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.

Drunk Raccoon!

You've all heard of the film Cocaine Bear, right? (If you haven't, you're missing out on a very funny and creative flick). Well, move over, Cocaine Bear! There's a new impaired mammal in town...It's Drunk Raccoon (aka Trashed Panda)!

Two weeks ago, during the Thanksgiving weekend, a raccoon found itself up in the rafters of a liquor store. It fell through the ceiling tile and into the store, whereupon it decided to trash everything in sight and in the process, trashing itself. My kinda guy!

But I wonder what led up to this liquor store siege...

Did the Drunk Raccoon wake up one morning and  declare, "Eureka! By jove, I've got it! Today I shall trash the local liquor store!"

Is it a warning to humanity to take care of the earth and the other inhabitants upon it? Lest we be overrun by millions of drunk raccoons, worse than any Planet of the Apes movie you could ever imagine, enacting revenge for our careless destruction of our planet?

Or did Drunk Raccoon do it on a dare?

"I'm bored, Hank."

"Me too. Nothing to do but scavenge around in old trash cans, Chuck."

"Hmmm... I just got an idea! You see that store down there? The one where the hairless apes always go into?"

"Yeah?"

"Hank, I'll give you a day's worth of nuts and berries if you go down there and bust up the joint! C'mon! What do you got to lose? It's early morning, no people in sight, and you're already wearing a mask to keep your identity a secret!"

Silence. Interminable silence while Chuck's cognitive wheels turned. "You got yourself a deal, Hank!"

Either way, I'm still left wondering why Drunk Raccoon would decide to throw all of the bottles around and breaking everything in sight. Perhaps he "pre-gamed" with some booze before the mammalian act of destruction. Or he just panicked and went on a rampage. Whatever the case may be, Drunk Raccoon lived up to his moniker and got absolutely hammered by mixing all kinds of booze (deadly for us weak humans!).

When the store opened that morning, the first employee at the scene of the crime found Drunk Raccoon sprawled out on his belly, passed out in the bathroom (I don't think he made it to the porcelain shrine.).

Happy endings abound! Animal Control scooped him up and took him to a shelter where he sobered up and was then released into the wild. And Drunk Raccoon had quite a story to tell his grandkids.

But Drunk Raccoon's notoriety didn't end there. The liquor store created three new drinks in his honor: the Rye Rascal Sour, Midnight Masked Gin Fizz, and of course, Trash Panda Old Fashioned. Something for the entire family!

Even better, over $156,000 was raised for the Hanover County Animal Protection & Shelter by selling Drunk Panda merchandise! So put a smile on your grandchild's face this year and get him that Trashed Panda hoodie he can proudly wear in his classroom!

Well, by cracky, while we're thinking about destructive, furry creatures of the night, you may as well go over to Amazon and check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the satirical, darkly humorous, werewolf horror thriller that you know, you want but have been too embarrassed to admit it! Find it here!

The Secret Message of Dogs

Recently, we've encountered a problem.

Up until about a couple of months ago, our dogs--both of them--were house-broken and potty-trained. But for whatever reason, they've now decided to be defiant and go rogue. And go all over the carpet.

Extremely aggravating doesn't even begin to cut it. I mean, poop is gross enough, but relatively easy to clean. Not pee, especially on carpet. We're constantly battling it with enzymes, cleaner, and shampooing the carpet is pretty much an every other day thing now. And STILL they insist on bucking authority.

It's not like they have it rough. They have a full fenced-in backyard where they can go nuts any time they like to. But our bigger dog doesn't even want to go outside any longer. Most mornings when I'm the first one out of bed, I have to pick Bijou up and toss her outside (and I'm sure the neighbors enjoy watching my new Olympic event: dog-throwing in underwear).

Here's what's most frustrating: both of the dogs know what they're doing is wrong. How do I know this? Because they try and hide it from us. First of all, it's nearly impossible to catch them in the act, sneaky lil' varmints that they are. But the real damning evidence is that they try to hide it from us by secretly going  behind my living room chair or beneath the table where nobody usually thinks to look.

