BANNED!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Day the Earth Swallowed Me

Just another ordinary day. No, scratch that. Unlike our horrible Winter, it was an unnaturally beautiful February day. No snow, no ice, no winds, no tornados...just the temperature hanging out in the terrific upper '60's. And it felt great.

So Spring Fever beckoned me to sit out on the deck and watch my dogs do their business (an old guy hobby I've developed; you've gotta take your fun where you can find it.).

Now, our senior (mostly blind) dog was lagging behind as usual. So, I ventured out into the yard to gather him up and carry him inside.

With dog in arms, my arthritis dwindling due to the warm temperature, everything was going extremely well!

Naturally that's when Mother Nature decided to play a nasty trick on me. Halfway through the yard, the deck and back door into the house well within sight, BLAMMO!

The hell?...

I'm not sure what happened to our dog, but my entire right leg had fallen through the earth. Incredulous, stunned, I was stuck in the earth, my leg dangling below me into a hellish crater.

My first thought was This can't be happening. My second thought: My God, what kind of huge-ass creature burrowed this cave beneath six inches of top soil and is it going to eat my leg off? Finally, my most realistic thought occurred: I've stumbled into The Mole People's den!

Panicked, I began to yell and holler for my wife who was working upstairs. And it was the first time I ever cursed our house for having great sound insulation.

Stuck in the earth, no one to hear my cries for help before the Mole People devoured me, I weighed my options. My phone wasn't with me, so that was out of the question (never again will I belittle kids for having their phone glued to their hands). And as in the James Franco film where he cut off his arm to survive, that option seemed unlikely as I had no cutting utensil and my teeth couldn't reach my thigh.

If only one of our neighbors would look out the window, they would see me with the earth enveloping the entirety of my right leg and my left leg buckled beneath me in an agonizing contortionist's squat. No time for embarrassment!

The dogs were no help. The two younger ones just stood on the deck, wagging their tails while watching me squirm in pain. (I think they thought I was "taking care of my business.") Finally, the older, near-blind dog walked up toward me and I tried to shoo him away. If he fell into the hole, I wasn't sure we could fish him out as the cave felt like it went all the way to China (like in those informationally accurate cartoons I learned geography from).

I was on my own. With a great Herculean surge of energy, I unfolded my bent leg. Using my arms, I pushed through the surrounding mud (created by a foot of recently melted snow) until I got a good grip on the ground and pulled my leg out of the hole. It was still intact! Clearly, the Mole People were still slumbering.

But I couldn't get up. My arthritis was on fire, aggravated by my plummet into the earth, my knees, back and toes screaming for relief. Plus I had nothing to leverage my way up to standing.

Survival instinct kicked in. Using mostly my arms I pulled myself-- half-slithering, half-crawling--through wet grass, mud and dog poop. Lots and lots and LOTS of dog poop. Finally, I reached the deck where I was able to hoist myself up on my battered legs.

That was when my wife finally came to the rescue. She came into the kitchen and stopped at the open back door when she saw me.

Painted all the pretty (and smelly) earth-tones of mud and doggy-poo, I must've been quite the sight.

"Oh my..." she said, her eyes widening. "What happened?"

I explained. Carefully, she went out to the new hole in the yard, put her phone inside and took pictures. A vast cave just like I had thought, but that wasn't the weirdest part.

"Whoa," she exclaimed. "There's a concrete wall down there!"

I hobbled my way toward the excavation point, careful to stand as far back as I could. I couldn't see the wall, but her picture showed me the proof.

That's when my thoughts swam from woe-is-me tragedy to big-bucks-bonanza for us!

Obviously, we'd discovered Al Capone's TRUE vault, full of stacks and stacks of cash and Jimmy Hoffa's body! Eat it, Geraldo!

Then my wife sorta brought me back down to earth. "I don't know who to call in this situation."

"The press! Our financial guy! Everyone who's ever hacked us off, so we can rub our new riches in their--"

"I'll call our insurance agent," she said, ever the voice of reason.

The insurance agent told us to call the city. The city guy came out and said, "Not our problem. It's an old septic tank. Maybe an old cellar."

Boom. Fizzle, fizzle, fizzle... All of my dreams of fabulous monetary wealth went up as fast as my leg went down into the earth.

But...who do you call to restore the earth? I'm sorry, Mother Nature! Don't take it out on us! We recycle and do what we can to preserve our earth. Blame it on the Maga's! Make THEM fall through their yards! 

While I'm whining about lost opportunities, I may as well plug a book. Hey, it's Tex, the Witch Boy! My very first book and still one of my wife's favorites. It's got suspense, mystery, murder, witchcraft (natch), humor, pathos, romance, ghosts, supernatural shenanigans, a serial killer, and I do believe there's even a kitchen sink in there somewhere. But quit reading the hype, and go buy the dang thing already!

