BANNED!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom's In The Army Now...

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

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

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

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

But I started thinking of the larger ramifications...

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

"Sir, yes, sir!"

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

"Yes sir!"

Or maybe this scenario...

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

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

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

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

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

"Because we have babies."

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Agony of Marching Band

I despised marching band. I know not many people share my sentiment on that and everyone I ever meet has nothing but good, jolly memories of their tenure in high school marching band.

Not me. It was hell on earth. (Then again, I hated all of high school, so what do I know?)

Even before my freshman year started, we had to get up early every morning and go to band practice. But it was all outside and more like football than anything music-related (I was actually in football in junior high for three days...but that's a story for another time.).

On the field, in the blistering heat of the last days of summer, we were forced to learn how to march (like good little soldiers), and suffered drill after drill until we got it right. Me? Apparently, I wasn't ever a good marcher, because the cruel dictator band teacher had all of these teacher's pet band seniors tap you on the shoulder when they thought you were good enough to go rest. Invariably, I was always the last one on the field, marching to my own beat while the "band bullies" laughed at my efforts. (Overweight and not very graceful at that point, I was an easy target).

Let's back up a second... I hear some of you saying "band bullies? There are no such thing! Everyone knows that the kids in band were all geeks!"

True enough. But even band geeks had their hierarchal system where they would try to demean and beat down those they found even lower than them in the high school picking order. And bullying always runs down hill. Bullies originate from being bullied themselves. And I was the band geek's target. Shows you how much I ranked in high school! The meaner ones called me names, openly humiliated me, threatened me with violence (there was a particularly evil, pimply-faced drummer), while most just chose to ignore me.

But that wasn't even the worst part of band. During junior high, I was a relatively decent alto saxophone player. And it was okay. I didn't have to march and there, everyone in band seemed on a pretty even keel. But once the hallowed hellish halls of high school tried to suck me into its vast black hole of despair, marching made me truly despise band.

When the weather turned cold, there we were out on the fields every morning at 6:00 am, tromping through rain, mud, and snow. By the time I got off the field and into my first class, I'd be either freezing from being rain-soaked or from sweat or both. Probably not a pretty sight nor smell.

And the dictator who taught the class absolutely hated me. Why? Because I wasn't the "golden boy" my older brother was who he had loved when he was a "marching band star." The teacher even resorted to insulting me and calling me names as well. (Okay, sure, I missed the bus ride the band took one weekend for an out-of-town game and that pissed him off, but I honestly had the departure time off by one hour. An honest mistake....or WAS it?)

The following Monday the teacher confronted me (in front of the entire class, natch). There he humiliated me and ordered me to write a fifty page paper on a classical composer. Being the apathetic student I was back then, I didn't comply and flunked the class.

My dad was appalled. Having played overseas in an army band (saxophonist extraordinaire, of course), he just couldn't understand how in the world I could flunk band.

Finally, he took pity on me and let me drop it (under the pretense that my other grades would improve. They didn't, not for another year when I learned I was about to flunk out if I didn't turn my act around).

So let this be a cautionary tale to you, boys and girls! Stay far, far, FAR away from marching band. Don't give in to the terrorism of the band geek toughs! If you're a geek (who will eventually rule the world, you just have to survive high school), then get into theatre. There, if you're a straight guy (so a friend told me), you won't have ANY competition for the theatre girls.

Speaking of high school hell, check out my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy. It's a supernatural, murder mystery, suspense, horror, comedy, romance, topical issues series that is often loosely autobiographical (excluding the serial killers and witchcraft elements, natch). You can find all the madness and fun here!

Drowning in Word Soup

Okay, kids! I know it's summer, but what would summer be without a little summer school?  Oh, quit yer belly-aching, it's just a short pop quiz. Put on your thinking caps and your smart kicks and put away Tik-Tok because here we go!...

Which popular orange-coiffed clown recently said the following to a large crowd?

