Chatty Cathy

While I was waiting in one of the hospital beds for my second cataract surgery, an older woman was escorted by me and deposited in the bed next to me.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know," she started. "My mother had it and now I have it. It makes me sick sometimes."

"Hmmmm," said the clearly uninterested nurse.

"Yes, it's true." Totally unable (or unwilling) to read the room, she continued on relating her complete family history. "Now my father never had it and my sister doesn't have it, isn't that funny?"

"Huh."

"But my sister has GERD. Do you know what that is? Well, it's when stomach acid comes back up. I don't have GERD but I have Crohn's disease. Did I tell you that? Yes, I was diagnosed with it back in..."

The nurse politely excused herself and ran for cover. However, the anestheologist soon became her second victim.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? It was diagnosed back in the 90's and it causes me to--"

"Do you smoke?" The anestheologist was not nearly as patient as the nurse had been, abruptly cutting off the old woman's reciting of her medical history.

But she remained hellbent on being heard. "No, I've never smoked. It's kind of disgusting if you ask me. My dad, he smoked. And that's what got him in the end, the cancer. But I've never had any desire or interest to--"

"That's interesting," replied the anestheologist. "Excuse me."

She rushed off but my bed neighbor was not discouraged as she latched onto another poor passing unsuspecting nurse.

And the hell began all over again. "I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? And my mother had it but my--"

The nurses all had a hasty escape plan, but alas, I was bed-ridden and helpless. I wished fervently for the drugs to kick in and put me to sleep. This was far worse than the unseen guy who sits down on a toilet stall next to you and wants to chat about the baseball game last night. Far, far worse.

Mercifully, after another half hour or so of her incessant rattling, I was wheeled away to surgery. With a smile on my face. Probably a first time for that reaction.

Early the next morning, I had a post-op visit scheduled with the doctor. My wife and I sat in the waiting room. The door opens and it's Chatty Cathy again! She sits across from us. And a fresh new hell opened up all over again.

"Did you have surgery yesterday, too?" she launched.

"Yes, I did. I--"

"What color are your eyes? I can't see from here. Did you have surgery for distance or close up? I had surgery to fix my close vision. Can you see better? I think I can. I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? Yes, it's true. My mother had it before me but my sister never had it. Isn't that funny? But she has GERD, do you know what that is? It's when your--"

"Stuart?" I nearly kissed the nurse as I escaped the nefarious clutches of Chatty Cathy. 

God must've been particularly unhappy with me those two days.

Speaking of which, check out my book Godland. It's a midwestern nightmare. Farm noir. Suspense and horror collide. You've been duly warned!

Church On The Road!

The other day my wife  and I were cruising down Shawnee Mission Parkway, a pretty busy strip in the KC metro area.

A van was in a hurry and rudely cut us off. On the van's paneling, a huge logo was emblazoned reading "Resurrection Remodeling!"

"So much for driving the way Jesus would," I said. "Wait...Jesus didn't drive, did he?"

Soon, another van zoomed up alongside Mr. Resurrection, this time the panel blared out "Almighty Guttering."

"Oh," I said, "there goes his partner!"

God is all around us. And He drives terribly!

I'll be here all week, ladies and gentlemen!

Impromptu High School Reunion

It all started with Doug. Doug was a fun guy who I had been close friends with off and on since grade school. Over the course of time, families and crap happens and old friendships kinda fall by the wayside.

So I was surprised to get a message on Facebook from Doug. "Hey, just a blast from the past," it read. I was shocked (because the last time I'd run into Doug and family was at a local eatery and the reception I got from them was sorta chilly), so of course the first thing I did before responding was to check it out and make sure it wasn't really some creepy middle-aged troll in his mom's basement.

It was really him! So after a few months of hemming and hawing around, we decided to meet at a local bar. "Blast from the past" didn't even begin to cover it. We reminisced about past good and bad times, much hilarity ensued, copious beers helped, and we ended up shouting "TEQUILA!" at frequent intervals.

About a month later, Doug invited me to join him at a neighborhood brewery. I soon found out he was sorta a "VIP" there, or more likely a "frequent flier." So we bellied up to the bar and beers were downed. Soon, Doug was waving at a woman at the end of the bar. 

She came over and it took a minute, but I recognized her as well. It was a girl we'd gone to grade school, middle school, and high school with. She had always been very friendly and likeable and (as both Doug and I had thought) innocent and angelic. Man, were we fooled.

I knew she didn't recognize me at first. So I jut out my hand and offered my name. Recognition flooded her and she launched into a solid and long hug. 

"Oh, I haven't seen you in forever!" she exclaimed, embracing me and patting my back like a TSA agent. And I had changed quite a bit in "forever."

"What I remember about you the most was your wavy red hair," she said.

"Yeah, um, it's been some years since I've had that. I remember playing against you in a chess tournament in sixth grade."

She said, "Did you beat me?"

"Yes," I replied, "but I think I cheated." (No "thinking" involved. I had her in check and didn't call it out. So when I took her king, she fought me a little on it until she kindly acquiesced.)

We talked about fellow class of 79 graduates and gossiped and then she regaled us with some wild stories. In sixth grade, she went to a sleepover and brought vodka! (In sixth grade, Doug and I didn't even know what drinking was.) Then she told us how she and another "angelic" good girl painted some bawdy slurs about our heinous vice principal on the school steps.

