Goodbye, Mom

After a long and emotionally grueling two-and-a-half weeks, my family and I said our final goodbyes to my mom today. Long-time blog readers will remember the aggravation and comedy gold Mom gave me. Man, I wish I could spar with her some more.

(Above is my mom with her kazillion granddaughters.)

I'm not going to get maudlin. I'm definitely not going to describe the last emotionally crushing and exhausting weeks my brother and I experienced. Instead, let's celebrate this wonderful, stubborn, beautiful, frustrating, one-of-a-kind mother. 

Mom lived a full life on her own terms; stubbornly so. She was fond of saying, “I know what I know” and “I know I’m right.” Of course, she hailed from Missouri, the “Show Me State,” and wore that state cliche tightly like a snug turtleneck. She disagreed with my brothers and I on everything from politics to washing machines (don't ask), but did so with a mischievous sense of humor. And no matter how heated our ridiculous debates got, she’d always end the conversation with love.

What an amazing woman. When her husband--my dad--was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, she took her wedding vows literally. Like a warrior, she cared for Dad the rest of his life. She saw him through medical crises, job changes, and numerous life alterations. But she never once failed to pick him up from work on time and heft that heavy wheelchair into the car's trunk. Throughout these trials, they adapted and never stopped loving one another.

Miraculously, she also managed to raise three boys, a task not for the faint of heart. I mean, one daughter nearly did me in.

A master of multi-tasking, Mom also worked in real estate and hauled her sons everywhere, from grocery stores to school to auto shops and the dreaded fabric stores, where my younger brother and I remember spending endless, boring hours. I'm talking hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and...

(Deep breath)...hours and hours and days.

And more hours and hours and hours.

And hours.

An amusing funeral anecdote (because they're sooooooo popular): after relating the fabric shop trauma in a speech I gave at Mom's memorial, one of the funeral directors who oversaw the proceedings came up to me afterward, nudged me, and said, "What you said about fabric stores? Man, that really brought memories back for me. I spent endless days with my mom in those, too."

I said, "really?"

"Yeah."

"It was almost like I spent my childhood there," I said. "It was brutal."

He just shook his head, lowered his eyelids as if experiencing PTSD. I agreed with a solemn nod. Had the pandemic not deterred it, I think a brothers-in-arms hug would've been appropriate.

Anyway, once we three sons had flown the coop, my parents enjoyed vacationing in Florida. They spent many winters there, joining the unofficial “snow birds” community. After my dad’s passing, Mom chose not to sit still and continued her yearly sojourns down south. There, she renewed her passion for dancing (something she enjoyed with my dad in their early days). She turned many an eye on the dance floor with numerous suitors, but none of them could keep up with her. In every sense possible.

One of my mom's biggest joys was her grandchildren.  She taught her granddaughters the art of cooking, made them Halloween costumes (she made my daughter a Sailor Moon costume! The accumulated months in fabric stores clearly paid off.), took them on adventures, and shared her big world with them.  And always with a wonderful, self-deprecating sense of sly humor which all of “Nana’s girls” have inherited. Every grandchild loved spending time with her. A true testament to her loving power.

A caring, generous of soul person, Mom lived her life as a Christian, treating everyone with respect and compassion.

But I'm trying not to mourn, because I believe Mom’s happy. Whatever kind of afterlife there is, I choose to believe she's in a wondrous dance hall meeting up once again with my dad (a venue where they met in the first place many years ago), he dapper in his 40’s movie star style handsomeness, where they’re dancing eternity away to some crazy big band song.

I miss you and love you, Mom.

Good Ol'-Fashioned Holiday...ah, never mind...

With the holidays upon us, tradition means a lot to our friends and families. Unless you're stuck in 2020, of course, where most traditions such as family gatherings are thrown under the bus (for good reason).

But even with daunting obstacles in our path, the world is still finding variations on the old holiday traditions by masking, distancing, and going Zoom crazy (not to mention drinking, internet spending gone wild, and the outta control growth of facial hair). 

