Castration Fascination!

 

Ouch!

Recently I was visiting my daughter. The conversation turned to her new(ish) nephew.

"You wanna know why my nephew couldn't get castrated when he was born?" she asked.

I looked at her boyfriend who looked at me. 

"Castrated?" said the incredulous boyfriend. "Um...I think you mean 'circumcised.'"

As we all had a good laugh, my knees clenched together as tight as my teeth and I crossed my legs. In protective mode. The mere thought of castration gives me the heebie-jeebies.

But apparently we weren't quite done with the topic. My daughter's boyfriend (who grew up on a farm) started explaining the elaborate process of how they castrated their cows. The details don't matter (and I don't care to dwell on the topic too long), but it had to do with this really strong band they put around the cows testicles cutting off the circulation so they could lop. CHOP!

And OUCH again.

Still stubbornly staying on this very cringe-inducing topic, it turns out the BF had eaten "Rocky Mountain Oysters" before. Ugh. I'm usually pretty daring when it comes to food experimentation but eating a goat's "jewels" is above my pay-grade.

Then I started wondering why in the world would my daughter's BF's family want to castrate their cows. I mean, doesn't it make sense that the more cows you have, the more meat and milk you can hawk?

Apparently, I was wrong (something that NEVER, EVER happens; just ask my wife). Castrating male cows improves meat quality, making it more tender through "marbling," a fancy-schmancy term for fatty deposits. Wow. That was all the science I needed to know about that. But can you imagine the indignity of first having your jewels lopped off so you can be eaten later? As I write this, I'm locking my knees together more securely than Trump's classified files (wait...).

Which brings me to pity the poor plight of the eunuchs, those castrated men from the past (not so golden) olden days. Curious (yet extremely uncomfortable, mind you), I researched why in the world they'd do this to any man. Some of the reasons were punishment for crimes. Okay, fair enough, I think the act of "chemically castrating" some rapists may still be going on.

Historically, eunuchs were thought to make better royal servants with their sexual inhibitions curbed. Religious motives? Yikes! Some guys did it to themselves, thinking it aligned with their faith. Somehow I missed that lesson in Bible school.

Finally, here's the craziest reason of all: castrating men was thought to make better opera singers in the Baroque period, keeping their voices high-pitched. AIEEEEEEE! I'd shriek in a high-pitched tone too, if some kooky opera buff came at me with a pair of hedge trimmers.

Okay, I think I've milked this topic enough, ball-ieve it or not. If you'd like to know more, the BALL's in your court. (I'll be here all weekend. Ba-da-bing!)

Since I'm in a particularly juvenile mood, I may as well hawk my king of juvenile comedies, the Zach and Zora murder mystery series, guaranteed to be the only books you'll ever read about a dumb male stripper (but, PLEASE, call him a "male entertainment dancer") and his more often than not pregnant sleuth sister.  No shame in writing them, no shame in reading.

Monster Cat On The Loose!

By now, you guys know I'm a dog-lover. It's not that I hate cats...I'm just allergic to them.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Well, it is about my being allergic to them. If you put a cat around me and I happen to touch near my eye, it's all over. I turn into a crying, sneezing, wheezing pink-eyed mess.

But back to dogs. Dogs are fiercely loyal, full of character, funny, loving, doting, sloppy, playful, and depend entirely on humans to take care of them. It's a nice feeling.

Cats are...cats. They're quiet, sneaky, scary, boring, and when they feel like it, they'll bite or claw you for no reason. Just for the fun of it, I suppose. They're like goldfish. Only meaner. And did I mention I'm highly allergic to them?

So, the other day, I was tasked with going to this strange "feed and seed" store in the middle of the city to get dog food. After I figured out how to enter the place (it's like an Escape Room), the first thing I noticed were three cats running across my path.

Uh-oh.

The old guy asks how can he help me. I felt like saying by getting those damn cats away from me. Instead, I say, "Just picking up some dog food." Quickly, I scuttled toward the dog food, hefted a big-ass bag up and hoped to get out of there before I turned into a wet, soppy, crying mess.

But the old guy behind the counter had a different idea. "Ah! You're getting the bison!"

"Yeah. Nothing but the most expensive for our dogs, I guess," I said, while eyeballing what seemed like a dozen cats twisting and scampering around me.

The old guy wasn't put off by that. Must've been a slow day for him. "Well, golly...it's good stuff, though."

"I guess," I said. "But I've never tried it."

The ancient clerk looks at me. Blinks. Finally guffaws and slaps his knee. Meanwhile, one particularly clingy kitty was rubbing up against my legs. I could feel my eyes starting to water.

"That's a good one, yep. Had me going for a while. Yessir...'never tried it.' Heh." Suddenly he drops down behind the counter.

I'm wondering if I should call 911.

Like an ancient jack-in-the-box, he springs up with a scrawny mean-looking cat in his arms. And thrusts it toward me. "Here's my bison! What do you make of this mean fellow?"

