The Kansas Power Corporation!

Behold the mighty strength of the "Kansas Power Corporation!" Sounds kinda like a Trump side-dish, doesn't it?

Nope! Guess again! It's just another example of Hollywood's predictably insular view of Kansas. The movers and shakers in Hollywood think all of Kansas is generic, nothing but one giant burg of hick-town Mayberry hi-jinx. Now, granted, the drive across Kansas is hellish, nothing but flat, boring land for the most part, but still...there are big cities here and there.

Recently, my wife and I watched an episode of Supernatural. One of the heroes asked where the villain was. Someone responded, "Kansas."

That's all the cast needed to  pinpoint the villain's location. Because everyone knows the state of Kansas is tiny. Just one giant backward town. In the offending episode, a single utility company under the moniker of "The Kansas Power Corporation" covered the entire state's needs. 

Stop it! Bad Hollywood! No cocaine!

Research, writers!

I swear, popular entertainment abuses Kansas more than any other American state.

Kansas is depicted in one of three ways:

1) Hicks sitting around the ol' fishing hole. No teeth, no smarts, no shirts. Que the Deliverance theme. (Okay, granted there are pockets of Kansas that do indeed cater to this rather specific stereotype, but we also have big cities with indoor plumbing and everything!)

2) "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto" jokes. (It's time to retire this right now! It wasn't funny the first kazillion times either.)

3) The wild, wild west with shoot-em-ups in the dirt streets. (These days, the only shoot-em-ups in our streets are gangsta drive-bys.)

I say enough! I want to take Kansas back from the incompetent Hollywood writers! Set them straight! Educate them!

(And then move out of this Godforsaken state.)

Click here to read true tales of Kansas (um, except for the ghosts, multiple murderers, witches, and things that go bump in the night).

New Jerk Birthday Rule

Recently I celebrated my *mumble-mumbledy-th* birthday.

I decided on a new rule. For 24 hours, I get to act like a jerk. It's kinda' like the movie, The Purge (you guys seen this? You should. For one day each year, people get to legally kill. You know, Kansas style).

So on my recent birthday, I didn't shower. Hung out in my lawn-mowing clothes all day.

I swept my arm across my wife's cluttered desk, and bellowed, "That's what I'm talking about!"

I tap-danced down the stairwell, kicking accumulated stuff off the stairs.

Went to the bathroom in my backyard, just 'cause. Marking my territory.

Yelled at people to "Get outta' my yard" even though they were nowhere close.

It was good. Empowering.

I felt like those lumberjack cavemen in the musical 7 Brides For 7 Brothers, a jaunty ode to unfettered human sex trafficking.

Of course it was all a dream. A very, very good vicarious dream.

Then I woke up and prepared my wife dinner, a return to civil behavior. But it was good to be King for a while, even if only imagined.

What say you all to my new proposed holiday?

The hardships and agony of being a "Fun Uncle"

Well, yeah, of course I'm the "Fun Uncle" when it comes to holidays. I've heard our types called "Funcle." But I prefer Fun Uncle. Funcle sounds like a pretty gross foot growth, something belying the nobility in Fun Uncling. I suppose it doesn't matter, though, as Fun Uncles are never given the respect they should be accorded.

It's not like I set out to be Fun Uncle. It sorta' just got thrust upon me. And why not? I'm immature, have a like mind-set with kids, know how to wrangle gas jokes like a seasoned ranch-hand. Kids love me. And, dang, don't they wear me down.

A couple times a year, adults love me for this reason as well. It gives them a chance to hang out, be uncool, talk about dumb stuff like politics and work and who's died recently. Sip coffee, pinky finger extended. Boring big people crap. No thanks.

But. I'm an unpaid babysitter on holidays. I think I'm the only family member to come away from holidays with bruises, a sore back, scratches on my face. Holidays are tough. Worse than professional wrestling. I need a vacation from vacation.

I've been "operated" on, had toy trucks slammed against my head, been buried alive with pillows then jumped on, rode like a donkey, had bacon thrown at me, had food (and things I don't prefer to think about) smeared upon me, had my shoes ripped apart. One time a "little rascal" hid one of my shoes so I couldn't escape my parents' house. Just like old times, grounded again. Children are a joy.