"And the fake news they go, he told this crazy story with electric. It's actually not crazy. It's sort of a smart story, right? Sort of like, you know, it's like the snake, it's a smart when you, you figure what you're leaving in, right? You're bringing it in the, you know, the snake, right? The snake and the snake. I tell that and they do the same thing."  June 23, 2024

Was it:

A) Ronald McDonald?

B) Beloved orange-haired comedian Carrot-Top?

C) Donald Trump?

DING, DING, DING! If you picked, "C," you win! Go to recess.

Yow! Can anyone make sense of that blast of word soup, noodling for coherency? It boggles my mind that half the country believes this man competent to lead (RULE!) our country. Now, for the sake of staying on track, I won't even get into what I believe to be all of Trump's other faults (cough*CONVICTED FELON*cough), but let's chat about mental competency.

First of all, to be fair, Biden scared the dickens out of me with his horrific debate "performance." Instead of an American president, I saw a doddering, forgetful old uncle that you keep trying to avoid at a wedding reception, but who finds you nonetheless. I tried to hold onto my belief in Biden, but there comes a time when you gotta say "No go, Joe! It was great while it lasted."

So, why does no-one talk about Trump's incoherency during his rallies or his wee hours of the morning Truth Social rants? The guy rarely makes sense, rambling on about sharks, Hannibal Lecter (whom he appears to believe is a real person AND a stand-up guy), windmills, and now snakes. Constantly, he confuses facts (ahem, LIES), politicians (who he's running against), people (Pelosi, his own doctor, etc.), how many World Wars there've been, and let's not forget "2 Corinthians," this coming from a great, self-proclaimed Christian with numerous bibles in his house (no doubt kept right next to his classified, stolen documents in the Golden Bathroom).

He scares me. So, I made a mistake and posted Trump's word soup quote (which I lifted from another poster) on Facebook (where EVERYTHING is true, don't ya' know?).

Here's a reply (sic) I got: "Youre obviously clueless. The snake is a fabke Trump says in rallies. Now why don't we talk about Bidens uncle eaten by cannibals?"

Okay! I looooove social media!

Let's take this at each point.

A) Yes, I guess I am obviously clueless because Trump's quote makes absolutely no sense to me. My fault for being a dummy. Totes. But...but...can the MAGA loyal decipher his nonsense? Do they have special  decoder rings that descramble Trump's cryptic ramblings? Are the MAGA core flying higher on a mental plain that we lowly Democrats are unable to achieve? Please! I wanna know if I'm missing out on something special.

B) True, I was clueless about Trump's snake "fabke (is that a Russian tasty treat?)," so I decided to edumacate myself. It's not a fable at all, but apparently lyrics to a song entitled "The Snake." At his rallies, Trump whips out a paper and reads the lyrics about a tender-hearted woman who rescues a half-frozen snake only to have it bite her. There you have it! Obviously America is the tender-hearted woman and the vile, blood-poisoning snake is an illegal immigrant. I'm not that smart (remember I'm clueless) to figure out Trump's metaphor; it's Trump's Cliff Notes explanation after he reads the lyrics. (Other Note: Trump misattributed the song to Al Wilson.)

C) Yes, being clueless, I'd never heard of Biden's uncle being eaten by cannibals. But, straight from Biden himself, he's attributed the remains of his uncle (World War 2 fighter pilot downed near New Guinea) to have been eaten by cannibals. Yumpin' Yiminy! Okay, admittedly, the story does sound kinda crazy (you know, like something that doddering, drunken uncle at a wedding reception might recount), but Biden's put it out there twice. And, in the past, he's had his fair share of moments of "embellishing" the truth. But at least his story made sense.

Wrapping up here, make sure you vote in November. I don't care who you vote for, but please, please, PLEASE make sure you vote for someone who at least is coherent and can string together a sentence. Do a write-in candidate if you must. You know, someone logical, sane, and coherent like Gary Busey.

If you're sick to death of what passes for the sorry state of American politics and worried about November, read a book! Here...I just happen to have some suggestions, all of them fine and available here!