Instinctively, I jumped back. "Oh...he's, um...thanks!" I grabbed the dog food and raced out of the store (once I found the exit).

Next time I go there, I'm wearing a mask, protective eyewear and a Hazmat suit. I swan...

Speaking of things that are furry and not so adorable, check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the only werewolf, horror, murder mystery, dark comedy, corporate satire out there!

Dick Swing, Auto Mechanic

Okay, before everyone with prurient tastes believes this to be a post tailor-made for them, you'll be better off reading Penthouse forum letters (is that still a thing?). No, this is a tale of holiday joy! Kinda. Sorta. Nah, I lied...

Before the holidays, I had purchased a Christmas-themed blu ray featuring the atrocious 60's Christmas kiddie film, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (I DON'T want to talk about it!). But the true reason I made this unholy purchase was the holiday-oriented ephemera including trailers, drive-in ads, short films, cartoons, and celebrity "buy war bonds" plugs.

The really, really weird part was the local cinema sponsor listings. You know, things like "Balllyhoo Theatre encourages you to buy your fine suits from Ed Gein, Tailor," and "After the show, eat at Sloppy Joe's Diner where it don't matter how dirty the plates is, it's the food what counts."

Well. I made the last two up, but you get the drift. But the one (this one factual) that really made our jaws drop was..."Stop by your local automobile mechanic, Dick Swing."

Gee. Mr. Swing either had a very, very traumatic childhood or enjoyed a very active sexual life. Maybe both.

Can you imagine going through life with a name like "Dick Swing?" Even though this was back in the 50's, I imagine his customers were giggling when he handed out his business cards. In fact, cavemen would've probably found vast amusement in this guy's name and grunted themselves silly.

Did poor Dick not have any friends? "Uh, listen...Dick...have you ever considered using your full-length...um, let me rephrase that...your real name, Richard, instead of Dick? For professional purposes?"

"Why...no. Why would I?" replied the oblivious Dick Swing.

At the DMV, they'd call his name out: "Swing? Dick SWING?"

Laughter would roll through the crowd like a sporting event wave. The guy at the desk would shake his head and say, "C'mon...are you puttin' one over on me, pal? What's your real name?"

And how did he introduce himself to women? "Hey, baby, I'm Dick Swing, master of tools. Come down to my garage and I'll look under your hood and--"

SMAK!

Or maybe he took the sophisticated James Bond  approach: "Swing. Dick Swing. I like it stirred not shaken."

SWAK!

Poor Dick must've been slapped so many times and never knew why.

These are the things that keep me up at night. (And sorry, sorry, sorry for this week's post. Yes, it's come down to "Dick jokes." Dick Swing, that is. SMACK!)

Speaking of juvenile humor, things don't get much more fifth grade level than my Zach and Zora comical mystery series about a dunderheaded male stripper and his poor suffering sleuth sister. Read all the books, laugh at the ridiculous characters and situations, thrill at the suspense and mystery, then pay penance for reading them with your local priest or pastor later. Check 'em out here!

Illness Intelligence Quotient

As I write this, I'm on my seventeenth day of sickness. No, no, it's not because of the nauseating outcome of the election (that's an entirely different illness), but it's the same ol', same ol' sickness I've suffered since childhood.

I could easily self-diagnose myself and write my own prescription (I hope my wife's not reading this!). The symptoms are always the same: it starts with a sore throat (or a better description would be a "thick throat," the kind where it feels like your esophagus has narrowed with a wall of mucous closing in, sorta like how Custer probably felt on his "last stand"); then it migrates into my chest where it causes a hellish cough that lasts and lasts, producing a sorta devil-possessed, Linda Blair voice; alongside this--if I'm lucky--all sorts of pretty phlegm of the lemon-lime rainbow sort will be hacked up; and finally, the last symptom: rampant stupidity.

Okay, that last indicator was recently diagnosed by my wife, a medical professional. She laughed at me and said, "You know, when you get sick, you turn into an idiot."

Blink. Blinkity-blink. Whaaaaaa? 

If my brain had been functioning properly, I might've taken offense. But later evidence proved her right (Why does she ALWAYS have to be right???).

For instance, in vain, I reached out to my primary care provider to see if she would prescribe an antibiotic for me without being seen. As I'd said, this routine always goes the same for me: four days of thick throat, followed by respiratory infection and an earthquake-shaking cough. Her nurse basically told me, "You've gotta be kidding me."

I told my wife what I had done and she said, "Duh! Don't be an idiot." Let the evidence speak for itself, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. But it gets worse.

Then I told her, "the nurse suggested I could do a viral assessment."

At this point, my wife proclaimed my Illness Intelligence Quotient (IIQ) was extremely low.

I couldn't really disagree with her findings. I mean, anything viral was the last thing I needed, how I got into this mess in the first place.

"You mean a 'virtual' assessment," she said, laughing and shaking her head.