I say, let the merriment continue! Sing carols to each other via Zoom (frankly I'd prefer that over the excruciatingly uncomfortable visit upon my doorstep)! Reach out to friends and family and that guy who bullied you in eighth grade and let them know you're thinking of them...well, maybe not the bully; if you told him what you're thinking, it could very well start a new round of bullying.

One of our newest traditions is a very Christmas decorated bathroom. Shower curtain, towels, soap dispenser, other stuff. My daughter named it "Santa's Bathroom," clearly the place where Santa delivers his, um, gifts.

The important thing is, no matter what your holiday traditions are, do carry on. Find safe alternatives, but keep the spirit of the holidays healthy. Keep hope alive.

I gotta say, though, some traditions are probably better off buried.

These days, office holiday parties end up in mandatory diversity and/or sexual harassment training seminars, so cut it out. "Elf On a Shelf" is pure big business hokum mass-manufactured to give children Christmas nightmares. The song, Baby, It's Cold Outside? No. We don't need creepy, date-rape holiday music. Tinsel's probably about as healthy as bathing in fiberglass. Yard inflatables? Let's stick a pin in the damned monstrosities and turn them into wiggly windy guys found in car lots. I could go on, but I won't...

Wait. I think I will. Has anyone ever tried "figgy pudding," let alone know what it is? Furthermore, why is the singer so damned demanding? (Okay, hold on, now I'm curious. Well, figgy pudding sounds a lot like a kind of fruitcake. We can do without that, too.)

Some holiday traditions you can't kill with a hand grenade. They come back more times than Jason or Freddy or Michael. A lot of my past family gatherings usually resulted in some racist remarks. Granted, the guilty parties have tempered it in recent times, utilizing a kinder, softer sort of racism...wait, scratch that. There is no such qualification. But no matter how much I'd tried to stomp the racism out, it somehow kept sneaking back in around the holidays. Time of the year, I guess. Or more likely, the only time during the year I'd see some family members.

That tradition's not going to happen this year, though. On the 25th, it's just my wife and I. And it feels like our first Christmas together in a weird way. No stress, no travel, no awkward political conversations, no racism, no family discomfort! 

Now, bring me some of that damn figgy pudding. Don't make me say it again!

Happy holidays, everyone! Stay safe.

And speaking of the "horror-days," I would encourage everyone  to check out Grinning Skull Press' annual Deathlehem series, seven books containing all the Christmas horror tales you'd ever want stuffed in your stocking. Not only are these tomes chock-full of great prose, but all proceeds go the worthy Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow over Deathlehem (which contains a stellar story by a certain writer who's too damn humble to mention himself by name).

 

Baffled in the Hardware Store

I've never liked hardware stores. First of all, I know nothing about tools. I leave that to my wife. Second, they carry that very unpleasant aroma that's a mix between lawn chemicals, oil, and man-sweat (whereas, women don't sweat, they *glisten*.). 

In fact, hardware stores are my third least favorite kind of store, right behind tire vendors (with the always present smell of rubber, anti-sterile appearance, and coffee that'll send you hurtling to the bathroom), and fabric stores. (Why fabric stores? My mom used to drag my brother and I to those when we were kids. For hours! Nothing to do in there but hide behind the multiple rolls of fabric until the crotchety ol' lady assistant manager would yell at us to get out.).

So, it was to my surprise, when my wife told me, "While you're out, I need you to go to the hardware store."

I looked around to see if anyone else was in the room. "You're kidding, right? Remember, I'm the guy who spent 45 minutes wandering around one of those super hardware stores looking for ant bait."

"That's because you won't ask for help."

"Well...yeah, but..." My argument trailed off, simply because I didn't have one. Since the days of cavemen, guys don't ask for assistance. I don't make the stupid rules, it just is.

"Get over it," she said. "And go get a baffle."

"A baffle? What the hell's a baffle?"

"It's that round, rubbery thing that fits into the garbage disposal hole." She dragged me to the sink and pointed it out. 

