Knee Fun in 2024

My 2024 has started out with a bang. Or at least that's what it felt like to my knee. For over two months, I'd been suffering severe knee pain, completely jacking up my mobility and ability to do stuff.

It all started in mid-November. I woke up, thinking (more like mentally screaming), "Say...my knee sure does hurt."

For weeks I suffered. My wife watched me hobble around (finally busting out her antique collectible cane), shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She'd been down this path with me before.

"Do something about it," she said. "Go to the doctor."

For you see, going to the doctor is completely against everything I stand for. A) I hate it; B) it takes forever; C) things usually have a way of rectifying themselves; D) it sucks (did I say that already?); and finally, the Big E) I'm always worried about some life-threatening disease the docs may accidentally uncover. Why...I'd almost rather ask for directions when lost than go to the doctor. Almost.

At long last, one morning I woke up and it felt better! "Honey," I said, "I'm finally on the road to improvement!"

"Uh-huh," she answered.

Alas, the next day, the constant, agonizing pain had returned. With great sacrifice, I hauled myself upstairs to our bedroom and finally conceded. "Hey...I think I need to go to Urgent Care in the morning."

"Hallelujah," replied my wife.

Okay, the next morning, a Sunday, I found out when Urgent Care opened. My plan was to get there at that very moment, thus limiting the endless waiting time. Before the doors opened, I was there, banging on the doors with my cane.

The doctor saw me, a speed-talker, and gave me a quick cursory examination. "I don't think it's broken, can't say about torn ligaments, I doubt it, but we'll give you an x-ray anyway, take lots of Ibuprofen, ice it until we call you, next!" spat out Dr. Over-Caffeinated. 

Later that morning, the nurse called. "Um, yeah...Dr. Speed-Overdose says there's just some mild arthritis there. No big deal. Take Ibuprofen."

Translation: "Why are you wasting our time and resources? Stay home, you cry-baby, take some aspirin and shut up."

Yet...yet...the constant pain continued. One more month goes by. In absolute despair, I picked an orthopedist on-line and gave his office a call. After I left a message, two days later(!), a nurse calls me back.

"At this point, we're two months out from being able to get you in. You're better off getting into one of our walk-in clinics."

"Two months?" I railed. "That's worse than trying to get somebody to fix our fence. Have you ever tried to get someone to just mend your fence? I mean, it's crazy! They either want to replace the entire fence or...Hello?  Are you still there? Hello?..."

So. I gave in. It became decided. The next morning, my wife (who was working from home that day) graciously said she'd drive me to the clinic. (I actually think she likes to go with me on medical appointments because she realizes that I'm terrible with giving accurate medical background information). 

Of course, this was during the worst snow blizzard in years. Oh so carefully, my wife plowed through packed and backed up snow covered streets, the visibility less than two feet ahead of us with the wind blowing wildly. All the while, my knee screamed for relief, any relief.

Finally...finally...we made it. Not sure how. Naturally, we parked at the complete opposite end of the long-ass building we needed to go into. Limping through the blizzard, I traversed the snowy and dangerous winter lands until we landed in the right section.

After seemingly hours of electronic paperwork, I handed it back in. That's when the receptionist said, "Well, the clinic doctor isn't here yet. I hope she does make it in, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know."

"Gee...thanks."

Fortunately, it wasn't too much longer before she did make it in.

"Hmmm," the physician, not much older than the cheese I ate last night, said, "betcha what you need is a cortisone shot in the knee."

"Bring it!" Of course I'm no fan of shots, but anything to alleviate my suffering.

"It usually lasts about three months, then you'll need to come back for another one," she continued. "Does that sound like something you'd like to try?"

"Oh, HELL yes!"

After filling out some scary paperwork that absolved them of my accidental death, she brandished a hypodermic in front of me.

"Okay, when I put this in, you'll just feel a little prick."

"'A little prick?' Hah. I can handle that. Um...I don't mean I can handle a 'little prick', heh, if you know what I mean, I mean to say, AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! The pain! Make it stop! How much longer is this going to go on???? AIEEEEEEEE! Oh! What happened to the 'little prick?' The pain! Boss, it is zee pain!!!!"

In the icy cold agony of the shot, I'd accidentally channeled Herve Villechaize from Fantasy Island. 

