The Fall, Crawl & Bawl Ball

And there she goes! For you old-timers, do you remember these commercials that used to show up late on syndicated TV channels? Of the old lady laying on the floor and reading (quite poorly) off of cue cards and blasely announcing, "Help. I've fallen and I can't get up." The commercials that had myself and other juvie high school guys laughing and imitating all the way out to our cars to skip class?

Well, sir, I laugh no more! Never having thought it could happen to me in those invulnerable care-free days of dumb youth, now in my sixties, I stand corrected!

First a little background for those who haven't been paying attention. Over the last couple of years, arthritis has slowly, painfully taken over my body from my toes to my pretty now worthless knees to my back, and finally my thumbs. It ain't pretty. But pride still has me going upstairs to our bedroom on the second floor, even though I pretty much have to scale the stairs on all fours like Spiderman climbing a building. It usually works until I get to the top when things get scary. On the top three steps, I stand, grasp the door jam and pull myself up to safety. It's always a challenge, but I've exceeded until now. At the same time my wife happened to be out-of-town, natch.

Midnight. Friday night. For once, alcohol wasn't involved (why, you ask? Because I'm adhering to "Dry February," the shortest month of the year, double-natch). All was well until the perilous top three steps. I had almost made it, one knee lifted. And that's when my traitorous, fickle arthritic, mid-air poised knee completely decided to buckle. When the knee came down, it folded, and I fell. Hard. Mercifully I didn't go backwards down the stairs, however the left side of my chest crunched down hard on the step. Immediately, I knew I'd either broken or bruised ribs. The pain didn't stop there. My knees took quite a banging, too, to the point where they were uncomfortably numb.

Hands shaking, knees wobbling, I tried to get back to my feet to no avail. Instead I crawled up the stairs and hauled myself to the floor where I turned over, breathing deeply on the safety of the floor. BIG-ass mistake!

It took me forever just to turn over on my stomach. I couldn't sit up. My ribs and stomach muscles pained me to much and gave no support. Getting my elbows up failed several times, my arm muscles newly weakened as well. Finally, I flipped over on my stomach. Where I crawled to our bed. Now our bed is extremely high off the floor because we have an entire storage unit beneath the bed that would be the envy of John Wayne Gacy. Having made it to the side of the bed, I managed to get to my knees and tried to hoist myself up to no avail. Time and time again when I managed to get one foot painfully off the floor beneath me, I'd try to rise up but my debilitated body and worthless knees weren't having it and tossed me back down again. Crawling around, my knees beginning to burn from the carpet and strain, I searched around trying to MacGyver some steps up to bed. Clothes didn't work, not solid enough. Books were a no go, too slippery. Nothing else in sight.

A lightbulb struck me in the head (and why not? Everything else had been struck and restruck again). I thought I'd crawl to the bathroom and hoist myself up onto the toilet since it was a lower target. If I could get into a sitting position, I should be able to climb up into a stance from there. On the way there, I unbuckled my jeans, pulled them down to my ankles, thinking that while in there I'd take care of business. BIG-ass mistake #2.

You guys ever tried to crawl bare-kneed on tile floor. Ouch! Using my head, the only part of my body not in excruciating pain, I grabbed a towel and put it beneath my knees. Too late, they already looked like hamburger. And it was useless anyway. The only part of my body that was barely working to give me leverage up were my arm muscles and they were woefully diminished by all my previous rescue efforts.

I crawled back to bed, tried again and again. Every time I thought I'd make it, my knee would toss me back down like Hulk Hogan on a mad bender.

Resigned to my fate, I decided to just sleep on the floor. That lasted about ten minutes. No pillow, no cover,  add horrible pain to the ribs, all seemed futile. Having rested my body I got up on my hands and knees and gave it one more shot. My shaking hands pressed onto the floor, slowly, painfully, shaking like I was in a California earthquake, I pulled my knee into position and rose. Closer, closer, almost there. When I felt myself nearly standing, I took no chances and dove for the bed. Success! Well partially. Half on the bed with just my feet dangling over, I rolled to my back, feet still dangling. I needed to kick off my jeans. One foot out. Onto the next. Gravity, deciding to have some laughs, took over and pushed me back down to the floor in another agonizing, defeating fall.

