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!  

 

The Best Day to Get Shot

Over the holidays my wife and I were tooling around town with her in the driver's seat. Suddenly, she realized we were in the wrong lane to take our highway exit (Sidebar: This is a particularly precarious position for me to be in. I risk my wife's ire by telling her she has to get over, with "Don't tell me how to drive!," the usual response. On the other hand, if we miss the exit, it's my fault for not saying anything. Can't win. However, this is not the reason I've gathered you all here today...apologies for the digression.).

So, I say to my wife, "just speed up, pass the guy, and hop on the exit." A perfectly fine solution to our driving dilemma.

She says, "No, today's not a good day to get shot."

We let that ominous statement fill out its weight before realizing how ludicrous it sounded.

"Well..." I said, "When is the best day to get shot?"

"Not December, definitely," she said. "Christmas and gatherings and all, so that rules that month out. And January is the new year. That wouldn't be a good way to bring in the new year."

"When would you like to schedule getting shot, then?"

"February is Valentine's Day, so that's out. In March, we have St. Patrick's Day."

"So...what about August?" I suggest. "I can't think of any holidays then."

"Except for my birthday," she said. "That'd be a terrible way to celebrate my birthday."

In conclusion, we decided that there just isn't a good day to get shot. 

Of course it was a goofy conversation, but one that we handled with surprising nonchalance given our ever-changing--and scary--environment in the Midwest. Open and concealed carry guns are legal without a license in Kansas, for God's sake. School campuses have allowed students to carry guns into class, making for some very interesting higher education. Sadly, I've had to permanently retire my favorite one-fingered salute to dangerous and offending drivers. My sister-in-law came up with a novel approach to said drivers: she smiles and gives them a little wave. I'm not sure how effective this is, but I am fairly certain if I were to try this approach, it'd still get me shot. I seem to have that effect on people. But, alas, these days it doesn't take much.

I'm reminded of when a Peruvian student came to my college in Kansas back in the day and was shocked to find that people weren't running around on dusty, dirt roads and shooting up the local bar. Of course, back then we laughed it off. But it looks like we've come full circle to the rip-snortin', hoo-hahin', guns a'blazin' ol' West again. But with better roads. (All in the name of freedom, natch.)

So, in summation, when is the best day to get shot? Never. I hope.

And we missed the damn highway exit.

Speaking of shoot-em-ups, my serial killer, darkly comical, suspense trilogy has more than its fair share of gun-play. But for those weapons elitists, you'll find a marvelous variety of other deadly weapons at play as well, including a flame-thrower. Check out the first book in the Killers Incorporated trilogy, Secret Society, right here. And duck!

 

No Escape From the 24 Store

Not too long ago my daughter told me to go check out The 888 International Market and Cafe in Overland Park, Kansas. She said, "I love it. It's great."

First I thought, "well, big deal, it's a grocery store." Then I thought, "hey, my mother-in-law is coming for a visit, maybe that'd be something cool to take her to."

HUGE mistake number one... For you see, as much as I love my mom-in-law, I had forgotten what a "shopper" she is. And get her together with my wife, they've been known to vanish within one store for hours at a time. (I can't believe I had so easily forgotten the Infamous Shoe Store Trauma of 2006. I must've blocked it out, just too traumatic and painful to recall. After being in the tiny shoe store for hours and hours, I now have PTSD: Post Traumatic Shoe Drama. I mean, c'mon, shoes are things you stick on your feet! Not much to see!)

Anyway, the three of us trundled off to the 888 International Market. Curious as to why it was called "888 (which sounds like a telemarketing company)," I did a little research, but didn't get very far. Apparently, in some cultures "888" signifies financial abundance and material wealth. I believe it after seeing the prices in the store. (It could've been worse, I suppose...I wonder what the 666 Market has to offer?)

My daughter thinks "The 888 International Market and Cafe" takes too long to say, so she's handily shortened the title to "The 24 Store" for easier, quicker reference, but I digress.

So we entered the store. And it's...overwhelming. Aisles and aisles and miles and aisles of some of the most colorful, expensive, rare, and downright gross items you've ever seen amassed under one roof. The store lived up to its lengthy moniker: while specializing in Asian foods from around the world, other countries and cultures were likewise represented.