Wow! All these years, she and her sidekick had us fooled that they were sweet innocent girls who never got into any trouble.

Soon, another guy wandered up to our small group and said, "I just had to say hello before I go." Another class of 79 grad! Unbelievable (although I'm not too sure that the newcomer and I actually remembered one another). But more stories, more good and bad times, and lotsa tea was spilled.

Later I asked, "who else is gonna show up? Bob Bellman?" ("Bob Bellman"--NOT his real name--was the notorious high school bully who ran over my friend with his car. But you can read all about that in my book, Tex the Witch Boy.)

Doug and I outlasted the other two grads and drank the day away with the promise that we'd all get together again soon and invite even more graduates from the class of 79.

Now that I'm waxing all nostalgic and crap about the days of high school, now's as good a time as any to pimp out my book, Tex, the Witch Boy. It's a mystery, thriller, paranormal, comedy, romance tale largely detailing my traumatic days of high school. Read for yourself why our vice principal was so heinous RIGHT HERE!

Raccoon Rescue Team!

Honestly, my wife should be granted an Honorary Raccoon merit badge. As a child, she and her family rescued a raccoon that was stuck inside a tree.

Our next foray into raccoon rescue sadly had a grim outcome. A pregnant raccoon had fallen down our chimney. Now our chimney hasn't been functional in years, so basically it's just a hole in the middle of our house. For days, we couldn't figure out where the sudden influx of flies and horrible odor was coming from. Then we finally pulled the blocking board from the chimney and voila! Hello hotel!

When the animal guy came over to remove the remains (possibly the least romantic job in the world), even he was retching and gagging through his mask.

He said, "If I were you, I'd get that chimney capped." 

When we found out how much it would cost, we scoffed, said, "What're the chances another raccoon could fall down our chimney?" and went on our way.

Flash forward to the present. While our two nephews were visiting, we heard squealing sounds and finally tracked it down to the chimney. With horror, I said, "Not again."

The 3,000 pound piano had to be moved as it sat in front of the boarded up chimney (thank gawd rain had delayed the nephews' departure). Then our youngest nephew slipped his phone behind the board and took a picture.

"It's a raccoon," he said. "A little one. I'm not touching that thing."

The three of them concocted a plan. My wife found a big cardboard box and had it positioned over the board while our older nephew was to slide up the board leaving no choice but for the raccoon to leap into the box. And me? Hey, someone had to video the historic event (from a distance, natch).

"Now!"

The board slid up. The raccoon did nothing. The board slid back into place.

The raccoon rescue brain trust reconvened. "I think with these oven mitts, I can grab him and put him in the box," said my wife.

I took a few more cautionary steps backward.

On all fours, my wife scrambled after the raccoon, while it avoided her at all costs.

Finally, "Got him! He's in the box! He's in the box!"

I opened the back door to let my wife, the box, and the raccoon out.

In the yard, my wife put the box down on it's side with the top open.

"Be free, little one," I yelled with necessary dramatic flair. "Go on! Off you go!...Um...c'mon, get out of the damn box..."

Yet Rocky wouldn't leave the box (I had taken to calling him "Rocky.") My wife shook the box, then tilted it. Nothing. Rocky was clawing onto the box for dear life.

After a while, it was decided to leave the box open and let him come out on his own. Except he wouldn't.

Night fell. Still in the box.

"Honey," I said (talking to my wife and not Rocky), "we've got to do something. The dogs probably need to pee."

So my wife moved Rocky and his box to the side of the house where our fence would keep the dogs from getting him.

In the morning...success! Rocky had finally left us (and his box) in the middle of the night, moving on to forge his own path in the big world. They grow up so fast...sniff...

Alright, while I have critters on my mind, there's a whole menagerie of creepy-crawly critters to be found in my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. I'm talking Bigfoot, giant bugs, and other various forms of varmints and monsters. Gotta catch 'em all! HERE!

Ooooooh, That Smell!

I'm not talking about that crappy arena rock song from Lynyrd Skynyrd (You old-timers remember them? From back in the  70's when all music was crappy?) when I say "Oooooooh, that smell!"

Nope, I'm talking about our oldest dog, Bijou. Monday morning I let her outside to do her stuff and when she gets back inside she pops up next to me on the love seat. And I get a good whiff of her.

"Good God!"

I've never smelled anything like it. But then that wasn't quite true. I knew the offending odor from somewhere before, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it. But my nose sure did. Like a nightmarish, musky, rotting smell, the odor permeated the room, the house, my shirt, and permanently scarred my olfactory system for life.

I stood up and ran from the room, hoping she'd follow me. She did. Then I jumped back into the TV room, shutting the dog gate behind me. Still that smell followed me around like a heat-seeking missile.

I couldn't escape it. Soon I resorted to kicking her out in the backyard (along with her little brother). I figured a good long stay outdoors might diminish the stink. After about at hour I went outside. Even in the open air, her odor assaulted me.

I noticed a side of her coat was rough, so she'd rolled in something, God only knows what. Sneakily, I approached her slowly with the hose. But once she saw the burbling water, she ran away. After playing tag for a while, I finally gave up.

Back inside, I finally came upon a solution. A solution that wise men resort to as their last ditch effort. I texted my wife. "When you get home, you need to give Bijou a bath. You'll see." (She excels at this job, something I'm not well-equipped for.)

