The Stress Dance

So recently between riots, 'rona, insane presidents, and the passing of my mother, I've been going through some tough times. On a daily basis, I alternate between anger, despair, anxiety, and sadness.

On a recent trip to visit my daughter and her "stress dogs (I label them this as they're so out-of-control, it's very therapeutic to constantly scream at them to STOP IT or SHUT THE HELL UP!)," I told my daughter how I was just so...so...so damn anxiety-ridden.

She looked at me, finally said, "Dad, you know what I do when I'm feeling that way? Something that really, really, really works?"

Desperate for relief, I scoot up in my seat. "What?"

"Okay, stand up."

I do.

"Now, stick your arms out by your sides," she instructs.

Again, I do this, believing she's about to show me something truly effective and maybe even a little profound.

"Spread your legs."

I follow her advice feeling like Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, but knowing absolutely I look nothing like him.

"Now, squat."

"Squat?"

"Squat," she demands.

Okay, I'm 59, overweight, and squatting's not exactly on my daily regimen. But I'm all in now. I struggle and force myself into a semblance of a squat.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Yeah... I think."

"Now scream and stomp your feet!"

Blindly, I follow like a brainwashed political supporter does these days. I stomp, roar, feel myself wobbling like a Weeble, and hope I don't fall down. Time stands still as I'm bellowing like Fred looking for Wilma. The house begins to shake. One of the dogs runs behind the sofa, the other runs toward me to play.

I imagine--no, I know--it's not a pretty sight. Down in a squat, I probably look like a 'roid-raged Rumplestiltskin after his gold has been stolen. I keep doing it, trying to let my pent-up anger release into the rafters.

Until, I notice my daughter's rolling in her chair, hysterically laughing.

I stop. "Wait... Did you just make this up?"

Between giggles, she pushes out, "Yes. But you feel better, don't you?"

After a minute, I straightened, pondered. "Yeah...yeah, I do!"

Speaking of feeling better in these trying times, why not give yourself a break and indulge in my mystery comedy book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. Hammock is the first in an ongoing "different kind of cozy book," as one reviewer called it, detailing the misadventures of a lunkhead male stripper and his much put-upon, very angry, very pregnant sleuth sister. Available here on Amazon!

 

St. Bernard with a Keg

The other night I had a psychedelic flashback. Not that I've ever dropped acid or done mushrooms (I might've smoked some pot, but I never inhaled. Or maybe I was too stoned to remember. Whatever!), but a sudden memory blew into my mind like smoke that was never exhaled. Something I'd thought I'd left behind in my childhood alongside my teddy bear (don't judge me!)... An indelible image imprinted upon my gullible mind by those most insidious (but fun!) educators of children: cartoons... 

Of course, I'm talking about the Saint Bernard with a keg of booze tied around his neck.

I gasped at the recollection, and asked my wife, "Honey, is there any truth behind the myth of the Saint Bernard rescuing people with his keg of hooch?"

She hemmed and hawed, said no at first, then said maybe, but she really couldn't be certain, then again...

I kinda tuned her out and decided to go directly to the "Cliff's Notes" version of the world-wide intronets, Wikipedia.

And Ms. Wikipedia hemmed and hawed, too.

Let's look at what I had to sift through...

This very important history lesson (don't let anyone ever, ever tell you cartoons don't edumacate!) dates back to 1707, where monks from the Great St. Bernard Hospice (located at the Great St. Bernard Pass in Switzerland) actually did use the first of this breed to rescue avalanche victims. The dogs' incredible talents included finding buried people and digging them out. When they didn't have the strength to do that, or were too cold, they'd come back barking at the monks: "Timmy's fallen in the snow and is buried again!"

