Dr. Quack

From as far back as I can remember, my parents used to drag my brother and I  (kicking and screaming) to a doctor who they swore by all the way up through high school. We'll call him "Dr. Quack" for that's what he was.

He was also a "baby doctor," meaning he specialized in toddlers, or so it seemed (I had this theory verified one day when I was about fifteen. I was stuck next to my mom in the waiting room and to my surprise, in strolled a notorious, chain-smoking, fully-bearded stoner, led by his mother. He groused loudly, "Mom, why do I have to go to a baby doctor?" I never thought of him as so notorious after that.).

Anyway, no matter my ailment, this quack's response was always the same: "Hmmm, I'm going to prescribe Singlets. If you're not better in two weeks, come back in." These "Singlets" never did a damn thing. Dr. Quack clearly had a special deal going on with the Big Pharma manufacturer of these sugar-coated placebos. He made a fortune off of Singlets just through my family alone.

Oh, he had one other thing he kept threatening to do to me. "Hmmm, if he keeps getting stuffed up ears," Dr. Quack said solemnly to my mom, "We'll have to put tubes in his ears."

Whaaaaaaaat? The thought of tubes in my ears terrified me. Not only would it be painful and torturous, but I easily imagined the bullies lined up at school waiting to pummel the unfortunate kid with tubes sticking out of his ears. Barbaric, worse than electro-shock treatment to my grade school stuffed up ears.

One day, Dr. Quack had convinced my mother that my brother and I had allergies. So off to another quack we flew. This guy decided I was allergic to peanut butter (absolutely not true), milk (ditto), and a slew of ordinary things that I constantly indulged in without any problem whatsoever. Regardless, we had to get painful shots each week. And even though we knew it was coming, we tried to block the tragic day out, utilizing a child's ability to believe that what you don't think about won't hurt you. And every Friday, there was a stubborn, tear-filled fit with my mom always winning. I don't even remember getting lollipops.

Finally, once I hit college, I escaped the menace of Dr. Quack, choosing instead to just power through the illness or go to the campus clinic. Until one day I was talking to my friend and things came around to Dr. Quack.

"Dr. Quack!" exclaimed my buddy. "He was a terrible doctor! Everybody knew that he was the guy to go to if you wanted to get out of gym or play football or whatever. I can't believe you guys went to him! HA HA HA HA HA HA..."

So, it seemed that even though I'd put distance between myself and the notorious Dr. Quack, his long shadow still loomed over me with a handful of Singlets and plastic tubing.

Years later, as an adult I went to a nearby walk-in clinic due to bronchitis. I nearly shrieked when I found out the doctor on call was...Dr. Quack Junior! My past still haunted me.

Speaking of haunts, visit beautiful Gannaway, Kansas. A cozy little mining town originating in the '20's, Gannaway offers plentiful jobs and beautiful country living and murders and ghosts and scares and ancient curses...and...and...wait! Okay, maybe you shouldn't visit Gannaway. Instead, why not read about it in my historical ghost tale Ghosts of Gannaway, the perfect book to cozy up to on these cold winter nights.

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!

The Storm of the Century

No hype! Not a dream (or nightmare, more like)! Not an imaginary story!

Just a huge slathering of ice, followed by ten inches of snow, frigid temperatures, and finally many, many, MANY curse words.

The worst storm in thirty years, the weather shut down all of Kansas City. It took us at least two days to dig our way out of the driveway.

And it took me seven different attempts to shovel the drive. I ain't the young, in-shape whippersnapper I used to be.

Two out of three of our dogs are short, becoming engulfed by the snow when they go out. So I've had to shovel some of the yard. The yard for crying out loud!

It doesn't help that the older I get, the colder I get. I put on so many layers that I look like Ralphie's younger brother in A Christmas Story. My younger brother agrees with my assessment of the weather as well.

"This is the coldest winter ever," he says repeatedly, shivering in his old guy clothes.

What really gets me are the people who are downright giddy about the storm. "It's pretty" or "I LOVE snow" or "I wish it would snow all the time."

I just don't get it. And if they continue to say those dumb things around me, I'm well within my rights to punch them in the neck. Any court around the country would find my act justified.

What really, truly gets my dander up (whatever a dander is) are the climate change deniers. All you have to do is look at all the awful weather-related storms and tragedies people have weathered (see what I did there?) over the past year.

So where do we move to where we don't have to deal with snow and ice? Can't go to Florida; too many hurricanes and crazy politicians. And now L.A.'s out because it's on fire.

Maybe Arizona...but that would probably be a hard sell for my wife because of all the spiders.

Ah well, if you can't beat the weather, join 'em! Because in one of my most popular books, Dread and Breakfast, the suspense, thrills, and chills all take place during a very bad winter storm in the Midwest. Why, it's practically downright autobiographical!

Merry Smokemas!