Maybe it's time for Fun Uncles to unionize. Take back the night. Demand better wages (well, any wages would be a nice starting point). While I'm outside, in the bitter cold, defusing two siblings from throwing punches, hurling insults, beating on good ol' Fun Uncle, where are the adults? Sitting inside, warm and snug, taking Fun Uncle for granted, extending those damn pinky fingers. It's like those extended pinky fingers are pointing at me, taunting me, saying, "Sucker!"

And things only get worse. Here's the rub. The hallowed title of Fun Uncle tarnishes with age. Once kids hit a certain age, Fun Uncle begins to look like a dork, a creep. Try telling a fourteen year old to pull your finger and see where that gets you. They're thinking, "Why in the hell is an adult hanging out with kids when there's coffee to be sipped, politics to ponder, pinky fingers to extend?"

I can't win. People, please be kind to Fun Uncles. You can help by donating to my fund, "Fun Uncles Are People, Too." Here's my PayPal address: "FunUncles@PayPal.com." I accept checks, money orders, beer, and mixed nuts. Oh, nachos, too, but be sure to package them properly.

Things Guys Hate To Hear

Well, gather 'round once again, ladies (and you comprise most of my readers. To the few fellas who read my blog...sorry, sorry, sorry. Don't take away my "Man Card!"), for I'm about to let you in on some secret guy things. Actually, this holds true for same-sex couples as well. One of y'all's going to fit the pattern. Dig in.

Some time ago, I sat next to my wife on the "love-seat (odd they don't call it "chips and dip and beer seat"--even furniture designers are sexist)," while she drank a cup of hot chocolate. When I dropped a hand on her knee, I was met with, "I have a hot, brimming cup of liquid in my hand, don't jiggle me!"

Well. Not exactly the desired effect I was looking for.

Which got me thinking (cue the eye-rolling). There are certain phrases guys dread hearing. Off the top of my head, here are a few. Now, should this latest diatribe help anyone (gals or guys) cope with their mate in the future, spread the word and call Dr. Phil.

*"Let's not eat in front of the TV tonight."
Yeah, right. What're we going to do, eat somewhere else like savages? I mean, honestly.

*Along these same lines..."We don't always have to watch TV."
I point back to cavemen. They didn't have TV. What'd they do fill their down-time? Discovered weapons. Killed. Marauded. Pulled women by their hair across the terrain. I really don't think we want to return to those days. TV civilizes us.

*"That shirt's too small. You need to go up a size."
Again, faulty logic. Everyone knows laundry shrinks...when we do get around to washing our favorite shirts. (My wife claims my favorite shirt makes me look like a mushroom. Damn handsome mushroom, I think.)

*"We need to start eating healthier."
Look, everyone knows nachos contain all the major food-groups for an important diet...dairy, crunchy, salt, carbs...okay, we're missing sugar and nicotine, but, hey, it's tough being health-conscious 24-7.

*"I'd like to take dance lessons."
Um. Apparently my wife forgot I'm the clumsiest, most awkward man in the world. I found a way out of this one, though. Showed her my mad twerking skills.

*And, the Mother of all genital-shrinking proclamations...

"We need to talk."

Gives me chills even writing it. No way out of this one, you know you're in for a doozy of a drama. Guys, brace yourself. Gals? Go easy on us.

It's the Most Stressful Time of the Yearrrrrrrr!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's over!

Merry Christmas everyone and God help us one and all!

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

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

Bunny-Foo-Foo Is Dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Movie Guilt: Aliens & Zombies

So, recently I watched two very different films.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay spooky.

Return Of The Christian Werewolf Erotica!

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

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

Clears throat. Okay, here we go...

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

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

"Yes, praise him," I replied.

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

"And the last..."

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

"What?"

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

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

Working title is "50 Fleas Of Fur."

No government? Fine. No taxes

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

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

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

Why? We know the answer. Greed and stupidity.

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

Fight the man!

My Wife's A Serial Killer!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I am taking my work to bed with me.

Doggy Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reaping Good Fiction With Dorothy Dreyer

With a huge ol’ drum-roll (please supply that yourself. Just put your lips together and water-boat), I present to you my good friend, and awesome author, Dorothy Dreyer! Her debut book, My Sister’s Reaper, is really a great YA supernatural thriller, gang. Buy it, already.

*Dorothy, okay, you’re dipping into the supernatural pond. Personal beliefs?