"But...but, why is it called a 'baffle'?"

"I dunno. I thought it was weird, too, but that's what it's called when I looked it up."

Fully (un)armed with knowledge, I set out on my "baffle" quest.

First stop was the local Mom 'n Pop hardware store (I always try to support the small, non-chain places whenever possible). I'd been in there before and it's usually well-kept. But this time it was in total disarray. The pegboard shelving units were near barren, pointless, and pushed out of the way. In their place sat an army of at least one hundred battered lawnmowers covering the floor. There was no room to walk beyond the door.

I saw no one and waited. Finally, this Stephen King-looking, hunched over, very tall guy ambled toward me, deftly maneuvering through the obstacle course despite horrible posture. And maskless. Immediately I wanted out of there.

"Help you?" He wiped his hands with a filthy red rag, just like in the horror movies.

I knew he wouldn't have what I was looking for, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "Do you work on mowers?" Stupid, I know, but I had to say something.

He nodded.

"Well, my mower, ah, it's acting funny."

"Does it mow?" he asked.

"Kinda."

"Then I'd go home and mow. Cain't get no parts in nowadays. Could be a good minute."

I fled outta there straight to the mazes and endless aisles of Super-Store Lowe's.

After wandering in a helpless stupor--every part, gizmo, what's-it, tool, and frick-n-frack began to insidiously meld together--I finally bit the bullet.

I stood next to a red-vested kid for minutes until forced to clear my throat. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah," he said, barely acknowledging my existence.

"I, um, I need a baffle for my garbage disposal."

Finally, he looked up and gave me one of those looks like I had toilet paper trailing on my shoe-heel. "A what?"

"A baffle for the garbage disposal."

He shook his head, face scrunched up quizzically.

Then I remembered my wife's description. "It's that round, rubbery thing that fits into the garbage disposal hole."

Light bulbs lit up above this dim-bulb kid's stylish hair-style. "Ah! They're over here..."

That's when it hit me. The true meaning of why a "baffle" is thusly named: because it baffles the hell outta everyone.

Hey! For a truly mystifying, mysterious, spooky, and, yes, baffling ghost story, come visit beautiful Gannaway, Kansas. Just not at night, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. That would be Ghosts of Gannaway, available at Amazon and other fine website establishments everywhere. 

The Monolith Martians

I would like to formally give the alien species behind the suddenly appearing and disappearing monoliths my most gracious thanks for giving us something to talk about other than the pandemic and Trump. So...thank you, lil' green men! (Of course if these monoliths are an early precursor to a world take-over, than I retract my thanks and say, "Don't forget to wear your masks 'cause now's not the best time for an alien invasion. Come back next spring for best results.")

Everyone knows about the monoliths, right? If not, a Cliff's Notes styled recap is supplied: in the red rock desert of eastern Utah, a mysterious 9 foot tall steel monolith appeared embedded into the ground. Days later, it mysteriously vanished. Then a second, similar monolith was found in the mountains of Romania. It too has disappeared.

This is...awesome. I'm stoked about this. No rhyme, no reason, all fun, something that's been missing in the news lately. I'd like to think creepy bug-eyed aliens (and if this is true, fellas, I apologize and mean no insult, so don't space blast my ass, please) are behind this fun diversion. My childhood dream come true. Maybe the aliens are punking us, having a good laugh at our expense. Maybe it's their overture to meet their idol, Trump. Or just maybe, these monoliths represent something of immeasurable depth and meaning.

However, there's always a spoil-sport in the bunch. Couple days ago, a Utah photographer claims he witnessed and took photos of a group of men approaching the monolith, then destroying it. One guy purportedly said, "Leave no evidence behind."

BOOOOOOO! Don't pee on my parade, mister! Give us this brief moment of wonderful imagination and expansiveness that we haven't known in the is-it-over-yet year of 2020. Don't be one of those guys!