So my wife threw her in the tub. After a while, I'm cooking dinner, and she calls out, "Wow. She still stinks. Back in the tub with her."

But she still reeked, even after her second bath. Just not as badly. All night long she kept "eye-begging" to hop up into my lap. Sadly, I dejected those puppy dog eyes.

That night, about 4:30 in the morning, I woke up with a real eureka moment. I finally recognized the odiferous odor: dead animal carcass.

Okay, now on the "Walking Dead," I understand the survivors' need to wear human entrails on their body to be able to move amongst the zombies, but why in the world would a dog think it a grand idea to roll around in a dead critters' remains? Claiming their territory? Geeze, next time just plant a flag or something.

Speaking of furry, smelly varmints, have you heard the one about the business corporation that has a werewolf amongst the employees? No? Well, then, by skippy, you've got to read my darkly comical, satirical, horror, mystery, thriller Corporate Wolf available right here!

Fun With Eye Surgery!

I swan (and you all KNOW how much I hate swanning), once you hit a certain age, it all goes careening quickly downhill from there. Take my latest checkup with my optometrist...please!

"Stuart, your cataracts have grown," said the doctor.

"Um...does this mean surgery?"

"I'm afraid it does."

Of COURSE it did. So off to an ophthalmologist I went, my wife riding shotgun. When the nurse tested my left eye, apparently I couldn't even read a six-inch tall single black letter. Which prompted my wife to laugh (tough crowd, tough crowd).

So Dr. Doogie Howser (I have shoes older than him) came in and told me he was going to hack off my cataracts.

"Wait...what? Wait!"

"I'll go in there and slice your cataract off and replace the cloudy filter on your eye with a new filter."

"AIEEEEEEEEEEEEE," I said.

The day of the procedure I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything. Already it had started out miserably.

When I got to the surgical center, there were over a dozen people (all appearing disgruntled) in the tiny waiting room. Once they called me back, all sorts of fresh hell broke loose.

They handed me paper after paper (with the tiniest print ever; ironic, yes?) that I couldn't read and told me to sign them. Then the nurse put me through a barrage of questions. ("Name, date of birth, favorite boy band, etc."). Once they found a bed for me, they took me into a massive room with about twenty beds, with a variety of people laying on them, looking like some kind of war-time hospital room. There were moans and groans and snores. I very much wanted to get outta there.

A different nurse came in and went through all of the same damn questions again ("Stuart West, April 1961, Back Street Boys, etc.") and they began to put eye drops on me.

"To help numb your eye," said the nurse.

"Ahhh...please give me a lot of it," I said.

Then I noticed this old, shaky, bald, hunched over man wobbling around, clearly in worse shape than I was. I wondered why they let this clearly out-of-it patient roam freely through the room until he stopped by my bed and picked up a chart.

"Hi, Steve, I'm--"

"Stuart," I corrected even though he had no interest in getting my name right.

"I'm Mark, the anesthesia nurse."

Pause. Blink. Ponder. He waited for my response. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Really?"

"Now this chart says you're...160 pounds and 5'6" tall..."

"Yeah, no. That's a mistake," I said. "A big mistake."

The wrinkles on Mark's head crinkled like ripples in a pond. "Hmmm. Now...which eye is being operated on?"

"My left one," I said.

"You left your eye where?"

"No. My left eye. Left!"

"You left your eye where?" Mark repeated before finally cracking a smile.

"Ohhhhhhhkay, I see what you did there, Mark. Eye humor." I so wanted to tell him that his joke wasn't funny nor did it even make sense, but I was kinda at everyone's mercy.

"Are you feeling pretty relaxed after the medicine we gave you?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I haven't had any medicine!"

"Hmmm." With that Mark waddled off to the guy next to me where he continued to harass the patient with his tired, same ol' schtick.

Soon they began to roll me into the surgical room, aka "The Polar Experience." Cold doesn't even begin to describe it.

"How're you doing, Stuart?" asked an unseen nurse.

"Kinda nervous. Um, could I get some medicine to relax me? Maybe? Please?"

The nurse laughed. Then strapped my head down to the point where I couldn't move. "Dr. Howser works under a microscope, so don't move a muscle," she directed.

Dr. Howser whizzed in (at least I assume it was him) and said, "Okay, we're going to start now. You won't feel a thing."

"Promise?"

The operation began. A series of bright lights blinded me (well...blinded me even more than I was) while a nurse kept squirting stuff into my eye. Soon I could see and feel something working around the perimeter of my eye. Cutting into it!

"Alright, we're halfway through. I cut out the cataract," said Dr. Howser.

"Great," I said, tied down and at a loss for words.

"We're in the home-stretch now." Soon enough it was done. They unwrapped me and put a plastic "shield" over the eye. 

"Wow," I said. "I can already tell that I can see better." I wasn't really sure if that was true or not, but I couldn't think of what else to say.

"Well..." said Dr. Howser. "That was a huge cataract."

They wheeled me back into the war room, where I immediately hopped out of bed, ready to get the hell out of there before they started hacking at my eye again.

The following week was recovery. And I had to wear the horrible eye shield every night while I slept. But I had got through it. Until in two more weeks when Dr. Howser will slice open my other eye.

AIEEEEEEEEE!