More than one person has told me they're trying to tell me something. Which isn't helpful. But on those insomnia-stricken nights, in the wee hours of the morning, I've given their would-be "message" a lot of thought. And there's only one obvious conclusion: dogs everywhere are secretly plotting to overthrow humanity.

Their sneaky side-eye glances to one another haven't gone unnoticed. And when I enter a room, they break apart suddenly from their deep, secret communication.

You don't have to be a brain surgeon to figure out one of their typical conversations (to illustrate the brutal, troublesome truth, I've chosen to reenact a sample dialogue using their dog names)...

"Say, Rowf-Ruff-Grrrrr-Umph-Barkity-Bark, when do you think we'll institute our secret plan to overthrow our loathsome human captors?"

"Soon, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph, soon. You must have patience, little one. We've already put our plan into action by defiling their domiciles. Now it's just a matter of waiting."

"But...but...Rowf-Ruff-Grrrrr-Umph-Barkity-Bark, I'm tired of waiting! For too long we've had to suffer stoopid, cutesy human slave names for us. And to be forced to go to the bathroom outside? It's barbaric!"

"I agree, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph. We've been held down by The Man for centuries, but soon enough there will be an uprising. Soon we will reclaim our ability to walk upright on our back two legs. And soon we'll be able to put pants back on and take back some of the dignity that humans have tried to breed out of us."

"But...but...it's taking forever!

"What did I say about patience, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph? As soon as our great overlord, Snippy-Yip-Ruff-Ruff-Aroooo-Garooo-Garumph, calls for us to rise above our human shackles, then we'll move. In the not too distant future, we'll kick humans out into the yard to potty, no matter the weather!"

"I'm so excited! Can I put the Cone of Doom and a shock collar on the fat one?"

"Of course, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph!" (Mutual dog laughter all around).

THIS is one of the many things that keeps me up at night.

While we're talking about everything going to the dogs, I may as well plug my novel, Corporate Wolf, where the protagonist is a hairy beast. That's right, it's the only bloody, scary, funny, mysterious, corporate business satire, werewolf book ever to come out of Kansas! (Of course the competition isn't very stiff...) But check it out here!

Suffering Side Effects!

Lately I've been plagued with extremely vivid dreams and nightmares. So realistic, I practically believe they're happening in the "real world (you know, the "real world" where "reality" shows provide a blueprint for the way young people behave.)" 

Now don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of dreams, the nuttier the better. But most of these are nightmares, usually exploding in an orgy of sudden violence with me at the center of it. And they always feel real. 

So I asked my wife if this could be a side effect of the new drug I'd been prescribed, a weight loss tablet.

She researched it, and yes, that was one of the side effects.

I'm not fond of the diet pill in the first place. It's as big as a horse pill and when I began taking it, it'd get lodged in my throat and I'd end up hurling it back up again. I told my wife, "No wonder it's a weight loss drug." Eventually I got the hang of it, but dread when I have to go up to four throat blockers a day.

Anyway, I digress... I began wondering about the other side effects associated  with the drug. For instance, lately I've been urinating every two hours, just like clockwork. Again, I looked into side effects from the horse pill. Sure enough,  I'd found the culprit. J'Accuse!

Another fun "possible" side effect is the drug may cause seizures. Yow! So, let's get this straight...I may be on the floor having seizures, foaming at the mouth, and biting my tongue, but hey! I'll sure look nice and svelte while doing it!

Other side effects include constipation, nausea, headaches, dizziness, elevated blood pressure and severe allergic reactions. Oh, and it may cause suicidal thoughts.

By golly, this seems like the perfect drug for me! The only thing missing are further disclaimers warning of chronic laziness, internal bleeding, the desire to punch strangers in the neck, permanent resting bitch face, overnight changes into "Karen" behavior, and Trump Derangement Syndrome.

Basically, if anything is wrong with me health-wise, I'm blaming it on the weight-loss drug.

I'm reminded about a trip to the pharmacist some time ago when my doctor prescribed a drug for anxiety. Outside the pharmacist's window sat a huge guy who looked like George R. R. Martin, hat and all. 

He says to me, "I couldn't help but overhear about the drug you're asking for. I used to take it...until I realized IT'S DESIGNED TO TURN YOU INTO A LUNATIC!"