The process did seem like it'd gone on forever, like acid burning up my knee.

At long last it was over. I limped back through the storm to the car.

And by cracky, once night hit, I started to feel relief! Sweet, sweet relief! On top of the world, the next day, I actually went out and shoveled the sidewalk and driveway (of course it took me about five out-of-breath attempts, but I did it!).

Sadly, the shot's effects only lasted about two weeks and now I'm back to Ground Zero of Pain.

My wife's on me to call another orthopedist.  

"Been down that route already," I said.

"Try again."

Humph. I hardly see the point. I'm thinking of finding a nice witch doctor on-line instead.

While I'm thinking about witches, you'll find an entire coven of witches (along with other ghosts, spooks, beasties, and things that go bump in the night) in my book, Peculiar County. It's a wonderful place to visit (kinda), but trust me, you don't want to settle there.

Enjoy the Magic of the Movies!

I love the B&B Theaters, a humble little Midwest chain of multiplexes, I really do. There's a lot to love, starting with the recliners that make it feel just like home! And the theaters are usually so empty you can scratch yourself just like at home, too! But, man, the B&B's are beginning to annoy me.

Take "Enjoy the Magic of the Movies," their catch phrase. A little bit goes a long way. Every employee says it and they try and say it with a straight face, too. 

Of course they never say it with any conviction either; it's always just kinda mumbled, under their breath as if they were sorely embarrassed by having to spout it and why shouldn't they be? I defy anyone to try and say "enjoy the magic of the movies" without doing a spit-take! Go on...say it in front of a mirror. I'll wait. See what I mean?

Every time these poor humiliated, minimum wage earners are clearly forced to utter this inane declaration (B&B Theater Employee Handbook, Rule 1.7, Subsection 17), I'm absolutely certain they question their life decisions in how they ended up here and wonder if it's not too late for college. Or the military.

I do remember one fresh-faced kid who actually tried to spout it like an overly-caffeinated Doug Henning. If memory serves me correctly, he even added a little magical hand flourish.

"Enjoy the MAAAAAAGIC of the movies!" Hand up, grinning ear to ear, he awaited my response.

So blown away by his strange, yet oddly endearing enthusiasm, after hearing it repeated on auto-pilot by so many other prior employees, I was at a loss for words. Finally, I mustered, "Thanks, um, you too."

I never saw this "magical boy" again. I imagine I caught him on his first day. Before desperation had set in and he quit, opting to go over to the competition where they didn't demand you spout such nonsense.

Now, keep in mind, just like every other retail outlet these days, the B&B theaters are woefully underemployed. There are no longer people working the ticket registers. Instead, you go directly to the concessions stand where four teens await to spread magic all over you. So that's one less time you'll have to hear "Enjoy the Magic of the Movies." That's something, at least.

But this underemployment is getting out of hand. It's to the point where you pretty much self-serve yourself the concessions. And when you're shelling out twenty bucks for a drink and popcorn, wouldn't a little service be nice? Nope. They hand you a cup and an unsalted, unbuttered bag of popcorn and point you toward the row of machines, which is a bonus layer of Hell.

Let's start with the "butter" machines (or that strange deep-urine yellow-colored thick oily substance that passes for butter). Out of eight butter machines, only two work. It's been that way forever. A couple of the non-functioning ones have been battered because some brute didn't get his quasi-butter. I would think they'd get some guy out to fix these butter machines. But apparently the Fake Butter Machinery Union guys are on strike. Not much magic there!

Then you need a road-map to operate the soda machines. There are about a thousand options (and this is an improvement over the old days when the only sugar-free option was Pepsi), but most of them taste like sickly sweet colored water. I tried a sugar-free grape option (gross!), a sugar-free cherry limeade option (even grosser!), and finally landed on a "Sprite Lymonade (which tasted like seltzer water, but at least it wasn't grotesque)." But getting there proved to be the real up-hill battle. 

The theater uses touch screen machines that're pretty stressful. The machine does not want to give you any time to make your decision because it's a big stupid-face bullying machine. There are unnecessary menus within menus and I felt lost in the labyrinth of sub-menus, with no way out. When I waffled, the screen bullied me into making an under-duress decision and snidely claimed, "I'm sorry, but your time is about up." Then it had to gall to show a ten second countdown timer. Like it was going to blow up if I didn't make a decision. In full-on panic mode, I caved in to machinery terrorism and landed on the Sprite Lymonade button, a choice I regretted later.