Pyro City, Pyro City, PYRO CITY!

You know, whenever we travel through Missouri, I'm always tickled by the gigantuous fireworks store just off the highway (conveniently located for yokels to drop in and pick 'em up 'splosives, perfect for the pyro on the go) called "Pyro City." If you've ever traveled along the highway around these parts, I'm certain you've seen it to. It's just a scooch down yonder from "Guns, Gas & Chicken" and just a holler away from "Porn Empornium."

But after I nearly burned down our house recently (twice!), I'm less hesitant to make a dumb joke about it, particularly while riding shotgun with my wife. To say she wasn't pleased is an understatement.

I blame it on the stoopid crab cakes (of course they're artificial crab cakes, I can't afford the real deal). When they go on sale at the grocery store, I snag about ten of them and freeze 'em. Ideal for microwaving, right?

WRONG!

Apparently, I had forgotten how long you microwave them from frozen. I wildly overestimated and tossed them in there for fourteen minutes. (I'd say I was having a "blonde day," but everyone knows that ain't right as I'm follicularly challenged).

I retired to the TV room awaiting the crispy, golden delicacy soon to be mine. After about seven minutes, it started smelling good. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! Another five minutes go by and I'm thinking gosharoonie, I wonder if I should check them?

When I lean back to look into the kitchen, there's a huge cloud of smoke swirling in the air.

In a panic, I race to the kitchen, dogs coughing at my heel, and whip open the microwave door. Smoke billows out like an unfolding foam  mattress, clouding the kitchen to the point where I can't see in front of me. The smoke alarm goes off. Using an oven mitt, I take the offending crab cake out of the microwave and take it outside, where it continues to smolder.

Naturally, this all happened on a day when my wife was working upstairs. She left her online meeting to race downstairs and holler, "What happened?"

Well. Crab cakes happened. The work I had to do to try to air the house out was a gargantuan task. Candles were lit, windows were opened on a chilly day, and fans were set to spinning. Constantly, I microwaved vinegar in hopes for a "ta-dahhh" resolution to no avail. If you've ever burnt popcorn in the microwave, imagine that smell multiplied 300 times.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's been so long since I've microwaved crab cakes, I forgot how long to do it, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

But no manner of penance could change the horrific odor lingering in the house. For days, it reeked. My wife even threw in the towel and bought a new microwave, as I forlornly said goodbye to my old electrical appliance pal.

After about a week, the house was pretty much back to normal and all was forgiven. Or it would've been if I didn't do the exact same thing again. Hey! I cut the microwave time down to seven minutes! I was pretty sure that's how long I did them years ago!

For a while, my wife forbade me to use the microwave. Probably a good idea. Welcome to Pyro City!

Speaking of people making some incredibly bad life choices, meet Tex McKenna, teenage male witch. He makes quite a few dumb decisions, but hey! They're all in support of catching a high school serial killer, how dumb could they be? (In Tex's defense, he's excused because he's a teenager. Whereas, I'm still making poor microwaving choices.) Read about Tex's eerie, funny, socially topical escapades in the Tex, The Witch Boy trilogy available here!

How 'bout a nice hot cup of revenge?

"Revenge is a dish best served cold." So says the ubiquitous and mysterious "They." Lotsa tough guys (the kind who stitch their own wounds up) say it all the time in noirs and endless Liam Neeson revenge films (and truly, if your dad is Liam Neeson...emancipate yourself kids! Now!).

But what the hell does it mean? I've always pondered this strange saying. For one thing, I would think that revenge should be served up hot, because if you're seeking revenge, you're probably damn hot under the collar.

Second, why is it being served? Does Liam Neeson have a chef on call who follows him around on his daily doses of revenge-driven carnage? Does he wear the funny, poofy white chef's hat and tell the Neeson-mangled and beaten body laying in the street "you've been served, monsieur," with a crisp, put-upon French chuckle? Does he ask Neeson things like "Does monsieur prefer his revenge served cold or hot today?"