Later, when she came down with the same illness (who's laughing now, smarty-pants? Ahem!). I asked her, "are you still going for your haircut?"

She said, "yes, but I'll wear a mask."

Then I said, "are you still going for your haircut?"

"You JUST asked me that!"

"I did? What was your answer?"

Clearly, my wife's IIQ is higher than mine.

Anyway, flash forward to two weeks and some change later, when I finally managed to set up a "virtual" assessment and whaddaya know? The nurse practitioner prescribed me an antibiotic. DUH! It's what I said over two weeks ago!

Maybe my IIQ isn't as low as initially assessed. Nahhhh.

Speaking of idiots, check out my Zach and Zora comical mystery series, starting with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. Therein, you'll find more madcap mystery, murder, mayhem, and the biggest idiot to ever headline a book series (alongside his capable, usually pregnant, very exasperated sleuth sister), then you'll ever want to read again. (Trust me on that. No, I really mean it...this series will make you NEVER want to read another book. I'm not proud of it, just stating the sorry facts.)

The Agony of Marching Band

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Attack of the Brain Cloud...

...or the Revenge of Joe and the Volcano. 

The other day my wife and I were discussing (i.e., arguing; hey, it's our hobby!) about the different ways we handle sleeplessness.

I told her, "when you don't sleep well, you thrive on it."

She disagreed. "Hardly! I don't 'thrive'. I make do and manage."

"Still seems like thriving to me," I muttered. "But when I can't sleep, it's like...a brain cloud lowers down on me."

"First of all, there's no such thing as a 'brain cloud,'" she said. 

"Yes, there is," I insisted. "I might've made it up, but it's very, very real."

"It came from a movie," she said authoritatively.

Humph. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a head jam-packed with worthless and pointless knowledge of movies (which when you come right down to it, probably wouldn't make me a very important and necessary component in the survivor camps during our impending zombie apocalypse.).

But...but...my wife stumped me on this one. "I know of no such movie," I statedtriumphantly. "What movie, pray tell, do you speak of?"

Immediately, she whips out, "Joe and the Volcano."

Silence. Blink. Crickets. More silence. Blinkety-blinky-blink.

"JOE AND THE VOLCANO?" I roar. "Who remembers friggin' Joe and the Volcano? I mean, I kinda think I've seen it, but don't remember anything about it except that it was painfully unfunny and terrible."

"Yes, it was. But that's where 'brain cloud' came from."

Wow. She stymied the Movie Master. This is made more incredible by the fact that at times my wife can't remember the movie we watched last weekend, let alone some obscure 34-year-old bomb  that NO ONE remembers like Joe and the Volcano.

But sure enough, according to Ms. Google, my wife was right (dammit! Gettin' kinda old!). Apparently, Tom Hanks character was diagnosed with an incurable deadly disease known as "brain cloud" which will kill him in several months.

However, Wiktionary (a very, very, VERY credible source, of course) refers to "Brain Cloud" as a very real ailment that causes "the temporary inability to think properly." Other scientists and psychologists refer to it as a nickname for the clouding of consciousness. There's a LOT more boring stuff about this insidious disease that I won't bother you with, but the most stunning aspect of it all is finally--FINALLY!--Joe and the Volcano will be remembered as something other than a terrible bomb and actually contributed to the field of science.

Speaking of really dumb and stupid things, look no further than my Zach and Zora comedy mystery series. If imbecilic humor and outrageous situations and decidedly impolitically correct comedy and  cool murder mysteries are your bag, have a read! Start with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and spiral on downwards from there! Plus! A brand spankin' new book in the series coming to you some time this century!

I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night

So I had just fallen asleep. Dreamland whisked me away to an impossible, yet all too real at the time, nightmare scenario.

My boss (from a mysterious, unremembered job) signed me up to box Donald Trump. Having no say in the matter, I dreaded the event until the day of, when I suddenly realized I didn't even know where the venue was or what time I was to show up (pretty typical "dream logic" for me). Finally, some ex-co-worker from my last job (NEVER liked the guy) told me it was at a "Home and Garden Show" in downtown Kansas City.

So I showed up in a suit with hard, pointy dress shoes. The panicked small Asian guy who was in charge of the event asked, "Where are your boxing clothes?"

I pointed to my suit and said, "Ahhhh...this is all I have. Nobody told me anything."

The event was being promoted everywhere and I felt like the entire future of the country was weighing on my shoulders to beat the former president in the boxing ring. I worried that I was so out-of-shape now, that Trump might pummel me. Worse, I dreaded his inevitable name-calling, doxing, and bullying.

I'll never know how I fared in the battle as I woke up in a fevered sweat. With boxing gloves next to my bed. (Okay, I made up that last part because I thought it was post-ironic funny. Take that, hipsters!).

