Total Duck-Up!

There's a relatively new start-up tech company in the San Francisco Bay area called "Stripe." They're apparently huge and growing at a rapid pace, claiming Amazon as one of their customers. I guess they're kinda a big deal.

But...but...recently they laid off 3.5% of their work-force. If you're a Stripe customer, this is reason enough to worry about who you've entrusted your tech needs to, never a comforting sign.

It gets even better: in the termination email, Stripe laid off the people with a picture of a cartoon duck.

Ta-daaaaahhhhh! What a "duck-up."

If I were Amazon, I'd be shopping around for a more competent tech company. (I mean, you're Amazon, for Gawd's sake! It's not like you wouldn't have companies frothing at the mouth to jump on your evil corporate giant shirttails.) 

"Tech" is supposed to be Stripe's area of expertise. Yet, they couldn't lay off employees via email without a cartoon duck accidentally slipping into the happy tidings of joy. (And what exactly does "US-non-California duck" mean? This taken from the actual duck that waddled its way into the layoff missives? Is this part of Trump's evil agenda to rid the US of all immigrants? And is this his new mascot? It'll probably be saying "You're fired...from the US!" soon.)

What's next? Police officers and doctors handing out business cards displaying a cartoon puppy with huge eyes saying, "Sorry your loved one died. Let's 'paws' to remember them. How 'bout a hug?"

Or maybe morticians will sit grieving loved ones down in front of a wacky cartoon with a dunderhead continuing to die in terrible accidents, with his ghost slipping out of the body, a huge smile pasted on his face, happily proclaiming his catch-phrase, "It ain't over yet, folks!" as he excitedly speeds Heaven-ward.

This is just...it's quackers is what it is!

No explanation came from the head honchos of Stripe. Just the usual cookie-cutter, boiler plate, "bla, bla, bla apologies to everyone who's been effected by this and bla, bla, bla." 

I'm sure this made all of the duck receivers feel loads better.

I won't even mention that in the same termination emails (a very chicken--{not "ducky" in the least}--way to lay people off, BTW), the wrong final work dates were given. Okay, I did mention it. But bad Stripe! Bad!

How does this happen? It's like Colonel Sanders suddenly forgetting how to make fried chicken, so will only serve liver and onions from now on. Tech is what Stripe is known for. Do better!

Speaking of "quacking up," meet Derek, a mild-mannered Midwesterner just trying to make ends meet and live a comfortable life in suburbia, USA. But something's bothering Derek. Something's not right with the new neighbors. And...is there something else residing in he and his wife's house? Something not living, yet not dead? Or could Derek be having another mental break like he'd had years ago? Find out the answers in my (hopefully) chilling ghost story, Neighborhood Watch. (Good luck finding it, though, it's currently between publishers. C'mon already, somebody snatch it up again!)

Dr. Quack

From as far back as I can remember, my parents used to drag my brother and I  (kicking and screaming) to a doctor who they swore by all the way up through high school. We'll call him "Dr. Quack" for that's what he was.

He was also a "baby doctor," meaning he specialized in toddlers, or so it seemed (I had this theory verified one day when I was about fifteen. I was stuck next to my mom in the waiting room and to my surprise, in strolled a notorious, chain-smoking, fully-bearded stoner, led by his mother. He groused loudly, "Mom, why do I have to go to a baby doctor?" I never thought of him as so notorious after that.).

Anyway, no matter my ailment, this quack's response was always the same: "Hmmm, I'm going to prescribe Singlets. If you're not better in two weeks, come back in." These "Singlets" never did a damn thing. Dr. Quack clearly had a special deal going on with the Big Pharma manufacturer of these sugar-coated placebos. He made a fortune off of Singlets just through my family alone.

Oh, he had one other thing he kept threatening to do to me. "Hmmm, if he keeps getting stuffed up ears," Dr. Quack said solemnly to my mom, "We'll have to put tubes in his ears."

Whaaaaaaaat? The thought of tubes in my ears terrified me. Not only would it be painful and torturous, but I easily imagined the bullies lined up at school waiting to pummel the unfortunate kid with tubes sticking out of his ears. Barbaric, worse than electro-shock treatment to my grade school stuffed up ears.

One day, Dr. Quack had convinced my mother that my brother and I had allergies. So off to another quack we flew. This guy decided I was allergic to peanut butter (absolutely not true), milk (ditto), and a slew of ordinary things that I constantly indulged in without any problem whatsoever. Regardless, we had to get painful shots each week. And even though we knew it was coming, we tried to block the tragic day out, utilizing a child's ability to believe that what you don't think about won't hurt you. And every Friday, there was a stubborn, tear-filled fit with my mom always winning. I don't even remember getting lollipops.