I tell ya, it makes no sense. It's enough to keep me up at night. And it does. So in the wee hours of the morning, I turned to my faithful research assistant, Ms. Google.

The quote is widely attributed to French author Pierre Choderlos de Laclos (why do the French have to have so many names?) in his 1782 novel Les Liaisons dangereuses. Or if you ask the geek contingent, they'll claim it's an ancient Klingon proverb. (I'd prefer to not ask them. Too often I hit my head in their mother's basements.)

Regardless, there's no clear answer as to what the saying means. One person suggests that seeking revenge is more satisfying if you put it off for a while (thus the "dish" growing cold). Another explanation is that if you seek to enact your revenge on someone who has wronged you, you won't be successful because the evil-doer is expecting retaliation. Thus, again, wait until the dish has cooled off than go in swinging. Or serving. Or eating. Or whatever.

These food metaphors really get my goat. Here's another one: "You can't have your cake and eat it too." Well...yes...yes you can! It's the whole point of ordering cake, for crying out loud.

I dunno. I think we need to ban food metaphors. It would make my universe much easier to understand.

And outside of Liam Neeson, do we "normals" really need to be worrying about serving up revenge, hot or cold?

Well, get ready, folks. Because if a certain "mandarin candidate" gets into the White House again, we can expect four years of ludicrous revenge, Neeson style. Only it won't be served cold. It'll likely be served IN ALL YELLY CAPS ON TRUTH SOCIAL!!!

Now that I'm done and kicked over my soap box, let's get to the hype portion of my post: check out my Tex, the Witch Boy series. It's got everything: humor, the supernatural, mystery, suspense, action, romance, and I'm pretty sure I included a kitchen sink in a couple of the books. Check out the series that nobody's talking about here!

Air-Conditioning the World

"We can't air condition the world," my dad would say. "Shut the door!"

Wow, my wee young brain thought, maybe air conditioning the world is a nice idea. I mean if people are starving in China (another shameful ploy my dad used to get me to eat lima beans), might not they also be hot in the summer if they can't afford air-conditioning?

So, for a while, young Stuart left the door open whenever he could get away with it, doing my part for humanity. (My liberal tendencies began from the crib onward).

Oh, sure, I felt guilty at times (particularly when my dad reached for his belt), because I knew that air conditioning the world might be a bit expensive. Yet, I thought a thousand dollars was about the biggest buncha money I'd ever heard of (next to a "Kazillion infinity"), and somehow I remember figuring that's what the bill for air conditioning the poor would ante up to, and I thought my parents could surely foot the bill. 

It was worth it.

I'd lay in bed at night thinking about how a cool wave emanated from our open door, circling the globe, and reaching the farthest countries of earth, delivering cool, sweet relief to those less fortunate and more sweaty than us. By golly, it's what Jesus would've done!

Then--after many, many punishments--I came up with a backup plan: if everyone who could afford air conditioning left their doors open, then the bill wouldn't be too bad at all.

Needless to say, my Quixotesque childhood quest to cool down mankind didn't get very far along after the first neighbor told me to get lost. (And I have absolutely no reason nor excuse for trying to leave the water faucets on and plugging the drains in the bathrooms when we'd leave for a family vacation other than I thought it'd be neat! Indoor pool! Gosh!)

But if everyone had opened their doors to cool off the world, we just might not have devastating climate change now. Hey, I never said I was a scientist.

While we're bandying about idiotic ideas, Tex McKenna--like all teenagers--is full of ideas that aren't very well thought out. His inner filter sometimes goes on the fritz when dealing with high school bullies. And his sudden newfound "witchdom" draws him straight into confrontation with a mysterious killer stalking the students at his school. But what's a teenage male witch to do? Find out the answers in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy available here!

Hazardous to pests and oafs

Sometimes I just can't help myself. Blessed (or cursed, more like) with an innate sense of curiosity, said curiosity has gotten me into a few messes during my lifetime. And yet, none quite as messy as a couple weeks ago.

