Curse of the Singing Cowboys

Growing up, I was aware my dad loved cowboys. I'm not talking the kiddy-type infatuation that most boys have but get over it by adulthood. No, I'm talking the full-fledged,  man-loving (but in a "good" way, so put those pitchforks down, "right-wing-siders"), he-man sorta adoration, usually reserved for baseball players, war heroes and favorite presidents (an oxymoron?). I mean, back in the day (in ancient times when there were only three channels to watch), my dad would seek out any western on TV he could find. Now THAT'S dedication.

In fact, I have a vague recollection that my first Halloween costume was as a cowboy. The following year, I was a bunny. Go figure. To this day, I think that was my mom being bold and putting her stamp of disapproval on everything cowboy. Revenge, one might say, with me being used as the hapless weapon.

For you see, cowboys drove my mom crazy. If she even heard  a single gunshot zinging off an outhouse emanating from the TV, she'd be outta there like a rocket.

One day, lil' Stuie asked Mom, "Mommy, why do you hate cowboys?"

Her face drew tighter than if she'd bitten into a lemon. "Mercy! They're all the same thing. Bang, bang, bang, dusty, dust, dirt, boring." She paused, lost in thought. With a look of distaste, she dredged up what must've been a painful memory for her. "The first movie Poppa took me to when we were dating was a singing cowboy one." Her amazing eyeroll looked as if she'd become suddenly possessed, head swaying back and forth. "MERCY!"

Singing cowboys, I pondered. That was a new one on me. I'd never heard of such a thing and it was clear my mom was done with the topic. But it was nearly impossible for me to correlate the brave sheriff of Palooka, Missouri, singing to the evil Jonzy brothers as they shot up his town.

Later I asked my dad about singing cowboys. He licked his lips (a sure sign it was a topic he adored and was ready to pontificate about) and said, "Those are my favorite, son! There's Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and of course, Roy's loyal, brave horse, Trigger. But your mom doesn't care for them." He chuckled. "Say! Would you like to see one the next time one's on?"

"Sure!" As my dad's eyes lit over my enthusiasm, I began to wonder if I'd just made a big mistake.

Well...I did. 

Sure enough, about two weeks later on a Saturday afternoon, Dad and I sat down in front of the gigantuan black and white monster TV box and prepared for singing cowboys to shoot it out.

In my youthful naiveté, I felt like I'd discovered a heretofore unknown relic, a clue to a mysterious past newly uncovered and passed down from our ancestors. What other hidden film genres awaited discovery for me, I wondered. Tap-dancing ninjas? Crooning monsters?

The credits unrolled over a corny song. Okay, I thought, just the credits, it's about to get good.

But it never did.

Roy Rogers sat astride Trigger, strumming a guitar and singing in a high-pitched voice that hurt my tooth cavity. He wore a frilly, fringe-laden outfit that would've made Liberace jealous.

THIS is our hero? I pondered. My dad grinned ear-to-ear during the entire film. And I didn't want to rain on his parade so I sat stoned faced throughout the nightmare unfolding before my eyes. Very little gunplay. But lotsa--I mean, LOTSA--sissy singing and Vegassy outfits. It soon became clear that Roy was more interested in singing love ballads to his horse than shootin' up bad guys, keepin' the town clean of ne'er-do-wells, and even courtin' Ms. Evans.

That day, my dad pretty much ruined westerns for me. Since then the only westerns I've liked are of the spaghetti variety (besides having tons of style, everyone always looks grungy, filthy, sweaty, and stinky the way people in the Old West were meant to be! And not a single sissy, namby-pamby, Cher wardrobe-raiding, clean-cut, fake cowboy in sight!).

I never did tell my dad that I absolutely hated Roy Rogers. I saw how much it meant to the "kid" inside of him, so like a good "parent," I encouraged that hobby of his. But I always had an excuse (predominately homework, something that couldn't be disputed) as to why I couldn't watch the upcoming matinee with him.

I've not written any westerns, but I suppose my historical fiction ghost tale, Ghosts of Gannaway, comes the closest. At least all of the townspeople of a downtrodden depression-era mining town in Kansas are pretty dirty and living in squalor. Except, of course, for the evil rich jackals up in their ivory mansion (sound familiar?). Heavily researched (the book broke me on ever wanting to do research again), it's a perfect ghost tale to curl up with on these windy, chilly fall nights. Get it here!

The Old Round-About

My pal (since grade school!) and I like to frequent the neighborhood brewery. It's never too crowded, the beer is good, and the bartenders know our name (like Cheers!).

There's a crew of regulars there every Saturday we go, and if we don't know them by name, we secretly give them nick-names (you know, just like in grade school): Slim, The Geek Squad (always playing Dungeons and Dragons) and my personal favorite, Dahmer.

"Dahmer" is particularly scary. Every time he's there, he's sporting a skin tight t-shirt (with what looks like blood stains), is always by himself (probably because by the looks of it, he hasn't washed his hair in over a month), sits alone, muttering, looking at his reflection in the front mirror, undoubtedly looking for his next victim.

