt. Countries coulda' been fed.

Third, a good friend of mine has worked with William Hurt in the past and verifies that Hurt's ego is indeed larger than his head. My contact's identity shall remain undisclosed, but call this secret source "Deep Throat (if you guys are too young to understand the reference, go google 'Watergate')." I'm super-stoked that I have a secret source because I feel like I'm exposing things people need to know. Maybe not. (But, honestly, it's also sorta' a juvenile thrill to be able to drop the term "deep throat" in a non-porno manner on my blog and get away with it. Remember, I'm twelve years old at heart.).

Fourth, what's up with celebrities, anyway?

If self-important and wealthy celebrities would invest as much time in promoting worthy causes instead of pumping up their images, then...well...sky's the limit.