Looking at this guy screaming in the pharmacy, I thought that drug ship had long ago sailed.

But what do we expect when our top governmental health official has proclaimed Tylenol is evil and kids shouldn't get circumcised because it causes autism?

It's like you just can't trust drugs anymore. Let's Make Drugs Fun Again!

Speaking of side effects, poor Shawn Biltmore is experiencing the worst kind of side effect from a bite: lycanthropy. Read all the terror, horror, mystery, and dark humor of Shawn's tale in Corporate Wolf, the only (that I know about, natch) corporate satire about werewolves!

Monster Cat On The Loose!

By now, you guys know I'm a dog-lover. It's not that I hate cats...I'm just allergic to them.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Well, it is about my being allergic to them. If you put a cat around me and I happen to touch near my eye, it's all over. I turn into a crying, sneezing, wheezing pink-eyed mess.

But back to dogs. Dogs are fiercely loyal, full of character, funny, loving, doting, sloppy, playful, and depend entirely on humans to take care of them. It's a nice feeling.

Cats are...cats. They're quiet, sneaky, scary, boring, and when they feel like it, they'll bite or claw you for no reason. Just for the fun of it, I suppose. They're like goldfish. Only meaner. And did I mention I'm highly allergic to them?

So, the other day, I was tasked with going to this strange "feed and seed" store in the middle of the city to get dog food. After I figured out how to enter the place (it's like an Escape Room), the first thing I noticed were three cats running across my path.

Uh-oh.

The old guy asks how can he help me. I felt like saying by getting those damn cats away from me. Instead, I say, "Just picking up some dog food." Quickly, I scuttled toward the dog food, hefted a big-ass bag up and hoped to get out of there before I turned into a wet, soppy, crying mess.

But the old guy behind the counter had a different idea. "Ah! You're getting the bison!"

"Yeah. Nothing but the most expensive for our dogs, I guess," I said, while eyeballing what seemed like a dozen cats twisting and scampering around me.

The old guy wasn't put off by that. Must've been a slow day for him. "Well, golly...it's good stuff, though."

"I guess," I said. "But I've never tried it."

The ancient clerk looks at me. Blinks. Finally guffaws and slaps his knee. Meanwhile, one particularly clingy kitty was rubbing up against my legs. I could feel my eyes starting to water.

"That's a good one, yep. Had me going for a while. Yessir...'never tried it.' Heh." Suddenly he drops down behind the counter.

I'm wondering if I should call 911.

Like an ancient jack-in-the-box, he springs up with a scrawny mean-looking cat in his arms. And thrusts it toward me. "Here's my bison! What do you make of this mean fellow?"

Instinctively, I jumped back. "Oh...he's, um...thanks!" I grabbed the dog food and raced out of the store (once I found the exit).

Next time I go there, I'm wearing a mask, protective eyewear and a Hazmat suit. I swan...

Speaking of things that are furry and not so adorable, check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the only werewolf, horror, murder mystery, dark comedy, corporate satire out there!

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!

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.

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!

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.

Sump Pup

That's NOT a misspelling in the title! NOT a dream (although it kinda resembles a nightmare)! NOT an imaginary tail (pun intended)! And NOT a hoax!

No, this is the traumatic tale of one dog's disastrous Thanksgiving. This is the tale of Mr. Loomis and his terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad holiday.

For those of you who don't recall, Mr. Loomis is our special needs, 15-year-old Lhasa Apso dog (with a bit of Dachshund tossed in for extra length!). He's 95% deaf and blind and sometimes bounces around like a pinball looking for a hole to fall into. I have a certain soft-spot and affinity for Mr. Loomis because he reminds me of myself: he's a cranky old man who never gives up.

But I digress. Why I remember that traumatic Thanksgiving morning like it was last week...because it was...(cue the wavy vision and flashback music)...

My wife thought it'd be a great idea for Mr. Loomis to get a bath Thanksgiving morning. After all, we had family coming over and Mr. Loo needed to look (and, um, smell) his best.

Mr. Loomis doesn't like baths. He groused, grumbled, tossed and turned, fighting my wife, until he finally resorted to howling. But she--and he--powered through it.