But he seems to be dead-set on his conspiracy theory. I gotta say, though, his story sounds kinda hinky to me. First of all, where is this photographic evidence of the secret society of monolith destroying men? Did it get lost in the mail along with the evidence against Hunter Biden?

Okay, whatever. In all honesty, this is my second favorite theory, so I'll take it. I mean, who doesn't love to get behind a top-secret cabal of mystery men installing and then destroying  a couple of monoliths? To what nefarious ends? Some sort of secret weapons testing? Or maybe they're developing the ultimate in television streaming hardware.

There have been lotsa crackpot theories, for sure (I'm looking at you, 2020). So in the spirit of our times, let me lob another one out there: the monoliths are God's thermometers. Worried about how sickly Mother Earth is, God has inserted two thermometers (rectally and orally--different sides of our planet) to gauge why Mother Earth has been so sickly in 2020. Or something. 

God help me, I'd kinda like to even hear Trump's theory about the monoliths.

Or maybe...just maybe Stanley Kubrick's mind-mess of a film, "2001, a Space Odyssey," was prophetic. The monoliths portend the further evolution of humankind. Seems like we sorta need to evolve the hell outta 2020.

While we're chatting about evolution, why not give my horror/mystery/dark comedy, Corporate Wolf, a read? Putting the EVIL in EVILution, so you don't have to.

 

New Breed Sighting: The Human Whale!

Recently, spectators caught sight of this bizarre, tireless creature outside of President Trump's golf course, spouting air through its blowhole onto the frail humans walking beside him! A new species is born!

Okay, you guys have probably read the story of this goofball and what he's up to: protesting the protesters who're protesting... something or other. Honestly, I can't keep track of all of the protesting going on anymore. I need a murder board to keep it all straight. I'm not gonna trot out what any of the protesters are protesting at this particular venue, needless to say it's gonna piss off half the U.S. population one way or the other.

It's all so...tired. Aren't you guys exhausted? Both political sides have displayed poor extremist behavior and are embarrassing their respective parties. I'm not gonna exclude myself from name-calling, getting angry, and pointing fingers in the past. But I'm done.

So...let's talk about the important matters here: first...this guy's style. Just look at his spectacular form, letting it all hang out, apparently never exhausting his copious amount of oxygen (as an ex-smoker, there's no way I could've maintained his stamina without passing out), not once caring how foolish he looks. I gotta give the guy props for that, at least. And, oh! His perfectly round blowhole is something to be envied (by someone, somewhere, I'm fairly sure).

Obviously, this idiot could be a carrier of coronavirus and not have symptoms, so I'm glad they charged him. (Thus further cementing my thought that not only does 2020 suck, but now it blows, too.) 

But what about the precedent this guy is setting? Particularly for the future and laws relating to such similar crimes? I mean, he was arrested for misdemeanor assault after all.

How in the world could this be proven in court?

For instance...

Matlock (espousing his cracker-barrel philosophy): "Your honor, it's a travesty, just a travesty, I say, that my client is even being charged with this laughable perceived 'crime'."

Opposing Counsel: "Objection, your honor, the defendant is clearly shown in photographic evidence breathing on the victims! He obviously--"

Matlock: "Did you just take a breath there, Mr. Opposing Counsel? I swan I saw you do such a thing. Your honor, isn't breathin' just a natural body function? I know I'm sure as shootin' glad I'm still breathin'."

Judge (smiling and chuckling): "I'll allow Mr. Matlock to say anything just as long as he keeps speaking in that warm, down-home drawl." (Aims puppy dog eyes at Matlock.)

See what I mean? This is setting a terrible precedent for legal cases in 2021 and beyond. Don't the courts have more important things to be dealing with like...oh...wait, scratch that example.

Here, try another scenario:

(Cue an All-American Family in a car.)

Little Suzie: "Daaaaad! Billy just breathed on me! Gah!"

Little Billy: "Did not, did not, did not, did not, did not, did--"

Dad (red-faced with veins bulging out of his forehead): "Gawd dammit, Billy, quit breathing! Don't MAKE me come back there!"