I was upstairs in our office, fiddling around on my computer when I noticed a strange new item I hadn't seen before.

What's this strange, yet oddly compelling and weirdly attractive item I've never seen before, I pondered. Where did it come from? What is its purpose? I'm absolutely drawn to this mystery item with the attractive design wrapped around it, so much so that I MUST hold it.

So, curiosity drew me to it. Or I should say curiosity drew it to me. And you know what they say about that poor, damned cat, right?

I clutched the mystery obelisk around its middle and it clutched me right back. I gasped, a short intake of shock. 

What fresh hell is this? Why won't it let me go??? Am I in a Hellraiser movie???

I shook my hand, panicking, yet the stubborn object held on, much worse than my several Super Glue mishaps in the past. I jumped out of my chair, used my other hand to pull it away, yet that hand became equally ensnared around the insidious man-trap. Using my body, I pushed it up against the wall. Now my shirt was glued to the damned, damnable object from Hell.

Hopping around the room, waving my arm like a hillbilly who bit off more than he could chew (or vice versa) when he went noodling for the king of catfish, I flailed into plants and knocked over lamps.

"Help," I screamed. "Help! Help!" But it was to no avail. I was alone in the home. Unless you count my freaked out dogs who were just staring at me.

Finally, through the grace of God (and leverage, can't dismiss leverage), I managed to dislodge the hellish man-trap and flung it across the room.

My hands still sticky, I phoned my wife. Stat. "WHAT was that damned thing?"

After she was finished laughing at my trauma, she said, "A gnat trap. You're not supposed to pick it up. Duh. Now go wash your hands thoroughly."

Well. Did I feel stupid. But in my defense, there was no packaging. Packaging that might've said...oh, I dunno..."Warning! Harmful to pests, insects, and big, dumb, oafish men." Furthermore, why in the hell would the manufacturers make a pest trap so...so...damned attractive?

It's not like a pack of flies (are they "packs?") say to one another, "Hey, Charlie, check out that way-cool design on that decidedly retro-looking obelisk over yonder!"

"Wow," says Charlie, "I find myself strangely compelled to land on it to check it out further! But look out for the big, dumb oafish man sitting next to it."

Instead of a compelling design, I would rather have them imprint "WARNING! STICKY AS HELL!" all over it in big, bombastic, dreadfully dark letters. I doubt it would make much of a difference to gnats.

Speaking of guys who make some really dumb decisions, meet Tex McKenna, the protagonist of my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy (well, quartet, kinda). But unlike me, Tex is a teenager, so making bad decisions is tantamount to growing up. (There's, um, no excuse for me, however.) Tex is also a witch and embroiled in a serial killer murder mystery at his high school. It's complicated. To find out how complicated, check the books out here!

Nightmare in Aisle 26

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, the old cards still work."

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

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

Big, Fat Guys

There's no denying that the world has it in for "big, fat guys." The blessedly thin look down their noses with disdain at overweight people, one of the more common, yet relatively restrained "hate groups" in our country. We even have an ex-president (and let's keep it that way) who insults a Republican competitor with fat insults (and honestly, shouldn't this guy look in a mirror? All of those Big Macs are going somewhere. Recently he claimed he was 6'3" and 215 pounds. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! ).

Recently, I've come to realize something odd about how people refer to overweight folks. Have you ever noticed that it's always "big, fat guy?" It's never just, "hey, check out that big guy over there," or "Wow, look at that fat guy!" Nope, it's always "get a load of that BIG, FAT guy!"

Why do we need both "big" and "fat?" Aren't they kind of redundant? Is it merely trying to doubly amplify one's size in derision? When you refer to an underweight person, you don't call them a "thin, skinny guy." And sometimes, people like to go for the trifecta of fat insults and up the ante to "big, giant, fat guy."

And it's always "guy." People don't like to personalize it, maybe too afraid to get to know the big, fat guy and hang a name on him. "Say, there goes big, fat Phil" is just unheard of in polite circles.

