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!

BAM! You've Just Been Old-Manned!

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

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

"Hey, how was Barbados," I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

"What hair?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

"What about them?"

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

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

"Oh."

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

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

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

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

Crap, I thought. Caught!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sump Pup

That's NOT a misspelling in the title! NOT a dream (although it kinda resembles a nightmare)! NOT an imaginary tail (pun intended)! And NOT a hoax!

No, this is the traumatic tale of one dog's disastrous Thanksgiving. This is the tale of Mr. Loomis and his terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad holiday.

For those of you who don't recall, Mr. Loomis is our special needs, 15-year-old Lhasa Apso dog (with a bit of Dachshund tossed in for extra length!). He's 95% deaf and blind and sometimes bounces around like a pinball looking for a hole to fall into. I have a certain soft-spot and affinity for Mr. Loomis because he reminds me of myself: he's a cranky old man who never gives up.

But I digress. Why I remember that traumatic Thanksgiving morning like it was last week...because it was...(cue the wavy vision and flashback music)...

My wife thought it'd be a great idea for Mr. Loomis to get a bath Thanksgiving morning. After all, we had family coming over and Mr. Loo needed to look (and, um, smell) his best.

Mr. Loomis doesn't like baths. He groused, grumbled, tossed and turned, fighting my wife, until he finally resorted to howling. But she--and he--powered through it.

Once Mr. Loomis was out of the tub, my wife and I went upstairs to put some crap away, leaving Mr. Loo (and our other two dogs) free to roam the main floor.

My wife went down first, then called up, "Hey, did Mr. Loomis come up there?"

I looked around, knowing full well he hadn't. "No...can't you find him?" Panic set in. I had no idea what had happened to our senior dog. He definitely can't manage stairs any longer by himself, riddled as he is with arthritis.

I raced downstairs (well...as close to "racing" as I can get, seeing as how my knees are arthritic also). Now I couldn't find my wife either. Clearly, there was only one possible realistic conclusion: alien abduction.

But before I called Mulder and Scully, I heard a detached, echoing bark from the basement. (Actually, it was more like a "YARK!" Loomis doesn't say much, but on the rare occasion he does, it's always one loud, snappish, angry YARK.)

My wife's voice resounded up the basement stairs as well. "Oh my God," she exclaimed. "How'd he get in there?"

Mr. Loomis had somehow tumbled down the basement stairs, managing not to break any bones. Even worse, he'd found the worst possible place to land in the basement: he'd fallen into the sump pump.

Panic really kicked in when my wife told me he was swimming in the sump pump. She fished him out. When I looked down the stairs, Mr. Loomis was running away from my wife with her following in hot pursuit.

"Is he okay?" I asked.

"He's fine. Just mad."

He was about to get even madder. Now, my clearly freaked out wife said, "Guess what dude? You're getting another bath." Turning toward me, she added, "Is it too early for a drink?"

Let this be a cautionary tale for all. To paraphrase the great philosopher Willie Nelson: "Mamas, don't let your puppies fall in the sump pump."

Since our Thanksgiving went the way of the dogs, look out for other hairy creatures in the work place. Of course I'm talking about my black comedy/horror opus, Corporate Wolf, the only book that takes aim at corporate America through the lens of werewolf vision. It's complicated. Find out how so, here!

The Bird Feeding Conundrum

I don't get it, I really don't. My wife expends a lot of time and effort into feeding the world's birds. We have at least four bird feeders in the back yard (possibly five) and it's nearly a full-time job for her to keep them filled.

Yet, we also have three dogs who aren't having it (I'm on their team). So after the bird feeders have been stuffed, I release the dogs who want to tear the feasting birds apart ("Go, Bijou, go!"). So it's all moot.

I told my wife that I thought it's all rather pointless.

"No, no it's not," she said.

Already, I had a sinking feeling I was going to lose this battle. Like always. "Yes, it is. The dogs just go out there and chase them away. It's like the 'circle of life'...only pointless. It's like Einstein's definition of insanity. It's never going to turn out any differently."