Now. What's my dream mean? I could posit some armchair, pop Freudian symbolism about how Trump represents a danger to the country and I feel threatened by him, but I'm not going to go there. (Although I just kinda went there anyway, didn't I?). Or perhaps it had to do with Trump's latest grift in a long line of griftiness, where if you buy ten of his NFT cards (only $100 bucks each!), you'll get a piece of his "knockout suit" to go with it! Wow! Bargain! (I wonder if Monica Lewinsky is selling pieces of her notorious dress. Ew. Sorry, sorry, sorry...). Or maybe it's the fact that this crazy felon is STILL dominating news headlines four years after he left the White House in shame.

I'll leave it up to you guys to decipher the deeper meaning of it all, although I'll leave you with one message: GO KAMALA!

For more nonsense, check out my Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Start with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and unravel the wacky excitement from there!

The Girding of the Loins

I girded my loins (and what does that even mean? Hang on a minute while I ask my research assistant, Ms. Google... Ah! It means "to prepare to do something dangerous or difficult." Going back further, apparently it is of biblical origin: in the ancient Orient, long, loose garments had to be hitched up to avoid tripping. Furthermore, in the Bible, a "loin" is a part of the body that needs to be covered with clothing. So...I suppose it means covering up your privates? I'm still unclear.  Apologies for digressing all over the place...)

So...where was I? Okay, there I was girding my loins, waiting for my wife to come home. It was going to be grueling as I had a terrible, deep, dark confession regarding something I had done that day. So I girded. Girded my loins like the wind.

The girding came to an abrupt stop as I heard her car pull into the driveway. My loins shriveled up, all of the pre-girding in the world just flown out the window. 

The door opened and any thoughts of more power girding went the way of disco.

"Hi honey," I blurted out in a rush as she stepped inside. "How was your day? I have a deep, dark confession to make!"

She went through her routine of putting things down, saying hello to the dogs, and then she approached me.

Dread written all over her face, she asked, "What'd you do?"

"Um...you know that stupid game I play on my phone? You know, where I accidentally keep killing the King? 'Royal Match?' That one?"

"What'd you do?"

"I...ah...that is...um,,, now don't hate me and it really wasn't my fault. It was almost an accident. Yeah! Kinda an accident! So, you see...I've been stuck on the same level for about five days with no way out and...um...you see...I-paid-$2.99-for-some-extra-coins-to-get-outta-that-level!"

She gasped, a long wheeze drawn out for comical effect. I thought, hey, if she's going for comedy, I'm in the clear! For you see, we've had an unspoken pact between us that we would never pay for games. In fact, we never understood those who do throw their money away on games. But...hardcore addiction is a terrible thing.

"That's something we don't do," she said. "Shame on you! Bad Stuart, bad!"

So, like a dog with his tail between his legs, I whimpered some more lame excuses, and quickly retreated to the dog house where I had been banished.

But I'd learned my lesson... Although, come to think of it...I'm kinda stuck again in the game, so...where's that credit card?

Speaking of boneheaded moves, have you heard about Zach, the bone-headed stripper (sorry...make that "male entertainment dancer") who continues to stumble across dead bodies? Yeah, and it's always up to his beleaguered, short-tempered, usually pregnant sleuth sister Zora to bail him out of trouble by finding the real murderer! The fun starts in Bad Day in a Banana Hammock available here and continues on in two more books. (And hopefully, soon a fourth book if I ever get off my duff and finish it!).

Hey, kids! It's Snack Night!

After college, a lot of my graduate friends from the University of Kansas settled in the same Kansas City area, and we shamefully continued to act like college kids for many more years. On Friday and Saturday nights, we could always be found down in the Westport area (lots and lots of bars within walking distance, the trendy area at the time), closing down the place every weekend.

But along with old traditions, several new traditions were forged. There was the tradition of going to Don Chilito's for Sunday hangover lunch. Don Chilito's (which long-time blog readers may remember my writing about before) was a particularly terrible Tex-Mex restaurant with awful food, but we found it perfect for ourselves, immensely enjoying the camaraderie and comedy. (I know...it doesn't make sense to me now, either.)

However, the new tradition that I enjoyed the most was "Snack Night." It began small. When my brother and I lived together in a rented house, every Sunday we'd go to the grocery store and just stack our respective grocery carts full of ludicrous snacks. The worse it was for you, the better. 

I remember the check-out clerk always looking at us funny, when one of us would unload the cart onto the conveyor belt. There was ice cream and syrup, potato chips, french onion dip, crackers, cookies, Lil' Debbie's artificial sugary nothing-cakes, corn chips, salsa, drumsticks (not the chicken variety, mind you, but the dipped in chocolate and peanut ice cream cones), hot fudge, cheese dip, jalapenos, hot sauce, candy bars, you name it, it went onto the conveyor belt. And not a vegetable to be found, thank you very much, no siree Bob!

Then the other West brother would follow, emptying his cart onto the belt while the clerk just kinda gawped at us. It wasn't unusual for us to rack up fifty to sixty bucks in crap each week. (With inflation, it'd be about three times that much now).