But how best to politely describe overweight people? The "experts (a bunch of THIN experts, I have no doubt)" have presented some guidelines:

*Plump: This sounds so veddy British and polite, that it already wins you over. In fact, there's a jolliness attached to it, evoking everyone's favorite good-natured "plump" fellow, Santa Claus. Come to think of it, as a child I don't EVER recall my peers referring to Santa as that "creepy big, fat guy who breaks into homes." No, they kept their mouths glued until December 26th when things reverted back to business as usual and open fire was declared on the hapless, overweight kid on the playground.

*Big-Boned: I don't know. This one kinda sounds like an excuse the thin give overweight people to explain their girth while they don't really buy into it for one minute. Besides, I don't think big bones really add to your overall size. Unless you're a Tyrannosaurus Rex or whatever.

*Heavy Set: I suppose this one's okay. At least it doesn't fly to the stratosphere with "BIG" and "FAT," leaving a little bit of leeway in the wide range of "heavy settedness."

*Larger: Well, duh. But larger than what or whom? Who's the standard bearer for weight? I mean, this kinda changes with the times, doesn't it? Look at the movies made between the '20's and '50's, where many leading starlets (and men) tipped the scales. Our currently popular, bone-thin, heroin-chic models wouldn't have a place on the silver screen back in the day.

*Overweight: This is a favorite of doctors. Used by anyone else, it's insulting. But those glib, thin doctors get away with it frequently. (Besides, I don't know if I'd trust a doctor who diagnoses you as "pleasantly plump.")

*Morbidly Obese: No. JUST no. Talk about insulting. And people who use it usually don't even understand the terminology. The word "morbid" constitutes sickness and death. Once, in my heavier youth, my dad actually called me this. Thanks Dad!

*Plus Size: Often used in modelling, I assume this term makes people feel okay about themselves, because hey! It's modelling! Personally, I find it slightly insulting, but really, all of these are. But if it makes an overweight person okay with who they are, more power to them.

*Curvy: This is the term a buddy uses when he sets you up with his girlfriend's friend. 

*Full-Figured: see "Curvy."

*Stocky, Stout, Burly, Bulky, and Husky: These are all interchangeable and bring to mind muscle more than sheer mass. So large guys might readily adopt these euphemisms.

There you have but a slight selection of euphemisms and code words for overweight people. Tons more than there are for thin people, just part of the overweight bias prevalent in our culture. I've been on both sides of the spectrum, many times up and down through my life (currently I'm tipping those scales upward again, but I'll be back down again at some point), so I feel I'm uniquely qualified to be able to talk about subject. 

Really, it probably depends on the individual what you refer to them as, but why refer to their weight at all? Proper names or even "hey, you!" are much preferred.

Now that I'm off my soapbox, it's shameless plug time! Elspeth, the Living Dead Girl is a YA paranormal murder mystery with loads of humor and suspense about, well...a living dead girl. It's complicated. Find out how complicated riiiiiiiiiiiiiight HERE!

The Big Apple Battles Beantown!

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

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

"Boston baked beans," she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pesca-what-now?

My wife says to me, "What do you think about pescatarians?" 

I shrug and say, "Hmmm. Kinda indifferent, really. Aren't those the guys on 'Star Trek' with the ridged foreheads?"

She responds with an award-winning eyeroll.

Next I offer, "Wait... They're the scary cult of Joe Pesci fanatics, right?"

"Don't be dense, dear."

"Okay, okay. I know it's the fish-like people of Pescaria. But are they ruled by Aquaman or Submariner?"

Alright, the above is malarkey. I actually knew what a pescatarian was, but wasn't quite sure I was ready to take the full plunge. You see, my wife and I are constantly on the lookout for diets that work for us. For a long while, the low-carb deal worked wonders. But the older we get, the harder it is to take off those well-earned pounds.

So. Pescatarian it is! (For those few who don't know, pescatarians incorporate fish into an otherwise vegetarian diet. We're vegetarians who cheat.)