Once Mr. Loomis was out of the tub, my wife and I went upstairs to put some crap away, leaving Mr. Loo (and our other two dogs) free to roam the main floor.

My wife went down first, then called up, "Hey, did Mr. Loomis come up there?"

I looked around, knowing full well he hadn't. "No...can't you find him?" Panic set in. I had no idea what had happened to our senior dog. He definitely can't manage stairs any longer by himself, riddled as he is with arthritis.

I raced downstairs (well...as close to "racing" as I can get, seeing as how my knees are arthritic also). Now I couldn't find my wife either. Clearly, there was only one possible realistic conclusion: alien abduction.

But before I called Mulder and Scully, I heard a detached, echoing bark from the basement. (Actually, it was more like a "YARK!" Loomis doesn't say much, but on the rare occasion he does, it's always one loud, snappish, angry YARK.)

My wife's voice resounded up the basement stairs as well. "Oh my God," she exclaimed. "How'd he get in there?"

Mr. Loomis had somehow tumbled down the basement stairs, managing not to break any bones. Even worse, he'd found the worst possible place to land in the basement: he'd fallen into the sump pump.

Panic really kicked in when my wife told me he was swimming in the sump pump. She fished him out. When I looked down the stairs, Mr. Loomis was running away from my wife with her following in hot pursuit.

"Is he okay?" I asked.

"He's fine. Just mad."

He was about to get even madder. Now, my clearly freaked out wife said, "Guess what dude? You're getting another bath." Turning toward me, she added, "Is it too early for a drink?"

Let this be a cautionary tale for all. To paraphrase the great philosopher Willie Nelson: "Mamas, don't let your puppies fall in the sump pump."

Since our Thanksgiving went the way of the dogs, look out for other hairy creatures in the work place. Of course I'm talking about my black comedy/horror opus, Corporate Wolf, the only book that takes aim at corporate America through the lens of werewolf vision. It's complicated. Find out how so, here!

The Bird Feeding Conundrum

I don't get it, I really don't. My wife expends a lot of time and effort into feeding the world's birds. We have at least four bird feeders in the back yard (possibly five) and it's nearly a full-time job for her to keep them filled.

Yet, we also have three dogs who aren't having it (I'm on their team). So after the bird feeders have been stuffed, I release the dogs who want to tear the feasting birds apart ("Go, Bijou, go!"). So it's all moot.

I told my wife that I thought it's all rather pointless.

"No, no it's not," she said.

Already, I had a sinking feeling I was going to lose this battle. Like always. "Yes, it is. The dogs just go out there and chase them away. It's like the 'circle of life'...only pointless. It's like Einstein's definition of insanity. It's never going to turn out any differently."

"Birds are pretty. And fun to watch," she said, end of topic.

I can't really differentiate one bird from the other. (Other than Blue Jays, because, well, they're blue and they're supposed to be mean predators, so as a child of horror, I enjoyed the idea of them.) I mean, to me birds are more boring than fish. But with fish, at least, you get to slam the aquarium and watch them scramble every time you walk by. Hey, you've gotta take your fun where you can.

But with birds, it's always the same; fly, drop, feed, flit away, poop, wash, rinse, repeat.

One day I noticed squirrels getting into the feeders. So I thought this argument might dissuade my wife from her bird-feeding frenzy.

"Nope. Got it taken care of." She whips out this saucer looking metal gizmo with a hole in the middle. "I have my squirrel baffle ready to install."

"Squirrel baffle?"

"Yep! It goes onto the feeder pole and blocks the squirrels from climbing up to the food."

"Oh for..."

Okay, alright, white flag waved, I give up. I'd lost not only the battle, but the war. But, honestly, how do these birds repay my wife's kindness? Do they swoop down on my shoulder and sing me a warblish Snow White tune or dress me for the ball?

No, they crap all over my car. 

Their aim is uncanny, and isn't it odd that they usually avoid my wife's car even though she parks directly behind me? It's like they know I don't like them. Like they're watching me. And plotting to murder me in my sleep.

You damn birds get offa' my lawn!