"Birds are pretty. And fun to watch," she said, end of topic.

I can't really differentiate one bird from the other. (Other than Blue Jays, because, well, they're blue and they're supposed to be mean predators, so as a child of horror, I enjoyed the idea of them.) I mean, to me birds are more boring than fish. But with fish, at least, you get to slam the aquarium and watch them scramble every time you walk by. Hey, you've gotta take your fun where you can.

But with birds, it's always the same; fly, drop, feed, flit away, poop, wash, rinse, repeat.

One day I noticed squirrels getting into the feeders. So I thought this argument might dissuade my wife from her bird-feeding frenzy.

"Nope. Got it taken care of." She whips out this saucer looking metal gizmo with a hole in the middle. "I have my squirrel baffle ready to install."

"Squirrel baffle?"

"Yep! It goes onto the feeder pole and blocks the squirrels from climbing up to the food."

"Oh for..."

Okay, alright, white flag waved, I give up. I'd lost not only the battle, but the war. But, honestly, how do these birds repay my wife's kindness? Do they swoop down on my shoulder and sing me a warblish Snow White tune or dress me for the ball?

No, they crap all over my car. 

Their aim is uncanny, and isn't it odd that they usually avoid my wife's car even though she parks directly behind me? It's like they know I don't like them. Like they're watching me. And plotting to murder me in my sleep.

You damn birds get offa' my lawn!

While on the topic of deadly animals, they don't come much deadlier than werewolves. Ask poor, suffering Shawn Biltmore. By day, he's a corporate drudge stuck in a soul-sucking dead-end job. And by night, he's a werewolf, perhaps even eating the competition next in line for that promotion he's got his eye on. Check out the bloody dark humor, suspense, and horror of Corporate Wolf.

Swan Song Sung Sad

Some time ago, my wife and I were watching something on TV (doesn't matter what and I can't remember anyway), and someone's "swan song" was brought up. 

What exactly is a swan song? Well, the definition is a final gesture, performance or effort given by someone before death or retirement.

Yow! Talk about depressing! But really, I wondered why in the world would someone call it a "swan song?" I've never seen a yodeling swan on America's Kinda Got A Little Bit of Talent If You're Really Drunk or whatever.

Well, my research assistant, Professor Google, helped me suss out the reason. Get this: according to ancient beliefs, a swan sings a beautiful song just before their death because they've been silent all of their lives.

Well, huh. Maybe some "ancient beliefs" should go the way of disco. I mean, really. I'm pretty sure swans never sang, even in the face of the grim reaper belly-flopping into their pond. Yet the beliefs find their origins back in the days of ancient Greece by the third century BC (you know...where all the "great original thinkers" came from) and has been perpetuated since by philosophers and artists. Methinks they need a new muse. There're all kinds of anecdotes and sightings of singing swans throughout history and art, but they're much too boring to go into here. (If you're interested, go find your own Google assistant.)

And what's the deal with peoples' infatuation with animals making strange noises upon their death? You guys have heard of how lobsters scream upon being dunked alive into boiling water, right? Well, it's not true. They don't have vocal chords. The sound you hear is steam escaping from the shell. Apparently, they have a ganglionic nervous system and don't feel the pain as we do. (Of this, I'm not so sure. I mean, honestly, can any amount of science truly tell how they feel? And c'mon, do you have to boil them alive? Jeezus, you chefs are a sadistic bunch.)

Then there are the rabbits. Oh my lord, the poor bunnies! It's said they scream upon death. Professor Google somewhat corroborated this story, but didn't give me much comfort. Apparently, rabbits do scream when wounded. As if to put salve on the emotional wound, Professor Google was quick to follow up with "but rabbits don't scream when they suddenly die. However, any wound to a rabbit is generally fatal." Like THAT makes me feel better about the whole thing.

The deeper I dove, the more animals I found that scream and it's all kinda sad. Maybe we should quit killing the animals, huh? Geeze, if they scream, they can feel pain. So I don't wanna hear about hunting for "fun." And I'm thinking of having my people get in touch with President Biden's people to lobby for a bill to change the term "Swan Song" to "Dying Human's Song."