Finally, once I hit college, I escaped the menace of Dr. Quack, choosing instead to just power through the illness or go to the campus clinic. Until one day I was talking to my friend and things came around to Dr. Quack.

"Dr. Quack!" exclaimed my buddy. "He was a terrible doctor! Everybody knew that he was the guy to go to if you wanted to get out of gym or play football or whatever. I can't believe you guys went to him! HA HA HA HA HA HA..."

So, it seemed that even though I'd put distance between myself and the notorious Dr. Quack, his long shadow still loomed over me with a handful of Singlets and plastic tubing.

Years later, as an adult I went to a nearby walk-in clinic due to bronchitis. I nearly shrieked when I found out the doctor on call was...Dr. Quack Junior! My past still haunted me.

Speaking of haunts, visit beautiful Gannaway, Kansas. A cozy little mining town originating in the '20's, Gannaway offers plentiful jobs and beautiful country living and murders and ghosts and scares and ancient curses...and...and...wait! Okay, maybe you shouldn't visit Gannaway. Instead, why not read about it in my historical ghost tale Ghosts of Gannaway, the perfect book to cozy up to on these cold winter nights.

Cats and Dogs Are On the Menu!

"Immigration...immigration...immigration...immigrants are poisoning the blood of our country...immigration, bla, bla, bla...They're eating the cats and dogs of Springfield..."

 Wait...WHAT?

"Immigrants are eating the pets of Springfield...immigration...immigration...immigration...I love rich, white men...immigration...immigration...bla, bla, bla..."

That's what I THOUGHT he said. Me and millions of others witnessed this latest lunacy and lie amongst Trump's debacle of a debate against Kamala Harris.

I nearly fell asleep listening to Trump rant and rage through his only campaign issue (guess what...yep! Immigration!), until he jolted me awake with his pet eating accusation. That's a fun, new twist!

But, honestly, it's the same ol' tired racism just on steroids. As far back as the 1800's, "Amuricans" have been accusing immigrants (it started with the Chinese population) of eating their pets, merely because there's a difference in skin color. And Trump's out there blatantly floating MARA ("Make America Racist Again"), even though the debate moderator debunked Trump's lie about Haitians eating pets, coming from Springfield, Ohio's city manager himself. Trump doesn't care. Because of his self-serving and dangerous racism and hatred and desire to divide, Springfield's had to evacuate schools and other public facilities due to threats.

Fun!

If the Trump loyalists would wake up and think about it, ALL of us are immigrants of a sort, descended from people from other countries (unless you're a Native American, but that's a tragedy best saved for another rant). And the racists are shamelessly tugging on people's heartstrings, because what's one thing EVERYONE likes and can agree on? PUPPIES AND KITTIES! 

(Me, I prefer the Spaniel Spaghetti and the Kitty Corn Dogs. I kid, I kid!)

Do we really want this racist clown "leading" our country? Leading us straight over a cliff like so many lemmings?

I mean c'mon! Even Taylor Swift, the most powerful person in the world, has endorsed Kamala, so that should speak volumes! (Okay, sure she's a "Psy-Op Agent for Socialism," but she maintains more credibility than, say...rapper Ye, white nationalist Nick Fuentes, and the MyPillow guy, three of Trump's trusted "cabinet members.")

So, this November, make the right call. Please. Now...pass the critter fritters...

Speaking of tall tales and lies, have you read my book, Ghosts of Gannaway? It's a meticulously researched, absolutely 100% true historical account of a doomed Midwest mining town. And everything actually happened! Well...maybe except for the ghosts. But other than that, it's totally true! Kinda...if you sorta ignore the part about the deadly native-american curse, the yellow-eyed fever, the haunted museum, ghosts past and present, a murderous conspiracy, and many other things. But you can read the ENTIRELY TRUE historical, supernatural novel 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!)

Another Day, Another Indictment...

This is getting a little old. I'd kinda think that even the MAGA crowd might be getting a little tired of it, too. Donny Trump, of course, has been indicted four--count 'em, four!--times during a four-and-a-half month time span with 91 felonies under his (needs to be loosened a few notches) belt. And of course he was just ruled guilty of fraud in a New York civil case.

Damn. In the United States history, we've never had a president indicted before. Yet...yet...here's the punchline: Trump's currently tied with our current president in voting polls!