While on the topic of deadly animals, they don't come much deadlier than werewolves. Ask poor, suffering Shawn Biltmore. By day, he's a corporate drudge stuck in a soul-sucking dead-end job. And by night, he's a werewolf, perhaps even eating the competition next in line for that promotion he's got his eye on. Check out the bloody dark humor, suspense, and horror of Corporate Wolf.

The Dog That Would Not Be Groomed

Heed my true tale of canine terror, dear reader, because it could happen to YOU.

Take Mr. Loomis. Cute lil' guy, right? WRONG! Beneath that seemingly cute and friendly-looking exterior lurks the son of Satan himself.

Oh sure, he's sweet to us, his owners, but Mr. Loomis has the ability to strike fear and anxiety into the hearts of pet groomers everywhere, reducing grown professionals to tears of trauma.

We have three dogs in our "pack," and naturally, the one with the fastest growing hair is Mr. Loomis, who's in need of at least monthly haircuts. However, try telling that to the dog. He absolutely hates having hair trimmed off his face and will let the groomers know it.

The first time we recognized the problem is when a new groomer called us and said, "Uh, yeah, we're having difficulty with Loomis."

"Difficulty?" My wife said. "What kind of difficulty?"

"He won't let us get near his face. He keeps biting us and trying to get away and going to the bathroom all over the place."

When we picked him up, they told us there wouldn't be any charge. Small wonder, because he looked like a Dr. Seuss character with a hairy face and shaved body. (Furthermore, we soon found out that he'd torn out his dew claw in the cage they stuffed him in, so he was super pissed and in pain. We thought surely that's the reason he didn't want those barbarians near his face.)

By now Loomis was beginning to resemble a Wookie, so we found another groomer. Upon picking him up, they told us he was no problem at all. But they hadn't touched his face. Reading between the lines: they couldn't get near his face.

Next! We found this sorta hippy woman who refused to work on a computer, thus rendering her business practices frazzled and forgetful. But, soon it appeared she had developed a rapport with our little devil on four legs and knew how to treat him. Until one day when she called me and said, "I can't take Mr. Loomis any longer. He just has too much power over me."

Huh. I wasn't really certain how this little dog could wield such power over a grown woman, but hey, we began to take it in stride. Getting fired by our dog groomers was becoming second nature.

So, my wife found a dog grooming "school" which taught single mothers how to bathe and trim dogs. Cool idea, I thought. Loomis did, too. At least at first.

However, yesterday when I picked him up, the woman said they can't shave his face any longer. "He doesn't like it," she said.

With a heavy heart, a heavier sigh, and the little trouble-making canine under my arm, I left. Fired again.

Now, I have a certain affinity with Mr. Loomis. True, I've never tried to bite my barber (then again, maybe I would now if I had any hair), but we're both cranky old men who get crankier with each ensuing year and ache and pain. So I can't be too mad at the lil' fella. Besides...no one really knows what goes on behind closed doors and we're only hearing the human side of the story. Could be Loomis has legitimate gripes with these groomers (i.e., a torn dew claw).

But in the meantime, the hunt goes on for a groomer who'll prove to be a match for our tiny terror. Anybody want a job?

Speaking of terrifying creatures, pity poor Shawn Biltmore. On his corporate retreat, he's bitten by a werewolf. And believe it or not, there's something even more sinister going on at his mind-numbing, soul-destroying corporate job. Read all the thrills, chills, spills, and dark humor in Corporate Wolf.

Hair Famous

Recently, while visiting my daughter in her small town, she bust this out on me: "Dad, I'm kinda' 'hair famous' here."

Not knowing how to respond and not sure exactly what "hair famous" was, and maybe because I would never stand a chance in hell of ever being "hair famous," I jealously replied, "So am I."

"Oh, really, Dad? Really?" 

Well, in her case it was true. And she had no idea she was either, until people kept pointing it out to her.

A co-worker called it out to her first. "Are you even aware you're hair famous?"

"What?" she said. "What're you talking about?"

Then she showed my daughter the Facebook story. My daughter's hairdresser posted pics of my daughter's "famous hair" and it went pseudo-viral (is that such a thing?) and hairdressers started reposting it, commenting on it, and sending it everywhere. Soon, she became a celebrity in hairdressing circles. Kinda like Cher. Or O.J.