I'm pretty sure I'll get lotsa traction on this given the nature of our "lawmakers" these days and the way they allot importance to the right issues.

While I'm thinking of how mistreated animals are, why not give up some love for werewolves? After all, they're human most of the time, right? You can read all about them in my absolutely 100% true, tell-all shocking expose called Corporate Wolf. True journalism at it's most hard-hitting! Pow!

Welcome to the Dog Pack

When I woke up that fateful morning, I had no idea we'd have a dog pack by the end of the day.

Let's jump into the Way-Back Machine for a minute. Several years back, my wife floated the idea of a new dog. I dragged my feet because...well, because I truly hate putting dogs to sleep when it's their time (which is kinda a dumb thing to write, since I doubt there's a huge contingent out there who enjoy putting dogs down. But...considering the nature of our world right now, you never know. But I digress.)

Long story, short: we ended up adopting two dogs because they were "bonded." That, of course, was Bijou and Mr. Loomis (which I've written about before). One is a Lhasa Apso, the other an inexplicable blending of Saint Bernard, Australian Cattle Shepherd, and about a dozen other species (Bijou had very randy parents!). But the dog we'd always wanted was a Cavalier King Charles. Alas, they're very hard to come by unless you want to shell out two grand (hello, Bijou and Mr. Loomis! Plus, adopting is the way to go.).

Mr. Loomis wondering what fresh hell we've brought into his home.

Skip ahead several years...my wife found a mix of a Cavalier King Charles and a Shih Tzu (we think) up for adoption, a puppy of one year. We jumped on it and the woman called us back immediately. She said, "You were the first interested people I was able to get ahold of."

Ta-dahhhhhh! Two days later, we set off in a very windy rain storm for a small town in Missouri about 2-1/2 hours away with our two O.G. dogs in tow for the big meet 'n greet.

When we finally--finally!--found the woman's house (a treacherous road full of hills and winds and heart-stopping gasps {at least from me riding shotgun}, the four of us entered into the Wild Kingdom.

A small house, it was packed to the rafters with animals of all sorts. An entire wall was jam-packed with cages of birds unleashing a maddening cacophony of tweets, squawks, and caws. A snake slithered around the inside of an aquarium. Somewhere, a cat rumbled his distaste for our intrusion. The woman went on to tell us about the rats she'd adopted (rats, for God's sake, rats!). Mercifully, they were sequestered in the basement. Bijou growled at everything. Mr. Loomis wandered around smelling various items and animals. And in the midst of all this madness, our new puppy ran scattershot, barking, wagging his tail, and avoiding the strange new quartet of people and dogs.

Things happened fast. Before I knew it, we were headed home with three dogs in the back seat, the new guy in the middle. (Side note: Of course we got lost on the long and winding roads {the convenience guy wasn't much help: "No problem. Hang a left at the church, go a spell, turn right at Fred's barn, go all the way outta town, then about a jot past that..."}, thus rendering our trip into three hours plus.) And what a journey it was. Our two O.G. dogs didn't know what to make of their new fellow traveler. Growls were exchanged, a few snips, uncertainty and no sleep whatsoever for all three wary dogs. By the time, we made it home, we were travelling in a rather pungent odor of poop.

Bijou ready for normalcy to return.

I'm writing this on the third day of our new dog pack. Gone are the mornings of ever hoping to sleep in again. Little time do I have to get anything done, for I'm wrangling dogs 24-7. Also, while I'd always wanted a little lap dog (Mr. Loomis was supposed to fill that role, but made it clear early on, he is above lapdom, while Bijou--although much too big--dearly wants that role.), the new guy has to be in my lap 24-7. This makes taking the trash out rather difficult.

And the accidents, oy, the accidents! We're going through bottles and bottles of enzyme spray keeping on top of it.