A Case of Mistaken Sidneys

Before we were married, my wife lived in a house with two other women (one of whom was responsible for introducing me to my wife). So, after I went out with the boys on the weekend, I would call her when I got back home.

"Hello." One of Sidney's roommates answered, sleep slogging her voice.

"Oh, sorry to wake you," I said. "But if Sidney's still awake, can I talk to her?"

"Just a minute..." She set the phone down (this was back in the olden days of landline phones). In the background, I heard voices grumbling.

"Hello." Her voice sounded extremely froggy, nearly a man's voice.

I paused for a second. "Sidney?" Just double-checking to make sure.

"Yes."

"Huh. Are you sick?"

"Yes," she replied again.

"You must be. Your voice sounds awful," I said.

"Yes." Sidney was rarely at a loss for words, so I figured she must REALLY be sick. Must've hurt her to talk.

"Well...how're you doing, honey?" 

"Okay."

Now I was really puzzled. This didn't sound like her at all. "Sidney?" I asked again.

"Yes."

"Um...sorry I woke you up if I did."

"Okay."

Crickets. Soooo many crickets. Finally, I broke the silence with another question, this time kinda loud and disbelieving, the second syllable rising in pitch. "SidNEY?"

"Yes?"

Finally, I decided I'd dialed the wrong number. "I'm afraid I have the wrong Sidney. Sorry to have bothered you."

"Okay."

Alright, after we'd hung up, the entire conversation blew my mind. My wife's name is an unusual one. What were the chances that I'd accidentally called some random guy named Sidney? It's not like there are a ton of them out there.

Even odder, frog-voiced Sidney never once asked who I was. Just answered in one word sentences, English possibly being his second language. Furthermore, his (presumed) wife who answered the phone seemed nonplussed at the fact I said "can I talk to HER?"

Finally, somewhere there's a lovelorn, froggy-voiced guy named Sidney who wasn't phased at all that I had called him "honey."

Speaking of mistaken identities, pity poor Leon Garber. Leon's got it all, a decent day-time job, and a good position with a top-secret, shadow organization that aids in his night-time hobby: murdering bad people. But when Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. decides to put a target on Leon's back, he thinks there must surely be a mistake. What's a friendly neighborhood serial killer to do? Read the darkly comical, suspenseful shenanigans in my Killers Incorporated trilogy to find the answers!

More Neurotic Than the Dog

Recently, my wife said, "you're more neurotic than the dog."

"Huh," I said.

Then of course, I pondered the ramifications of this statement. You see, the dog she was referring to is kinda neurotic. She can't stay still, barks at the sky, and every bird and squirrel is taken as a personal affront on her good character.

So, point by point: 1) Am I able to stay still? Oh, hell yes, I'm an award-winning champion at planting myself on the sofa and not moving for twelve hours. In fact, I'd go as far to say I'm the Joey Chestnut of sofa sitting, a world champion. So that argument is shot.

 2) Do I bark at the sky? Of course not. I don't bark. However, a case could be made for my wife who shouts at stupid characters on TV. Now, who's the neurotic one?

3) Finally, while I don't particularly like birds and squirrels, I don't take it personally. Unless they poop on my car, which happens all the time, then I know they're out to get me. Okay, so maybe I get a little neurotic about those stupid birds dive-bombing my car repeatedly and "HEY, STUPID BIRDS! GET OUTTA MY YARD!"

This message has been presented to you by the Neurotic Board of Kansas.

Speaking of neurotic messes, poor Leon Garber would probably top that list. But he has good reason to. For Leon's a serial killer who targets the lowest scum he can find. However the sinister organization, Like-Minded Individuals, who used to work in conjunction with Leon by providing victim's names, have inexplicably targeted Leon. Check out the Secret Society trilogy of suspense and morbidly dark humor, available here.

The Name Game

What's in a name? Quite a lot as I discovered this past Thanksgiving.

Ever since the holiday, when my relatives dropped some great names and stories, I've been thinking about it quite a bit.

Let's take college sports, for instance. My nephew told me that the name of the University of Oklahoma's quarterback is..."General Booty." Yep, not a typo, not a bad dream, not a military title, but more than probably parents with a sense of humor. Or they hated their son.

I mean, I can hear the game announcements already: "Looks like we've got General Booty on the field!" or "Would you look at that General Booty!" or "The ref just made a Booty call!"

Poor guy. No wonder he had to excel at sports. (Although I suppose it's better than being named "Specific Booty.")

Then here in my stomping grounds of Kansas, ripped straight from the basketball team of my alma mater, KU, comes...Gradey Dick! Now on the surface, the Jayhawk guard's name isn't that unusual. But it's become kinda a Big Deal with people on the intronets, trying to one-up each other with naughty posts on Gradey's name. It's even become part of the lexicon of the game announcers (whether they realize it or not). Things I've read or heard include: "Dick is driving it hard on the floor!' and "What we need right now is some Dick!" and "Looks like Dick is pummeling the other team!"