ARRGHHHH! I've fallen and I can't get up, indeed! For the second time, I tried to sleep on the floor. And that's when I realized the ultimate in body insults: on the way out of bed, apparently I had piddled in my boxers. Gross! And ew. 

Okay. No wife. No phone as I had left it downstairs. And who would I have called at 2:30 in the morning anyway? I was already humiliated enough as it was, but the fact I piddled my shorts made the deciding factor that I wouldn't call anyone now. Even if I could get to my phone. 

My knee towel was standing by, so I mopped up with that. Desperate I scoured the room for any last bright ideas. Inspiration struck. Around the corner there was one of many huge bookshelves. I had overloaded it and a shelf had broken. But there was another detachable empty shelf that I pulled out. A make-shift crutch to get off of one knee and onto my feet was the idea. I grabbed it, crawled back to the seemingly unachievable bed in front of me and propped the shelf beneath my right underarm. I pressed down. Agony arose throughout my body anew as I strained the last parts of my body that weren't damaged already. Wobbly. Little by little. Almost there! And...eureka! I was on my feet! A very early Christmas miracle! Not taking any chances I turned around, still hunched over on my too-short crutch and hopped backward into bed. Slowly, I was able to pull my legs and feet up behind me. The light still on, my socks still on, not about to get under covers at this point, I finally--at sweet long last--passed out.

The next morning (well, four hours later), I awoke to immense pain everywhere. I felt like a huge semi had run me over and decided that it was so much fun, it reversed for a second go. Muscles I never knew I had screamed in pain. I could hardly move. Even though it took me about an hour to pull on new jeans, I made it. I snagged my shoes, a shirt and socks, didn't bother with them yet and put them in my lap, and slid down the stairs. Finally able to stand at the bottom. (Why I didn't think to do that last night is beyond me. I could've slept in the guest bedroom. D'OH!)

I never knew the act of sitting down (more like plummeting down at this point) could hurt so much. Getting up was worse, to the point where I elicited little screams that I'm glad no one heard. I must've lost ten pounds the next couple of days because it hurt too much to go to the refrigerator. A great diet plan, but not for everyone. And going to the toilet? Forget about it! I would fall down on it from necessity, but getting up was a dreaded exercise in long-lasting effort and pain, my weakened and strained arms no longer giving support.

In fact, I had strained my entire body. Add some bruised ribs and my ever-present arthritis and I was a mess. Still am two weeks later. But slowly getting better. I haven't been out of the house until yesterday (missing some freakishly warm February days), but with the aid of a cane and my wife coming home (and I gotta admit, I kinda like her taking care of me), I'm now getting around.

So, little old lady "actor" who fell and couldn't get up again, I salute you. I apologize profusely from the tips of my sprained toes to my bruised ribs and sore shoulders for laughing at your "silly" predicament. Karma had fed me a heaping spoonful of falling down whup-ass.

I don't know if any of the characters in my books have gone through as much physical pain as I had, but the folks in Godland might come close. Plus their mental anguish and emotional pain more than make up for it. Sounds like a downer, right? Instead I hope it's an edge-of-the-seat suspense thriller with tons of twists to keep you guessing and flipping through the pages. A "farm noir," a genre I made up! An especially good read if you're laid up in bed with aches and pains! Get my essential pain reliever here, recommended by 1 out of 10 critics.

MRI Fun!

I suppose it's inevitable that as one grows older, one's body wants to fight back. Everything seems to start going kerflooey at the same time.

My newest body gripe is my back. And it's a big one. Growing progressively worse on a seemingly daily basis, I'm at the point now where it's extremely painful to walk or stand 30 seconds at a time.

 So my new back doctor (and I remember the good old days when I had only one doctor; now it's a different doctor for every body part) says he wants me to get an MRI.

I said, "Great! Let's go!"

Then he waffles, hedges, says, "Wellllll...MRI's are tricky. Sometimes insurance companies don't like them."

I thought about saying, "Oh, well...I certainly want to keep the insurance company happy" but refrained from doing so.