Not a pretty future, is it?

Nothing's certainly been pretty in the last couple months or so. My retinas have been permanently scarred by so-called "news" outlets releasing revolting photos (thus making the National Enquirer the class-act news outlet on the block now). There's the aforementioned Human Whale. 

How about Trump dancing to the Village People's song "Y.M.C.A" (and I still find it outrageous that no one in Trump's cabinet had the testicular fortitude to tell the guy what that song was really about)? There was Mitch McConnell's awful close-ups of his white, black, pink, and purple appearance (I almost felt sorry for the guy. On second thought...nahhhhhh.). 

And finally Giuliani's infamous double-whammy with his "acting" debut in Borat 2, followed by the manic-looking photo where his head bled down upon him exacting revenge.

 (Looks at clock. Checks calendar.) Hurry up, 2021!

While we're waiting for this ghastly year to come to a sluggish stop, how about entertaining yourself with my ghastly horror collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley? Lots of horror and laughs guaranteed to take your mind off the horror and laughs of 2020.

 

The Revenge of Don Chillito!

You know, with all my recent angry posts about current politics and the state of the world, you'd think one of those posts would have been controversial, stirring people up on both sides. But just take a wild guess as to what the most controversial post I ever wrote was. Go on, take a stab... 

Yep, it was about my horrifying visit to a little Mexican restaurant dump, Don Chillito's, right here in my neighborhood. (If you'd like to read it, LOOKIE HERE. Go on...I'll wait...)

It blew up the intronets for a couple days, my most widely read article ever! Why? Because this "local institution" is inexplicably loved by crazy people. I had haters coming outta the woodwork and calling me names because I dared to detail my awful last visit there (I took my daughter and nieces to torture them because they couldn't believe it was as bad as my brother and I kept making it out to be.). I was called a "stupid, little old lady(?)" and that I had no taste and should "keep my big mouth shut" and one eerie, creepy response read like an illiterate death threat! All because of this sucky, crappy restaurant that's known for having rats run through the kitchen.

THAT'S what stirs up people. Not politics.

Hard at work to make YOU sick!

 

Well, it looks like "Don Chillito" himself has given me just one more reason to never set foot in his hell-hole again. (Note: I know that "Don Chillito" isn't the name of the owner, but I like to imagine him as a mumbly-mouthed Brando-like gangster cliche, sitting behind his row of microwaves and doling out burrito justice.) 

Get this... Don Chillito's owner has decided to ignore all COVID-19 restrictions, including mask orders! This ass-hat is quoted as saying, "I think at a time when our liberty is attacked as it is being, there comes a time where a man has to draw a line in the sand."

Spoken like a true ignorant mafioso of Mexican gastro grotesqueries. So when you order "Don's Plate" make sure to ask for a side of COVID to wash it all down with.

Look, the place has always been gross, dirty, and filthy. A guy I know who used to work there said he once saw a giant rat running across the open burrito fillings trays. 

And they have this big open trough filled with chips where everyone is encouraged to just go up and reach in. In fact, I'm pretty sure I once heard that a little girl fell into it and suffocated. Later, they found her cold,blue hand reaching out of the chip pit, clutching onto a chip. Yeah, I'm almost absolutely kinda pretty sure I'd heard that...

GROSS!

 

Anyway, people stay out of this crummy dump! If not for the sake of your taste buds, then do it to save your life! Jeeze, guess what they're gonna do to good ol' Don Chillito if the city finds him in violation of the mask order (of which he definitely is)? They'll slap him with a hundred dollar fine and let him go on with his business! That's nothing! Don can make that money back in five minutes by slinging crappy burritos to unwitting rubes. Might even sneeze on their food, too, for good measure. 'Cause he's a patriot, by cracky!

The Don of Disgusting Dinners goes on about drawing a line in the sand because he's a man and all that hooey (Gee, who does this sound like, folks?). His claim our liberty is being attacked is downright ludicrous.