How can this possibly be? Don't get me wrong, I have issues with Biden, too. He's by far not my ideal president. But when compared to the lying, traitorous, bullying, raping, crooked, misogynistic, racist, blowhard, hate-mongering, philandering, Big Mac chowing orange alternative, Joe looks like Honest Abe. At least Joe's trying to assist the country, more than Donny ever did. Trump's wallet and ego always comes first, even ahead of family.

Wake up, half the country!

Do you really want to be dragged along with Trump's self-proclaimed four-year "revenge term?" That's all that's on his mind. Yep, he's railed about how he's going to imprison his "enemies (i.e., honest politicians who don't buy into his lies)," defund the Justice Department (the only branch willing to go after him), and eliminate any executive branch's checks and powers over his tyrannical stranglehold over our country. This ain't how a president's supposed to act.

Unbelievably, his grotesque and cheap theatrics just become more childish and deranged. This week he called for departing Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Mark Milley to be put to death. Unbelievable. AND he's called upon his spineless Republican sycophant senators to shut down the government. Why? Because he thinks it might keep him out of prison, a desperate last chance to "defund the election interference against him." He doesn't care about how bad this would be for our country or the millions of government employees who will have to work without pay checks. Despicable, you betcha! I'd even go so far as to call it traitorous.

C'mon! Before the 2020 election and especially after the infamous January 6th insurrection, Trump hasn't shut up whining about how the election was rigged, contrary to not a shred of evidence being presented. Quite the opposite: any evidence that was found pointed to a tight, secure, and legally binding election.

Check out this quote about Donny from 2016:

“You know, every time Donald thinks things are not going in his direction he claims, whatever it is, is rigged against him. The FBI conducted a year-long investigation into my emails, they concluded there was no case. He said the FBI was rigged. He lost the Iowa caucus, he lost the Wisconsin primary. He said the Republican primary was rigged against him. This is how Donald thinks. And it’s funny, but it’s also really troubling. That is not the way our democracy works. We’ve been around for 240 years, we’ve had free and fair elections, we’ve accepted the outcomes when we may not have liked them. And that is what must be expected of anyone standing on a debate stage during a general election.”

This came from Hillary Clinton! In 2016, before Trump ever stepped into and polluted the White House! Say what you will about Hillary, but she was certainly prescient. I believe she has more super mind-powers than Trump does, even when he claimed he could declassify a document just by looking at it.

Okay, so Donny had his original "Big Lie" regarding the "rigged election." Half our country bought into it. Now he's following it up with an equally insidious Big Lie: "Election Interference!"

Every time, Donny gets indicted, he claims it's the evil, satanic liberals, bla, bla, bla persecuting him and interfering with a fair election. And, of course, his faithful cult buys into this crap. Worse, it appears to be growing.

WHY? The only thing I can possibly think of is that the more people hear something, the more brainwashed they become. Hell, Trump's in the news now more than he was president! I'm sick of reading the paper (okay, perusing the intronet's headlines) and reading hard-hitting journalism about how Trump has insulted the Justice Department for the kazillionth time.

This isn't election interference. It's called justice. From what I've read, there's more hard evidence incriminating Trump on a number of charges than anyone ever presented regarding the so-called "rigged" election of 2024. Facts don't lie, people! Contrary to what the My Pillow guy says and we all know he's a highly qualified expert on the subject, right?

Wake up, Maga! Your cult leader is a horrid person who cares not for you, nor his country. He cares about money, power, BIG TV ratings, porn stars, and Big Macs. In that order.

I tell you what, this gets my dander up! Don't make me have to tell you guys this again...

While I'm trying to calm down, I may as well hit you up with the hard sell... Check out my book, Ghosts of Gannaway. It's a historically-based ghost story about a small mining town in Kansas, run by the evil, greedy man who owns the mine and will throw everyone under the bus (well, train, in this case) to further line his wallet. Hmmm...sound familiar?

Melissa Etheridge...Unveiled!

I've got nothing against Melissa Etheridge. She's never done anything to me. But apparently she had to my friend. So in my endless efforts to uncover foul play and various hoo-hah through my intrepid reporting, I bring you this amazing expose! Hype! Ballyhoo! Maybe not even true!

I have a long-lasting friend. We'll call her "Carla." Carla went to Leavenworth High School in Leavenworth, Kansas, as did grammy-winning, multi-platinum superstar, Melissa Etheridge.

But all was not right with Ms. Etheridge. Apparently, she claimed to be dying (I'm not sure what the illness was). So Carla and her classmates decided to toss a fund-raiser and make all kinds of money to donate to Ms. Etheridge.