So, after a month of haggling with insurance and scheduling people (who always sound like they're talking underwater; there was so much interference with one of them, I had to hang up as I couldn't hear or understand her), I finally had an MRI scheduled for a month away (and the scheduler laughed because I had to get there at 6:30 in the morning; I swan, it's hard to find good employees these days).

Now, I've had one other MRI in my life and that was performed on my head after I fell down once. (I kept telling them "I fell! There's nothing wrong with my head! A fall is sometimes just a fall!") After ignoring me and putting me through all kinds of tests, the nurse finally says, "I think you just fell." Anyway, that was my first MRI experience. And it didn't even begin to prepare me for my next one. I don't know if the machines had somehow become worse over the intervening years or if this was "progress," but day-ummmm!

When I got there--after walking seemingly miles of  corridors (and whose great idea was it to have people with bad backs walk a long way to get treatment?)--they shoved me into one of those stupid gowns. And how does one tie the damn thing in the back anyhow?

So I was put onto a slab in a freezing room, given earplugs (THAT was new) and rolled into a claustrophobic tube. The radiologist told me what to expect, but not really.

The best way I have to describe it is you know all of those cheesy theme parks in Orlando, Florida? The ones with those stupid simulator "rides? Where they strap you into a chair and show a film and then attack you with all sorts of kicks, jolts, tips, and whiffs of stinky stuff? That's the closest I can come to describing the ensuing terrors I found myself locked into.

First came the loud banging and clanging, followed by movement to and fro and back and forth. A barrage of horrific noises attacked me and usually ended with loud bangs and thuds, the earplugs supplying little protection. Then every once in a while, they'd lull you into a peaceful quiet where you think you're finally done, then BANG BANG CLANG BANG all over again. Sudden blasts of air shot at me like I was Marilyn Monroe standing over a sidewalk grate.

Then...at long last...it was mercifully over.

When they rolled me out, the technician asked, "So...how was it?"

"Like the worst carnival ride I've ever experienced."

But I was thrilled to be finished and (bad back or not) pretty much ran from the Chamber of Horrors.

Cut to about two weeks later. And I hadn't heard anything yet. So finally after trying to navigate the ridiculous, hardly user-friendly online portal, I managed to get a message through to the right parties.

After a day, I get a message back, "We don't have any records, reports or images of any such MRI."

Huh.

So I'm still going back and forth with them on this, hoping to God I don't have to go through it again. Ah, the modern miracle of electronics and medicine...

For a different kind of horror story, check out my book Godland. It's a tricky suspense thriller about four very different people and how destiny collides for them on a terrifying farm in Godland, Kansas. Check it out here. Reading it is mandatory.

SCROTOX!!

"Flee! Flee, puny humans, before the almighty power of the merciless Scrotox, the destroyer!!!"

NOT a hoax! Not an imaginary story! Not a dream (although once you hear what I have to say, I imagine you might wish it was a dream; a bad one, at that).

Although Scrotox does indeed sound like a giant monster from a 50's science fiction movie, it's something far, far worse and insidious. Scrotox is either the next step of the de-evolution of humanity or the biggest example of insanity vanity I've heard about since bleaching one's buttocks hole (and the less said about that, the better; although now that I brought it up, I guess I have a bit to say about it after all. What's the point of bleaching one's butt orifice? I mean, really, how many people do you want to show it off to? Is this something to be proud of? Do you drop trou at family gatherings and show off your proud accomplishment? "Say, guys, look what I did to my butthole!" These are the kinds of things that keep me up at night.)

But back to Scrotox...thanks to my daughter's getting me into trashy "reality" TV shows, I would have never had the "pleasure" of discovering what Scrotox is.

Hold onto something, guys...this one's going to hurt. Scrotox is the injection of botox into your testicles. 

AIEEEEEEEEEEE! I hear my male readers screaming. I'm right there with you, buddy. Not only is a man's testicles the most ridiculously vulnerable and tender part of anatomy, but just an accidental flick to the nards is enough to send you into intense bouts of nausea and pain.

So why would any guy subject their testicles to a huge needle? Makes me shiver just thinking about it, right? Get this...so it makes the testicle sack smoother and less wrinkly!

Can you believe that??? I know one of my life's goals is to have a less wrinkly sack between my legs. Does anyone really care? Aren't the wrinkles kinda just a fact of life that one should adapt to at an early age of body exploring? Why mess with success?

