Anthromoporphism Rulz!

It's probably unhealthy to attribute feelings to a discarded sofa.

When I threw out my well-used, crappy sofa at college, I felt sorry for it. It looked so forlorn sitting on top of a dumpster, kind of like an unloved red-headed stepchild. (Yes, I know that's an unfortunate, awful stereotype, but growing up red-headed and oddly different from the rest of my family, it applies). 

I bid my old friend, Sofa, farewell, hoped it'd find a second life elsewhere.

Inanimate objects always get to me. Empathetic to a point, I fall in love with coffee-makers, conduct yelling bouts with toilets, demand that fire alarms quit chirping. My gang. 

Don't even get me started on my best friend, Roomba. She actually talks. Sure, her dialogue is limited to warnings about being recharged or her desire to be moved and restarted, but it's nice to hear her voice. Bonus points in that she cleans the house while I sit and write. Ah, Roomba...  I apologize for stepping on you that one time.

Sigh...

I work at home. Loneliness is next to insanity.

My wife pretty much thinks my preoccupation with anthropomorphism is ludicrous. That may be. But she's never debated a hot dog before either, so she clearly doesn't know what she's missing.

Hey, while we're on the topic of insanity, check out my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. There are quite a few people lurking within the pages who have more than a few screws loose. 

Adventures in the Amazon Day Six: Spiritual Healing in the Jungle

I'm kinda skeptical by nature. Which is a funny way to phrase it: "by nature." Because during our eight days in the jungle, "nature" challenged some of my earlier, stubborn notions.

Me in all my glory getting dowsed by a shaman!

Jungle Momma, the amazing organizer of our trip, is--like my wife and many others in our party--a pharmacist. These days, however, she resides in Iquitos and the jungle, soaking up all the information she can regarding the vast, untapped, and downright amazing array of herbal and plant medicines available in the jungle. She's also been apprenticing with a shaman for the past twenty years.

Antonio, the Maestro!

Which brings me to Antonio, el Maestro Magia! Antonio, one of the last of the red-hot shamans, is a fascinating guy. He carries within him immense knowledge passed down from previous shamans, sadly the end of the line. Since his village civilized and moved into Iquitos with direct TV dishes, no one's interested in carrying on the shamanic traditions any longer, preferring the sparkly, new-fangled allure of Western medicine. A shame.

Antonio's part miracle worker, part doctor, part magician, and a pinch of dirty ol' man. Maybe even a sliver of Catskills vaudeville stand-up comic. Savvier than he appears, he pretends to not speak English at all, although we had our suspicions.  During his stay at our lodge, he was sequestered in the back conference room, down a very long walkway and closer to the jungle, because he can't handle all of the city energy in the lodge for too long. Yet, the reach of civilization has touched Antonio, too. Wearing an Americanized ballcap, emblazoned with the letter "M," and duded out in designer jeans and stylin' kicks, he resembled a tourist emulating American style (or lack thereof). I so wanted the "M" on his cap to stand for "magic." Alas, it was a corporate symbol for Iquitos' mega supplier of cable TV and cell phone plans.

The stories surrounding Antonio are amazing. With one look he diagnosed someone's cancer with his "MRI vision." He healed someone's growing fungal attack with jungle plants when all  Western medicine failed. Father of many, lover of even more, no one truly knows Antonio's age, but it's guestimated at around 82 or so. Given that, he's in better shape than I am, leaping off boats with ease and (terrifyingly) running through the jungle bare-foot.

El Maestro Magia!

Our first night in the jungle lodge, Antonio arranged a group blessing. This consisted of our donning our swimsuits; one by one, he doused us with a bucket of cold water with flowers stirred into the mix. His blessing went untranslated. For all I know, he could've been singing the Brady Bunch theme song.

We were then given the option of having a personal, spiritual healing session with el Maestro Magia. I waffled back and forth, wanting to experience it, yet fearful of what he might find out about my health. Did I believe in his unexplained abilities? I don't know. But I was afraid enough to waffle. And after the stories I'd been told by intelligent, sane people, I'd be a fool to dismiss Antonio's talents out-of-hand. So, I continued to waffle. Man, can I waffle, more waffling than the local IHOP, a waffling talent I've perfected over many years of waffling. I mean, if I've got some kind of necrotic skin disease, isn't it better to not know about it until the last second?