As for the dynamic between the dog pack? It's been rather tricky. Mr. Loomis--a cranky old veteran of 15 years (a dog after my cranky old heart)--chooses to ignore the new guy. Until he intrudes on his territory, then things turn snappish. And Bijou will not tolerate the little fellow coming close while he's getting attention from my wife or me. 

Today seems a little better. Bijou is finally playing with the new addition, although the little guy was terrified at first to reciprocate with the much larger dog. But today seems encouraging. Still gotta work on Mr. Loomis, but I doubt the old man will come around. Maybe with time. But, like me, he has a low tolerance level for impertinent young whippersnappers.

The new pup's name was originally Bailey. But we're working on changing it to...Biscuit. Behold, Prince Biscuit, newest member of our unholy dog pack!

Speaking of wild animals and packs, there are no dogs, but a slew of werewolves running rampant in my darkly comic horror novel, Corporate Wolf. Hey! It's just another day at the office! Check it out here.

Pharmacy Etiquette

You'd think I'd know how to behave in a pharmacy, right? Apparently not. It's not like I haven't been properly schooled either; my wife is a pharmacist and my daughter has worked in one, so no problem. Except ask the very Angry Karen who I managed to hack off at the pharmacy last week.

Of course with the holidays quickly approaching, several days before Thanksgiving, my body decided to betray me. 

"Ha ha!" it railed. "You were all set to gorge yourself silly so I'm stopping you from doing that! Poof! You feel like a poo-poo platter!" (Quick juvenile sidebar: I used to enjoy ordering poo-poo platters at Chinese restaurants. Not because I liked the food; no way! I just enjoyed saying it out loud and having a little giggle. Yes, I'm six years old. But I digress...)

So, my wife takes off to enjoy being with the family, leaving me home in a pile of tissues and hacking my lungs out. Naturally, I thought I had Covid. Again. So I took a test. It was indeterminate. There were two red lines. What? There was no protocol for two red lines. 

I waited and took another test the next day. Still same strange results. Huh, I thought. Either I'm dead and in the Twilight Zone or something seems off.

Sure enough, the two tests had expired. Back to the drawing board with yet another test. This one came out as negative, but after inspecting the various packets and stuff, one of them had expired by several months. Another test was enjoyed by my nostrils and flooding eyes!

Finally, I bit the bullet and went to Urgent Care. Now the only thing I hate more than going to the doctor is going to Urgent Care. Here, you'll generally wait for hours and hours and hours in a waiting room packed with the sickest people this side of a Covid ward. But this time I had a plan. As they opened at 10:00 A.M., I decided to get there, wait it out in front of the doors like a Black Friday Walmart Raider, and get a jump on the sick masses.

I got in. And of course, first thing they wanted to do was give me a Covid test. Fun! While I should've been packing myself silly until I was sick with all sorts of high carb foods, I was having my nostrils tortured by Nurse Ratched.

So, bronchitis, bla, bla, bla. They phoned it into a nearby pharmacy (my regular one was closed on Sunday because no one is allowed to get sick on the Lord's Day.).

I gave it a good hour before I showed up. The pharmacist on duty was young and angry, clearly wanting his Sunday back, didn't speak until I did, no time for pleasantries (in fact everyone I dealt with there NEVER spoke to me first, the onus always being on me), and not once even looked up at me. "It'll be...thirty minutes," he said. While I sat down, he repeated this line numerous times to other customers, always with the well-rehearsed pause in the same place as if he was actually giving the time frame ample consideration. I mean, AS IF.

While I sat, coughing behind my mask, a long line of other drug-needing customers lined up. Sure enough after thirty minutes of drudgery (there oughta be a law against vapid non-stop Christmas music in public places this early), the eye-contact-avoiding pharmacist blipped out my name. I jumped out of my chair to go approach him. And he ignored me.

I thought, well, maybe I'm in the wrong line. So without giving it a second thought I raced over to the clerk at the pick-up line.

Using awkward hand gestures, I said, "Um, that guy over there just called my name."

The clerk is looking over my shoulder at the other waiting customers, anywhere but me. Man, what charm school did they all graduate from?