But that was just the first step in snack night. While we'd gorge ourselves silly at home, we'd make a point of watching the worst possible film available.

That was my job. I'd study, read reviews, scan the latest video releases, and pull a winner (i.e., loser). (Side note: Hey, Millennials! You whippersnappers ever head of videotapes? You kids today and your instant streaming don't know how lucky you have it! Why, back in my day...)

Some of the highlights of our movie viewing included Cool As Ice, the ludicrously, unintentionally hilarious film starring nominal white rapper, Vanilla Ice, as a bad-ass, nominally rapping (natch), romantic lead. His slow romantic ballad and the ensuing slo-mo montage has to be seen to be believed.  

 Road House was another favorite, one of the dumbest, yet most inexplicably popular films we'd ever seen, where a bar bouncer in "Kansas (complete with mountains in the background!)" has a national reputation as the best bouncer in the world! My favorite scene is where the lisping hero (Patrick Swayzee) takes the bad guy's (perpetually sneering and grinning Ben Gazarra) girlfriend home with him to his house. While they're "making love," Ben Gazarra steps out on his veranda and watches them...RIGHT NEXT DOOR! And then there was Over the Top, of course, the heartwarming and pulse-pounding tale of a down-on-his-luck, yet lovable lug (Sylvester Stallone) who attempts to win back the love of his snot-nosed, annoying son (played by some snot-nosed, annoying kid) by dragging him to the utmost of importance arm wrestling championships.

I think you kinda get the drift of the entertainment we desired...no, craved. Perfect match for the quality of "food" we consumed. (Too bad there wasn't ever a film about a hot dog eating championship; that would've perfectly met our Snack Night requirements).

Snack Night grew in membership. First one college pal joined, then another, and another, until word on the street turned it into a mini-phenomenon (not really, but I'm a writer). Soon, we had about a dozen to fifteen guys crammed into our small and modestly furnished living room, crowded around a small TV with a beat-up Korean VCR on top of it.

Snack food wrappers littered the floor. The microwave was kept busy, constantly dinging. Nachos were burnt, eaten anyway, and spilled. Ice cream melted and was eaten with a straw. Chips crunched beneath our feet. The refrigerator was always packed, the food spilling out onto the kitchen countertops. It truly looked like a battlefield and as they say, War is Hell.

Or Heaven, eye of the beholder and all.

Now, there was an unspoken rule about Snack Night. It wasn't ever truly defined, but we had a no girlfriend policy. (Usually.) It's not like we were Spanky and Alfalfa's He Man Woman Haters Club. No, it wasn't like that at all. I kinda think that any woman we knew at the time considered our barbaric ritual as too utterly grotesque for them. I'm pretty sure they were right, too.

No matter, it was a place and time where we could hang out and do whatever. Given our youth and good health at the time, no weight was gained or diseases contracted. Shocking, I know.

I'm not sure when and how Snack Night disbanded, but I'm pretty sure marriages were involved.

Hmmm. I wonder if my wife would object to my bringing back Snack Night to our house... Yeah! I'll keep it simple and only invite ten guys the first time and...and...

Nah. My health couldn't handle it now. Maybe some traditions are better off buried. (And there's no way my wife would go for it. I'm sorry, Spanky and Alfalfa!)

While I'm waxing nostalgic, I'd be remiss if I didn't plug my book, Peculiar County. If spooky nostalgia's your bag, boy, have I got a book for you. Taking place in the '60's (right before the turbulence began), Peculiar County tells the tale of a tom-boy living in a small farming town in Kansas, who stumbles onto a murder mystery. Did I mention that there are also ghosts, witches, a haunted hanging tree, something that flies the night skies, and much, much more? A book for all ages (but don't let that throw you!), it also happens to be my favorite out of my 21 titles. Come visit scenic Peculiar County here!

Ladders and Ironing Boards and Maps...Oh My!

I don't know what the deal is. Really, I don't. But, I constantly have trouble trying to open and/or close ladders, ironing boards, and maps. Call it my Triad of Tyranny, but trying to put these three items back away in storage positions completely flummoxes me every time. 

They're much worse than trying to solve a kazillion piece puzzle. (By the way, I once asked my wife why she likes to do puzzles. "It's relaxing," she says. Huh. Since when is extreme aggravation relaxing? Worse, after you've slaved over them for weeks, you immediately destroy the results! I say, it's a far, far, mega-far step away from relaxation. But there I go again, digressing like the wind...)

Putting away ladders is definitely not relaxing. It's anti-relaxing. The other day, my wife left a huge and tall, extended ladder in the backyard, propped up against a tree. "Hey, would you put the ladder away?" she asked me.

"Sure." I mean, how hard could it be, I thought. Right?