At the last moment, I took a giant leap of faith over my waffles and landed in Antonio's domain, off the griddle and into the frying pan. 

I entered the circular room, empty except for Antonio sitting to the side in a folding chair, head bowed. I approached him, shook his hand. Quietly he muttered something, gestured toward the folding chair across from him. I sat. He slapped some kinda nice-smelling oil on my face and doubled down on my head (I kinda think he liked the feel of my slick pate as he gave it a few extra smacks). A cigar was lit as he smoked herbal tobacco, constantly blowing it on me as he whistled a nameless, tuneless song. I closed my eyes, went with it, tried to "get out of my head" as I was instructed (usually an impossible task; I mean where else am I gonna go?), as he brushed palm leaves all over me.

I'm not sure what happened, but something did. The constant rustling of the dried leaves fell into a drum-like pattern. Pungent, rich smoke transported me elsewhere. With my eyes shut, I envisioned the past, ancient tribes beating drums, dancing around a fire, a community of respect for Mother Earth.

A duck-like call at my temples brought me back; Antonio sucking out the bad energy from my head. When it ended, I was disappointed. Eyes still closed, I waited. Finally, Antonio said, "okay," a universal word. I opened my eyes, felt comfortably numb, rested yet exhilarated.

I stumbled out to the communal hammock/nap room and just lay there contemplating my navel for half an hour.

Was I really transported back in time? No. Probably just my writerly senses propelling me into a flight of fantasy. But I felt more rested, comfortable, and at peace than I had for a while. It also made me consider bigger issues than my rather small Kansas City backyard.

Other members of our group experienced different things. My wife felt connected to water. She said, "We're moving close to water." I said, "Okay, as long as there's air conditioning."

Another person felt a shoulder wound heal and the word "metaphysical" kept bouncing around his mind. One woman said it felt like the aftermath of a really great massage. I couldn't argue with that. Another guy shrugged, said, "it was alright."

Of course Antonio also strongly believes in love potions, so there's that. And he's a huge proponent of the sexual potency enhancement power of rum...but that's a story for a future post.

Speaking of unexplainable things, check out Zombie Rapture, a very different kind of zombie tale. You've been warned... 

Highway Empress

Some time ago, my wife and I were tooling down Shawnee Mission Parkway, a major KC metro thoroughfare.

She had uncommonly good luck, hitting one green light after another.

I said, "Wow. You're just hitting all the lights."

"It's not luck. I planned it that way," she said.

I thought about it. Then proclaimed her a god of Shawnee Mission Parkway.

"No. Not a god. An empress," she said.

"How about the Queen of Shawnee Mission Parkway?"

"No, I want to be an empress!"

Well, being her loyal slave, who am I to argue?

All bow down to the mighty Empress of Shawnee Mission Parkway! Huzzah!

For a different kind of royalty, check out Killer King, the third book in the Killers Incorporated trilogy, where serial killers go up against an evil giant mega-corporation. You know...business as usual! https://books2read.com/u/bMr9VG

Click for thrills, chills, blood spills & pitch black humor!

 

The Incredible Mr. Lipids

After I got the results from a blood-work physical, my wife read it, said, "I'm jealous! For someone as overweight as you are, your lipids are great!"

"Um...thanks."

Talk about a back-handed compliment.

Of course I had no idea what a "lipid" was.Willy Wonka's assistant or something.

A little research told me lipids are "fatty acids."

Does that sound healthy to you? Only acid I know is LSD or stuff that burns your face off in crappy horror movies. 

I suppose there're worse things.

Recently, I turned 56. How--when--did that happen? For Gawd's sake, I still feel youthful. Sort of. I mean, there're the knee aches, multiple trips to the john at night, screaming at kids to stay outta' my yard. Strange spots showing up on my skin. I prefer not to think about those.

I suppose I'm no longer considered "hip," and frankly, anyone who uses that term (as pointed out by my daughter) is decidedly un-hip. Only "hip" here is gonna be thrown out when I fall down.

Bah.

Damn kids, what do they know?

My great (maybe not so "great") grandparents owned slaves!

I come from a long line of racists. Most in denial, yet oddly proud of it.

First of all...apologies for my ancestors' past transgressions.