(But don't feel too bad for Mr. Dick. My niece told me some less than pleasant things about the guy. Clearly trying to live up to his name-sake, I suppose.)

While we leave the world of sports behind, let's turn to real-life, shall we? Over the holiday, there'd been some reminiscing about stories from many years ago in Oklahoma. I'm thinking specifically of "Egghead Dinger."

"Egghead Dinger?" I said. "Why was he called 'Egghead'? Or was that his real name?"

"Well," said the anonymous storyteller, "his head looked like an egg."

While I was busy giggling over the poor Dinger, I tried to imagine just how egg-like his head was.

Quickly, my relative added, "But he was a good-looking guy!"

Now, I really was curious to see a handsome egghead.

Perhaps feeling guilty about disparaging Egghead's head, my relative continued trying to make Eggy seem palatable. "He was so good-looking, he married Fannie Mae, who--"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute! 'Fannie Mae?'"

"Yes. Fannie was the school teacher who all the guys--and the kids--were gaga over. She rented an apartment with another local teacher that overlooked the school-yard. All the kids gathered around the yard at a certain time because it became wide-spread that Fannie liked to dress with her curtains open."

Yow! Now I REALLY wanted to see a pic of Egghead and Fannie, two of the best names ever! If I wrote them into a book, all credibility would be lost. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

So I started thinking about horrible names. And why the parents of these horribly named offspring felt the need to punish them for all their lives.

I uncovered Phat Ho, Dick Swett, Mr. Perv (a grade school teacher), Chris P. Bacon (wouldn't you think he'd drop the middle initial by now?), Mike Litoris, Moe Lester, Major Dickie Head (And how is that better than "Richard?"), Dr. Wett Fartz, F. You, and so many more.

You can't tell me these poor long-suffering people were unaware of their names, even with a language translation barrier. There are plenty of bilingual bullies out there. And what kind of sadistic animals are their parents? I suppose some parents find it cute. Then again, most of my cited examples involve (intentional or unintentional) potty humor.

In my ever-diligent research (Hello, Ms. Google!), I found a recent British study of 1,772 parents, with the majority of them claiming they gave their spawn weird names to help them stand out on social media! Dayum! Since when do parents want their kids to be noticed on Tik-Tok, where the likes of "Mr. Perv" goes by the handle of "Sunshiny Unicorn" or whatever? Why, I remember the day when parents wished for their kids to have better clothes, better schooling, and an all-round better life. 

Even more startling is 94% of the respondents claim that made-up nonsense names are "in" for kids!

Huh. So if I were to have another child, I think I'd name it "Poo-Poo Platter." Because I would want my child to have nothing but the best and most visible internet presence. Ever.

While we're on the topic of bad names, my protagonist (of three novels, so far!), chooses to go by "Tex," rather than  his birth name of "Richard." Because bullies early on let him know that "Dick" was short for Richard. But you can't explain bullies' behavior. Never mind all that. Tex has just discovered he's a witch. And there's a serial killer targeting his friends at school. And a lotta other stuff. Check out Tex, the Witch Boy, the first in a series.

The Self-Preservation of Running Away

Fighting sucks.

I don't care how cool, bad-ass, or "romantic" movie tough guys make it look, but it's pretty much the epitome of uncool.

Not that I've been in that many fights. Most of my so-called "fights" were with my brother, one where I gave him a blue ear and he gave me a fat lip all transpiring on our iced over driveway one morning before high school. And, of course, there have been the requisite fights with friends, but that usually involved copious amounts of alcohol, so those really don't count. Oh, and how could I forget getting punched by school bullies for being overweight or "different." But I'd hardly call those fights, as one-sided as they were.

It's weird, really. Guys are brought up to envy all of the tough guys in movies, the kind that sew up their own wounds without even flinching. (Yeah, right; digging a splinter out is agonizing enough.) My so-called "friends" in high school were a bunch of knuckleheads who thought it was really cool to get in fights with strangers. They saw it as a sort of rite of passage into manhood. Or something. I remember hearing about one tale where they got into a huge, massive knock-down drag-out in a pizza parlor parking lot. Fun! Glad I didn't attend that night's festivities.

In college, I found some more like-minded individuals who also thought fighting was stupid and, well...you know, could be considered dangerous. Except there's always that ONE guy who's looking to fight. Once we were in a small town bar and a burly local yokel bought us a round of milk. Most of us went along with the joke at our youthful expense, tipping our glasses toward him, and chugging it. Then our one acquaintance clenched his fists and said, "C'mon, let's go get him."

Well, no. Why put yourself into the path of danger over a dumb glass of milk?