And the pain...oh, the pain... excuse me while I go lay down for a minute...

Isn't this the nuttiest vanity insanity you've ever heard of? And to think the future of the world is in the hands of these vapid and vain supermodels. We may as well call it a wrap right now, gang. And by the looks of things, we're headed that way quickly, too, with the aid of a certain crazy orange despot.

On the bright side, who says trash television can't be edumacational?

Speaking of insanity, have you guys checked into the Dandy Drop Inn yet? No? What're you waiting for??? (You just probably won't ever check out again.) Dread and Breakfast is the one horror thriller I wrote that surprised me. I never knew what was going to happen next, the characters all kinda dictated where they were headed and I had an absolute blast writing it. I hope you will, too, by reading it (as soon as you erase the prospect of scrotox from your brain).

Datesasters

Between my two marriages I went on quite a few dates that I refer to as "datesasters." Everyone's had 'em, an important part of education. (Now you youngsters must keep in mind that this was before online dating services became a thing, so we had to do it the old-fashioned way: through blind luck and lotsa courage.)

I'm still trying to forget one of my worst datesasters. It started off at the Kansas City Spirit Festival (an outdoor musical event) nicely enough. I can't remember who the band was (lotsa beers flowed), but my friends and I were sitting in the grass and before you know it I was dancing with a pretty girl (or so I thought at the time...remember, lots of beer). By the end of the show, I asked for her phone number and she gave it to me.

I waited the requisite three to five day period (you never want to appear too "hungry," although at the time I was practically starving)  and then called her. Thankfully her answering machine picked up and I left a detailed message and my phone number, thus putting the onus on her and sparing myself any possible one-on-one humiliation. Which as it turned out would've been preferred to our upcoming two dates. (My male work peer overheard me and said that was a wussy way out, to leave a number on her answering machine. Easy for him to say as he was married.)

She called back. The date was set! I told her I'd pick her up but she said she'd come by my house. (Warning sign number one. What was she hiding, I wondered.)

As I waited for her to come by, I couldn't help but wonder what she truly looked like without my beer-colored goggles. Color me shocked. At my door was a beautiful young Asian woman wearing nice clothes and cool high-top tennis shoes. Bonus points: she had giant 90's hair! (I've had several dates before where I met the women at bars, then set up a future date and when I saw them, I wanted out. Immediately. Guys, don't set up dates at bars when you're wearing those beer-colored goggles!)

But this time I was extremely pleased. I took her to a Cajun restaurant where all the men were sneaking looks at her while trying not to let their own wives/dates catch them. I felt like king of the world (eat it Dicaprio!) and wanted to show her off everywhere I could.

After a movie (Trainspotting at an art-house theatre, natch) which we both enjoyed, I took her home where I tried to kiss her. She backed off and said, "I never kiss on the first date." But then she was anxious to go on a second date.

And that's when it all went careening down to hell like a runaway bus driven by a blind man on an ice-covered hill.

When she showed up that next Saturday, the makeup was minimal, the clothes sorta "comfy" looking, and the Giant 90's hair was nowhere to be found. Don't get me wrong, she still looked pretty, but by the lack of effort she put into it this time, I could sense the honeymoon was already nearly over. (I know this sorta sounds sexist, ladies, but that's how we young guys thought in yesteryear).

Knowing that she liked live music, I decided to take her down to the River Market where there was a Zydeco Music Festival.

She says, "What's Zydeco?"

I explained it to her as best I could. "Hmmm," she said. "Sounds interesting."

On the way downtown, out of nowhere she suddenly blurts out, "I'm interested to see how sexually compatible we are."

YOW! I nearly swerved into another car. Was this the same girl who didn't kiss on the first date?  But once I got over my initial shock, I thought things had suddenly picked up.

And I was wrong. Once I bought tickets, drinks, and food, she said, "I hate this music. Can we go?"

"Um...sure." A mental image of the big bucks I'd just dropped flew away in seconds. We couldn't have been there for longer than ten minutes.

She said, "Let's go back to your house and watch a movie."