My dad stuck by his convictions. I didn't agree, didn't like it, but at least he was honest about where he stood.

"I'm racist, son," he'd say, "and I don't mean maybe."

I'm not really sure what prompted his racism. He'd hinted at his past, some bathroom incident when he was in the army. I never pushed too far. Didn't want to. Some things are better off buried.

But as an impressionable young child, I couldn't understand why my parents disliked everyone un-WASPy.

"Why do you hate black people, Mom?" I'd asked.

"Me?" she said. "I don't hate colored people. There's some good dark boys out there."

"What about Jewish people? Wasn't Jesus Jewish?"

"Jews! Jews killed Jesus!"

"Hm. What about Catholics? What's wrong with Catholics?"

"Mercy sakes. They worship Mary!"

End of discussion. No insight gained.

With age (and I hope enlightenment), I discovered how ludicrous all of that nonsense was.

I spent years and years fighting my parents on this, trying to change their minds, to look at things differently, more accurately and humanely. Pointless as battling a tornado with a fly-swatter. Best I could hope for is not to get sucked into the crazy.

My mom's still a hard-charging, practicing bigot. Not too long ago, she dropped a shocking racist slur.

"Mom," I screamed, oh so righteously (probably more than was merited, but such is the cross to bear when you're a white, guilt-stricken liberal), "that's racist and ugly!"

"Me?" Her eyes batted, vacant, innocent. "I'm not racist. Just as long as the darkies know their place."

Yow. Spoken like a slave-owner.

Speaking of which, I found out my great grandparents owned slaves, for Gawd's sake. (Sorry, sorry, sorry...)

My dad once told me, "Son, you come from good stock." Regardless of Dad's simile to cattle, there's nothing really tasty about racism.

Recently, I couldn't help myself. Fun where you can get it.

"Mom," I said, "you know a lot of historians say Jesus was black, right?"

Silence. A long, interminable silence. Zillions of crickets. Finally, "Bah. What do historians know?"

Ladies and gentlemen, my mom! She'll be here all weekend!

One of my parents is still on earth, one passed. They taught me many great things. But my disagreement with them over racial issues is set in stone. Weird thing, though, is my love for my folks is oddly, humanly intact. Ugly warts and all.

Supermodels and Kings!

I love the internet.

B.I. ("Before Internet"), I would've never had the vast opportunities to rub elbows with the greats. It's unbelievable how the Internet's opened up an entire new world of amazement and riches.

I'm constantly bombarded with supermodels wanting to "friend" me. When I do, they say I'm cute and want to send me pictures. Ask for a little start-up cash to fund their humanitarian efforts and the like. Life is great! It certainly makes a (just entering) middle-aged man (HARDLY old) feel in the prime of his life. 50 is the new Magic Mike, so my new Facebook pals tell me.

And the royalty! Wow! Kings seek me out! Cool! I'm hangin' with Kings! Sure, these deposed Nigerian kings have fallen on bad times. Sucks to be in their formally royal slippers. But they present their issues well and, hey, who am I to deny them their rightly inheritance. (Okay, not altogether altruistic to tell the truth...seems like a pretty solid investment plan. That along with gambling, of course. It's always good to have a sturdy retirement plan in place).

Naturally, there're a few downsides to the modern age of social electronic friendships. 

If one more person asks me to join "Candy Crush," Hulk will smash!

Aside from that brief, uncharacteristic outburst of computer rage, though, I couldn't be happier. People are so darn friendly on the Intronets. It's good to know they haven't lost their sense of true, human empathy.

Happy new year! (I hope.)

Fox News Exclusive!

For whatever reason, our new roaming satellite dish only receives Fox News and polka music.

Be good to everyone and happy holidays, no matter what you celebrate. We're in it together.

Speaking of holidays, why not stuff your stocking with my brand new, just released chiller thriller, Dread and Breakfast?

Welcome to the Dandy Drop Inn, where everybody’s treated like family. Come on in outta’ the winter storm. Checking in’s easy…checking out’s deadly.

Five star rating! (Midwestern Bed & Breakfast website)

A chilling thriller to take the chill off of those wintry nights. 

Purchase Dread and Breakfast by clicking this magical linky!

 

Mortality sucks!

Mortality's something I don't like to think about, something I keep back-burning like cleaning out the gutters.