But...she didn't die. I'm pretty sure her classmates were waiting and waiting and waiting, the longest death watch in history. They got sick and tired of waiting. Anger spread around like wildfire.

And then...graduation! Ms. Etheridge beat feet on to fame and fortune, while the rest of her class wondered how they'd been scammed.

Okay. First all of my disclaimers: I don't know how much of the story is true. Oh, I have no doubt that Carla was telling the truth. But could it be possible that Ms. Etheridge was sick and miraculously got better? Or had it been an epic scam? Did Ms. Etheridge just want attention? High school can make desperate kids do desperate things sometimes.

Beats me.

I would've pressed it with Carla, but clearly she didn't want to talk about it any more, still carrying that ol' high school grudge. When you'd mention it in passing, Carla turned Hulkish and wanted to smash. I wasn't about to get in her way.

Years later, Ms. Etheridge was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004 and successfully beat it. Today, she's known for being a big cancer awareness advocate. Good for her! But she still owes Carla and her classmates!

We'll probably never know the truth. The only truth I know is that Ms. Etheridge won't be welcomed to come through Carla's window anytime soon.

Speaking of intrepid reporting, you won't find much of it in my historical ghost extravaganza, Ghosts of Gannaway, although it is (very loosely) based on the true events of Picher, Oklahoma. Excluding the ghosts, horror, characters, and story line. Everything else is true, though! (Mostly...kinda...sorta...maybe...)

The Madness of March

Now I know why they call it "March Madness." You see, it's a sickness. I know only all too well. For you see, I too, recently succumbed to this horrible ailment, reducing me to screaming like a lunatic and bouncing off the walls.

Thank God I got better. It was touch and go there for a while.

Okay, those who know me understand that I'm not a sports guy. Gasp. Choke! Shocker! Anyway, I never have been and honestly thought I never would be. But this insidious March Madness is highly infectious, a pandemic of rabid sports fans gone wild.

Not too long ago, I visited my daughter. She said, cool, but we have to watch the KU basketball game for the tournament championship.

I grumbled and groused, begrudgingly gave in, thinking "how bad can it be if the beer's flowing?"

Turns out, pretty damn bad.

A little background: By all rights I probably should've been excited about the University of Kansas Jayhawks being in the final game. KU is my alma mater, after all. But anytime you have grown men playing with balls and other grown men painting their faces and screaming like banshees at the grown men stuffing balls into nets has always just made my eyes glaze over. I always thought that I'd never fall prey to such barbaric behavior, especially when there's really nothing at stake other then grown men shoving balls into nets.

I was wrong.

My daughter and I started watching the game. The beer's flowing nicely. I'm finding myself becoming increasingly interested in how KU is faring. At half-time, KU's down big and my daughter is pretty much resigned to their losing. But I stand by them. I'm starting to call them by their names like we're pals. I claim ownership and start saying things like, "Oh, we really blew it there" and "We were fouled!" By the end of the game--and it was a real nail-biter--my daughter and I are standing up, jumping, and screaming at the top of our lungs, "That's how we do! That's how we do!" (That statement shamelessly ripped off from Jaden Smith defending his dad's actions  at the Academy Awards. And that's ALL I'll ever say about that travesty.)

See what I mean, though? This March Madness is nefarious, reducing civilized people into screeching baboons and forcing them to proclaim ownership over a team of grown men playing with balls. (In truthfulness, this actually occurred in April, but the Madness carried over).

Whew. I wasn't proud of my my barbaric behavior. (You don't suppose multiple beers had anything to do with it, right? Nah, I didn't think so).

March Madness is aptly named. It's a disease. A bad one. (Actually "March Madness" is used as a sort of brand name for the NCAA Division 1 Men's Basketball Tournament. I can see two reasons for it being named March Madness: 1) The real name is a mouthful and a half. By the time sports maniacs spit out the full name, their enthusiasm will have been spent; 2) It's a nefarious illness. Duh.)

Won't you help me stop the March Madness? Please send all donations to me c/o Twisted Tales of Tornado Alley, P.O. Box Scam, Hickville, Kansas.

While on the topic of horrible, infectious diseases, something bad is affecting the miners of Gannaway, Kansas, and I'm not even talking about the ghosts and hauntings. No sir, the "yellow-eyed fever" is turning Gannaway's inhabitants downright homicidal. Come on over, pay a visit, kick your feet up, but don't dwell. It's a might downright scary town. Read all about it in Ghosts of Gannaway!

 

Let's All Go to the Drive-In...