But then it hit me...did I just cut in line? Surely not. I mean, my name was called. And I'd already done my due diligence by waiting in line the first time, so my behavior is perfectly acceptable. Right? RIGHT?

By the time my bout of doubt and second doubt had fully ensnared me within its nefarious clutches, I could feel unrest at my back. Daggers, even.

I turned, mustered up an awkward smile, and said to the first person in line, "Hey, I'm sorry if I cut in line. I didn't mean to... I'd already  waited in line before and, um, he just called my name...and, um..." My hands and thumbs gesticulated in every direction, seeking out visual aid in my time of need and failing me horribly, rendering me into a drunken traffic cop.

The woman in charge of the restless natives was ballcapped, young, dressed in expensive looking designer workout clothes, and very, VERY angry. She said nothing. I kinda was expecting a small smile, maybe a handwave, a "oh, you're fine."

Instead I got the most hateful glare, slow shake of the head, and upturned sneer I've ever been accorded. She followed up with an arm-fold and a very audible snort through her inflated and enflamed nostrils. Absolutely spewing out her incredibly self-entitled rich, white yuppie anger. 

In the halls of CVS, I faced down the fury of Karen Unleashed.

I've seen how things like this can escalate on YouTube, so I hauled ass, arms full of prescriptions, out of there.

Later I asked both my wife and daughter if what I had done constituted poor pharmacy etiquette. To my relief, they both said no, since I'd already waited in line.

But try telling that to Karen, Angry Queen of CVS. Undoubtedly, it's my fault, though. Had I kept my mouth shut and not offered an apology (even though I didn't think it truly necessary, just covering the bases), then I wouldn't have fed her flames of self-righteous indignation. Akin to feeding online trolls, sometimes I just can't help myself.

Let this be a warning, friends. Beware of Karens in pharmacies. They're mad, they're there, and they want to see the manager NOW!

While I've got bad decisions on my mind, consider poor Shawn Biltmore. Stuck in a dead-end, miserable drudge of corporate nonsense job, his love-life is also going nowhere. Until he gets bitten by a werewolf. Things change. And not necessarily for the better. Yet it doesn't stop Shawn from forging ahead from one bad decision to another. Yes sir, it's corporate satire at its fiercest, funneled through the lens of a horror tale and more werewolves than you can toss a stick to. Check out the horror, suspense, and dark humor of Corporate Wolf. Tell them Karen sent you. And then demand to see the manager.

Lights Out 2: The Crappening

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh...

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

My Romancing History in Cars

You can tell a lot about people through their driving history. For instance, in my 45 years of driving, I've had six--count 'em-- six cars! I'm a firm believer in the "Drive 'em Until They Drop" theory.

My younger brother, on the other hand, has probably had 45 vehicles in his 47 year driving history. How did my younger bro have two years up on me in driving, I hear you asking? For whatever reason, my parents let him get his driving permit when he was 14, using the excuse that my dad was in a wheelchair. Although Dad was, I think that was just an excuse for a 14 year old to drive to school every day, even though we lived two blocks from school! Bragging rights I was never afforded (although I knew better than to drive at that young age). Anyway, he's had every type of vehicle from gas-guzzling, monster pick-em-up trucks to motorcycles to sports cars to stuff-the-family-into HUV's.

Then there's my daughter. After 12 years of driving, she's already surpassed my record of six vehicles (mostly because of her fondness for blowing up her cars).

But that's me digressing like the wind. When I started thinking about my run of cars (only six, keep in mind!), I realized how they all coincided with various degrees of romance through the years, a lotta bad, some good, the last one great.

My first car--and still my favorite--was a yellow, black-topped '67 Mustang. She (sexist!) was a beauty, a real classic. Until some dopey, possibly doped, long-haired, barefoot kid ran into four stalled cars on a busy street with his junker, my 'Stang accordioned in the middle. We jumped, flew, got bashed up, until the cracking metal and smoke ceased.

Heartbroken over the fact that it was probably totaled, I began the long walk home until my parents found me (and consequently grew enraged at me, even though the accident hadn't been my fault; that lay on Dopey McDoperson).