To make matters worse, before the movie started, the B&Ber's had the gall to taunt me with an advertisement about a man enjoying his time at one of the soda machines. With an expression of out-of-control ecstasy, he started hitting all sorts of buttons, proclaiming things like "Fresh," "Fun," and "Exciting!" He sped this up, deliriously happy, rocking it like a pinball machine, while animated stars and firecrackers and bunnies and crap exploded all around him. Then...wait for it..."Enjoy the Magic of the Movies!"

Well. That wasn't MY experience with the machine. I never remember seeing the "Orgasm" button, for instance.

But there was a bit of magic to be had during the film (a fairly routine horror film). During one the of the movie's nighttime "scary" moments, the screen went completely dark with the audio still rolling. My friend and I sat in the dark waiting for something to light up the screen. I said, "Um, I don't think it's supposed to be this way." My doubting buddy kept on, until he finally acquiesced. (Naturally, theaters in their never-ending quest for cost-cutting rendered projectionists obsolete years ago).

Or was it a truly innovative tour de force of movie-making ingenuity leaving the viewer to imagine unseen horrors for a ten minute stretch?

Either way, I call it...MAGIC!

While I have magic on the brain, there's a ton of it lurking around the more frightening perimeters in my book, Peculiar County. The tale of a Midwestern mortician's daughter and her dalliances with ghosts, a murderer, witches, and something creepy that takes flight in the night, it's as close as I'll ever come to writing "magical realism." (At least I think so...it's been quite a few years since I studied literature, so maybe I'm just full of it.) Be that as it may, feel free to visit haunting Peculiar County right about here!

"I'll Scratch Their Eyes Out!"

During childhood, I remember my mom as being the kindest, sweetest, most loving mother in the world. I suppose most of us do (excluding some horror film serial killers or maybe Joan Crawford's daughter). But my mom had one simple tear in the fabric. When she turned "Dark Mom," it was terrifying!

No, I'm not talking about when she'd try and "spank" my brother and I. Actually, we hoped for that because she pulled her punches and cried more than our crocodile tears. (It was a much better fate than awaiting the flying, fiercely flailing hand {or belt} of my dad. I'm pretty sure Ward Cleaver took after the Beaver with the metal end of a belt, too, but that footage was cut from TV.)

There was one trigger--only one--that would morph my June Cleaveresque ray of sunshine mom into Dark Mom: when my mom "perceived" other adults--mostly teachers--as abusing her poor lil' innocent (*Cough!*) angel children. (And make no doubt about it, my brother and I genuinely deserved the teachers' wrath, at least 9 times out of 10, but that's hardly the point, right?). When Mom was triggered, brimstone lit up her eyes. Smoke roiled out of her nose. Her rosy complexion burned into a Devil's red. Hands gripped the steering wheel until knuckles turned bone white and I swear--no, I SWAN--claws began to grow from her fingernails.

But it was what she said that terrified me the most. "I'm gonna go scratch her eyes out!!!"

Yow!

First of all, the imagery, oh, the imagery. I vividly imagined Mom going up to my fourth grade teacher and stabbing her long nails into Miss Billyous's eyes, plunging them in again and again, while all sorts of viscera slung across the chalkboard and splattered my fellow students. She'd finish with two runny egg-like eyeballs impaled upon both index fingernails. All the time during this horrendous vision, she was hysterically tittering and laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West. Our namesake after all.

And poor Miss Billyou's crime against humanity? She dared to tell the class, "Well, by now, I'm sure all of you know that Santa Claus isn't real. It's your parents." (Side bar, your honor: To be honest, I was in the Santa doubting stage at that time, kinda wanting to hold onto the magic, the myth. But deep down, the logistics of it all didn't quite add up. I believe my fellow students had already bypassed that stage and nodded enthusiastically with Miss Billyous's whistle-blowing, to which I joined along, not to be labeled a pariah. Not like poor Roger Danton, who was audibly shocked and ridiculed because of it.)