 I’ve always believed in magic. Maybe not outright magic magic, but a little of that unexplainable that always remains a mystery in life. As for the supernatural world, I’ve read a lot of evidence (and even heard from close relatives) of ghosts or some other entities that “interfere” with our world now and again. Though it’s spooky, I tend to believe it’s out there.

 *So...what's up with "reapers?" They carry your book. Tell your new readers what they're in for.

 I think the idea of writing a book involving grim reapers stemmed from episodes of Supernatural. Except in Supernatural, the reapers took human form. In my books, they’re out and out reapers, tattered cloaks and all. I thought it would be interesting to delve into that kind of world, where one (or two) would have to battle death.

 *Hm. Wondering if you're a Sam or Dean gal. But I digress. Zadie’s a great, strong female character. Don’t wanna’ hit you up immediately with a stupid question (when has that ever stopped me?), but what’re her origins?

 My protagonist couldn’t just be fighting death with no weapons at her side, right? In MY SISTER’S REAPER, Zadie discovers that she’s no ordinary girl. Her roots lie in the supernatural worlds of faeries and witches. What she does with this information, and the power that comes with it, is up to her.

 *Along these lines, Zadie’s sister, Mara? The sister Zadie risks everything for? Curious how you view her. Personally, I thought she was rather awful, alive or dead. Maybe it’s just me. Always hated “popular” girls.

 To me, Mara is just a girl who’s made bad decisions, like all teenagers are prone to do. She wanted to be popular and get the cutest boy in school to be her boyfriend, and then just went about it the wrong way when she figured out she could. After the Reaper gets a hold of her, however, her actions were not entirely her own. I like to think Zadie understands this. And Zadie, who has a huge heart, remembers all the good things about her sister, and so it comes naturally to want to risk everything for her.

*I was particularly taken with several scenes in the book that were downright spooky! Great job! I love the spooky. Are you a fan of horror fiction?

 The funny thing is, I’m not! I have read Stephen King books, and though I admire his writing, I tend to go towards books with “magic” rather than books with “horror.” My husband, however, loves horror. I used to fight him when he wanted to see a scary movie. Now I just think of it as research, lol.

*Well, can I hang out with your husband? My wife's the same way. Not a fan of horror films. Now quit derailing this interview, Dorothy! Your tale’s practically a cousin to my books. We share a lot of the same sensibilities it would seem. I can see our characters interacting easily. Even in the same universe. So…who would win in a fist fight? Mickey or Lilura, your witchy mentor character?

 That would be a tough one. They’re both pretty crafty and know they’re stuff. Mickey is probably physically stronger. But Lilura is clever enough that she’d think to distract Mickey with some fried chicken, then she could take her down.

*I’m sure I’m in the minority (maybe not. A tribute to your well-fleshed out characters), but I was sorta’ pulling for Zadie to hook up with Chase as opposed to the hunk Gavin, who she has her sights set on. Hope you follow up with this in the sequel. Don’t leave me hangin’! Um, there IS going to be a sequel, right?

 Though it’s not an all out love triangle, I did enjoy toying with the Zadie/Gavin/Chase aspect of the book. It gave the story a fun (or maybe dramatic) facet that I thought would work well in a young adult book. To answer your questions: yes, there will be a sequel (coming out in spring 2014), and yes, we follow up with this trio in the next book.

*I may be the only one who’s absolutely thrilled about this, but I LOVE that the two main characters share a passion for bad “B movies.” Hobby of mine, actually. Elaborate.

 B movies are something I remember growing up with. The love of these “bad” movies had to take place in my book. I thought it was also ironic, seeing as how Zadie is dealing with terrible things happening, just like in the movies she loves. And then to have that as something she has in common with Gavin makes it even sweeter.

*Please watch a horrible film entitled, "Winterbeast." Then get back to me. And I'm apologizing ahead of time. I, too, grew up with B-movies. Sadly, I STILL haven't outgrown them. Okay. Back on track.

This is something I just recently discovered. Which is way cool. But you do music videos, yeah? Guys, check this out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmGQNdOQWgA

 *What’s up next on Dorothy’s awesome keyboard?

 I’m revising book two, which I’m getting really excited about. And working on some other things that may be revealed in the future. ;)

Told you guys Dorothy’s awesome. Read her book. You’ll like, you will.

 

Living Like A Pioneer!

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

But I decided to take a stand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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