Alas, according to the monks, though, the tales about the brandy cask were nothing but a myth. Actually, the monks seemed a little peeved about this "legend," griping that the whole shebang started with an 1820 painting by Edwin Landseer (possibly the painting entitled, Alpine Mastiffs Reanimating a Distressed Traveler, which just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?). Of course, this didn't stop the monks from keeping lookalike barrels on hand for tourists to snap photos of, although I kinda think the barrels might've "fortified" the monks, as well. I mean, what else are they gonna do?

Deflated, I sadly tucked the image of a St. Bernard carrying a keg of booze through the Alps into my mind's drawer, thus sticking a pin into the balloon of my childhood education.  

But hold on, let's not be so hasty here!

One must attend to the story of the star St. Bernard of the hospice, Barry! Barry rescued anywhere between 40 to 100 lives. Seemingly untiring, Barry would travel to the most perilous locations and did so for a period of twelve years. Good dog! 

For his efforts, after he passed, the monks stuffed him and shoved his carcass into a Berney museum. Where a small phial of brandy that he used to revive distressed travelers still hangs around his neck. Something the monks don't want you to know about! Cover up! Fake news!

Hallelujah! My faith in cartoons is restored!

Anyway... if I ever get avalanched, I want a big ol' St. Bernard to find me and offer me an even bigger ol' keg of brandy, because (and science will side with me on this), the best thing for a freezing, buried person is to get drunk!

While we're on the topic of overwhelming snow, why not pour yourself a sifter of brandy, get cozy in front of the fireplace, and read what happens to a disparate group of travelers during a hella Winter storm in Dread and Breakfast? It's the perfect horror thriller for this bleak, long Winter, even though not a single life-saving St. Bernard appears.

 

 

Return of the Banana Hammock!

I'm so excited, my banana hammock senses are tingling!

After nearly a year, my fan-favorite Zach and Zora comic mystery novel series are coming back in print, starting from the very beginning, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock.

"Who are Zach and Zora and what's so special about them," I hear the uninitiated asking? Why they're the sleuthing brother (or I should probably say, "brah") and sister team who untangle a murder mystery each book.

No...no...that doesn't quite do the series justice. 

Let's start over. Zach is a male stripper (I'm sorry...as Zach prefers to be called, "a male entertainment dancer") who is well-meaning, but God sorta skimped on him in the brains department. In every book, he has a knack for stumbling over a dead body, with the blame nearly always falling on him.

Who does he turn to in these times of need? Why, his suffering sleuth sister, Zora, of course! As an ex-security expert, Zora's well-equipped for the task. However, she's also well-equipped with three kids in tow and is eight-months pregnant with the fourth, not to mention a short patience span when it comes to her brother.

In Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Zach wakes up with no memory, no phone, and no clothes except his stripper g-string. And there’s that pesky naked dead guy in bed next to him. Problem is Zach’s not gay. Or a murderer. At least, he doesn’t think so.

With kids in tow, the siblings set out to find the true killer, clear Zach’s name, and reassure Zach he’s not gay. Wacky hi-jinx ensue!

It still doesn't quite do the series justice... Let's see what the reviewers have said:

*"Laugh until you wet yourself, with this cast of wacky characters and their hilarious adventures... I haven't laughed this much since I read my first Stephanie Plum book!"  Amazon Reader Review

*"OMG. Buckle up for a wild, unpredictable, laugh-out-loud ride with brother and sister duo Zach and Zora. A cool mystery, solved via wit and often despite the ultimate in sibling chaos, this little gem is unputdownable."  Amazon Reader Review

*"Total trash. I only read the first 5 pages."  Amazon Reader Review

WAIT! How'd that last one get in here?

Anyway, at $2.99 how could you go wrong? (Unless you're the last "reviewer" cited, natch).

Here's more good news (depending on if you're a half-cup full kinda person): I'm currently hard at work on the fourth book in the series, Massacre of Mustaches!

So if you're like me--tired of riots, 'rona, and ridiculous politicians, have a few laughs and thrills on me!

Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, put out by the wonderful folks of Crossroad Press (shameless plug: Clive Barker's publisher!), is available right here, right now on Amazon!  