Turns out plenty. I needed four hands. You have to steady it, there goes two hands. Then you need to unclasp the latch (hello, third hand!) to bring it down one lousy rung at a time. If you're lucky. (Of course your fourth hand is busy darting back and forth, trying not to get the bejeezus pinched out of it). It's a clear-cut case of a true four- hander. And that's assuming you can figure out how to work the nonsensical clasp gadget and annoying ropes that dangle in your face like annoying gnats.

Defeated, I went inside.

"Did you get the ladder put away," my wife calls out.

"No," I say morosely, arms folded and sinking into the sofa,  sulking that a stupid ladder defeated me.

Then there's the curious case of ironing boards. First off, it's gotta be said, my ironing skills suck. For whatever reason, it takes me twice as long to iron an item than it does my wife. By the time I carefully iron one quarter of my shirt, then flip it over to iron the other side, the wrinkles sneak back in on the previously ironed portion. Arghh! Talk about an exercise in frustration. Then I've also been known to melt my shirts. I didn't even know such a thing was possible!

"You're melting your shirt!" In a hotel room, my wife shoved me out of the way and assumed emergency position at the board, trying to resuscitate my apparel. "Let me do it!" 

"Good!" Again, I'm left in a defeated, emasculated manner. "Wish you woulda done it in the first place."

"Here," she thrusts the shirt toward me. "Put the board away."

Okay, I thought, time for me to pull my weight, piece back together a little bit of my frail, shattered male ego. But then I find out, it's not so easy, another example of why humans should have three hands. The latch beneath it never works for me. I push, pull, wiggle, jab, smack, curse at it, and the stubborn legs still won't fold up like a good ladder. By the time my wife comes out of the bathroom, I've got the dumb ladder upside down on the bed, wrestling it like an alligator.

Show-off that she is, natch, my wife collapses it with a finger and nary a curse word.

Don't even get me going on roadmaps. It's impossible to fold them back the same way twice. In fact, they seem to grow in thickness like a wet sponge every time I attempt to put them right again, too big to slip into the allocated glove box spot. Usually, I end up cramming a big, fat ham sandwich of paper back into the box, hoping my wife doesn't see my map killing spree.

Where do people learn these ladder and ironing board and map-folding skills? Clearly, I was playing hooky at school on those days. Or something. And my parents never taught me about the tricky intricacies of putting said items away, I guess assuming it was common sense. Perhaps women intuitively know how to handle these things? Maybe born with more common sense than men? But that doesn't make sense as more men know how to whip ladders into shape than women (at least from what I've witnessed, so don't go casting sexist stones at me!).

Or...maybe it's just me?

Nahhhhhhh. Uh-uh. No way. Couldn't be. It is to laugh! Ha! "Me." Sheesh... What was I thinking?

While we're talking about men getting confused over things, consider poor Zach, a "male entertainment dancer (NEVER a stripper)," who seems to be puzzled over everything in life, except for taking his clothes off for pay. Imagine his befuddlement when he wakes up with no memory of the night before, no clothes, and a dead man next to him in a strange bed. It's time to involve his sister, the long-suffering, usually pregnant, highly competent, yet incredibly irritable sleuth, Zora, to save his hide (and prove to everyone he's not gay; he has a rep with the ladies to maintain, natch). It's just the start of the non-stop wackiness, mystery and murderrrrrr that unravels in Bad Day in a Banana Hammock (the first in a series of Zach and Zora comedy mysteries). Zach's very bad, no good day can be discovered here!

I Had a...Nightmare of Nannies!

I'm super stoked to announce the republication of the third Zach and Zora comedic mystery series, Nightmare of Nannies from the fine, fine folks at Crossroad Press.

Why am I super stoked? Because these books are actually tons of fun to write. They make me giggle like my inner eight year old. I hope they might entertain a few of you, too.

In fact these books are so dad-gum outrageous, they've been banned in Florida for being much too woke and promoting Critical Male Entertainment Dancer Theory.

 Maybe I better give a little more background...

Juggling four kids while working as a detective is tough enough. Zora LeFevre sure didn’t need her nanny dying first day on the job. Especially when it looks like murder and something’s fishy about her nanny supplier.

Meanwhile, a serial killer van’s chasing her dimwit stripper (but don't call him that! He prefers "male entertainment dancer") brother, Zach, and his tear-away pants have been stolen. A mariachi band is his only hope for survival. Worse, Zach’s head-over-heels, willing to learn country line-dancing, in love.

Nannies are dangerous, no one is as they seem, bullets are flying, and it’s another uproariously bad day for Zach and Zora.

Okay, explosive hyperbole blurb over!

(Wait...I lied. I'm not done hyping yet...) 

One reviewer compared Zack and Zora to Nick and Nora from the old Thin Man movies. Someone said the books read like screwball comedies from the '30's. The best compliment I got was someone called it "hilariously un-p.c!" Yeah!

I also try to top load the books with nutty characters. Besides Zach and Zora (and her screaming, out-of-control four kids), we've got the singing police detective, the fried hippy parents, more zany nannies than you can shake a stick at, and murder suspects out the wahzoo.