So when my mom picked me up from school, I made the mistake of telling her about this. At the time, I believed I was being clever, trying to coerce a confession out of her, demanding an explanation why she'd lied to me all those years. After everything we'd been through together. So much for truth being the best policy and all that crap.

But something unexpected happened, she turned into Dark Mom. Immediately I knew I'd made a big mistake. 

"I'm going to go scratch her eyes out!" she shouted.

She zipped the car back into the parking lot, squealing the tires and making the scrambling kiddies squeal. In the backseat, I was hysterical. I didn't want Miss Billyous's eyes to get scratched out. I kinda liked Miss Billyous. Also, I didn't want my mom to be a prison lifer. Who'd make my sammitches? And I suppose part of me didn't want to have to deal with the humiliation of being the only student whose mother scratched the eyes out of their teacher.

"Please, Mom, don't do it! PLEEEEEESE! OH, NOOOOOOOO! She didn't mean it! I'll DO ANYTHING! PLEEEEEEEE..." I'm screaming and crying and I think I even threw my arms around my mom's neck to keep her from scratching out my teacher's eyes. My younger brother beside me had no idea what was going on, nor did he have a reason to join in the caterwauling, but he did, sensing trauma like a dog.

Thank God my mom finally relented. She huffed her way back to the mommy we knew and loved, almost shrinking with each loud exhalation huffed through her nose. "Fine," she finally said. "But she'd better not cross my path!"

So...if not a complete win, at least a stay of execution.

Now, I believe this trauma had been blown way out of proportion in my work-in-progress brain by a late night viewing my mom and I shared several weeks prior. It was something we enjoyed doing together on Saturday nights. She'd let me stay up with her for the 10:30 movie, we'd (she'd) cook popcorn and I can firmly nail this ritual down as the beginning of my love for movies.

Not that time, though. It was Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. The one where Suzanne Pleshette's eyes were pecked out by birds. EEEEEEEEEEEEEE! For years, I vividly remembered the quick shot, Suzanne's eyes all bloodied with gunk oozing out and splayed all across her teacher's blouse. (Of course, upon revisiting the film, my faulty childhood memory had the wrong character getting their eyes pecked out; I also remember thinking, "But...but...the movie didn't have an ending! What a rook!")

Anyway, I didn't want Miss Billyous ending up like a similar teacher with a similar fate, Suzanne Pleshette.

Well, that was the first Dark Mom transformation I recalled. There were many more after that. And each time, they became less and less traumatic. Near the end, I'd just roll my eyes and "whatever" her.

Now, the incident I just cited was a rarity. As I'd noted earlier, most times my brother and I came face to face with the misdirected wrath of Dark Mom, we usually deserved the teacher's punishment. We WERE brats. 

Case in point, my seventh grade art teacher banned me to sit in the hallway several days. My mom, upon hearing this, went Dark. She said, "I'll scratch her eyes out! She's just jealous of your art skills!" Well...no. Granted I was a good artist and granted, the teacher did dislike me. But she had good reason, too. I was the agent provocateur in that class and led about eight students into misbehaving along with me, their Don of Delinquency. When the teacher would go into the mysterious back supply closet, I had them all throwing yarn up and around the lights. It was a beautiful sight to behold. And Boom! I was sentenced to the hallway. Got an "F" for my troubles, too. Well deserved and bravo, old chap, an education utilized wisely!

So, I had to talk my mom out of scratching the teacher's eyes out. Not that I really thought she'd do it, mind you--not in the wise, experienced, mature mind of a seventh grader--but rather, I didn't want to go through the embarrassment of "Mommy yelling at teacher." I had street cred to maintain.

Wrapping this sermon up, I suppose if Mom morphed into Dark Mom, I, too, had a secret identity: Dark Pre-Teen.

Now that I've laid down just a taste of the kinda kid I was (just a taste, mind you), some of my *good* teenage years behavior can be found in my first book, Tex, The Witch Boy (republished recently by The Wild Rose Press). It's not all me, natch. I wasn't a witch, nor did I tackle murders, but a lot of the bullying and other incidents actually happened to me or a friend. (Ahem, artistic license is taken. I wasn't exactly a complete angel in high school, either. But those incidents are for another series...) That's Tex, the Witch Boy! Get it before all the copies magically go *POOF!*

Hey, kids! It's Snack Night!