 

Dark Wednesday

Well. Wednesday was something. What exactly, I'm not entirely sure. But watching hundreds of Trump supporters desecrate the nation's capitol, attack, hurt people, and destroy everything that's truly supposed to make America "great"--I'm talking democracy--was a harrowing experience. I'm in shock, torn between disbelief, horror,  and fear of just how far this country has fallen in five years. 

I had such high hopes for you, 2021!

Frankly, for the first time, I'm kinda ashamed to be an American.

I shouldn't say that, not really. There were, what, 1,000 psychos at this Trump-Filled Terrorthon. That left about 328 million, smarter Americans at home. Then again, maybe Leroy couldn't get there  'cause he was too busy runnin' moonshine or gettin' his Klan outfit dry-cleaned or whatever.

Okay, I know I'm generalizing, but in all the photos and video, I didn't see one single person of color at the rampage. And when I see some jackass carrying a Confederate flag through the White House, what else am I to think? What's the world to think?

Honestly, isn't it about time to ban the damn Confederate flag, a symbol of racism, slavery, and hatred? I know we can't. People would be in an uproar, and I suppose for some it's a part of their southern heritage. They'll be ranting (while probably rioting), "You can't do that! I'm a damned patriot! I live in a democracy where it's my civil right to parade my proud heritage!"

Let's break that down...

First, what proud heritage? In terms Trump wouldn't understand, the South lost the Civil War. Second, why would you want to flaunt a symbol of slavery and racism? Just feeling frisky that day? Third--and I can't believe some people need a refresher course on this--one's civil rights end once they impede upon another person's civil rights. SO, over-the-top Trump supporters, quit your damn impeding already!

Jesus.

But I really shouldn't blame Trump's supporters. They got fired up somewhere by someone. Without a doubt, Trump fanned the fires. Sure, these wackos have been running around looking for a reason to do some good ol' violence, but Trump stood right behind them lighting match after match while his close conspiracy-loving buddies fanned the flames.

Four years ago, Hillary Clinton said that Trump would set America back thirty years. She was wrong. He set us back to the days of anarchy and racism and, well, on the precipice of a modern "civil war." Thanks, Donnie!

No matter what side of the political spectrum you fall on, violence should never be condoned or tolerated. Especially from our damn president! Trump used borderline language to do just that and praised these "patriots" afterward. Why? Because his brain can't grasp that he lost the 2020 election. Or he snapped from the power. Maybe he really just doesn't want to go to jail.

I hope his behavior isn't setting precedent for years to come. Like Trump (I can't call him "President" any longer and haven't for some time; frankly neither does most of the media), Senator Kelly Loeffler was defeated in the Georgia run-offs, but won't concede.

Frankly, I'm more worried about what lessons Trump teaches Americans. You know, lead by example?

For instance, I'm still pissed off about Costco dropping their incredible two cases of Kirkland Light Beer for the price of one! Sure it tasted like crap, but after three you'd never know. So, what's to keep me from storming Costco in my Confederate flag camo pants, wearing a beer helmet, shooting people with a t-shirt cannon, mounting the toilet paper shelves, and screaming, "Where is he? Dammit, show yourself, destroyer of killer beer prices!"

Several things will stop me: A) This is a really dumb scenario; B) Unlike the stolen election lies, this is actually true, but as I believe in non-violence, I wouldn't go through with it; and C) No matter who says what, inherently I know what's right and believe in living by our social and civil rules.

I'm a patriot (hard as it is to be these days).

You know, maybe I'll run for president next election on this platform. Seems like they'll take just about anybody. I wonder if Gary Busey would be interested in running as my V.P? Hmmm...

 

Which Actor Is It?

Hey, gang! Here's a new game that's sweeping the nation with sensation! Can YOU name these three actors? I can't! And I defy anyone to do so.