Speaking of things that make me scream, I have to make a blatant plug for my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. It's full of horror, humor, and twists. But I'm especially proud of the final novella, "The Underdwellers." I believe it's the the scariest and most intense thing I've written. But don't take my word for it! Lay down some bucks and find out for yourself right here!

Toilet Lid Mind Blower

In our household, the breakdown of duties have been divided up. Having drawn the short straw, I got toilet cleaning detail.

Now admittedly, lately I haven't been as regular at it as I used to do (way back in the days when I had ambition and gumption {whatever that last word is}), but it's just hard to get excited about sticking your head in the toilet and scrubbing.

Years ago, my wife had given me very detailed instructions on how to clean a toilet: "You have to really stick your head inside to see the grime and gross stuff. Then you scrub and scrub and scrub...." She even bought me a special brush to take care of such matters.

It wasn't until later that she hit me with a mind-blower. "You're supposed to take the toilet seat off every time you clean!"

WHAAAAAAAT? I never knew that. Did you guys know that?

She proceeded to show me how it's done. "You twist the two knobs and yank!"

Surely I can't be the only house-husband out there who ever knew that this was a possibility, right?....RIGHT?

Google wasn't much help in aiding in my information gathering and need to feel I'm not alone in my lack of toilet knowledge. "While not all men know to remove the seat for cleaning, it's a recommended practice for ensuring a thorough and hygienic cleaning of the toilet. " Thanks Ms. Google!

I mean, where exactly are you supposed to learn this information? My parents certainly didn't teach me that info. And I sure don't remember ever seeing them remove the toilet seat.

And even though I skipped school quite a bit in my delinquent days, I'm willing to bet that toilet cleaning was never a hot topic.

I swan...I'm STILL capable of learning new stuff.

Speaking of things going down the toilet, be sure and check out my Zach and Zora comical mystery books where it's hard to believe at how low I can stoop for a laugh!

Get 'em here: Shameless Plug!

The Politeness of Brits

The politeness of our friends across the sea, the British people, never ceases to amaze me. It even extends into popular culture.

The other day I was watching an old British cop movie where the policeman (or "Bobby," if you will), pulled a pistol. He hollers (but never too loudly, mind you) after the fleeing criminal, "I shall fire this gun in the subjunctive."

Yow! You won't hear that in American cop films today! No, you'll more likely hear something along the lines of "You have the right to remain silent...forever, mother f@#$er!"

Sigh. Talk about the "ugly American."

This behavior even extends to trash TV reality junk. Lately, my daughter has hooked me on some of the trashiest TV shows in history. One is called "Love Is Blind," a ludicrous foray into bottom of the barrel humanity at its ugliest, involving numerous scandals, lying, cheating, and overall bad behavior. (Addictive though it is).

Not so the British counterpart of "Love Is Blind." Therein, the participants are exceedingly polite, scandals very rare and usually reduced to nothing more than a quick peck on the cheek that has not been revealed. In other words, very boring trash TV.

Now...why is this? Part of the reason must pertain to the old "keep a stiff upper lip" idiom usually associated with the British, wherein they generally remain calm and stoic in the face of potentially upsetting situations. Of course this can't be true all the time. Even Hugh Grant's gotta lose his temper on occasion.

Their polite behavior definitely isn't a result of their weather! No, they face ugly, gray, rainy skies on a nearly daily basis.

Maybe the British accent puts a delightful sheen on everything they say. Take for instance, a radio chat show about the importance of buttons, wherein the heavily accented host makes buttons sound fascinating. But this doesn't go any further into explaining their actual behavior.

I can definitely explain part of the "ugly American" behavior, a difference in our politicians. I've read a lot about their lousy leaders, but at least they don't rant, rave, rape, belittle, bully, lie, and ignore the US Constitution like a certain horrific president of ours. "Lead by example," so the ubiquitous "they" say.

(Following our shambles of a presidential election, BBC reporters were astounded at our choice of American presidents. All I can is "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry....")

But no, I believe that the overall politeness attributed to the British comes down to cultural norms. Ms. Google, my research assistant agrees with me, where she explains "politeness and good manners are seen as important in British culture passed down through generations." (The only American "Norm" I can think of is the overweight barfly on "Cheers.")

Collectively, we as a nation could learn a lot from our British friends (and please, let's remain friendsies despite the actions of our president!).

Hey ho, speaking of ugly Americans, there're plenty of them staying at one of the Midwest's finest bed 'n breakfasts, the Dandy Drop Inn. See how I, as an author, corrected their bad behavior in my horror thriller, Dread and Breakfast!

The Secret To Cutting Good Cheese

 

On occasional weekend nights, my wife and I enjoy dinners of wine and cheese (and not to worry, Mom Patricia! Carrot sticks, too, I promise! We mustn't forget the carrot sticks!).

Recently, we agreed it sounded good for Sunday.

"But," my wife warned, "I'm cutting the cheese. I've never liked the way you cut the cheese."

"What? All of these years and you've never told me that you don't like the way I cut the cheese!"

"Yes, I have."

"What's wrong with my cutting of the cheese, for crying out loud?"

"You cut the pieces way too big and you do too much."

I thought about it, grumbled and groused and finally said, "I'm sorry you don't care for the way I cut the cheese."

We let that one hang in the air like a smelly...well, you know.

Later that night--after I carefully inspected her cheese cutting "prowess"--I remarked, "There's no difference in the way you cut the cheese than the way I cut the cheese!"