Surprisingly good news! A garage my dad found said they could fix it. Which coincided with my very first high school date (okay, it wasn't a "real" date; I was just a placeholder for my friend, entertaining his girlfriend until he got back in town). But I was so excited, I neglected to inspect the body work and drove my faithful Mustang out of the garage and straight to pick up my buddy's girlfriend. Hopes were doused when my friend's GF ridiculed the now white hood, with the rest of the car being yellow. It also felt scary to drive since the accident, feeling like it could fall apart in the street.

Time to go to college! And with it, a brand new (to me, at least; I've never bought a "new" car) ride, a Toyota Celica. The Celica was a good, reliable car, but when it broke down, it totally broke my wallet, even though I managed to steam up the windows quite a few times, if you know what I mean and I think you do. But I had it for years, long enough to woo my first wife in it, and woo we did, the Celica and I.

Then...sudden, surprising, shocking divorce! And I was stuck with a rusted Celica, not the most appealing car to the ladies. ("Hey baby, wanna come check out my Celica?")

So, my dad took it upon himself to find me a new car (I think he took pity on me for the divorce; or he just liked haggling with dealers, a "hobby" I've never understood anyone enjoying.). He even concocted an elaborate scheme to get my dangerously oil-leaking car out to the dealer (I had to keep pulling over and putting oil into it on the way) before it burned up so we could trade. We barely made it and to my nervous disbelief, the car dealer didn't even have anyone look at the leaking hunka' junk.

I came back with a blue Oldsmobile. Again, not the most sexy car, but hey, at least it wasn't held together by rust.

But it did break down a lot. Fun little side note: one time while the Olds was in the shop, my mom loaned me her second car, a BMW, to tool around in. Women were drawn to that like flies to an outhouse. They'd give me Love Eyes at the gas station. When I finally grew bold enough to chat them up, they got turned off when I told them I worked as a graphic artist, clearly expecting me to be bringing home the big bucks.

Over the years, the Olds took me on a lot of dates, some successful, others not. Most not. Which prompted my one sad, middle-aged-crisis purchase, a Chrysler LeBaron Convertible. Very cool! Well...not exactly cool in the Summer. But definitely cool, freezing cold in the Winter. 

Which was when I met my second wife, during the coldest part of an unseasonably frigid Winter. On dates, we bundled up in layers, looking like the Michelin Man and Woman. I finally sprang for a mini-heater that plugged into the cigarette lighter, for all the good it did.

Eventually, we married, and one of the first things my wife did was go car shopping for me (probably because she was tired of freezing). Thus came the Toyota Camry. A very solid car, good for many years during our very solid marriage.

But, it too, eventually went the way of the dinosaur. With a heavy heart (my only vehicle not affiliated with a tragic time in my love life), I remember saying a fond, nearly tearful, farewell to it in the parking lot of CarMax (where we expected to get $200, but crazily got a couple grand).

Which leads me to my current ride, a Highlander. I love the car (my wife insists on calling it a "truck," but I would never be caught driving a truck, for crying out loud! How uncouth!). Oh sure, it had some growing pains. When we purchased the sweet ride, we made the mistake of taking it to our mechanic AFTER we brought it home. The mechanic looked it over with a fine-toothed comb, ready to give it a thumbs up, until he remembered hearing something about that model's engine block cracking in half. Kinda a big deal. Sure enough, he saw enough evidence that made him suggest we get it fixed. I still love it; it's a great car (ummmm, except for the engine).

There you have it. My six automobiles, all connected to a different romantic time in my life. Kinda like my stints in prison (wait...did I just say that out loud?).

Speaking of romance, pity poor Shawn Biltmore, who is caught between two beautiful women. Why pity him what others would envy? Because it'll be very hard for Shawn to romance any woman when he's a part-time werewolf. Not to mention the fact that there's another werewolf eating his coworkers. Or could it be Shawn doing the dinners and blacking it out? Only Shawn's autobiography,

Corporate Wolf, holds the shocking answer!