But the regular I want to talk about is a self-proclaimed witch who has been a thorn in Doug's side for some time. (We'll call her "Griselda" because if I used her real name, she might hex me). She lives on Doug's street and I quickly figured out they'd been going at it for a while.

One Saturday, she approached Doug and started bragging about how she was responsible for the new speed bump on their street. Of course Doug hates the speed bump, so they argued about it (as "frienemies")at great length.

Another time she called Doug "feral" and yelled at him to wear his damn motorcycle helmet. Once, while sitting at the bar, Doug pompously stated, "The kitchen is my wife's and the rest of the house is mine." Behind the bar (and I'm not sure why she's given privileges to get her own beer; maybe she has the employees under her thrall), Griselda turned around, shaking her head and said "There's SOOOO much wrong with everything you just said." (On this point I had to agree with the witch.)

But, by far, their biggest point of contention is the old roundabout. Everyone who lives on that street were asked if they would support a roundabout (which is ridiculously pointless and would do nothing but back cars up on their quiet, low-traffic, suburban street). Naturally Griselda was all for it. And just like their cat and dog relationship, Doug hated the idea and actually campaigned against it by telling all neighbors to just say "NO."

Flash forward to two Saturdays later...At the brewery Griselda approached Doug again and immediately they renewed the ol' roundabout argument. 

After 20 minutes, I'd had enough of their pointless bickering (like our two opposing political parties trying to change each others' minds).

Exhausted, I finally said, "Are you two STILL going around about about the roundabout?"

Relieved the witch started laughing, I heaved a sigh of relief. And as of now, I STILL haven't been turned into a frog.

Boys and girls, it's probably not a sound idea to piss off a witch.

While on the topic of witches, I'd be shamefully negligent if I didn't hype up my book trilogy, Tex, The Witch Boy. It's got everything: thrills, chills, spills,  mystery, suspense, bullying, witchcraft, romance, humor, horror, fried chicken, and the woes of high school. Get 'em here!

My College Roommate

Jerry on the left at my wedding

I had several college roommates. The first one looked like John Denver ("far out!"). Then there was Johnny Cook who eventually (secretly) quit going to classes to start working at a gas station. He'd leave dirty greasy fingerprints all over the walls and light fixtures.

But my favorite college roommate was Jerry who I'm still friends with, but rarely see (probably for good reason; the last time I invited him to go to a brewery, he nearly got thrown out for his usual "Jerryatrics."). But he was a good friend, my best friend in college.

There was a downside to palling around with Jerry, however. He was morbidly handsome. Everywhere we went, girls swooned over him. I never stood a chance. "You look like Mark Harmon," I heard all the time. Eventually I had to start hanging out with uglier guys to even the playing field.

But Jerry showed me the ropes at KU (i.e., the bars) as he had a prior year experience and we had many great times. So I tried to repay him in different ways. Once I gave him an old English paper of mine (I had got an "A") to which he copied word for word. Somehow the professor gave him a "D+." Weird. But Jerry being Jerry, he showed the professor my paper and demanded a regrade (apparently he wasn't worried about plagiarism). Eventually his dad got involved and all hell broke loose. I believe he flunked the course but stayed in school.

Another time, I came home for lunch and found Jerry panicking on another paper on a book he had read. I asked him what it was about and what he wanted to say about it. So I knocked it out for him over my lunch hour. This time he got a "B+". Not bad considering I'd not read the book.

Soon Jerry and I and our various comrades began taking spring break vacations to Florida and other notorious party spots. On one particular drunken night, the eight of us retired to our 12th floor room, bodies strewn everywhere. Jerry fell asleep out on the deck. When he awakened, he looked into the room and spotted me laying at a strange angle. Immediately he freaked out and thought someone had cut my head off. He started screaming at people down in the street to get help because someone cut my head off. Soon hotel security came with cops and another friend answered the door. They weren't happy. Mercifully, I retained my head and managed to sleep through the entire ordeal.

But the good times with Jerry outweighed the bad. And we were inseparable for years. Time and kids catch up to all of us as does the worst inevitable offender: adult responsibility.

Jerry Nowadays

As far as roommates went, Jerry was the best and I could definitely have done worse. Take my poor suffering brother, for instance. His first roommate at K-State was a guy with the unfortunate moniker of Spencer Pickle. They had stacked their beds bunk-bed style and Spencer kept my brother awake every night by shaking the bed while pursuing..um...self-pleasure. He'd yell "Spencer, cut it out!" Spencer did but would inevitably start whittling on his bed post. My bro had to go sleep in the break room on more than one occasion. Then there's my nephew. He got stuck with a crazy guy who doesn't talk, is rarely spotted, and goes to his room and cries out strange noises.

Nope, I was lucky to be roomed up with Jerry.