"Okay!" I floored the pedal and made it home in record time. She'd chosen La Femme Nikita (which I'd already seen, but I was game) and we piled onto the sofa.

Before I pushed "play," she turns to me and says, "I bet you're a Republican, aren't you?" in the most derisive of manner.

Loud warning bells went off. I heard a horrendous "AOOOGAH!" sound in my mind. And somewhere a cartoon trombone went "Wah, wah, wah, wahhhhhhhh."

I wasn't sure how to respond to her sudden judginess. As I tried to keep my temper in check, I said, "No, no I'm not. I'm very much a liberal Democrat. Why would you even assume that?"

I forgot her answer, but it didn't matter. I'd begun the check-out process. Check-out was completed with her next sudden judgy out-of-the-blue statement: "I think you're just looking for a new mother for your daughter."

That really blew my mind. "No, I'm not. She already has a mother."

But the damage had been done. I left her there to watch the movie alone while I tended to more pleasing things like doing the dishes and taking out the trash and cleaning the toilet.

At the end of the movie, I ushered her to the door. Where she lingered for an awkward twenty or so minutes, obviously wanting to see what would happen next. Clearly, in addition to being judgy, she was delusional. In what possible world, could anyone have viewed this as a good, successful date?

I opened the door and said, "Okay. Bye."

So the datesaster process began anew once again. (Now that I think of it, this datesaster wasn't nearly as bad as some upcoming ones I suffered through. But that's a post for another day!)

The only guy who had a worse dating profile than me has clearly got to be Shawn Biltmore. On the surface, things don't look so bad as he has two attractive women interested in him at the same time. But could one of them possibly be a murderous, flesh-rending and gnawing werewolf? Find out in my darkly comical horror satire, Corporate Wolf, available here.

Night of the Sick Geezer

Last week, I was so sick, I found myself unable to write a new blog post. Hey it was a struggle to get outta bed!

So...about that...

For some time, me and my fellow "geezers (that's what my niece calls us; yet she still enjoys our outings!)" had been planning a reunion of sorts at a local bar.

With some effort and through a ton of texts, I managed to get (almost) everyone on board, including one of our pals who resides in Portland. 

The bar was Ground Zero, the area where I picked up this hideous virus (and am still recovering from). But through the miracle of modern forensics, intensive investigation, and arduous research (and lotsa assumptions), I found out exactly who Patient Zero was.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't as tough as all of that...for you see, in our group texts, one of our friends gave us a "heads up. I'm recovering from a bad cold."

To which I responded, "unless you're 100% recovered, stay at home because we don't want your plague."

His comeback? "Now I'm more bound and determined to come."

Sure enough, when I saw him enter the bar, I turned to my brother and said "crap. I didn't think he'd actually come."

With about a dozen of us in attendance (half of the bar's capacity pretty much), we had pushed two tables together. At the time of Patient Zero's arrival, our second table was occupied by just one other geezer.

I pointed at the barren table and said, "you sit over there."

He didn't. Not only did he find it funny to sit down right next to me (12 guys around two small tables is quite "cozy"), hilarity further ensued as he comically rubbed the back of his hand against mine. Several times. And since it was loud in there, he yelled while talking to me and I felt his virus-ridden spittle land on my cheek and hand. This occurred during his explanation that it'd been a week and he wasn't contagious any longer.

Yikes.

Anyway, a good time was had by one and all of we geezers. And after that night, I went home. And waited for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it did. Right on top of my head like a cartoon anvil purchased from the Acme Company.

Wednesday morning, I felt like a pu-pu platter. As the day progressed, I grew worse and felt like a three day old pu-pu platter. Eight days later, I still haven't completely recovered from the Virus From Hell. Thanks buddy!

So it was my civic duty to check in with the other geezers. I put out a high alert and canvassed them to see if any others had fallen ill. Sure enough, my pal from Portland had the exact thing I had, picked it up at the same time, and we're both in the recovering phase. (I still haven't heard back from three of the geezers, so they're either busy or on their death beds.)

I told my wife the entire horrific saga. She said, "if you die from this, I'm not inviting 'Patient Zero' to you to your funeral." I suppose there was some comfort to be had in that. When I told a couple of the other geezers my wife's comment, one guy said, "make sure your wife knows I'm still on a low-carb diet and pretzels and light beer will be fine at your wake." It's good to have friends.

