Justin Bieber Tried to Sell Me Magazines!

Or close to it.

The odd and laminated identification card the kid showed me read "Justin Beiber."

I'm sure he had a good laugh about it later.

I really shouldn't have answered the door. But the tree trimming guys have been running rampant through my neighborhood this week, uprooting birds and busting my fences. Thought it might've been them returning to wreak more havoc.

But, no. Some kid stood at the door, rattling his clearly rehearsed non-stop patter in a strange and slurred (crack-enhanced?) tone. He told me he was trying to earn points to go on a trip. "You know where?" he asked. "They have plenty of meatballs and a leaning tower. That's right, Italy." Didn't even give me a chance to answer his question.

Then he whips out another laminated piece of paper displaying magazine covers (does "Life" magazine still exist?).

I say, "Oh, you're selling magazines."

"No, sir, I'm selling my winning personality." Keep selling, kid.

Basically, I told him to take a hike. In an unprecedented display of boldness, he goes back to his deep pockets and plucks out plan #2: a church brochure. He claims it's another chance to win his Italy trip. Now, I don't know if it's a good idea to have two battle plans, but in the Midwest, he probably should've led with the church's backing. Still, it did seem rather unlikely two separate organizations were conspiring to ship this kid to Italy. (Look out, Italy, you've been warned!).

Either way, God wasn't smiling down on him, not at my house. I told him--again--no thanks. The kid was either stupid or bold, definitely suffering from a toxic case of "moxie." More than likely, though, he had me pegged as a patsy.

"One last thing...do you have a cold bottle of water or a glass of cold water I could have?"

I ground my teeth, giving them a tortured work-out. Stunned, I said, "No, I'm out of water." Not true, we don't run out of water in Kansas. Especially not after the torrential rains we've suffered/are suffering. I couldn't believe his gall. Clearly, his plan was to enter my house, try and find "common ground," staging a siege by complimenting my collection of dust bunnies or whatever.

The worst part of this was the kid took me for a rube. I suppose once you hit a certain age, "old people" are ripe picking. I ain't that old yet. I got pissed, remembering the stories of how con-men dupe the elderly. And now I was being profiled as one of them.

Sigh. I shoulda' unleashed the dog on Justin Beiber.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta' go help out this nice Nigerian prince I just met on-line. He's having trouble holding onto his fortune or something.

A Blight Upon the Nation!

I'm not talking about global warming, although that's kinda' bad, I think.

No, I'd like to rant about a far more insidious threat, something coming from within, something tearing up the world, something the youth of today are "trending" to the point of terrorism.

I'm talking about wearing pajamas in public.

 Sure, I know it's a hipster thing to do, sorta' post-modern ironic. But it's awful.

Back at my old corporate job, some of the customer service women started wearing pajama bottoms into work. We're talking pastels with bunnies and crap on them. If the customers only knew what their representatives we're wearing. Shaking my head just remembering the horrors.

Last week, I went to a convenience store (because it was convenient). A girl walks in, wearing her jammies. I'm thinking, "What, a slumber party at Quik-Trip?"

Look, I'm not a fan of pajamas in the first place. Too confining, too soft, too itchy...too "churchy-feeling." I sleep in my underwear. But you don't see me strolling into McDonalds in my boxers, business as usual, proudly saying, "Big Mac, please." Just...no. (Trust me, it wouldn't be pretty).

To sweeten the pot, maybe I'll even get a "tramp-stamp" that says "Juicy." How do you like me now, you ridicu-hipsters?

So I'm calling out to you, my brethren in arms. Let's put a stop to the madness. Let's take back the night (and put pajamas back in bed where they belong). Rally with me! Norma Rae, Norma Rae! Free the penguins! Unleash the badgers! Don't forget to floss! Stop eating Kale, it's pointless! I'm Spartacus! Vote for me!

Sorry, sorry...I'm letting my cranky old man out to play.

Oh, one last thing...you kids get outta' my yard!

Heavenly Planned Obsolescence

Over the past several months, the fickle gods of car problems ("Heavenly Planned Obsolescence") have had it in for me.

Just as my daughter's car finally--FINALLY--was fixed (a tragic, eight-month long experiment in stress involving the mechanic running from the law...a tale for a different day), the car guys in the sky decided to shower down more grief.

Not too long ago, my wife and I bought a new car, a Highander, purportedly one of the best autos on the road. We settled into post-car purchasing bliss. Then I made the tragic mistake of taking it to my mechanic for a final check AFTER I'd bought it. Turns out it IS a great ride. Except the engine sucks. Something about the blocks separating. "A flaw," the mechanic said with a million-dollar grin. A flaw? Dang engine was gonna' drop out. 

So we got it fixed. Then the engine started leaking oil. Back to the mechanic. "A manufacturer flaw in the fix-it kit," he said, this time doing a really crappy job stifling his laughter. There may as well have been dollar signs rolling in his eyes. How many flaws can a highly-recommended auto have in one life-time?

I love the car. It's great. Rides like a dream. Has a cassette player. A cassette player! Everything about it's sweet. Except, of course, the engine. Kind of a big deal, I think. If nothing else, maybe I can sleep in the Highlander like a docked boat in a driveway.