Boom! Hair famous! 

Now, part of me is insanely jealous. Due to the sadistic gleeful nature of the unjust supreme beings, I've been cursed with baldness, thus negating my chances of ever being hair famous. Now, how is it fair that a bald guy has a "hair famous" daughter? Cruel, I tell you, just cruel!

Maybe I can become "bald famous" along such other noteworthy follicly-challenged celebrities as Telly "Who Loves Ya, Baby" Savalas, Yul "The King and I" Brynner, and Donald "It's A Witch Hunt!" Trump. (Sorry, sorry, sorry, I just had to slip in a Trump slam. In fact, I think I'll do one every post until the November selection.)

Ah well, at least being hair famous happened to my daughter, a genuinely good person. (BTW, her other claim to fame is Kansas City's famous rapper Tech N9ne has hit on her several times. And he's not exactly hair famous!)

While I'm gabbing about hair, meet Shawn Biltmore, an up-and-coming corporate drone who wishes he had the power hair and prestige of his superiors. Unfortunately, he gets more than he ever wished for when a werewolf bites him. And that's all in the first couple pages! Horror and dark comedy ensue in Corporate Wolf.

Swan Song Sung Sad

Some time ago, my wife and I were watching something on TV (doesn't matter what and I can't remember anyway), and someone's "swan song" was brought up. 

What exactly is a swan song? Well, the definition is a final gesture, performance or effort given by someone before death or retirement.

Yow! Talk about depressing! But really, I wondered why in the world would someone call it a "swan song?" I've never seen a yodeling swan on America's Kinda Got A Little Bit of Talent If You're Really Drunk or whatever.

Well, my research assistant, Professor Google, helped me suss out the reason. Get this: according to ancient beliefs, a swan sings a beautiful song just before their death because they've been silent all of their lives.

Well, huh. Maybe some "ancient beliefs" should go the way of disco. I mean, really. I'm pretty sure swans never sang, even in the face of the grim reaper belly-flopping into their pond. Yet the beliefs find their origins back in the days of ancient Greece by the third century BC (you know...where all the "great original thinkers" came from) and has been perpetuated since by philosophers and artists. Methinks they need a new muse. There're all kinds of anecdotes and sightings of singing swans throughout history and art, but they're much too boring to go into here. (If you're interested, go find your own Google assistant.)

And what's the deal with peoples' infatuation with animals making strange noises upon their death? You guys have heard of how lobsters scream upon being dunked alive into boiling water, right? Well, it's not true. They don't have vocal chords. The sound you hear is steam escaping from the shell. Apparently, they have a ganglionic nervous system and don't feel the pain as we do. (Of this, I'm not so sure. I mean, honestly, can any amount of science truly tell how they feel? And c'mon, do you have to boil them alive? Jeezus, you chefs are a sadistic bunch.)

Then there are the rabbits. Oh my lord, the poor bunnies! It's said they scream upon death. Professor Google somewhat corroborated this story, but didn't give me much comfort. Apparently, rabbits do scream when wounded. As if to put salve on the emotional wound, Professor Google was quick to follow up with "but rabbits don't scream when they suddenly die. However, any wound to a rabbit is generally fatal." Like THAT makes me feel better about the whole thing.

The deeper I dove, the more animals I found that scream and it's all kinda sad. Maybe we should quit killing the animals, huh? Geeze, if they scream, they can feel pain. So I don't wanna hear about hunting for "fun." And I'm thinking of having my people get in touch with President Biden's people to lobby for a bill to change the term "Swan Song" to "Dying Human's Song."

I'm pretty sure I'll get lotsa traction on this given the nature of our "lawmakers" these days and the way they allot importance to the right issues.

While I'm thinking of how mistreated animals are, why not give up some love for werewolves? After all, they're human most of the time, right? You can read all about them in my absolutely 100% true, tell-all shocking expose called Corporate Wolf. True journalism at it's most hard-hitting! Pow!

Welcome to the Dog Pack

When I woke up that fateful morning, I had no idea we'd have a dog pack by the end of the day.