"Yes there is."

"No, there's not. These pieces are just as big as mine. I don't know what you're talking about!"

"When you cut the cheese, you always make huge chunks," she said.

"No I don't!"

"Yes, you do."

Before our war on cheese escalated, I said, "I really don't want to argue now. Maybe about in an hour."

She laughed and said, "It's a date!"

But I whispered, "I cut the cheese much better than you do."

Speaking of stinking up the place, check out my Zach and Zora comedy mystery series. Zach, a good-hearted (but very, very dumb) male stripper has the unfortunate luck of stumbling across quite a few murdered bodies. And it's always up to his long-suffering, usually pregnant sleuth sister to bail him out of trouble! Check out the zany hijinks and fun murder mysteries here!

Mom's In The Army Now...

Even as a kid, I was a tree-hugging pacifist. So when I first became aware of the draft, the possibility of my being torn from the safety of my parents' protection and thrust into battle terrified me.

So at the age of six or so, I cried, "Mommy...I don't wanna get drafted!"

My Mom hugged me and said, "Shh, shh, shh. Don't worry. If you get drafted, I'll go with you."

That worked--temporarily--to assuage my childhood fears.

But I started thinking of the larger ramifications...

"Oh great googly-moogly! My eyes have to be playing tricks on me! Either that or you knuckleheads have finally driven me around the bend! Private West! Is that your mother behind you?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"My stars and garters! Now I've seen everything! Both of you drop and give me 20!"

"Yes sir!"

Or maybe this scenario...

"Hey, West! Is your mommy gonna dig your foxholes for you?"

"You boys shut up before I come over there and scratch your eyes out!" (This was my mother's favorite terrifying threat whenever she thought her darling little boys were being mistreated.)

So I took my concerns back to my mom. "Mommy...you wouldn't really scratch the other soldiers' eyes out, would you?"

"It depends on how they treat you," she replied.

This scared me, but at the time bigger issues started to swim around in my boyish brain. "Why don't ladies get drafted?"

"Because we have babies."

"Oh." I pondered this. It made absolutely no sense and just seemed unfair overall. "Well...why don't men have babies?"

"Because they go to war," she replied without hesitation.

Which just confused me even further. Besides the very odd correlation of giving birth to war, I didn't understand the world at all. And it just got more confusing as I grew older.

Matters weren't helped when my parents rarely told me the truth about anything when I was a child. (Don't even get me going on the topic of sex.)

My takeaway from this nostalgic reexamination is this: If you get drafted, bring your mother. And always wear clean underwear because you never know when a tank might run over you.

Now that I'm being nostalgic and all about my parents, check out my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy. My protagonist's parents are based on my own (although--to my knowledge--my mom was never a witch). The fun starts here!

Noirmares

I have recurring nightmares. Unsettling ones where I've committed a murder and the law is slowly closing in on me.

We'll call them "NOIRmares." Sure, my wife and I enjoy Noir Alley with Eddie Muller on TCM, but I don't think that's where my noirmares come from.

The weirdest part is that I don't murder people who deserve it (ex-bosses, ex-girlfriends, cable guys, politicians). No, I never know the identity of my victims, nor do I ever recall why I did it. The noirmare seems to go on forever, but the point is always about whether or not I'll get away with it.

Where does this come from, I constantly ask myself. I've never committed a murder before, never even came close to formulating a plan. Do I have the latent serial killer gene?

I took to my trusty research assistant, Ms. Google, for the shocking answer:

"Dreams about murdering someone can symbolize a variety of emotions and desires, including suppressed anger, frustration, or feelings of powerlessness, or unresolved conflicts with someone in waking life."

Huh. Well, I felt slight relief in that I'm not the only one who goes on a killing spree in dream-world, but it still leaves a lot of questions unanswered. Cases in point...

"Suppressed anger." I suppose that could be true. But I would think that would be more apt in the case where you personally know your victim.

"Frustration." Again, maybe. There's no doubt I've been frustrated at people many times. But in my noirmares, I'm not murdering the cable guy, am I?

"Feelings of powerlessness." This is certainly true now, especially regarding the MAGA madness. (Although I've never dreamed about murdering Trump, I did have a dream about boxing him.)

"Unresolved conflicts with someone in waking life." Nope. I have no idea who these nameless, faceless cyphers are who I murder, nor do I ever dream about the act of murder. It seems like the murder has already occurred before the noirmare begins.

Ah, Ms. Google let me down. No answers forthcoming from her this time.

Hey, maybe if more serial killers had noirmares, there wouldn't be a need for serial killers!

And speaking of serial killers, give a looksie to my darkly comical serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. There's more cat and mouse gaming and serial killers than you can shake a stick at! And that doesn't even include the bad guys! It's complicated. But you can find them here!

Sexism in Hollywood

Take John Wayne...PLEASE!

You know, I've never really liked John Wayne. I thought his acting was more wooden than Pinocchio. (I know, I know, not a popular opinion, un-American, bla, bla, bla. You should hear what I think about Tom Hanks! I'm digressing...) But over the years I wondered if my initial assessment was too harsh, perhaps even wrong (After all, I figured, sooooo many Americans can't be wrong in their judgment, right? RIGHT??? Wait...never mind...).

Alas, I was correct. One note acting in a plethora of films, always the same character, I again couldn't understand his astounding popularity. But the worst of it was how he treated women.