So, our acquaintance called us a bunch of "pussies" and chose not to hang out with us very much after that. Which was fine with me.

The one thing tough guy fighting movies fails to teach young men is that when you hit someone, it definitely doesn't sound like a firecracker report. I remember the first time I threw an admittedly weak punch at some kid on the playground, the resultant expected CRACK never ensued. More like kinda a weak OOF or worse, a dull THUD. So in shock was I over my lack of soundtrack, the other guy took advantage and pummeled me. Lesson learned!

So, my next tactic at dealing with avoiding fights was to try and talk my way out of it. That never worked out so well. Actually, in defending a friend three times, I've been cold-cocked and knocked out, thrown out of a bar where I landed on my chin and required stitches, and tossed out of another bar. Once again, I learned a valuable lesson: apparently my golden gift of gab is highly overrated in my eyes. Or more than likely, I'm just one of those guys that other guys want to punch.

And one other thing bad-ass battle movies fails to portray realistically is that these altercations are rarely actually "fights." You remember how Clint and Charles (or Jason and Vin for you youngsters) would trade blows back and forth with a worthy foe until good ultimately won out after twenty minutes or so? Remember those fights? Well, they're one big damn lie! Fights are always--ALWAYS--one-sided, with the brute (always my opponent) wailing on the underdog (always my position) relentlessly until the loser (moi) lays in a broken, bleeding heap. And it's usually so fast, that it's over in the blink of an eye or until bouncers or whoever intervenes.

Where's the "romance" in that, would-be tough guys?

Either way, my fighting days are at an end. The only safe way to handle a fight is to run away. And, there's the rub. Now that I'm old and fat, my running days are pretty much over, too. (Pretty sure my bar-going days are a thing of the past, too. Not hard during a pandemic.)

So, kids! And adults who never grew up! Heed my words! Your movies are built on a foundation of lies, as far removed from reality as politics today (and in many ways, its pretty much the same thing). Don't give into the fists. It's much better to be considered a "pussy" than end up in the hospital and/or jail.

You've got a lot to answer for, Clint and Charles (and Jason and Vin and...)!

While on the topic of tough guys, my anti-hero, Leon Garber, from my Killers Incorporated trilogy, is by no means a traditional "tough guy." Instead he chooses to kill people by using his wits and a minimum of physical exertion. (Okay, fine, there IS the whole thing about killing people, but at least he picks off despicable, evil victims.). Find out more, right abouuuuuuuut...HERE! 

 

The Sporting Way

The nature of high school sports has changed since I was in school. (Not that I ever participated--oh, hell no!--but I've observed things.) 

My nephew plays freshman basketball in Oklahoma. Recently, they played out a tournament where they got trounced. My mother-in-law sat at ringside, keeping us posted of the slaughter via texts. When my nephew finally chimed in, he said the other team had a guard that was just killing them.

Here's why...

 Now, recruiting has been going on in high school sports for some time, nothing new there. But when they start recruiting adult athletes from the pros and college teams? C'mon!

"He's big for his age," the coach might say in a local press conference. "Um...and...he got held back a couple years."

A good dozen, maybe.

My nephew explained it that because of Covid, the opposing team had to put in seniors to replace the ailing underclassmen. At least that's the official line, wink, wink. All's fair in sports and Covid, right?

It's like David and Goliath, only this time David got thoroughly trounced.

Bad influence uncle that I am, I told my nephew to "Tonya Harding the guard's kneecaps." Sports, right? My mother-in-law jumped on me and said that even when my nephew's team accidentally knocked down an opposing player, they'd help them up.

Huh.

From all the action photos my nephew has showed me, he thoroughly enjoys feeding elbow to the other team. Maybe he'd been on good behavior that day since grandma was in the house.

Anyway, this isn't an isolated incident...

Meet Antonio. 

That's Antonio lurking over his teammates. Antonio's a foreign exchange student who can't speak a word of English. Talk about culture shock: Antonio's still probably dazed by being plucked out of his country and dropped into the Midwest. (I wonder how the coach communicates with Antonio...but it probably doesn't take much to pantomime putting the ball into the hoop and SLAUGHTER!).

Judging by the looks of Antonio's mustache and height (not to mention he's as wide as a house), I'd say the other team's star player is pushing late 20's. But, hey, I'm sure he's getting good grades in Oklahoma.

What's it all mean? I dunno. But clearly, "bad sportsmanship" isn't relegated to just the "pro" coaches and agents any longer.

While on the topic of the underdog facing overwhelming odds, pity poor Leon Garber who has the police, sanctioned hit men, various serial killers, and the ex-company he used to work for all after him. Really, all Leon wants to do is scratch that itch by killing bad guys. It's complicated. But uncomplicate things by checking out the first book in the Killers Incorporated trilogy, Secret Society!