Since the onset of the Covid slaughter, there have been many things I miss, most of them I took for granted. I suppose I always thought I'd be able to dine out, hang with a pal, and go to the movies on an instant whim. (Dumb, dumb, dumb, sooooo stupidly naive, dumb, dumb...) Yeah, there are temporary patches: take-out, zoom calls, and streaming (boy, have we been streaming a mean streak!), but it's just not the same.

Then on a fine recent evening, my daughter sent me an urgent text: "Dad! Come on down Saturday night and we'll go to the drive-in!"

Blink. Blinkety-blink-blink-blink. Then... Oh, my stars and garters! Fireworks! Jubilation! Twenty-six trombones and...whatever that stupid song is that now I can't get out of my mind!

My daughter had found a truly creative work-around to my movie going withdrawl.There are only a handful of drive-ins left in the country and one of them happens to be in my daughter's small (oh, so very small) town. It's a town where a man's merit is measured by the size of his pick-em-up truck and women are encouraged to be brassy and sassy (just as long as they don't brass and sass their Man). Also, for whatever reason, an independent study I've conducted found that approximately 43% of the female population is named Barbie. Not Barb or Barbara. Barbie. And they're grown women. Don't ask me why.

Anyway, I have fond memories of going to the drive-in when I first started driving. Mainly because it was a cheap night out with even cheaper beer and you got to see 3, count 'em, 3 movies! It was a magical place where you couldn't even see the screen and there were so many distractions that movie-viewing wasn't even the main reason to be there.

So...with great expectations and high hopes, we loaded up the cooler and headed for the Starlight drive-in.

Man. My fond memories must've been based purely on nostalgia.

We came early, wanting to stake out a good spot. The problem was "Jeep-O-Rama" took place earlier in the day on the drive-in lot and most of the "jeepers" decided to stay on. First, we tried the closest spot we found, but my daughter got creeped out having two open jeeps flanking us, rowdy and dumb drunk guys leering down at her on both sides. We kept moving until we settled into a "safe-spot." On one side was a mother and daughter duo that we felt a kinship to and the other was some ol' grizzled fart, just cussin' up a storm in his station wagon. We were home.

We were also right behind the concession stand/bathrooms/projection booth. (Although calling it a "projection booth" doesn't seem quite right as it's all computerized now, instead of having the traditionally hammered sot behind the projector who could never be bothered to keep the film in focus.)

The concession building was painted a stomach-turning nauseous green, a color I haven't seen since the sixties (pre-mod era, natch). Some distracting blonde in a very tiny shirt and shorts that weren't much more than a thong continued to walk to the trash can, carrying a dainty piece of trash each visit. And during each visit, she'd look around to see if anyone was noticing her (and how could you help but NOT notice her). She made at least a dozen trips, when one would've sufficed.

Just like the magic of the drive-in, my daughter's town is a magical place, a fantastical area where Covid doesn't exist. Or so the townsfolk would like to believe. Covid's right up there with snipe hunts, Santy Claus, and honest politicians. No one was masked. Now, that was part of the allure for me of going back to the drive-in: a safe environment. But as my bladder grew fuller, I became more worried as I'd be the only one masking up when I went to the bathroom.

But mask up I did and off I went, stumbling over the rise and falls of graveled bumps, seeking out the bathroom in the dark. Once I reached my destination (the lights were burnt out, so I oscillated between men and womens until a woman finally came out of one door), and with a great deal of trepidation, I entered the Bathroom of Doom.

Now, this REALLY took me back. Even masked up, the overpowering stench nearly floored me. Waste of all three sorts (figure it out) decorated the floor. An army of flies swarmed me, a B-horror movie victim. An open toilet, no stall, and clearly people were more interested in using it as long-distance practice then getting close to it (and I couldn't blame them). And the urinal trough (something I thought went out of style with leisure suits) was an appalling mess. Needless to say, there wasn't any soap or paper towels, so I did my business and got out fast before Big Brutus came in and beat my ass for wearing a mask.

Finding my way back to the car wasn't easy. After the sickeningly yellow light of the bathroom, I came out into darkness, dizzy and disoriented, an uneasy feeling that all of the occupants in the trucks and jeeps facing me were watching me. And they probably were. After stumbling way off course, I finally made it back to our car. Whew.

The first movie ended and rolled immediately into the next flick. Rip-off! Back in the day, part of the fun of the drive-in was the intermission show and previews, but I guess Mr. and Mrs. Starlight wanted to get to bed. We didn't stick around and got the hell out of there.