After college, a lot of my graduate friends from the University of Kansas settled in the same Kansas City area, and we shamefully continued to act like college kids for many more years. On Friday and Saturday nights, we could always be found down in the Westport area (lots and lots of bars within walking distance, the trendy area at the time), closing down the place every weekend.

But along with old traditions, several new traditions were forged. There was the tradition of going to Don Chilito's for Sunday hangover lunch. Don Chilito's (which long-time blog readers may remember my writing about before) was a particularly terrible Tex-Mex restaurant with awful food, but we found it perfect for ourselves, immensely enjoying the camaraderie and comedy. (I know...it doesn't make sense to me now, either.)

However, the new tradition that I enjoyed the most was "Snack Night." It began small. When my brother and I lived together in a rented house, every Sunday we'd go to the grocery store and just stack our respective grocery carts full of ludicrous snacks. The worse it was for you, the better. 

I remember the check-out clerk always looking at us funny, when one of us would unload the cart onto the conveyor belt. There was ice cream and syrup, potato chips, french onion dip, crackers, cookies, Lil' Debbie's artificial sugary nothing-cakes, corn chips, salsa, drumsticks (not the chicken variety, mind you, but the dipped in chocolate and peanut ice cream cones), hot fudge, cheese dip, jalapenos, hot sauce, candy bars, you name it, it went onto the conveyor belt. And not a vegetable to be found, thank you very much, no siree Bob!

Then the other West brother would follow, emptying his cart onto the belt while the clerk just kinda gawped at us. It wasn't unusual for us to rack up fifty to sixty bucks in crap each week. (With inflation, it'd be about three times that much now).

But that was just the first step in snack night. While we'd gorge ourselves silly at home, we'd make a point of watching the worst possible film available.

That was my job. I'd study, read reviews, scan the latest video releases, and pull a winner (i.e., loser). (Side note: Hey, Millennials! You whippersnappers ever head of videotapes? You kids today and your instant streaming don't know how lucky you have it! Why, back in my day...)

Some of the highlights of our movie viewing included Cool As Ice, the ludicrously, unintentionally hilarious film starring nominal white rapper, Vanilla Ice, as a bad-ass, nominally rapping (natch), romantic lead. His slow romantic ballad and the ensuing slo-mo montage has to be seen to be believed.  

 Road House was another favorite, one of the dumbest, yet most inexplicably popular films we'd ever seen, where a bar bouncer in "Kansas (complete with mountains in the background!)" has a national reputation as the best bouncer in the world! My favorite scene is where the lisping hero (Patrick Swayzee) takes the bad guy's (perpetually sneering and grinning Ben Gazarra) girlfriend home with him to his house. While they're "making love," Ben Gazarra steps out on his veranda and watches them...RIGHT NEXT DOOR! And then there was Over the Top, of course, the heartwarming and pulse-pounding tale of a down-on-his-luck, yet lovable lug (Sylvester Stallone) who attempts to win back the love of his snot-nosed, annoying son (played by some snot-nosed, annoying kid) by dragging him to the utmost of importance arm wrestling championships.

I think you kinda get the drift of the entertainment we desired...no, craved. Perfect match for the quality of "food" we consumed. (Too bad there wasn't ever a film about a hot dog eating championship; that would've perfectly met our Snack Night requirements).

Snack Night grew in membership. First one college pal joined, then another, and another, until word on the street turned it into a mini-phenomenon (not really, but I'm a writer). Soon, we had about a dozen to fifteen guys crammed into our small and modestly furnished living room, crowded around a small TV with a beat-up Korean VCR on top of it.

Snack food wrappers littered the floor. The microwave was kept busy, constantly dinging. Nachos were burnt, eaten anyway, and spilled. Ice cream melted and was eaten with a straw. Chips crunched beneath our feet. The refrigerator was always packed, the food spilling out onto the kitchen countertops. It truly looked like a battlefield and as they say, War is Hell.

Or Heaven, eye of the beholder and all.

Now, there was an unspoken rule about Snack Night. It wasn't ever truly defined, but we had a no girlfriend policy. (Usually.) It's not like we were Spanky and Alfalfa's He Man Woman Haters Club. No, it wasn't like that at all. I kinda think that any woman we knew at the time considered our barbaric ritual as too utterly grotesque for them. I'm pretty sure they were right, too.