"Ah," I figure, "the gutters will wait for a while."

Problem is, mortality doesn't like to wait.

Last week, my daughter hits me up with a text: "Hey. My mom had a heart attack. Can you watch my dog?"

Whaaa?

First: Bad way of communicating, daughter, bad! 

My heart pounded, not a good sign. I naively thought, well, clearly my daughter meant her grandmother had a heart attack. But that didn't track; one's out-of-town, the other grandmother (my mom) would let me know about it louder than a three-alarm fire-bell. 

I re-read the text.

Yup, clear as day, my daughter's mother had a heart attack.

In full-on, near heart-attack mode myself, I'm texting (damn, it takes a long time on ancient flip-phones: tap, tap, tap, wait, tap, tap...), calling ("Sarah, answer your phone, what the hell you mean your mother had a heart attack? Good Gawd, tell me...BEEEP.), you know, generally having a melt-down. Which helps no one.

"Okay, okay," I tell myself, "my daughter's not freaking out, so why should I?"

GAH! Tap, tap, tap, wait, tap, tap... "Talk to me, dammit, why's the world spinning out of control?"

No answer. My daughter had an hour drive into town. Good on her for not texting while driving. Bad on her for not utilizing a more immediate, stone-age form of communication : telephone! Hello, psychedelic freak-out!

Later, I find out my ex-wife did have the Big One. The "widow-maker," as the jokers in science refer to it.

I called my ex while she was still in the hospital.

She says, "Hey, we better take better care of ourselves, now that we're getting up there in age."

What?

Fifty-five is the new beginning of middle-age, as I constantly remind my wife. My wife laughs. 

Sure, I have a tendency to ignore my squelchy knees, my sore back, hair where it shouldn't be and hair that's fallen from where it's supposed to stay put. In many ways, I'm reverting back to my baby stage. 

But I can remember being young. Gotta' count for something, right?

Shameful, but I had to pull up a calculator to figure out my age. No lie. Guess it's something I've been trying hard not to think about. But, c'mon! Some dude from Game of Thrones just died at the age of 93! I'm only 49 (alright, alright, 54)!

Whatever.

New health regimen. Exercise 'til I vomit. Nothing but food that's good for me (and tastes like crap, because those two requirements go hand in hand; yum, kale!). Less alcohol. Regular sleep hygiene. Don't stress out over my family.

Starting in 2017, of course. After I clean out those damn gutters, once the weather turns friendly. Gotta' fortify myself first.

Rome wasn't built in a day, as they say. (And trying not to think about the short period it took for the Roman empire to fall).

Queer!

Growing up, my dad and mom never talked about sex.

Mom insists she did. Right, whatever. Nothing, nada, zilch, ground zero. (Then again, Mom doesn't remember feeding me butter and sugar sandwiches for lunch. She's not the most reliable witness.)

In fourth grade or so, I was on the school bus and the tougher, scarier, older kids (the ones who had breath and faces sliced like salami) called one of their victims "queer." I took note of this strange new word. No idea what it meant, just knew it was BAD. And I wanted to be bad. So bad, girls would want to hold my hand and boys would run in fear. Because that's what fourth grade boys care about.

That week, I experimented with my new perceived Badness. I called my older brother "queer." You know, just testing the waters. Jumping Jehoshaphat, I wasn't prepared for the outcome. Dad yanked me onto the porch like I'd just spat in the face of Billy Graham.

"Son, don't call your brother queer!"

"Why? Everybody does it."

Dad waffled. Mom, wearing a blood-orange blush and matching apron, scurried into the kitchen.

"It's a bad, bad, bad word," continued Dad.

"Well, the other kids--"

"Listen to me! Don't ever say it!"

"Why? What's it mean?"

"It means when men rub their pee-pees against one another and hard stuff comes out!"

Whaaaat?

For years, Dad's definition of "queer" baffled me. Kinda scared me, too. I mean I didn't want cement pouring out of my penis. It sounded horribly painful. Everyone would know it, too, a queer scarlet letter of shame.

So, boom, there was my first (and only) lesson about sex from my parents. I didn't even know what sex was. But Dad made certain I was on board about not being "queer." 