What were the movies? Didn't matter, nor did I pay much attention as there was too much going on everywhere else. I'm glad to have had the experience, but I don't know that I'll go back again (like eating Rocky Mountain Oysters). I'm thinking my love for the drive-in was purely nostalgic after all.

While on the topic of nostalgia, come on down and visit Peculiar County, a mighty nostalgic tale of growing up in the '60's in a small Kansas town. Albeit with ghosts, murderers, things that fly in the night, witches, and other delights. It's absolutely groovy!

 

Dr. End Of The World

In my never-ending quest to discover the cure to my on-going ITCHY-ASS, ALL-OVER skin problem (about the best medical explanation I've received so far and that was my own scientifically based self-diagnosis), I found myself returning to the charms of my allergist.

I've spoken of this doctor before. Usually, he's very welcoming in a Mr. Rogers sorta way. No, no, no, not the "Hi. Don't worry, I won't kill you" Mr. Rogers, but rather, the Mr. Rogers who invites me into a cozy teaching environment as he painstakingly talks down to me using small words and drawing pictures of what ails me in the most child-like fashion. Sorta like I'd stumbled onto a "kiddy doctor."

Fascinating and rather endearing (if not at all slightly creepy), I almost look forward to our frequent visits. (Emphasis on almost; I'd rather he find a cure to what ails me). Yet he keeps me on my toes and I never know what he's going to pull next. He's making Medical Appointments Great Again (MAGA! Too soon?)!

We'll call him "Dr. Rogers." Can I call him "Dr. Rogers?" I don't care, from now on he's "Dr. Rogers."

On our last visit (and visits they are rather than appointments, because that's just the way Doc Rogers swings), the surprises kept coming.

"So," he suggested while poking me with Popsicle sticks (and I think he might just be pulling one over on me with this method, but whatever), "you should write an end-of-the-world book."

The good doctor has always found it fascinating that I'm a writer, so I humored him. "I already have," I said, referring to Zombie Rapture, my sorta end-of-the-world, pseudo-zombie, satirically religious, darkly comic horror thriller (which is now out of print, because publishers are having a hard time at it these days, but I digress. Dammit.).

Wide-eyed, Doc steps back. "Did everybody die in your book?"

"Um...well, no. But a lot of people do die. There are a few survivors." It's at this point that I begin to realize he may indeed be the scary, serial killer Rogers type as he seems truly excited about mass deaths.

He says, "Well, we're all going to die."

"Yeah, eventually we all die." I shrugged.

"No, I mean, everyone's going to die soon. Whether it's Covid-12 or Covid-74, it's going to wipe everyone out. The end of humanity. Why?" He scoots in closer, now in full professorial, space-intruding mode, then flips out a finger. "Because A) we're more mobile these days. Back in the days of Spanish Flu, we survived because people didn't have the ability to travel everywhere. Now, Covid's spreading everywhere people take it. And B) the political, moral, and social division over the issues of survival."

"Yep, everyone's politicizing this horrid disease, making it their own while everyone's dying. But, with the vaccines--"

"And if Covid doesn't get us, then global warming will."

"That's what scares me," I said.

"It's true. We're all gonna die," he continued. "I heard it on NPR."

"Well...if you heard it on NPR, then it must be true." Couldn't help but get a little snark in, but I think it went over Dr. Doomsday's head as he was on a roll.

Suddenly, Nurse Save-the-Day bursts in.

"He's written an end-of-the-world book." The doc gestured at me. "Now, I'm telling him about my book where everyone dies. It's like that song I was singing the other day, about the end of the world..." He stared off into a dreamy apocalypse, while snapping his fingers hoping to grasp the song that eluded him.

I offered, "'The End of the World As We Know It,' by REM?"

He nods, points at me, and says, "That's it." So he starts singing it. I join in. The nurse rolls her eyes and remains silent. But I didn't want to leave on such a somber note, always leave 'em wanting more!

But as I drove home, I realized how right Dr. End of the World was. But it wasn't really Covid or global warming that was going to get us, but rather people's stupidity and selfishness.

Get your vaccines, people. Mask up. Socially distance. Quit being dumb. Don't make me come over there.

(For God's sake, I went to the doctor for itchy skin and all I got was an end-of-the-world lecture).

Hey, let's jump into the Way-Back machine and visit a time when people weren't as mobile and there wasn't a dreaded plague wiping out the population. I'm talking Ghosts of Gannaway, my historical-fiction, ghost story, mystery, suspense thriller about the small mining town of Gannaway, Kansas where there're some mighty good folks butting heads with some particularly nasty rich folks. Ghosts, too. Lotsa, lotsa ghosts and chills. But no epidemic...wait...almost forgot about the Yellow-Eyed Fever... But don't let that stop you from visiting scenic Gannaway RIGHT HERE.