And if you think the books sound a little too silly...I do try and include a creditable murder mystery each time as well. Nannies may be my favorite in the series so far as I actually try to plug in a little character development. Perhaps everyone's favorite male stripper (erm, sorry...male entertainment dancer), Zach, is growing up a bit.  Nahhhhh.

Anyway, read Nightmare of Nannies and see what all the fuss is about (in my head)! Pick up the first books, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and Murder by Massage and find out why they're so critically acclaimed (by my cousin)!

(Psst...I'm back to work on the fourth Zach and Zora book, Massacre of Mustaches, coming soon to finer interwebs booksellers near your fingertips!)

End of shameless plug! Carry on...

Bubble Guts

I can always tell when my daughter's having a slow work day?

How?

Because I get the following text:

"Hey, Dad, have you ever heard of bubble guts?"

"No. What are they?"

"Look it up."

Sigh. So now she's got me hooked, an unwitting ally in her nefarious game. Just when I think I'm out, she draws me back in. As my fingers fly across the keyboard, I'm wondering what the elusive and mysterious "bubble guts" could be. What possible treasures of knowledge might it lead me to? Surely, for my daughter (and co-workers) to take time out of their busy work day to discuss bubble guts, it has to be something of such great import that it will lead to something to enrich my life! To improve the world!!!

Bring it on!

According to Ms. Wikipedia, bubble guts is a stomach rumble, also known as a bowel sound, peristaltic sound, abdominal sound, bubble gut or borborygmus, produced by movement of the contents of the gastro-intestinal tract as they are propelled through the small intestine.

Huh.

Furthermore, "the scientific name borborygmus is related to the 16th-century French word borborygme, itself from Latin." (Which doesn't tell me much except for borborygmus is taken very seriously by someone on Wikipedia and"bubble guts" is much easier to pronounce than "borborygmus.")

Okay. I now am aware of what bubble guts are. But honestly? I don't really feel my life is enriched all that much. And just why in the name of God did my daughter want me to look it up? And WHY were they discussing it at work?

She's not told me why, not yet, but I imagine the conversation went something like this:

"Oh, man, I've got bad bubble guts this morning," exclaims employee number one.

"What's bubble guts?" asks employee number two.

"I'm so glad you asked! Why, it's a stomach rumble, also known as a bowel sound, peristaltic sound, abdominal sound, bubble gut or borborygmus, bla, bla, bla..."

As I said, busy day at the work place.

But enough is enough. Why do we have an unpronounceable name for something that could just as easily be labeled as "gas?" And who gave it the "bubble guts" baby moniker? ("What's the matter, sweetums, has mommy's lil' baby gotums some bubble guts this morn-morn?") And not only is it taken seriously by the French, but dates back to Latin importance as well! That's a lotta high-falutin' involvement for gas!

Gah! Instead of enriching my life, it's just opened up a whole new world of mystery and unanswered questions.

I think I'll stick with "gas," thank you very much.

While I don't offer any books dealing with gas (and for that you should be very, very grateful), my character Zach (he of the Zach and Zora comical mystery series), is certainly full of hot air (see what I did there?). That is until he continually stumbles over dead bodies leading him into a world of trouble that only his sleuthing sister, Zora, can bail him out of. Check 'em out: Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and Murder by Massage. (More on the way soon!)

 

Home Unimprovement

Take a look at the disaster that had become our living room. Now...gaze in awe at our dog, Mr. Loomis. Man, all that work sure tuckered HIM out.

Several weeks ago, my wife decided we needed a rowing machine. Being no fool, I nodded my head vigorously in agreement, while my back whined in secret. I knew what this meant; lots of hard back-breaking labor as we'd move stuff around time and time again.

SO why was Mr. Loomis so exhausted? I suppose it's hard work dodging his people as we stumbled over him, carrying 100 pound loads of books, awkward boxes of rowing machines, and Laurel and Hardying incredibly heavy objects up and down the stairs. It can't be easy trying not to get squashed.

I suppose I should clarify: when my wife takes on a project, it's not simply unloading a box and slapping a rowing machine together. No, indeedy. As we're both book collectors (between us there are at least 20 bookshelves jam-packed with books throughout the house), this always means the quarterly unloading, trading, carrying, moving, and reloading of the bookshelves. As inevitable in our house as taxes and vacuum cleaners breaking. Personally, I don't see the need to constantly move and swap books, but I think it's my wife's secret way of punishing me for my "man sins." But I do it anyway.

And there's Mr. Loomis, not missing a beat, always underfoot. No wonder he was so worn out. Pity poor, overworked Mr. Loomis.

Usually, projects like this means moving everything out of one room and junking up another room, in this case, our living room. So after much trading out of the furniture, our tornadic home improvement scenario at long last reached the half-way point. We finally--FINALLY--begin unloading the rowing machine. Not until we reached the heaviest piece at the bottom of the box, did I realize it was bent.

Silence. Crickets. Screams.