Sure, he pretty much treated everyone in his movies like crap ("Injuns," young people, comical sidekicks), but the way he treated women was truly despicable. Condescending as all get out, women were objects to be ridiculed, laughed at, relegated to secondary status, and God forbid should a woman ever have an opinion about anything. In one particularly hard-to-take movie, he even grabbed a woman and put her across his lap to give her a spanking!

Before you think I'm heinous for picking on "The Duke (and what's with his weird sorta hip swiveling walk?)," this attitude in old-time Hollywood persevered in nearly every film of the period.

Don't even get me started on that beloved musical, "Seven Brides For Seven Brothers," a jaunty tribute to caveman behavior and raping and pillaging. But it's okay, 'cause you can sing along!

Women were never given choices regarding anything, particularly if it had something to do with their feelings. Feh, who cares what some silly little lady wants or doesn't want? They exist to please and compliment men, of course.

And the horror stories I've read about major Hollywood stars raping starlets is unbelievable. (I won't name names here, but Dr. Google is your friend.)

How is this relevant? Because it's the sort of America that today's ruling political party would love to see us return to. And by skippy, they're doing a damn fine job getting there.

I mean, hey, if our president can rape and denigrate women, why can't we all?

Okay, now that I've got my dander up, let's talk about a different kind of beast: the corporate raider. But the particular corporate raider I'm talking about is also a werewolf. Check out all the wacky, bloody shenanigans in my darkly comic, horror thriller, Corporate Wolf.

Sail On, Sweet Loo

 

Last week we lost our beloved Mr. Loomis. 

We knew what we were getting in for when we adopted him at the age of 11, but it doesn't make the pill any easier to swallow.

Mr. Loomis (my wife decided to add the "Mr." to his name seeing as how he was a dignified older gentleman) was my doggy counterpart. Like me, he was old, cranky, achy, didn't suffer fools (dogs or humans) lightly, scruffy, and insisted on doing things his way.

From the moment we first met him, he made this clear. His foster parent brought him to our house for a visit. When he saw me, he approached me, wagging his beautiful classic tail. I thought "Great, I finally am going to get a cute, cuddly lap dog!" I picked him up and he yarked at me immediately. Nobody puts baby in their lap. (And he always "yarked," never barked. Just one loud yark usually did the trick.) So. No lap dog, Mr. Loomis. But he was loyal. Even though he had his boundaries and set them up at the start, he stayed attached to me, always on my heel, never letting me out of his sight.

A lahsa apso mix, Mr. Loomis' breed origins dated back to being "watch dogs" in ancient China. The little guy probably wouldn't scare off or intimidate danger strangers, but whenever someone entered our house who he wasn't comfortable worth, he released a thunderous YARK, the yark heard around the world. (He really hated cable guys and plumbers. Good taste.)

And keep in mind, this lil' adorable, loyal guy was the dog who beat down three different groomers, all of them firing us from ever darkening their doorsteps again. A formidable ornery cuss, Mr. Loomis took no guff from anyone.

But he was extremely sweet to me. My constant partner, he'd always pop up next to me and settle in on the love seat. As long as he knew I understood he wouldn't be relegated to lap dog status, he sat next to me every chance he got.

And we couldn't go to the bathroom without his ever-watchful presence. Sitting at our feet while we conducted business on the porcelain throne, Mr. Loo was on the job.

I made no qualms in hiding the fact that Mr. Loomis was my favorite of our three dogs (but, shhhhh, don't tell the other two). And I think part of that was, in many ways, he was just like me. But he had lots more hair than I did. And he was adorable, something I can't lay claim to.

Always stoic, I never heard Mr. Loomis whine or kvetch. He didn't "say" much, but when he did the message was clear. And that awful morning last week, he told us it was time to end his suffering through a number of uncharacteristic whines.

I still tear up about my friend, Mr. Loomis (I'm doing that now while writing this tribute). I'd never met a dog quite like him. I love him dearly and can only hope that he's taking charge and collecting names of other dogs in puppy heaven.

Sail on, sweet Loo.

You Guys Asked For it!...

 And you got it!

Happy now? (And no, the price of eggs isn't coming down.)

Please, please, please to our friends in England and Canada, attack us and save us from this ludicrous tyranny.

You're welcome!

Spring Break: Senior Style!

PARTYYYYYYY! (Or not.)

As an educator, my wife has been on spring break this week. And while students everywhere have been departing for warmer climates, tropical pool-side bars, and more debauchery than Hugh Hefner ever imagined, where have we been?

Giving our bathroom a makeover. During my wife's spring break, I've been busier than in some time. Oh sure, I can gripe and kvetch about my back and my swiftly spreading arthritis, but it hasn't stopped my wife from assigning me numerous tasks of Herculean magnitude. (Now I would be remiss if I didn't confess that my wife does 90% of the work. She's a master of tools and expert at flipping. The only flipping I'm comfortable with is the bird. But to her this is "fun.")

This isn't the kind of excitement I remember, lo those many years ago during our action-packed and nutty spring breaks. Back in the day, my pals and I would travel to Texas or Florida and from what I can remember of those trips (which admittedly isn't much, mainly due to the non-stop flow of beer), it was a markedly different experience than now.

As I write this, I'm staring at the ginormous box that contains our new toilet, a one-piece monster that weighs 150 pounds. I barely got it off the stoop (and that was by rolling it) and up one step. I'm dreading the moment when we have to carry the beast and lift and position it perfectly.