 

 

Torture by Kenny G

We've all been there. Stuck on the phone, on hold, and the unfortunate Kenny G comes wailing away at you with his God-awful, sickly sweet, dulcet saxophone tones.

Folks, it's worse than waterboarding and should be outlawed.

Torture is the only way to describe it. The powers that be have such disdain for us that they can't allow you to be patched through to a real person without first punishing you with agonizing minutes of Kenny G. They hate us that much. There can be no other explanation.

Pity my poor, suffering brother-in-law. Recently, his identity was stolen and used for unemployment benefits. As if this wasn't enough abuse, the onus was on him to attempt to break through the government robots on hold who soundly thrashed him with a half hour of Kenny G's "Songbird" on an endless loop.

On Facebook, my bro-in-law posted this and said, "I hate criminals." I replied, "the real crime is Kenny G."

I don't know whose idea it was to "entertain" people on hold with Kenny G. Someone, somewhere, must think that it's comforting music, meant to mollify the masses into compliant passivity until they finally break. In fact, it's no coincidence that Kenny G is the most popular on hold music across the world.

It's a conspiracy of far-right reaching proportions.

Look, I don't have a problem with Kenny G... Except for maybe his music sucks. It's like ear candy for grown-ups who have to be told that Kenny G is good. And the fact that a grown man is going around calling himself "Kenny G." First, Kenny is a child's name, Kenneth. Second, I highly doubt your last name is truly "G." And then there's Kenny's hair. Just looking at it makes me want to run for the scissors. Okay, and I hate having to be force-fed his ear pablum in so-called "relaxing" environs. I've been known to bolt from a store if Kenny G is wailing away from the speakers at ear-breaking decibels.

So, yeah. Maybe I do have a problem with Kenny G. I hate him.

Usually, when I'm on hold, it's either Kenny G or a close second worst, Christoper Cross' "Sailing." That's it, nothing else. And again it's no accident that these two are what pummels your ears, two of the worst and inexplicably popular entertainers from the last century. Government and big business want you to suffer, they want to torture you. To what nefarious ends, who knows. Big government moves in strange and mysterious ways.

Let's abolish Kenny G. As much as I despise the term "cancel culture," Kenny G truly deserves to be "cancelled" before he turns our minds into mush. Stop the insanity.

Now that I've gotten that insanity off my chest, I gotta plug my book, Peculiar County. It's my favorite outta 24 titles. Read it and see if you can understand why. Go on, I dare ya. Let me just put on a little Kenny G to play in the background while you go find it...

 

Wait! 60? That can't be right!??!

Turning 40 didn't bug me. I didn't even flinch at tipping into 50. But when my wife reminded me that my upcoming birthday would be my 60th, I freaked. It felt like I was taking the first doddering step toward the early-bird hour at the cafeteria. I swear to God I thought I was gonna be 59! 

"Do the math, dear," said my wife.

Well, math's not my friend, and it certainly wasn't this time. After struggling and counting on my digits (I had to borrow my wife's fingers and toes, as well), I finally came up with 60. Ta-dahhhhhhh!

Everyone had always told me that 50 is the big one. The one where I'd go out and buy a convertible, get hair plugs, and start (God help us all) wearing Skinny Jeans. But 50 didn't bug me, not one bit.

But 60! Man. No wonder my body's betraying me. Let's see...we're looking at getting winded by walking up stairs. Losing hair in the most mysterious of places only to see it migrate to most unwelcome new areas. Forgetfulness ("I didn't put that there!" "Well, then who did? The dogs?" "Yes."). 

And it seems like the older I get, the more crap I'm starting to lug around whenever we go on extended drives or trips. I put everything into a bag (but I'll never call it a "fanny bag." That's for you young whippersnappers.). What's in the bag, I hear everyone asking? Well, there's moisturizer, a top-of-the-line, retractable back-scratcher (I call it "The Claw"), several different chargers (why can't these impertinent young enterprising punks make one charger for everything?), a Kindle, a bottle of ointment for itchy skin, and soooooo many pills.

Back in the day, I went from no pills to a multivitamin every day. Arranged by my wife, that seemed like a big change in lifestyle for me. Now, I'm taking more pills than Seth Rogen at a party. I'm taking pills for bones, for heart strength, for eyesight. Hell, I'm even taking fiber and that's the one area I've never needed help with. I'm as regular as a cuckoo clock. I don't even know what half of the pills are or what they do, but it takes up a good chunk of time every morning, swallowing handfuls of the blasted pills.