You know, life is hard when you're a child. Granted, kids these days live in a particularly challenging and puzzling world and I don't envy them that. It was tough enough at my age when the questions that tormented me were things like : "I wonder if Kim likes me," or "Should I get wormy jello or cardboard-burger for lunch?" or "Is this the best route to avoid my bully?" or "Can I get home before Mom and sneak in a 'Dark Shadows' episode?"

Every one of these mind-blowing moral dilemmas.

But perhaps the toughest challenge of them all was my ever-lasting confusion over the difference between actors James Farentino, James Franciscus, and Anthony Franciosa.

Now look at these guys for a second, all preening for their publicity shots, working their best sides and whatever. No, they don't look alike. But their names certainly do. It used to keep me up nights trying to sort out their names. I was like a fast-trading stockbroker, tossing out movie and TV credits, and then at the last minute retracting them because I didn't trust myself.

Think I exaggerate? All of these kinda okay thespians were predominately everywhere in '60's and '70's television shows. You couldn't swing a remote without bashing into a Franciscus here, a Francisoa there, and over on the all-fuzz, all-the-time UHF station, a blurry Farentino. Oddly enough, none of the three were ever present on "Love, American Style," a typical haven for their type.

However, I was surprised to find out that only one of these guys (that would be Franciosa, the least likely suspect) sailed off on "The Love Boat" to join all other washed up actors from the '60's and '70's as they cruised into oblivion to the Island of Misfit Actors.

Wait a minute, "The Love Boat's" not exactly the last hail Mary for struggling actors; that would probably be when they're forced to flee to Italy to appear in cheesy genre movies to add "name marquee value," only to return to our shores, heads held low in shame. My research led me into some even darker cinematic alleys: two of the guys appeared in two different "giallos (bloody Italian murder mysteries)" directed by my favorite Italian guy of horror, Dario Argento! (Seek them out, they're worthwhile.)

Only Farentino escaped the fate of shore hopping, but his credits in the latter days looked pretty dismal, too.

To this day, I still can't tell these guys apart. But I do know one played a blind detective (yep, you heard me right. What a con artist!) on the TV series "Longstreet," and one appeared in the first season of "Dynasty (before being shuffled off into animation voice-over junk)."

Like all fathers, my dad appeared to have all the answers for everything, but when he didn't, instead of saying, "I don't know," he tossed out utter nonsense.

"Dad," I said, pointing my 3 Musketeers candy bar at the TV screen, "who's that?"

"Hmm?" Like Ward Cleaver, he folded his newspaper, laid down his pipe, tucked into his serious Dad face, and said, "Oh, him? He's on TV." Seeing my confusion, he added a kicker, "Good lookin' fella." Then he promptly vanished behind the front page again.

See what I mean? Typically elusive, parental answer signifying nothing. You'd think I'd asked him where babies come from. (THAT response merits another post for another day).

It's all sooooo very confusing. Look, I know these actors' "names" are probably non-de-plumes, but would it have hurt one or more of them to change their names into something distinctive?

My head hurts. But maybe I've given you food for thought on one of humankind's most confusing quandaries and cleared up a few things.

Oh! Remember how I felt sorry for kids these days? Well, I feel sorry for parents, too! How in the world are we supposed to differentiate between Chris Evans, Chris Pratt, Chris Hemsworth, and Chris Pine? I mean, all these guys play in superhero movies, all are white hunks, all are the same age, and all have the SAME DAMN NAME! Probably the same stupid producer, too, who named all four of his kids, "Chris."

Thank God for the late, great Chadwick Boseman for finally giving us a different alternative over white, Chris-named superheroes, but leave it to the millennials to one-up our three-named actor problem of yore. This is getting insane!

By the way, I've got a few insane books available too. Take for instance, Twisted Tales of Tornado Alley, where most of the protagonists in this horror short story collection are either insane to begin with or end up that way (or worse). Lots of really dark laughs, too, to take the edge off the bloodshed. Written by yours truly, Chris Franstinociosa (my pen name).

 

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).