Whereas my pals and I used to go spring-breaking, now I'm excelling at back-breaking. We used to guzzle beers and snarf chili dogs. Now, it's aspirin with a Pepto-Bismol chaser. At least we're still swimming. But instead of the ocean, I'm swimming in sweat. We used to jump into pools fully clothed. Today my wife accidentally triggered the water shut-off and soaked me, fully clothed of course. And as opposed to chasing girls, I'm chasing a few hours of untroubled sleep (curse you, prostate!).

One of these years, I'm hoping my wife and I "enjoy" an actual, leisurely spring break. But with the caveat that we're still in bed by 8:00 p.m.  You know...taking a walk on the wild side!

If you too are looking to stroll down the wild side, look no further than my book, Corporate Wolf. Sure, it's a darkly comical, satirical, bloody, mystery horror suspenser about werewolves in the corporate world, but part of the tale is "semi-autobiographical," ripped from my interim years. Check it out here!

Duh, My Dear Watson. DUH!

My wife was watching a new show. I asked her what it was.

"Watson," she said, clearly wanting me to shut up.

"Well...what's it about?"

"He's Watson!" She explained this like she had made everything clear.

I stared at her, confused. "Okay....but what is it about?

"He's Watson! You know...from Sherlock Holmes. Duh!"

Looking at the screen, this didn't remotely resemble any Watson I'd ever encountered.

"Does it take place in England?" I asked.

"No."

"Huh. Does he hang out with Sherlock Holmes in the late Victorian era?"

"No. Quiet."

"Is he a rotund, white Brit who wears a top hat, smokes a pipe, and has a walrus mustache?"

"No. He's Morris Chestnut!"

"Then he's not Watson," I defiantly concluded.

"Can I please watch my show in peace?" She sat, remote pausing the show, while I got the glare which was short hand for SHUT UP. So I wisely bailed.

How many iterations of Sherlock Holmes and Watson can TV possibly fling at us? Besides the usual suspects like the fairly faithful adaptations from PBS, we've had Elementary, Sherlock and Daughter (blasphemy!), The Baker Street Boys, The Irregulars, Mademoiselle Holmes, Miss Sherlock, and Moriarty the Patriot (!). I'm surprised there hasn't been a Sherlock Hound...oh wait...there was an anime series.

C'mon network TV, get it together! The streamers have left these brain-dead guys in the dust. There still content on serving up the same, dull, by-the-book, no surprises lawyer, doctor, cop, and billions of boring initials only police specialty shows (NCIS, CSI, LMNOP, ETC.) Is it any wonder, I rarely watch any network TV shows any longer? And I'm not alone either.

They've even served up a new version of Matlock, for God's sake. But instead of the Ritz-eating, cracker-barrel, down-home charms of Andy Griffith, we now have an old salty, lying woman pretending to be dumb and trying to find out which lawyer killed her daughter. Or something. Whatever. Not that the original was any classic, mind you. But do better, Hollywood! You guys at the four big networks (and there used to just be three in my days, whipper-snappers!) haven't done anything original in decades, perfectly happy to spew out the same old, trite case of the week junk, where every serial killer is tidily apprehended by the end of 41 minutes. (CBS--which stands for Chronically Bored Seniors--are still the worst offenders.)

I'm just dreading the day when they start remaking the 70's slate of "handicapable" detective shows. For those not old enough (or trying to scour their brains from these scarringly dumb shows) to remember,  we suffered through such gems as Ironsides (a detective in a wheelchair), Barnaby Jones (a senior citizen detective nearing stroke status), Cannon (an obese detective who couldn't run), and...my personal favorite...Longstreet (a blind detective!!!). I mean...c'mon! Who would hire this "A-Team?" If they come up with "Itchy Britches," a detective show featuring a protagonist suffering from Irritable Bowel Syndrome, my TV's going out the window.

I guess I shouldn't groan and kvetch too much. Instead of the "dark ages" when we had to rely on three channels to force-feed us whatever junk the brain-trust at Hollywood deemed suitable for our glass teat nurtured brain cells, we have thousands and thousands of channels of crap from which to choose. 

Or we could, you know, just read a book.

And, hey! I just happen to know where you can find some books! Look no further than my Amazon author page available here!

BEHOLD...the Spotted Dick!

Spotted Dick!

Go on. Think about it. Now say it out loud. It's okay. Presumably you're at home while reading my blog, so it's fine to say it out loud. Unless you're killing time, loafing at work. Then it's completely acceptable to whisper it.

Spotted Dick.

See? It's funny! The older I get, the more juvenile my sense of humor becomes. (Clearly what the ubiquitous "they" say about wisdom coming with age haven't met me.)

I've been acquainted with "Spotted Dick" before. When I first read about it in my younger days, I gave it a passing chuckle, then stored it away in my brain's Department of Useless Information, where things lay dormant for a couple of days until completely abandoned.

But before last Christmas, I stumbled across a mention of Spotted Dick again (somewhere...doesn't matter where). The important takeaway is it struck me as extremely funny.

Now, those not acquainted with the notorious "Spotted Dick (and be very thankful you're not)," may believe it to be a peculiar STD, something one might acquire on a less-than-cautious Tinder hookup.