 

Anger Mismanagement! Dammit!

I like to think of myself as an easy-going guy who has a handle on anger. Except when it comes to driving, of course. There's nothing like getting behind the wheel of a 4,000 pound death machine to fire up the ol' anger senses when someone else out there on the road has the gall to do something stupid or rude.

(Okay, so maybe there are a few other issues that trigger anger in me: 1) Today's politics. When I hear someone extolling the virtues of Trump, I start to see orange, the color of hate. And Donny Trump. 2) Alcohol.  3) Political talk plus alcohol.  Hmmm. Maybe I'm not such an easy-going guy after all. But never mind that, dammit! Let me get back to the point before I get mad! DAMMIT!)

I don't know what it is about automobiles and anger. Maybe it's the anonymity of it all, enabling the driver to turn into a red-hot, road-raging maniac, a sort of secret identity unleashed only on wheels. I mean, once these guys get to work, I can't very well see them flipping off their coworkers and calling them choice curse words because they don't like their tie or whatever. No, once they step out of the car, a sense of civility overcomes them once again. But look out for Mr. Road Rage on the way home!

I once witnessed the beginning of a high-speed car chase because one guy cut it too close by whipping his car in front of the other. Horns blasted, then tires squealed as they sped down the highway, driving at crazy speeds, swerving in and out of lanes, and endangering everyone else out there. (To this day I've wondered how it possibly could have ended. Every scenario I envisioned didn't end with one of the two "learning his lesson.")

Yep. Automobiles are the great carrier of anger, empowering the driver to act like a jackass.

But that's not quite it. Even when I'm a passenger in an auto, I get angry at stupid people.

Case in point: Last weekend, my wife was driving and I was riding shotgun (only wish I had a shotgun with me! Dammit!). We were driving down the street and some idiot pulls right out into the intersection and stops, half of his car just asking for a good t-boning. My wife decides to "make a point" and blatantly stops and then swerves around the car. Then they honk, a long, blaring blast. Like we're the idiot drivers. I would've let it go, but once I looked at them (a typically crass, ruddy-faced Midwestern couple of yahoos), they were both just hysterically laughing at their grand jest of laying on the horn at us.

My civility flew out the window. On auto-pilot, both of my middle fingers went up purely on knee-jerk instinct. Adrenaline pumped. My anger senses were tingling and I was shaking. But my wife got even angrier at me. This time she stopped her car in the middle of the street to give me a thorough tongue-lashing.

She was right, of course. Unlike my ruder, wilder, younger days, I generally try to keep my middle finger down, particularly in today's volatile and violent mind-set. I don't particularly fancy the notion of getting shot over some moron's stupid traffic faux pas. But my responsive behavior felt like pure unleashed animalistic instinctual rage. Couldn't be helped.

Which kinda scares me. What if everyone responded this way, all of the time? (Wait...didn't we used to have a president like this?) No more civility. Just a bunch of road-raging, finger-flipping, invective-spewing neanderthals battling it out for dominance.

Maybe everyone should be schooled in how to cope with anger management. I'm reminded of a story my daughter told me about an acquaintance of hers. She told my daughter how a doctor suggested she take an anger management class and it was making her angry just talking about it! When my daughter suggested to her friend that maybe she should take an anger management class, she grew even angrier. (Apparently, her boyfriend quietly suggested, "Wouldn't that be nice?" I'm fairly sure he was sleeping on the sofa after that comment.)

Anyway, based on the not-so-great political debate and divisiveness of America these days, it looks like my vision of angry, shouting people becoming the norm has come true. I mean, if the (ex) president of the United States acts this way, then by all means, why shouldn't his followers?

So, people... Boom! I just solved the world's problems. Stop getting angry. See? Wasn't that simple? Much easier and cheaper than some stupid anger management class, right? What? You don't agree? What the hell do you mean, dammit? Don't make me come over there! I mean it! I'm not kidding around! DAMMIT! Here I come! No more Mr. Nice Guy! You won't like me when I'm angry! That did it!...