Of course there're pros and cons to this diet plan. On the con side, no more meat. Boooooooo! But to be honest, lately I'd been giving that some thought. Not too long ago, I remember gnawing at a chicken breast and began to think about the ramifications of this poor, brave chicken who valiantly gave its life so I could chow down on its meat. Except...it didn't really give its life. It had no say in the matter. It'd been raised in a pen only to be slaughtered and sold as food. Gross! And I don't see President Biden "pardoning" chickens every day. 

As an animal lover, the whole meat-eating thing's been kinda bugging me recently. (And, natch, as a meat lover of nearly sixty years, I was also torn, struggling to leave my slavering, carnivore instincts behind.) But I took the splash and dove in (hello, fishies!).

Now I hear some of you saying, "Stuart, don't feed us that liberal, granola b.s. about meat is murder. Get a grip, man! Go hug a tree, feel good about yourself, then follow that up with a slab of A-1 cow ribs!"

To that I say, "Leave me alone, dammit!" (I was always a great debater.)

Others may say, "Pffft. Animals are dumb. They're here to supply us food. Besides...everyone knows animals don't have souls."

And I would respond, "We don't know that. There's no possible way to scientifically discern that. For that matter, we don't even know if we have souls. A soul is not a scientific construct!"

Now before you bible-thumping, meat-eating guys come after me with a pitchfork, I'll grant you this little bit of hypocrisy: If based solely on moral reasoning, I think it's a bit insincere for pescatarians to eat fish and not meat. Science has proven that fish can feel pain. So there's that. Also, they have a central nervous system. (Now I'm thinking about all of those hooks into their mouths. Yikes.) 

Why are pescatarians allowed to eat fish and not meat? Beats me. Maybe it's because we try not to think of fish in the same way as we do, say, cows. I mean, fish don't walk, right? And let's face it...fish are kinda gross. Far from cute. At least the edible kind. 

Perhaps it's because fish aren't as visibly prevalent as chickens, hiding out in the ocean doing God knows what. You know...outta sight, outta mind, fair game to eat, let's dine! Bam!

But based upon an intensely in-depth scientific study I conducted (I made it up), the real reason pescatarians allow themselves to devour fish? So they can eat sushi. Everyone knows humankind can't exist without sushi.

(I kinda think the real reason, though, is that fish provides a great deal of nutrients and vitamins, and on a straight-up vegetarian diet, you could become anemic. But THAT'S hardly fun to yak about.)

So, how is the pescatarian diet going for me? Well, I've only been on it for a couple weeks, having it been kickstarted by a freak storm knocking out our electricity for days, thus forcing us to toss out all of our meat. A sign!

But the results so far have varied. When I'm eating a celery, peppers, and other junk wrap, I can't help but think about a juicy hamburger.

Speaking of which, my wife picked up some plant-based "burger" patties called "Beyond Meat." It's beyond meat alright...beyond and all the way into the trash can. When I cooked a couple in a skillet, I made the mistake of cooking them as long as meat. Needless to say, the rank odor of burnt plants still fills the house. (I bet Moses could relate, burning bush and all.) I also made the mistake of thinking it'd taste just like a meat burger. Instead, it sorta tasted like cardboard. Only worse.

I miss pizza. But, hey! I always forget I can have a 52 cheese pizza (hold the veggies, please, just this once) and pretend there's sausage on it. 

There are other cheats, too, lots of substitutes. And of course, all the gross fish I care to eat. It's a much better diet than straight-up vegetarianism. At least I get sushi!

While on the topic of what seemed like a good idea at the time, meet my protagonist "Tex" McKenna, regular guy who just wants to survive the travails of high school, such as bullying. Problem is he keeps making bad decisions, teenage style. Also, he's found out he's a witch. Compound that with the mysterious repeat killer who's targeted him and his few, but loyal friends. It's all in Tex, the Witch Boy, the first in a series of books.