Three more trips to the mechanic. Each time the engine light came on. Still not fixed.

Meanwhile, my wife's car has its own headaches. Flat tires, goofy computer system, some piece of plastic crap dragging the road like cans on a newlyweds' car. I swear I've spent more time these last several months in auto mechanics' lairs than I have in church over the past ten years.

I'm in my own car circle of hell, a nightmare that loops round and round, where it stops, nobody knows.

Television Trauma

We pay a lotta' cash each month to watch TV. Yet, over the past three months, the service has been sporadic, images freezing, the system kicking us out with rude messages like, "I'm sorry, but you suck, you can't watch TV now."

I won't name the provider (yet). But we've had ten different fellas out over the last three months.

Some of them quite swell; one hobbit wanted to hang with me and waste out his hours. Fine, your dime, whatever. But each "technician" has a different diagnosis ("Your frim-fram is set to stun," "Looks like your dig-outs have been compromised by gophers," "You should only use your microwave when you're not watching TV," "Have you heard of electronic Shingles?") They all have solutions, none of them work.

Most of the guys are nice. 75% of them look like ruddy-cheeked "Larpists" with teeny-tiny Game of Thrones goatees.

One dude was the Zen-Warrior of TV Maintenance:

Me: "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Zen-Warrior of TV: "Coffee? Hmm, coffee. I don't believe I've experienced the fixation of coffee in many moons. These days I evolve with Taekwando and study Winnie the Pooh books. I wouldn't consider sullying my temple with caffeine."

Okay. That's fine. Just fix the damn TV.

None of them have. The biggest problem is one hand doesn't know what the other's doing. A stray finger scratches my belly, promising glorious rewards (or at least, a working TV stream). The other punches in our phone number and inanely asks, "Are you satisfied with how your problem was resolved?"

GAH!

Makes me long for the olden days when we had three (four, if the weather was in our favor) channels. Sure, it sucked, having to choose between Lawrence Welk or Hee-Haw, but at least we could depend on the choices.

Godland's here! Time to fear! Get used to it!

My suspense horror thriller, Godland comes out today. I'll wait right here for you to go get it. Go on. I'll still be here.

http://www.amazon.com/Godland-Stuart-R-West-ebook/dp/B00MRM8614/ref=la_B00B419X5C_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1410973016&sr=1-1

There, that wasn't so hard, was it?

Godland's a pretty intense read and I'm hesitant to say too much about it because the twists and turns are part of the fun. But I have a very strange sense of what's fun. The book  may even prove slightly controversial.

Let me share my favorite comment I received yesterday. It comes from a Vernon Kauffman (even his name's perfect):

"Doesn't sound like God's Land as I know it"

Heh. Love it. No, Vernon, it's probably not like the God's Land as you know it. I love Kansas.

It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

Living in suburban Kansas is dangerous. We have bears. Couple of burly gay guys down the street. Well, they're not threatening, but still, we have bears.

Two houses down the street there's a little yappy dog, no bigger than a bowling ball. Squeaks all the time, won't shut up, you'd think his tail was on fire. To make matters worse, the dog's owners named it "Sassy." That's  reinforcing the worst behavior possible. Shall we call Charles Manson "spunky?" Same thing.

Neighbors are funny. You can't escape 'em. And you sure don't sign up for 'em. The beeyotch caddy-corner to me despises our dog because he barks on occasion. Doesn't stop her from squeaking her damn dog-toy constantly and cooing at her dog in baby-speak at the top of her lungs ("Who's a good girl? You are, that's who! Come here, sweetums! Mommy has a present for you!" On and on and on.).  "Captain America" behind the fence constantly barbeques in his T-shirt. When he really cuts loose, he brings out his speakers and cranks out some "Journey." His eight-track tape collection probably should be retired. On the other hand, "Party Animal's" awesome. 'Cause I never see her. I hear her once a month, shrieking like a banshee on her deck at three in the morning. That's okay, though. I'm forgiving. Part of being a member of suburbia.

Who I can't forgive are the neighbors across the street. For unknown reasons, the wife totally shuns us. Turns her back on us, ignores our greetings, pretends like we don't exist. Her husband (scary, hulking, shaved headed guy) "seems" nice enough, yet...something's weird.

Got me thinking. And that's always dangerous. What if the heinous woman across the street has a secret? A secret life. Something that's worth killing for.

My first adult thriller, Neighborhood Watch, is based on this premise. Yeah, it's me as the main character. That's why I didn't run it by my wife first. Don't know if she'll like it. But tales have to be told. I'm Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window watching the neighbors. Toss in a little Stepford Wives and Rosemary's Baby and we're set. Suburbia's creepy.

Bottom line...you cross me, you're gonna' end up in a book.

I'm putting the teenage characters to bed. Turn off the lights, put the kids outside, and tuck in the cat. Thing's are gonna' get spooky.

Neighborhood Watch: http://www.amazon.com/Neighborhood-Watch-Stuart-R-West-ebook/dp/B00IA6ZTIO/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1391727968&sr=1-4&keywords=neighborhood+watch

Now at an incredibly low price! Some chills to take off the winter's edge! Be there!