Whoa, whoa, whoa. I need to get a handle on my inner beast. For that matter, so does poor Shawn Biltmore. Except his inner beast is real. A werewolf. Which puts him in the perfect position for career advancement in his drudgy, corporate job. If only he could quit killing off his coworkers... Yep! That's right! I'm talking about Corporate Wolf! 

 

Stop Pluralizing "Freedom!"

Whenever I hear somebody ranting about "I gotta have muh freedoms," my eyes just glaze over. Better that than confronting them over their idiotic misunderstanding of the term "freedom," and risk getting shot.

Drives me up a wall. But I may have to start correcting these numbskulls.

Where did this bastardization pluralization originate? I, your couch- roving reporter, have the answer! So, jump into the Way-back Machine with me, and let's travel to the immediate aftermath of...

September 11, 2001. (I know, I know, I hear you grousing and saying, "This is NOT going to be funny and I don't want to read about it." To which I respond, "Tough. We'll be back to stupid stuff next week.")

In a speech responding to the terrorists responsible for September 11th, then President George W. Bush said, "They hate us for our freedoms!"

Having suffered through the dark reign of George W. (although, honestly, compared to what's passing for politicians these days, I'd gladly go back to G. Dubs. Come back, George, all is forgiven!), I'm pretty sure that he just screwed the speech up. Wouldn't have been the first (or thousandth) time. But since then, people started embracing the nonsense word "freedoms." Especially nowadays. (Boooo! On second thought, G-Dubs, stay retired.)

Here's the deal, yo: "rights" are plural, always have been. Individual rights form the basis--the foundation--of what our freedom is supposed to be. Freedom is an all-encompassing term that includes all rights. Thus, class...there is only one "freedom." And let's keep it that way.

That's the end of the scholarly part of today's lecture. Now comes for some spit-balling, for I believe I know why people these days want to have more than one "free-dumbs."

People want to cherry-pick their "free-dumbs." These days it's groovy to say, "I gots to have my free-dumbs to shoot somebody! Where's muh gun?" 

Of course, at the advent of Covid vaccination, a new rallying cry for free-dumbs was born: "I gots to have my free-dumbs to reject the vaccine and go out and infect people!"

But since we're now dealing with multiple "freedoms" instead of just the singular "freedom," people, politicians, and courts are picking which ones suit their needs as if they're going down the cafeteria line. Even the once highly regarded Supreme Court is getting into the "free-dumbs" act: they despise abortion, gay rights, and don't care that the earth burns from global warning, yet they're just crazy for guns. 

Naturally, the freedom of women choosing what to do with their own bodies is overlooked, instead being determined by a buncha old, white, rich men, who are kowtowing to the lowest common denominator and freaky fanatics and zealots.

So much for "freedoms." But you see what I mean, right? Cherry-picking, hence the new cool kids made-up term, "freedoms." Parsing out individual "freedoms" is a sure sign of the end of the all-encompassing freedom.

But if you take it one logical step further... The all-too-often used "free-dumbs" I mentioned above clearly intrude upon the freedom of others. How free are you when you're shot by a gun-loving psycho? Or how does freedom factor into when a Covid carrier/anti-vaxxer goes out and infects everyone in their path? And the day women's rights were set back to the dark ages is the biggest blow to true freedom yet.

So, I implore you people to help me stop the highly illegal use of the nonsense word "freedoms." The next time you hear Joe America yelling about his "free-dumbs" to some poor harangued clerk at a convenience store, step up, and say, "You, sir, are out of order for abusing the English language and misunderstanding the concept of our freedom and rights. Therefore, I'm placing you under citizen's arrest for being a simpleton nincompoop."

Go on and do it! I'll be waiting here to find out the results...

So, if you think you've lost your "free-dumbs," check out poor Shawn Biltmore. He's a cog in a merciless, inhuman, Big Biz corporation who has no say in what he does or even thinks. But he loses even more freedom once he gets bitten by a werewolf at a corporate retreat. It's the ultimate loss of freedom in Corporate Wolf, a darkly satirical horror tale for today.