No matter, it was a place and time where we could hang out and do whatever. Given our youth and good health at the time, no weight was gained or diseases contracted. Shocking, I know.

I'm not sure when and how Snack Night disbanded, but I'm pretty sure marriages were involved.

Hmmm. I wonder if my wife would object to my bringing back Snack Night to our house... Yeah! I'll keep it simple and only invite ten guys the first time and...and...

Nah. My health couldn't handle it now. Maybe some traditions are better off buried. (And there's no way my wife would go for it. I'm sorry, Spanky and Alfalfa!)

While I'm waxing nostalgic, I'd be remiss if I didn't plug my book, Peculiar County. If spooky nostalgia's your bag, boy, have I got a book for you. Taking place in the '60's (right before the turbulence began), Peculiar County tells the tale of a tom-boy living in a small farming town in Kansas, who stumbles onto a murder mystery. Did I mention that there are also ghosts, witches, a haunted hanging tree, something that flies the night skies, and much, much more? A book for all ages (but don't let that throw you!), it also happens to be my favorite out of my 21 titles. Come visit scenic Peculiar County here!

The Best Weapon For a Serial Killer

You know it takes a very peculiar couple to argue the merits of what would make a serial killer's most optimal weapon.

Go on, take me and my wife. (I dare you.)

There we were, recently lounging on our "love seat (a very peculiar name in itself because of the mayhem we view on TV while lovingly lounging on it)," and a hooded killer was going after people with a hook during one of our "stories."

"I dunno, honey," I said, while affecting a very authoritative voice while stroking my beard, "if I were a serial killer, I wouldn't think a hook would be the most effective choice."

"Au contraire," she says, with much more authority than I could muster. "With a hook you could swing down, up, stick it straight in, and give it an extra twist, thus making it the perfect serial killer weapon."

"But...but...you would have to have much power behind your upward swing, not to mention the downward motion, to be able to get the hook into the body. Remember, it's called a 'hook' for a reason. See my point?" (And yes, the pun was intended.)

"Nope. I'm sticking with a hook. You can do much more damage, especially with a finishing twist."

"But it wouldn't go in straight, I tell ya! A knife would go in straight! You could slip it right inside the rib-cage, whereas a hook would be bouncing off of bones left and right, thus rendering the would-be killer off balance!"

"It's the hook for me, all the way."

We discussed the finer points of a serial killer's arsenal into the night, with neither of us conceding to the other (you know...like modern "politics!")

By the way, it turns out that on this particular program, both of our arguments were moot, because the killer double-dipped, tipping his hook with poison, but that's besides the point.

So, what's it gonna be, folks? Chime in on the great debate! Hook or knife as your preferred serial killer weapon? Later, we can have a fun contest to see how many government watch lists we land on!

Speaking of all things "peculiar," thing don't get much more peculiar than they do in Peculiar County. My book details a young teen tomboy girl coming of age in a small Kansas town in the '60's. A young girl's life is plenty peculiar in itself, but when you factor in a ghost in a corn-field, a mysterious murderer, a slew of creepy witches, the haunted funeral home she resides in, and a mysterious creature that takes flight in the night, well, yes indeedy, things get mighty peculiar. This October, drop in on Peculiar County for some Halloween fun!

 

Torture by Kenny G

We've all been there. Stuck on the phone, on hold, and the unfortunate Kenny G comes wailing away at you with his God-awful, sickly sweet, dulcet saxophone tones.

Folks, it's worse than waterboarding and should be outlawed.

Torture is the only way to describe it. The powers that be have such disdain for us that they can't allow you to be patched through to a real person without first punishing you with agonizing minutes of Kenny G. They hate us that much. There can be no other explanation.

Pity my poor, suffering brother-in-law. Recently, his identity was stolen and used for unemployment benefits. As if this wasn't enough abuse, the onus was on him to attempt to break through the government robots on hold who soundly thrashed him with a half hour of Kenny G's "Songbird" on an endless loop.

On Facebook, my bro-in-law posted this and said, "I hate criminals." I replied, "the real crime is Kenny G."