Our family was gathered during the holidays in Oklahoma. Laughs were shared, memories recalled, and anecdotes told with vigor. Business as usual...until my oldest nephew opened his Christmas gift from family in Portland.

A pack of cigarettes!

Wow! Happy Holidays! The true meaning of Christmas!

My nephew was looking at his gift, turning it around, searching inside for some secret hidden gift. Nothing but tar and nicotine.

"Whatever," he muttered.

My younger nephew said, "It's not even a full pack of cigarettes" like they'd been ripped off or something.

There was stunned silence until the sheer hilarity of it all floored us.

My bro-in-law took some pictures and sent them to his brother (the gift giver) in Portland. 

My niece wrote back, "I wrapped all of those gifts and I SWEAR I don't know how those cigarettes ended up in that gift!"

There was much speculation. Was it a joke? One conspiracy theory had my Portland nephew planting it for unknown insidious reasons.

I guess we'll never know.

Anyway, nothing shouts Christmas more than family gatherings, eggnog, and cigarettes!

Happy holidays and smoke 'em if you got 'em!

Art My A$$!

 I like modern art. Contemporary, pop, surrealistic, post-hipster-ironic, there's a place for all of it. In fact, when visiting the Nelson Art Museum on the Plaza, I prefer the modern wing to the stodgy ol' masters of yesteryear.

But this...THIS...

Where do I begin? An Italian "artist," Maurizio Cattelan, duct taped a banana to a wall and called it ART. He's duped many a critic--and pretentious would-be critics--into deeming it a masterpiece. A masterpiece of crap and scamming maybe. Get this...Cattelan made three different versions of this messterpiece and recently, the second one sold for $6.2 MILLION dollars! Yep. You read that right.

Cattelan calls this grift-work "Comedian." I can see why. He's laughing all the way to the bank.

What really gets my goat is that the guy who bought it ate the friggin' banana at a press conference! $6.2 million bucks down the drain. Hell, some third world countries could be fed for that kinda cash-drop. Grrrr...don't get me going.

The purchaser in question was a cryptocurrency tycoon (reportedly of questionable criminal concerns) who explained, while chowing down on his expensive art, that "the real value is the concept itself" and compared it to a crypto asset. Which opens up a whole new level of mind-buggery and grifting.

Where do we draw the line on what constitutes "art?" Can I hang a pair of my dirty underwear from a flag pole and charge a half a million (I'm not greedy!) for this brilliant contemporary commentary on the filth that secretly underlies the white picket fences and manicured lawns of suburbia?

To paraphrase Sigmund Freud (one of the greatest stand-up comedians of his era), "sometimes a banana is just a banana."

Maybe I'm just mad I didn't think of this scam first.

Happy New Year!

Speaking of grifters, check out the cover on my supernatural horror comedy, Demon With a Comb-Over! That's all I'll say about that!

Happy Horrordays!

Here in the West household, there's an annual Christmas tradition that's proudly observed by...well...just me, I suppose. It's a dark alley to wander down (especially at night and by yourself), but my wife won't take a stroll with me. (Okay, maybe my daughter and sister-in-law might partake on occasion, but they don't live here, so that leaves me and the sofa).

For you see, I've taken it upon myself to watch every blasted Christmas horror film ever made. From the 70's and 80's, I've discovered such gems as the original Black Christmas (forget about those remakes), Christmas Evil (John Water's favorite film!), and my personal favorite, Elves (of which I'm alone in that assessment, I'm afraid. But where else can you find Dan Haggerty playing a haggard department store Santa doing battle with an evil German cabal of elves who're trying to resuscitate Hitler? Yow! There's also a wicked stepmother who tries to flush the heroine's cat down the toilet! Why, it gives me Christmas warm fuzzies just thinking about it! Good luck trying to find this gem, though).

But where do you go after you've seen all the '80's and '70's classics time and time again? Why, to the present, of course. And if you thought the '70's and '80's output was bad, wait until you check out these stinkers. We're talking bottom of the barrel crap that barely resembles film, some shot on video. Most of them star plastic-enhanced, tattooed "starlets" and strung-out, carboard men. Most of the plots feature a (very unlikeable) group of friends who decide to Christmas holiday in the California woods while a stalker Santa hunts them down in various, gory ways (usually the only thing the budget goes toward). Ho, ho, HORRIBLE! And c'mon! It's hard to get into the Christmas spirit when it looks like Summer. Christmas is the only day I want snow, but it damn well better be present in my Christmas horror movies, by gum.

This year was a particularly dire trudge. I've suffered through such crapsterpieces as Santastein (um, yeah, the only worse thing than a bad Christmas horror movie is a really bad Christmas horror COMEDY movie), Werewolf Santa (ditto!), Santa Jaws (snooze), and other timeless classics.