Whatever, Don, whatever... If you were truly a patriot, then you'd be wearing a mask to protect your fellow citizens. It's everyone's duty to protect one another. Golden rule time and what not.

Gets my back up. However, there is a silver lining...in the same article, the Don is quoted as saying, if the city takes him to court over this, he might just close the doors.

Halleluhjah! Take your burritos, Don, and go home! Ding Dong, the Don is dead!

Speaking of things that should be dead, maybe it's time to check out (and into) my horror, thriller, mystery what's-it, Dread and Breakfast.  Sometimes, "dead" is just a state of mind. 

 

REVEALED: Why It Took Nevada So Long to Count Election Results!

Because of my stellar, fiery journalistic skills (i.e., making crap up), I've uncovered the shocking truth behind why Nevada took forever in wrapping things up. It's because of this guy:

It's the truth. How else do you explain why a state with such a low population took much longer than the bigger states? The entire election has just been a farce of agony and torture. Everything hinged on Nevada's six electoral votes, and every day I watched as the percentage of completion crawled along. Then every night around five, they'd call it a day and send their one counter home to bed because he needed his daily eleven hours sleep. The next day he'd come back in to work and knock out another whopping 1% before calling it a day. 

Shocking thing is I encountered this lone Nevada vote counter in Kansas before he migrated West. Couple years ago, I found a rare, cheap beer I liked at a liquor store. So I loaded up four six-packs; one in each hand, one beneath my chin, the last one grasped under my arm.

The old clerk--straight outta a Green Acres corner store--asked me if I'd like a bag. 

I thought about it. "Sure," I said, "it'll make my life easier." Or so I thought...

Behind huge spectacles, he stared at me, eyes at half-mast, a sleepy tortoise on downers. I watched in horror as he ever so slowly (and a bit too lovingly) licked his finger. (I'm thinking, are there Amber Alerts for guys like me?) 

As he continued to lick that finger like a buffalo chicken wing, his eyes never left me. Finally, he lowered the wet digit to the plastic bag dispenser. It didn't take. So he brought the finger back up to his lizard-like darting tongue again, eyes glued to mine, hypnotizing me with his can't-take-my-eyes-off-a-car-wreck gaze, and licked the tar outta his finger again. In surrealistic slow motion, he lowered the offensively wet finger and again failed to pull the bag off the dispenser. But he didn't let it get him down as he stared at me through his owl-like eyes.

Okay, side-bar: First of all, I've never understood the absolutely unnecessary finger-licking the elderly favor to accomplish small achievements such as turning a page in a book and now, trying to grasp a plastic bag off a hook. Second, gross. Third, it's not only grotesque, but I can definitively say I don't want some guy licking up my bags, particularly during the pandemic.

As a child, I once tried this peculiar method. Thought it was grown up behavior (friggin' adults never made sense). All I got for my failed effort was a funky taste in my mouth.

Back to the liquor store, I decided to cut and run before ol' Mr. Lick-Fail-Repeat could run through the cycle again. I said, "Don't worry about it. I'll just strong-arm 'em out to the car." I did. It wasn't easy. But it was a lot quicker than the finger-lickin'-good bag dispenser man. And those eyes! GOD, THOSE EYES!

Such nightmares.

But the finger licker had a fairy-tale ending: I'm absolutely certain he's the only hire counting the 2020 election ballots in Nevada, painstakingly licking that damn finger with every ballot, time and time again, until it's totally pruned out.

For God's sake, people! Stop the madness of finger licking and my salivaphobia! Honestly, I don't ever want to get back to using paper currency ever again; you never know whose got their slobber all over that five-spot. 

Glad I got that off my chest.

(Okay, final side-bar: I'm done, at least for a while, writing about politics. Right now the last thing anyone needs is another knucklehead running around and saying hurtful things on social media. This post was done in fun and I think maybe it's a bit cathartic for me, putting my political woes and fears and anger to bed with a (I hope) funny small epilogue. At least for now. Peace.)