I don't know whose idea it was to "entertain" people on hold with Kenny G. Someone, somewhere, must think that it's comforting music, meant to mollify the masses into compliant passivity until they finally break. In fact, it's no coincidence that Kenny G is the most popular on hold music across the world.

It's a conspiracy of far-right reaching proportions.

Look, I don't have a problem with Kenny G... Except for maybe his music sucks. It's like ear candy for grown-ups who have to be told that Kenny G is good. And the fact that a grown man is going around calling himself "Kenny G." First, Kenny is a child's name, Kenneth. Second, I highly doubt your last name is truly "G." And then there's Kenny's hair. Just looking at it makes me want to run for the scissors. Okay, and I hate having to be force-fed his ear pablum in so-called "relaxing" environs. I've been known to bolt from a store if Kenny G is wailing away from the speakers at ear-breaking decibels.

So, yeah. Maybe I do have a problem with Kenny G. I hate him.

Usually, when I'm on hold, it's either Kenny G or a close second worst, Christoper Cross' "Sailing." That's it, nothing else. And again it's no accident that these two are what pummels your ears, two of the worst and inexplicably popular entertainers from the last century. Government and big business want you to suffer, they want to torture you. To what nefarious ends, who knows. Big government moves in strange and mysterious ways.

Let's abolish Kenny G. As much as I despise the term "cancel culture," Kenny G truly deserves to be "cancelled" before he turns our minds into mush. Stop the insanity.

Now that I've gotten that insanity off my chest, I gotta plug my book, Peculiar County. It's my favorite outta 24 titles. Read it and see if you can understand why. Go on, I dare ya. Let me just put on a little Kenny G to play in the background while you go find it...

 

A Mighty Peculiar Place to Visit...

Today, my favorite book of mine (outta 23 or whatever!) is republished by the fine folks at Grinning Skull Press, Peculiar County, with a tremendous cover by the talented Jeffrey Kosh.

Why is it my favorite book, I hear you thinking? Not sure, really. Maybe it's the small Kansas town setting in the early sixties full of beyond quirky and sinister characters such as the librarian witch sisters. Perhaps it's the odd things going on around town such as Mittens, the ghostly dog or the mysterious creature that takes to the skies at night. Could be it's the (I hope) stylish prose. Or maybe it's just down to the protagonist, Dibby Caldwell, a smart, 15-year-old tomboy discovering romance, ghosts, danger, and mystery which upends her world.

I've had more than a few people ask how in the world I was able to channel the mindset of a 15-year-old girl so well. One person even suggested I'd transitioned. I don't have an answer for that except to say that once I got to know Dibby, she pretty much wrote herself. All of the best characters react that way. Frankly, Peculiar County was the easiest book I've ever written, too, and maybe that's why it's my favorite. I was on auto-write. The lazy man's book, the way I like it.

I dunno... Maybe it's my favorite because the last publisher who had it, didn't understand it and mishandled the hell outta it.

Here, give me a minute... 

 Okay, this is the cover they wanted to saddle it with. Sweet Mother of Pearl! See that Justin Bieber kid acting all coy and cutesy and bee-bopsy in the cornfields? That's supposed to be a six-year-old ghost in the early sixties. Geeze. Anyway, the diva cover "artist" wouldn't do a redo (everyone at that particular publisher bows down to her for some unknown reason), so I at least told her to ditch Bieber. Thank God she did that. But, still, the cover was lacking...What're we left with? Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Even worse, maybe "Little House on the Prairie." Gah.

Actually, the original inspiration for Peculiar County was the great To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (although not even near that classic's league, natch), one of my all time childhood faves. Except for, you know, the supernatural elements I added. And no social relevance. Okay, on second thought, it's nothing like Mockingbird, so ignore my pretensions. I just get excited about this book.

Some readers are also surprised that I've never lived in a small rural town. Just made it all up. And from paying attention when we'd drive through such places. It must be said, though, that a couple characters are based on real people my in-laws told me about. The one-armed, military attired phone operator was real! And the legend of the ghost dog was a story I picked up from an Oklahoma diner. The things you learn while driving through the Midwest...

All of these reasons and more are why this is my favorite book. In fact, it's nearest in end result of what I'd intended out of anything I've tackled. Which is why I've slowed way down on writing. I don't know that I'll ever match this book again.