Why do I keep punishing myself, you ask? I dunno, just call me the Cineaste Sadist, I suppose. But there's a silver lining...kinda...somewhere...if you're likkered up and squinting with your eyes half-closed: occasionally I'll stumble across a real gem. One of my new all-time favorites is Anna and the Apocalypse, the only horror comedy Christmas musical about zombies and the end of the world. I know, it sounds like it wouldn't work. But it does. And it's great! Every year my daughter and I watch it and never get tired of it.

A Christmas Horror Story is kinda fun, featuring William Shatner as a lonely Christmas D.J. who gets progressively hammered while on the air, the perfect opportunity for Big Bill to ham it up and chew the pork for Christmas dinner. 

Santa's Slay is pretty entertaining and funny, although its rewatchability is limited, at least for me. But the flick features a big cast (most of them slaughtered in the opening minutes like James Caan and Fran Drescher [and who hasn't wanted to slaughter "The Nanny?"}). It also features a fun stop-motion parody segment of the Rankin-Bass children's shows of the '60's.

Krampus is good, but everyone knows about that one.

But I'm hard pressed at this moment to come up with other instant classics. Yet I keep sludging down these dark Christmas alleys, with hope in my heart and coal in my stockings! Happy Horrordays!

Speaking of Christmas horror, be sure and check out the Christmas horror short story collections from Grinning Skull Press. There's a ton of 'em (I'm in one of them somewhere), all good, and you can start here. Plus all proceeds go to the Elizabeth Glazer Pediatric AIDS Foundation, so win-win!

BAM! You've Just Been Old-Manned!

Last week the nice young couple across the street were vacationing in Barbados (we're lucky to get to Oklahoma!). Before they left I received a text from the guy asking if I'd keep an eye out, pick up packages and mail. No problem!

The morning after they got back, he texted me and wanted to know when he could pick his stuff up. With our dog pack, it's easier for me to just meet him outside. So I met him on our stoop.

"Hey, how was Barbados," I asked.

"Oh, man, it was great. The weather was warm, I surfed a little, and swam with the turtles," he said. I didn't pursue it further, but I hope that wasn't like "swimming with the fishes."

"Then you come back to this," I splayed my hand at Kansas.

"Yeah." He stared down at his feet like he couldn't tolerate standing in Kansas.

"Okay, here's your packages and mail." I handed over the bounty.

"Thanks again. Well, I'm going to get out of your hair," he offered, seeking a speedy getaway.

"What hair?" I asked.

"Heh, yeah. But I gotta run." He hitched a thumb across the street.

"Oh, okay, I don't mean to hold you up," I said, while doing just that.

One step down the front steps, I stopped him. "Hey, we're going to be out of town from the 23rd to 27th or so. Could you maybe pick up packages? You know how it is...I still have late gifts trickling in." I offered a little chuckle, which wasn't reciprocated.

He scowled. "Uh...yeah, I can do that." He turned around and took another step down.

I pulled out my best Columbo imitation. "Just one more thing. Your decorative candy canes?"

"What about them?"

"The three in front of the door aren't lighting up."

One more step on his getaway. "I think I remember that when I set them up."

"Oh."

"I'll shoot you a text when we leave. You know, just a friendly reminder."

"Gotta go!" He practically ran down the yard and into the street to the safety of his house.

It wasn't until he slammed his door that I realized I'd just "old-manned" the young neighbor.

I was reminded of the time nearly thirty years ago when I first moved in and was the youngster on the block. My arms loaded with grocery sacks, I got out of my car and heard the old man across the street calling out my name.

Crap, I thought. Caught!

Sure enough he began to leisurely stroll across his yard. To speed things up, I met him in the street. Maybe a speeding car would put a quick end to our sure-to-be agonizing convo.

No such luck. As the groceries in my arms grew heavier and things started melting, the old guy kept me out there for twenty minutes. To make matters worse, he wasn't wearing his hearing aid, so I had to speak up and repeat bland niceties about the weather at mega-levels. I told him that when I trimmed the front hedges, I developed terrible poison ivy.

"I coulda told you that there was poison ivy in the bushes," the only helpful thing he said. Just too late.

I kept looking down the street for a runaway vehicle. Finally, he said, "well, I'll get outta your hair." (This was back when I actually had hair.)

My arms aching, I pitched a sigh of relief as I escaped inside. I had been "old-manned."

Yikes. I guess what goes around comes around. I hadn't thought my conversation with my young neighbor was too long, or too old-manly, or too dull, but my unwitting victim apparently did. I just never thought I'd be doing any "old-manning."

Just hope those young whippersnappers stay outta my yard. Well, time to put on my gravy-stained sweater and head down to the cafeteria for the early bird hour.

Speaking of all things autobiographical, check out my book Corporate Wolf. Many of the things that happened to our hapless protagonist happened to me in my tenure in the big business sector. Well, except for the werewolf stuff. And the gruesome murders (although there were several coworkers who I envisioned meeting gruesome endings.). Come for the corporate satire and stick around for the dark humor and horror and mystery of Corporate Wolf.