But...there came a time when rebellion kicked in. Hell, yeah! My own personal revolution behind bathroom doors! Completely by accident, I began exploring myself. An innocent stroke here, there...and there and there and there. Things started feeling good. For a long time, I was terrified of what would happen if I continued. I mean, I didn't want to be queer, so I always withdrew, strangely unsatisfied. 

Until that one fateful day when I threw caution to the wind and let it ride.  

Due to the outcome, I hung my head in shame, absolutely knew I crossed the no-return "queer" border.

I worried for months. Feared going to Hell. The shame of being "queer." I still didn't understand the concept, not really, but Dad thought being queer was something awful so it had to be terrible.

Still it didn't deter my bathroom visits. Just try and stop me.

After a while, I wondered if there might be more to this queer business than Dad let on. Covertly, I eavesdropped on locker room talk, lavishly worshiped dog-eared National Geographic magazines and (the extremely soft side of) Sears catalogs. (Kids don't know how lucky they have it today with the internet; we had to make do with barely marginally sexy basics.) My younger brother and I bought used racy paperbacks, discussed them in private (Portnoy's Complaint & Semi-Tough). We pondered the Queer world we didn't understand.

Eventually, I pieced it all together, home-schooled myself.

A couple years ago, we moved my mom out of her house into  an apartment. I found a paperback in the basement: "How to Tell Your Children About Sex."

"Wow. You never put this book to use did you, Mom?"

"What're you talking about? We were always open to talking about that...nasty stuff."

No. No, not at all. Which is why I had the "Sex Talk" with my daughter at a very early age. On a swing-set. She asked me about babies. Talk about uncomfortable. But I let it rip, no holds barred, no stupid, cutesy nicknames for body parts.

Remember, parents...don't let your babies grow up to be sex ignorant. 

Nature Bites (I mean mosquitoes, snakes, Bigfoot, etc.)

(EDITORIAL NOTE: I was really gonna talk about this week's election results. But I'm sick of it. And everyone's got an opinion. I'm done. Instead, I present this Wikipedia article on Nature.)

By now, readers should know I'm allergic to Nature. I break out in cold sweats just thinking about it. Camping sounds like pure torture to me.

I once camped with my wife and her family. If it wasn't for the hot-tub and VCR player in the cabin, I honestly thought I might've died. I mean, a VCR player! What are we, in the dark ages? That guy in the Leonardo DiCaprio movie who crawled miles through frozen terrain with bear attack wounds? Feh, kid stuff. I mean, the cabin only had rom-com videotapes. Romantic comedies, for God's sake! Agony!

Not too long ago, my wife and I took a trip to Portland, Oregon. To tell you the truth, I was a little hesitant at first. Trees were mentioned. Lotsa trees. Lots and lots of trees. When we got there, my wife's bro and his family told us we were going hiking. 

Uh-oh.

Couldn't sleep at all that night wondering about the horrors that awaited me the next day. (I mean, honestly, how is one supposed to, like, keep up on The Walking Dead or Game of Thrones when you're miles away from electricity? Civilization kicks mega-tail for a reason.)

And horrors it was. We walked WAY downhill to a waterfall, miles and miles of trudging through rugged terrain. Bugs strafed me. Sweat rolled off, a waterfall. I ended up hyperventilating like a whispery ventilator. 

Along the way through the deep, agonizing trek, I spotted a pair of boys' underpants. Just sitting there on a rock. Scared the hell outta' me. I mean I've watched the documentary, Friday the 13th.  How does a boy lose his underwear in nature? Did he get the shorts scared off him? Clearly, Jason was lurking nearby.

  My brother-in-law and I made it near to the end. Not quite. We called it pretty and a day. We lurched back up, ludicrously winded and wetter than Niagra Falls. A little girl passed us, crying. My brethren in arms. But, no, Dan Haggerty that I am, I fought back the tears, trying to maintain a semblance of manhood. The allure of air conditioning dangled in front of me like a carrot, coaxing me back to level land.

Bro-in-law and I fairly collapsed in one another's arms at the top of the nightmare trail, vowing to God we'd be better people, just please, please, PLEASE never make us travel down to Hell again.

After that, I thought I'd put nature behind. But, no, nature struck back, still not finished with me. Once we got back to Kansas City, a plague of Oak tree mites broke out. Whaaa? My wife and I got shot-gun blasted with them.

I'm telling you, nature bites!