There's an entire aisle devoted to squid jerky! Literally dozens and dozens of squid jerky options. I don't know about you, but one option is probably too much for my shy, Americanized palate.

And, hey, you want sea cucumber? It's only $229.99 a pound. Bargain!

Once I stumbled onto the duck egg aisle, I'd had about enough. Multiple colors of huge duck eggs, all of them ugly blacks, greens, browns, and other unappealing colors. Not only had I had enough, my stomach had, too.

The problem is it was the second aisle in the store and my wife and mom-in-law were looking at Every...Single...Item.

I said, "Are you going to look at everything in the store?"

"Probably," they said.

I couldn't even see the back of the store, worse than a never-ending corn-maze. Even worse, they didn't even have a "husband bench." So, I bailed, sat out in the car and did rewarding things like play a game on my phone.

After another hour, I went back in to check their progress. Once I found them, they'd completed almost 2/3 of the store, yet they hadn't even left the food section yet! Uh-oh, I thought while staring at all of the cookware, gifts, pottery, furniture, you name it, they had it. Pretty sure there was even a kitchen sink aisle.

Back to the car I stalked as I cursed myself for offering this ludicrous day outing to them in the first place. I had naively forgotten that my idea of shopping (dash in, pull it off the shelf, toss some money down, where the hell's the exit?) doesn't coexist with theirs as I sat in the back of the car like an abused dog.

Men, please take heed of my cautionary tale.

My short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, is also full of cautionary tales, but they generally end a bit more horrifically than my recent shopping trauma (although if I convinced myself of that while sitting in the parking lot that day, I'd have called myself a damn liar!). We have underground monsters, Bigfoot love, psychopathic children, strange vegetation, giant bugs, and more ghoulish fun than you can shake a scythe at. Check it out here.

 

The Incredible Cat-Dog

Some years back, when my daughter was just a wee lil' lass, I vaguely remember her watching some awful cartoon series on Nickelodeon, called "Cat-Dog." Other than finding the titular critter very creepy, and the show awful, I don't remember much about it, except that I can still belt out the incredibly, annoying ear-worm of a theme song (although in terms of horrific children's entertainment songs, NOTHING beats that damned, infernal "Baby Shark." GAH!).

Little did I realize that a "cat-dog" exists in real life. And my daughter owns him (or maybe he owns her, but we'll get to that). Unlike the cartoon character, he doesn't have a cat head on one end of his body and a dog head on the opposite end (which begs the question, just how did the animated Cat-Dog go to the bathroom?). No, my daughter's pet looks like a dog, but shares some very eerie cat-like traits. Kinda creepy at times.

Stealthy as a Hollywood ninja, Baron creeps around my daughter's house as if wearing slippers. Suddenly, he'll fly up in the air to land on the highest point of furniture around, where he'll roost like a cat. The amazing thing is he doesn't even need a running start. Just leaps up like the most agile cat around.

And he'll watch me. Oh, yes, he'll watch me. Plotting against me, wondering how he can drive me crazy next, perhaps scaring me into a heart attack or barking me into insanity. Because that's what Baron's all about: he's an evil genius who wants to take over the world and rule. He's just biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity...

Brrrrrrr.

Don't believe me? Check out this chilling video footage:

I know, right? And as we all know, everything you read or see on the intronets is true!

I have further confirmation from an internet source, Wagwalking.com. They write that dogs are territorial and will protect their space where they're comfortable. Furthermore, if they've settled on a spot above you (hello, Baron!), then they believe themselves to be a notch superior to you in the evolutionary chain.

See what I mean? Plotting against humanity. You guys have seen the Planet of the Apes movies, right? Beware the furry interloper in your house, people! They're plotting--like cats--to take humanity down!

Speaking of dangerous furry interlopers, my book, Corporate Wolf, is chock full of werewolves in perhaps the only corporate satire, horror, black comedy, suspense, thriller, murder mystery around. So get yourself a copy and parade it around town so you can show folks what a trendsetter you are. All the cool kids get it right here.

 

...And You're Gonna Like It!