Incredibly, I volunteered to repackage it by myself since my wife had impending work deadlines. Or I should say Mr. Loomis and I repackaged it. But I thought I'd go it one better and put it together by myself so my wife wouldn't have to.

Huge mistake number two. When did the instructions get so damn complex? Why do we have 10,000 differents sizes of screws and bolts and nuts and gizmos and whatchamacallits and things I never want to see again, let alone have nightmares about? Why can't they make them all uniform in size? Or name? Is this some sort of sick job security on the "designer's" part? And, the illustrations were so small, I'd squint and squint and then get out my magnifying glass and STILL not be able to decipher what my eyes blurred over.

So, after many, many hours of getting things wrong, bracing parts by using various body limbs and furniture, breaking other stuff in the house, sweating, and lots and lots of cursing (oh my Lord, was there lots and lots of cursing), Mr. Loomis and I had finally completed the task! Ta-da! And with only five mystery parts left over, my new personal best!

Alas, the story has a depressing ending. Not only is my weight over the limit proposed for use on the rowing machine (talk about a damned ironic Catch-22), once we received the replacement, it came time to carry the damaged, accursed package to the UPS store. This time, my wife joined me (Mr. Loomis sat this one out; he was pretty exhausted by our earlier efforts). We struggled, winced, fought, and strained to get that sucker into my car and to the store. I told my wife, "This stupid thing must weigh at least 200 pounds." She replied, "that's nothing, we should be able to handle that easily." Ha.

So we finally get it into the store and the guy behind the desk is screaming, "Don't put it down, don't put it down, don't put it down! Get it on the scale!"

Exhausted with my back screaming, I drop it on the floor. Huffing and panting, I manage, "Okay...just a...second...then I'll..."

The younger clerk says, "I'll get it." He rushes over to it, swoops it up by himself, and drops it onto the scale. "72 pounds," he screams, loud enough for everyone in the shop to know our shame.

My wife and I hung our heads as we exited the store to derisive laughter, from then on forever known as the weakling couple who couldn't handle 72 pounds between them.

But at least Mr. Loomis slept well that night, just plum tuckered.

While on the topic of getting into shape, the protagonist of my book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, is in great shape! Well, he should be since he's a stripper...er, um, excuse me, a "male entertainment dancer" as he prefers to be called. Check it out to see what wild, funny antics he gets into when he gets caught up in a murder mystery. Sure, he's dumb as a box of rocks, but he wouldn't struggle with a 72 pound package! 

 

Murder by Massage...once more with feeling

It's the book "The Man" didn't want you to read! It's the book suppressed because of its daring and provocative subject matter! It's one of the top ten books that the hard-right conservatives want to see burned! It's the book that...that...

Okay, all of that is a lie. Kinda, sorta.

I guess "The Man" didn't really stop you from reading this book before when it was printed by another publisher. Nope, that was down to a couple of old romance writing ladies who didn't understand my rollicking sense of humor, outlandish characters, and ludicrous mysteries. So, I guess in a way, "The (Wo)Man" did hold you back.

On the other hand Boundless Book Reviews says, "Murder by Massage is chaotic, fun and hilarious!"

So, YOU be the judge!

Because Murder by Massage is back in print! What is Murder by Massage, you ask? Cool! I'm stoked to tell you...

It's the second book in the Zach and Zora comedy mystery series (following Bad Day in a Banana Hammock), that details the adventures of an unusual sibling sleuth duo. Zach’s a vapid male stripper prone to stumbling across dead bodies; Zora, his sister, is a very irritable, very pregnant, very competent ex-security specialist who bails her bro out of trouble (with three kids in tow).

Mix in a cult of "Furries;" a bewigged, pompous pastor and bratty kids; a dance-off; a g-string clad chase through the streets of Kansas City; radical revolutionist old hippies; lots of body oil; and laughs, murder and mystery.

Now, thanks to the good folks at Crossroad Press (*ahem* Clive Barker's publisher *ahem* shameless name drop, name drop, name drop *cough*), you can once again sit back, relax, and enjoy the adventures of Zach and Zora from the comforts of home. Or mass transit. Or work, if you're a slacker.

The third book in the series, Nightmare of Nannies, will follow and I'm currently still working on the fourth book, Massacre of Mustaches (yes, it's been a while; Hey, I'm getting old! My fingers ain't as swift as they used to be!).

SURGEON GENERAL WARNING: Do not read Bad Day in a Banana Hammock or Murder by Massage while operating heavy machinery. Do not attempt to read this comic mystery series while drinking liquids (particularly in front of any electronics). Pregnant women should avoid the Zach and Zora series as the books have been known to induce labor. The books may cause general dizziness, diarrhea, and halitosis. If symptoms persist, see a doctor and tell him Zach and Zora sent you. Don’t drive while reading the series because that’s just dumb.

That's Murder by Massage, part of a kinda cozy, kinda funny, mystery series, available here.