But enough of my blabbing...check out what one reviewer said...

"What Mr. West has accomplished is a book that keeps on giving phrase after clause after sentence after paragraph you'll want to highlight and say 'this is so amazingly good.'" 

That makes it all worth it.

Life is different in Peculiar County.

So is death, as Dibby Caldwell, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Hangwell's mortician, is about to find out.

 

Witches lurk in the shadows.

A menacing creature haunts the skies.

And the dead refuse to stay dead.

Peculiar County. Available right about....NOW!

 

 

Welcome to Peculiar County

Peculiar County's a right hospitable little piece of Kansas. Just be on the look-out for things that fly in the night or creatures that don't sit right in any zoo. Here in Peculiar County, witches rub elbows with murderers and the mortician's daughter just might be about the savviest gal in town. The mail man's a bit off, the telephone operator's way off, and the librarian sisters were never on. Only in Peculiar County can you hear a ghost dog bark up a storm in the local hotel and see a tree--the Judge's Tree--you'd be best off not visiting once the sun goes down.

Peculiar County's my first young adult book for Books We Love publishing. Set in 1965, "old adults" can enjoy the tale as well. It's a ghost story, a nostalgic slice of early sixties small-town life, a misunderstood teen girl's coming-of-age saga, a comedy of Midwest manners, and a murder mystery. A love story, too. I think there might even be a kitchen sink in there somewhere if you look hard enough...

Why did I set the book in the early sixties? Many reasons. It's the decade I was born; technology hadn't yet ramped up to the point where it messes with suspense; it's an interesting era when society was rapidly changing in fascinating and unexpected ways. Most of all, I've always been of an opinion that the best ghost stories have always had a touch of nostalgia to them.

SO... Have I succeeded in my lofty goals? That's up to you, dear reader, to decide.

In the meantime, lay out that road-map of the bizarre and plan your day-trip to Peculiar County ('cause you don't wanna visit at night!). You can't miss it. It's just a hop, skip and jump away from Strange Town. Hang a left at Killer's Gulch. Skedaddle on through the Hellington Hills (make sure you have a full tank of gas) and whatever you do, don't look too hard or pay any matter to the unsettling sounds you might hear.

Peculiar County. Click here for the most peculiar--not to mention, cheapest--road trip you'll take all year. Preorder ebook version now. Official release on July 30.

Or click HERE to get the paperback right spanking NOW!

Here comes the zombies!

Well, looks like it's that time again to introduce y'all to my newest book.

Zombie Rapture. Crazy title, huh? Go look at it now, then meet me back here. Zombie Rapture Linky-Poo!

Now if you're the type of person who'd rather not read about gut-munching zombies, hang on a minute! The zombies in this book are really "zombies" in title only. First of all, they're sentient. Second, they don't eat flesh. Or brains (a rather nasty culinary habit, I think). Rather, they somewhat fancy fried chicken, down-home cooking. 

Sure, they're dead (or "undead" if you want to get fancy-pants about it). And they're out to kill the (apparently) few surviving living humans. Why? It's complicated. But in a nutshell, people have died, come back, and now believe they're experiencing the Rapture come to earth. Heaven on earth. Those not like them? They want to "save" them, bring them into their paradise. You know, by killing them. Told you it's complicated.

But at the heart of the tale? A love story, a heroic quest for Hunter to find his missing girlfriend, Jordan.

Okay. Even though a couple of the protagonists are teens, it's not a YA book. Too much for their tender lil' minds. I certainly don't want to have the corruption of teens on my rap-sheet. And again...it's the zombie book for people who don't like zombies. (But fear not, zombie lovers! I've got you covered as well!).

The book shape-shifts. While writing, it took on a mind of its own. Starts out all romancey and stuff. Segues way into dark humor (I don't know about you, but a dead lil' old lady coming at our hero with hedgeclippers, chanting "praise Him, praise Him!" strikes me as morbidly amusing). Turns into suspense, horror, sci-fi, mystery, thriller. Finally satire. 

An end-of-the-world black comedy! Fun for the whole family!

Official launch date is April 14th. You can preorder it until then at this nifty link: Clicky for Zombie Rapture! All this excitement for a mere $2.99! Go!