My eyesight's getting so bad that I really don't like to drive at night. Things get blurry and you never know when my addled old man brain might take a detour and get lost.

When I first moved into my 'hood, I was the young whippersnapper, the old neighbors around me dying off left and right. Suddenly, I'm the grand ol' man on the block, the neighborhood historian. When did that happen? Even worse, when I talk to the new youth splattered around the block, I find myself embarrassingly trying to sound younger than I am.  "Hey, that's cool" and "I'm down with that" and "What's up?" and "Twenty-three skidoo, kiddo!" (Okay, I'm kidding about that last one. Even I'm not that old.)

For God's sake, I'll absolutely know I'm pretty much finished once I start watching the CBS ("Chronically Bitchy Seniors") network. Even worse, I might actively seek out "Matlock" reruns.

As I sit here writing this, in my gravy-stained Mr. Roger's sweater, my fingers cracking like a playing card clipped to the spokes of my bike back in the olden days of yore, I have to wonder how in the world I'm ever gonna handle 70.

Wait...I gotta go. There's some damn punk kids playing in my yard!

While we're chatting about old things (my back hurts!), check out my historical ghost saga, Ghosts of Gannaway. Not only does it take place in the '60's (peace, brother), but a dual timeline plays out during the Great Depression (kinda what I'm facing now). Oh, and it's scary, too.

A Mighty Peculiar Place to Visit...

Today, my favorite book of mine (outta 23 or whatever!) is republished by the fine folks at Grinning Skull Press, Peculiar County, with a tremendous cover by the talented Jeffrey Kosh.

Why is it my favorite book, I hear you thinking? Not sure, really. Maybe it's the small Kansas town setting in the early sixties full of beyond quirky and sinister characters such as the librarian witch sisters. Perhaps it's the odd things going on around town such as Mittens, the ghostly dog or the mysterious creature that takes to the skies at night. Could be it's the (I hope) stylish prose. Or maybe it's just down to the protagonist, Dibby Caldwell, a smart, 15-year-old tomboy discovering romance, ghosts, danger, and mystery which upends her world.

I've had more than a few people ask how in the world I was able to channel the mindset of a 15-year-old girl so well. One person even suggested I'd transitioned. I don't have an answer for that except to say that once I got to know Dibby, she pretty much wrote herself. All of the best characters react that way. Frankly, Peculiar County was the easiest book I've ever written, too, and maybe that's why it's my favorite. I was on auto-write. The lazy man's book, the way I like it.

I dunno... Maybe it's my favorite because the last publisher who had it, didn't understand it and mishandled the hell outta it.

Here, give me a minute... 

 Okay, this is the cover they wanted to saddle it with. Sweet Mother of Pearl! See that Justin Bieber kid acting all coy and cutesy and bee-bopsy in the cornfields? That's supposed to be a six-year-old ghost in the early sixties. Geeze. Anyway, the diva cover "artist" wouldn't do a redo (everyone at that particular publisher bows down to her for some unknown reason), so I at least told her to ditch Bieber. Thank God she did that. But, still, the cover was lacking...What're we left with? Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Even worse, maybe "Little House on the Prairie." Gah.

Actually, the original inspiration for Peculiar County was the great To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (although not even near that classic's league, natch), one of my all time childhood faves. Except for, you know, the supernatural elements I added. And no social relevance. Okay, on second thought, it's nothing like Mockingbird, so ignore my pretensions. I just get excited about this book.

Some readers are also surprised that I've never lived in a small rural town. Just made it all up. And from paying attention when we'd drive through such places. It must be said, though, that a couple characters are based on real people my in-laws told me about. The one-armed, military attired phone operator was real! And the legend of the ghost dog was a story I picked up from an Oklahoma diner. The things you learn while driving through the Midwest...

All of these reasons and more are why this is my favorite book. In fact, it's nearest in end result of what I'd intended out of anything I've tackled. Which is why I've slowed way down on writing. I don't know that I'll ever match this book again.

But enough of my blabbing...check out what one reviewer said...

"What Mr. West has accomplished is a book that keeps on giving phrase after clause after sentence after paragraph you'll want to highlight and say 'this is so amazingly good.'" 

That makes it all worth it.

Life is different in Peculiar County.

So is death, as Dibby Caldwell, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Hangwell's mortician, is about to find out.

 

Witches lurk in the shadows.

A menacing creature haunts the skies.

And the dead refuse to stay dead.

Peculiar County. Available right about....NOW!