As a kid--an extremely ornery one, no doubt--I learned to read my parents like a cherished issue of "Boy's Life" magazine. And I knew the secrets of working them, too. Not always. Sometimes the belt couldn't be avoided.

But, at least in my experience, most threats were just empty for small kids. Promises of punishment to come. Which more often than not weren't followed up on.

One of the dumbest threats I was ever faced with was this old nugget of goofiness: "You're gonna eat that and you're gonna like it!"

Well, no sir, no thanks, there's just absolutely no way in Hell I'm ever going to eat those lima beans and it'll be a colder day in Hell when and if I ever like them.  Of course this is what I wanted to tell my dad as we sat in front of those damned lima beans around the kitchen table in many a stand-off. But I didn't dare tell him that that even if I knew the sentiment was 100% true. 

I've yet to meet anyone who likes lima beans. If you look up a definition of "mealy," I'm sure there's a drawing of a lima bean accompanying them. And the taste is somewhere between rancid baby food and aspirin. To this day, I still won't touch a lima bean. And NO ONE HAS MADE ME LIKE THEM YET.

Combine a child's fiercely independent, stubborn streak with every child's willingness to push boundaries and you have a no-win situation. Our many endless kitchen table showdowns either ended in my conceding to eat two spoonfuls and make a huge production out of it or my dad would get sick of it and just go to bed.

My point is it was a stupid threat that was destined to fail on many levels. There was truly no way it could have been enforced. And I knew it. So many threats are like that.

Another threat was one of my mom's favorites: "Just wait 'til your father gets home!" Now while this threat did carry the not-so-veiled promise of a spanking to come (which my dad carried out with no regret and possibly a little glee), what it told us kids was Mom wasn't going to follow through with a punishment of her own, instead choosing to throw the onus on Bad Parent while she played Good Parent. 

How did that work in our favor? Great! It meant we had time to show our angelic side to soften Mom up and stop her from tattling. If that didn't work, we could plead. "Please, Mom, don't tell Dad. I'm sorry, so sorry, I'll never do it again, please don't..." And finally, when all else had failed, you pulled out another bit of sass. This sounds counterintuitive to your survival, but hear me out. Moms always leaven their spanking. 

"This hurts me more than it hurts you," she'd say while swatting my butt with an open hand. And I think she was right, too. As she cried, I pulled out the crocodile tears and cried alongside her, knowing that I was getting off easy with a slight paddle as opposed to Dad's go-for-it gusto.

"You're gonna get in big trouble, young man!" Another hollow threat. Even as children, we knew this was a stalling tactic. Either we get in big trouble or we don't. But usually this was leveled at me while I was misbehaving in a store where my mom didn't want to punish me in public. By the time we'd leave the store (hours in fabric shops, usually), the threat had dissipated.

Finally, one of my favorites: "Don't make me come back there!" We three boys would be crammed into the back seat usually giggling over that one. Because where was this threat issued? While we were careening down a highway, usually in a hurry to get somewhere. No way was Dad gonna climb over the seat, leave the car to drive on its own, and deliver fierce and swift justice. However, there was one thing we didn't count on...Dad would wildly flail one hand backward, attempting to swat the troublemaker in question. Usually his aim was bad. So it was always strategically important to sit behind him where he couldn't reach you. Or the far side. The poor middle seat generally took the most friendly fire.

Years later, I saw an acquaintance threatening his bratty kid with a "kinder, gentler approach." While his little terror was running over coffee tables and attacking adults--the usual future serial killer behavior--the dad would raise his voice slightly and start counting, "onnnnnnne...twoooooo...threeeeee..." Didn't do a DAMN thing to change the lil' monster's behavior as he ran rampant throughout the party. The kinder, gentler approach seemed to be a step backward.

What am I saying? Parents, either punish your kids or don't. Your choice. But programming them to realize you're just full of hollow threats ain't doing you or your little darlings any good. They know. Oh, yes they do.

Honestly, I should hold seminars for grade school kids in how to take control of their parents. You're welcome!

Speaking of brats, there are three (literally!) murderous tykes on the loose in my horror novella, "Halloweenie Roast," available in my collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. Maybe it'll make you parents start doing some punishing before it's too late! Get this edumacational tract right here!

 

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!