Meanwhile, Patient Zero still refuses to accept full responsibility for his reckless actions. Sure he has a point that we were in a crowded bar, but I'm extremely suspect. At the bar, my interactions were limited to the 12 of us geezers. And prior to our soiree, I hadn't been outta the house in about a week. The evidence certainly points toward him. 

In a way, I suppose I don't blame him. Not really. I probably would've done the same thing if I were in his sick shoes. It's not often we have everyone gathered from our college days, quite an accomplishment, one not to be missed.

Still...still...this cautionary tale adds an entire new spin on the saying "drink responsibly."

Speaking of irresponsible behavior, people don't come any more irresponsible than my character, Zach, possibly the world's dimmest male stripper (whoops...excuse me..."male entertainment dancer"). Just ask his long-suffering detective sister who constantly has to bail him out of jail and worse situations. All because he's kinda dumb and can't help but fall into very bad situations. See for yourself in my Zach and Zora comedy mystery series available here.

Sorry, guys! No new blog post this week...

 ...someone has graciously donated their plague to me. It's all I can do to get outta bed. I'll be back next week for more fun and frolics.

Zombie Cow!

While my wife peruses the morning "news" on her tablet, she likes to call out ludicrous headlines.

"Here's one for you, honey," she said. "'Beloved cow killed by trespasser; ranch owner says not the first time.'"

Yow! Just how many times has this poor cow died? You'd think that after a while the ranch owner might just throw in the towel and quit performing his voodoo rites to bring back his beloved cow.

Obviously, the headline suffered from poor writing. This is the kind of stuff my take-no-prisoners journalism professor in college would've ridiculed for the entire class' enjoyment.

Which brings me to the sad state of so-called journalism these days. Remember all of those 40's and 50's movies where newsrooms are packed with hard-hitting, dedicated, chain-smoking reporters? They're pretty much gone now. Instead of the bustling newsroom, we have conspiracy theorists churning out crap on their computer from their mom's basement. And more and more of our newspapers are going the way of disco.

Now, every time I hear the term "fake news," I cringe. Mostly because I attribute the term to our preening jackass in charge who shrugs off anything negative he hears about himself as "fake news."

But I'd be foolish to doubt the existence of "fake news." These days, people from both sides of the political aisle throw out anything that suits their agenda, true or not. It's becoming harder and harder to sift  the reality from the crappery.

News is compromised. Everywhere. Even the highest bastion of nighttime news shows--60 Minutes--has become vulnerable to our cranky, orange baby king's needs and wants by offering apologies and losing lawsuits. It's pretty sad.

And never trust anyone who only watches one news channel. If some guy says to me, "last night on NewsMax, they said President Trump bla, bla, bla...," I immediately tune them out. Why, it seems like only yesterday that news was supposed to be completely unbiased and not push their own agenda. Those days are long behind us. Even CNN or MSNBC are admittedly more left-leaning than they probably should be. So it is hard to get true news any more. Try to stay balanced. Go ahead and watch CNN. But then switch over to Fox News to see what the other half is up to! If nothing else, many laughs will ensue!

And do you guys remember editors? You don't? Well, for good reason! They don't exist any longer, as dead as a zombie cow. An editor used to be a full-time job, the overseer of bad writing and fact-checking. Now, any buffoon with access to a computer can churn out anything and post it on the world-wide intronets as "news," the facts be damned. And don't even get me started on the misspellings and poor writing in these "stories." Even professional outlets apparently have done away with editors, their stories riddled with errors.

Okay, I realize I'm coming off as a negative nelly and a cranky coot. But having a journalism degree means a lot to me. Having said all of that, there's still plenty of enjoyment to be had by looking at a lot of the trashy click-bait and articles purporting to be "news." Laughs abound! 

Hey! Didn't I start out by writing about a zombie cow?

While I'm on my cranky old guy soapbox, you may as well check out my book of short stories, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. In it you will find stories of horror and occasional bursts of dark comedy. But I also wrote it at a time when I saw where our country was headed and some of the stories represent everything that's wrong with our country these days. (It's also fun, though. Don't let me scare you off!)