Au contraire! Thanks to the magic of Ms. Google, I learned all about Spotted Dick. For I knew, if I were to get away with bandying the term about at Christmas-time, I'd better be prepared to back it up with knowledge and feigned innocence. Forearmed is forewarned (or "foreskinned is foredicked" or something like that).

It turns out that Spotted Dick is a traditional British steamed pudding, served over the holidays, usually made with suet and dried fruit. Yum. Or...not. Maybe if you're a bird. It just may be the British version of fruitcake. (But I imagine our friends overseas hate fruitcake as well.) 

Anyway, I committed the stuffy definition to memory, preparing to enlighten my family at Christmas, knowing full well that it sounds rather...vulgar. But, hey! I had history to back me up! What's the fuss, Gus?

I did manage to rope in one of my nephews to join in the hilarity by dropping "Spotted Dick" at every opportunity, and it warmed my juvenile heart seeing him explain to GMa: "What? It's a traditional British steamed pudding." Even my bro-in-law joined in the merriment until he finally put the kibosh on it.

But it got me thinking...why in the world would someone name a pudding "Spotted Dick?" 

My imagination drew me back to a loo (that's British for bathroom, yanks!), where the conversation unfolded like this...

"Ouch! Ugh! Arrrrrr..."

"What's the matter, Harry?"

"I dunno, mate. It stings when I urinate."

"Hmmm. Let me take a look."

"Okay. Here..."

"Blimey! Harry, that looks like my Mum's holiday pudding! I think you've got a case of..."

Spotted Dick! Hahahahahahahahaha...

Of course, further research shows that "spotted" comes from the dried fruit (raisins, etc.) in the pudding. And back in the day, "dick" sometimes referred to plain pudding, perhaps related to the word "dough."

Naturally I'm not the only wisenheimer to run at the mouth about the joy of the Spotted Dick moniker. Throughout time, someone proclaimed it a "manly type of pudding," clearly running with the double entendre. Even the press jumped in on the fun: in 1892, the Pall Mall Gazette ran a story proclaiming "the Kilburn sisters satisfied hundreds of dockers with soup and Spotted Dick." I'll bet they did (snicker). Surely, by this time, EVERYONE was in on the joke.

Even within the hallowed halls of the Houses of Parliament, the restaurant staff took it upon themselves to rename the pudding "Spotted Richard." I rest my case!

So during the next holiday season, join in the fun! Wow your Grandma with your knowledge of a traditional holiday British steamed pudding! Impress your aunt and uncle with how worldly you are about British treasured foods! Astound your visiting clergy person with great tales of an overseas culinary confection! But mostly, relish the opportunity to use the term "Spotted Dick" as many times as you can possibly get away with!

Yes, since I won't allow myself to write about our disastrous and shameful current White House administration, I'm reduced to blogging about Spotted Dick jokes. You're welcome!

If you enjoyed that dip into juvenilia, surely you'll get a bang out of my Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series. The title alone of the first book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, should alert you to the high-brow sophistication and enlightenment that can be yours here. Again...you're welcome!

Pink Eye Romance

I think we can all agree that "Pink Eye" is one of the worst ailments that can befall someone. Especially when you're younger. You may as well be wearing a huge-ass scarlet letter over your eye or the mark of Cain. Watch people avoid you at all costs, crossing the street to get away. I mean, it's not like an STD. No, those people are lucky and can hide their ailments within pants.

Not only is pink eye extremely irritable and annoying, it's just flat-out ugly and gross. (Just ask my daughter; once she had to wear an eyepatch to an outdoor concert.) And God help the hapless kid who becomes afflicted by the pink curse while in high school.

No one wants to be near you when you've got pink eye. Just one of life's harsher facts.

Now let's jump into the Way-Back Machine and travel back to my wild and wooly bachelor days full of non-stop fun and partying and nary a single adult care to get in my way. There. We're here! Did you have a pleasant trip?

But what's this? Oh nooooooo! Poor Stuart has pink eye!

And with just two days until he and his friends' big party at the Berdella house (okay...it wasn't really the "Berdella house" but my good friend--host of the party--lived one block away from notorious Kansas City serial killer Bob Berdella. The more you know!).

What was poor Stuart to do? He'd already invited a girl that he'd had romantic dalliances with during college. But with his eye all swollen and watery and itchy and redder than an angry sunset, he couldn't possibly attempt to kiss said girl.

So Stuart groused and grumbled until the big day of the party. When his guest showed up that night, he noticed she had a long lock of blonde hair uncharacteristically swooped over one eye.

"Hey," Stuart said, "You might want to keep your distance from me 'cause I got pink eye."

Suddenly, she swooped back her hair exposing a swollen, watery, itchy, and redder than an orangutan's bottom, eye. 

Celestial trumpets sounded! Clouds parted! Somewhere dogs and cats hugged it out! 

Stuart had no choice but to grab the girl and kiss her.

Thus began the Summer of pink eye romance.

It's as they say, "God loves a fool with pink eye." (Or maybe I've got that quote wrong...)

Now that I'm in a silly, kinda pink eye mood, I may as well plug my shameless Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Take one stupid male stripper, mix with his usually pregnant, bright sleuth sister, and stir into a murder mystery with nutty characters, thrills, spills, suspense, and embarrassing humor and you have the Zach and Zora series! Don't be left out in the cold! Check out what all the cool kids are reading here!