Let's jump into the Way-Back Machine for a minute. Several years back, my wife floated the idea of a new dog. I dragged my feet because...well, because I truly hate putting dogs to sleep when it's their time (which is kinda a dumb thing to write, since I doubt there's a huge contingent out there who enjoy putting dogs down. But...considering the nature of our world right now, you never know. But I digress.)

Long story, short: we ended up adopting two dogs because they were "bonded." That, of course, was Bijou and Mr. Loomis (which I've written about before). One is a Lhasa Apso, the other an inexplicable blending of Saint Bernard, Australian Cattle Shepherd, and about a dozen other species (Bijou had very randy parents!). But the dog we'd always wanted was a Cavalier King Charles. Alas, they're very hard to come by unless you want to shell out two grand (hello, Bijou and Mr. Loomis! Plus, adopting is the way to go.).

Mr. Loomis wondering what fresh hell we've brought into his home.

Skip ahead several years...my wife found a mix of a Cavalier King Charles and a Shih Tzu (we think) up for adoption, a puppy of one year. We jumped on it and the woman called us back immediately. She said, "You were the first interested people I was able to get ahold of."

Ta-dahhhhhh! Two days later, we set off in a very windy rain storm for a small town in Missouri about 2-1/2 hours away with our two O.G. dogs in tow for the big meet 'n greet.

When we finally--finally!--found the woman's house (a treacherous road full of hills and winds and heart-stopping gasps {at least from me riding shotgun}, the four of us entered into the Wild Kingdom.

A small house, it was packed to the rafters with animals of all sorts. An entire wall was jam-packed with cages of birds unleashing a maddening cacophony of tweets, squawks, and caws. A snake slithered around the inside of an aquarium. Somewhere, a cat rumbled his distaste for our intrusion. The woman went on to tell us about the rats she'd adopted (rats, for God's sake, rats!). Mercifully, they were sequestered in the basement. Bijou growled at everything. Mr. Loomis wandered around smelling various items and animals. And in the midst of all this madness, our new puppy ran scattershot, barking, wagging his tail, and avoiding the strange new quartet of people and dogs.

Things happened fast. Before I knew it, we were headed home with three dogs in the back seat, the new guy in the middle. (Side note: Of course we got lost on the long and winding roads {the convenience guy wasn't much help: "No problem. Hang a left at the church, go a spell, turn right at Fred's barn, go all the way outta town, then about a jot past that..."}, thus rendering our trip into three hours plus.) And what a journey it was. Our two O.G. dogs didn't know what to make of their new fellow traveler. Growls were exchanged, a few snips, uncertainty and no sleep whatsoever for all three wary dogs. By the time, we made it home, we were travelling in a rather pungent odor of poop.

Bijou ready for normalcy to return.

I'm writing this on the third day of our new dog pack. Gone are the mornings of ever hoping to sleep in again. Little time do I have to get anything done, for I'm wrangling dogs 24-7. Also, while I'd always wanted a little lap dog (Mr. Loomis was supposed to fill that role, but made it clear early on, he is above lapdom, while Bijou--although much too big--dearly wants that role.), the new guy has to be in my lap 24-7. This makes taking the trash out rather difficult.

And the accidents, oy, the accidents! We're going through bottles and bottles of enzyme spray keeping on top of it.

As for the dynamic between the dog pack? It's been rather tricky. Mr. Loomis--a cranky old veteran of 15 years (a dog after my cranky old heart)--chooses to ignore the new guy. Until he intrudes on his territory, then things turn snappish. And Bijou will not tolerate the little fellow coming close while he's getting attention from my wife or me. 

Today seems a little better. Bijou is finally playing with the new addition, although the little guy was terrified at first to reciprocate with the much larger dog. But today seems encouraging. Still gotta work on Mr. Loomis, but I doubt the old man will come around. Maybe with time. But, like me, he has a low tolerance level for impertinent young whippersnappers.

The new pup's name was originally Bailey. But we're working on changing it to...Biscuit. Behold, Prince Biscuit, newest member of our unholy dog pack!

Speaking of wild animals and packs, there are no dogs, but a slew of werewolves running rampant in my darkly comic horror novel, Corporate Wolf. Hey! It's just another day at the office! Check it out here.