Speaking of Jerry, I co-opted his tragedy from high school for my book Tex, the Witch Boy. The character that's based on Jerry was run over in the school parking lot intentionally by a bully. Several of his fingers became detached and he had to have his hand wired up in the air for a long time, thus fooling many teachers into believing he was asking a question. All of this and more is detailed in my book, Tex the Witch Boy available here!

The Ultimate Mom Jeans

By now, everyone's witnessed "Mom Jeans." Whether on Saturday Night Live's commercial parody for mom jeans or various moms sporting them, or Heaven forbid, even your own mother (and maybe even wife).

For those very few of the uninformed amongst you regarding this nightmarish fad, mom jeans are high-waisted denim jeans that were once considered fashionable in the late 80's and early 90's. Many people (usually under 40) see them as frumpy, unflattering and outdated.

And I'm hear to tell you the ultimate mom jeans horror story.

About twenty years ago or so, my mom started wearing jeans. She had never worn them before, had no interest in them. She was the June Cleaver type who fancied sensible dresses and later, slacks (along with tons of makeup and lots of caustic hairspray that used to set tears to my eyes).

So one day, out of the blue, she suddenly started wearing jeans. They never fit her very well, rose high up over her navel (the way my dad had liked his pants) and were unflattering in the extreme. 

I took a closer look. They were designer jeans. Then all of my worst fears collided in a kaleidoscope of terror.

"Mom," I gulped, "are those...are those...my jeans?"

She laughed (something I didn't feel like doing) and said, "Yes. How do you like them?" She twirled as if on the runway showing off a fashionable gown.

"Um...why are you wearing my jeans?" My voice sounded like I had a mouthful of pudding.

"Well, Stuart, they were here. And they fit." Again she gave an impish smile.

I didn't feel like raining on her extremely frugal parade by telling her decidedly no, they do not fit, not one bit. I tried to shrug it off as impossible a task as that was.

Now, I don't know if any of you have had similar situations, but I would imagine not. The feelings I experienced were odd: it was sort of humilating and emasculating in a weird sense. Here was my mom showing off her new-found (and extremely cheap) jeans as I sat there in horror realizing they were the same already outdated designer jeans I wore in college. The same ones that I had dated in (amongst other activities) many times. I don't know if my sudden avalanche of gut-churning anxiety came from the fact that my old jeans fit (more of less) my mom or the fact THAT MY MOM WAS WEARING MY JEANS. Either way, I feel it would give today's MAGA gender-label-fearing folks a fright.

Brrrrr.

I had long forgotten about this nightmare until last weekend when I was out with my brother and his daughters. Suddenly it came back to me like a paparazzi's lightbulb flash.

"Hey...did you know Mom used to wear my jeans?" I suddenly lobbed out there like a grenade. We were drinking beer so I thought everyone might get a kick out of it.

I was right. Too right. My brother freaked, told the girls (who weren't listening at the time) and laughed and laughed.

He said, "I always wondered where they came from and they never fit very well."

So. Youngsters, heed my advice: when you move out of your parents' house, take your old jeans with you and destroy them at the first possible moment. This is crucial to your future mental well-being.

Now that I have your attention about all things ridiculous, I may as well pimp out my most ridiculous books, the Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Start with book #1, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and proceed (with caution) from there. If ludicrous situations, bizarre characters, comical hijinks, and murder mysteries are your bag, join the cool kids and buy 'em here.

A Mission of Cookies and Humiliation

I miss my mom. But I do swan (and all of you should know by now that I abhor "swanning"), she used to put me through the ringer.

Once Covid reared its ugly head, my brother, myself and my mom thought it a good idea that she just stay in her apartment and we'd do all the running for her. She was just too dang vulnerable at that point, mask or no mask (and we had no vaccines then, either). 

Honestly, I didn't mind putting together a list of her grocery needs and fetching them. It was ten times speedier than taking her with me to do her grocery shopping. Talk about a huge chunk of time lost forever. Once, she and I spent twenty minutes in the butter aisle alone. 

"How much is this one?" she'd ask and point at a box.

I'd tell her. Invariably, she'd come back with one of two of her usual responses, either "Hmmph" or "highway robbery!" We would then proceed to go through all the rest of the butter boxes and prices. Then she'd forget what the prices were and we'd start all over again. Behind me, a line began to form of impatient butter shoppers.

Anyway, one day I went to her apartment, ready to jot down her grocery list.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Wait," she replied. She got up, went into the kitchen and brought back a half-eaten package of cookies, one of those see-through plastic containers half-filled with gross looking marshmallow cookies with an ugly aqua-colored frosting. She thrust the package at me. "Take these and get my money back."

I blinked. Stared at the proffered burden she held out to me. "Ummmm...what?"

"Take them back. They're awful."

"Mom...you ate half of them. I can't take them back!"

"I know what I know and I know that they're bad." (This was one of her favorite sayings and usually it signified that she wouldn't tolerate any fools and the argument was done because she knows what she knows.)

"But...but...Mom...if they were bad, why'd you eat half of them?"

"Take them back, Stuart. They're terrible."

"Mom...you know you can't return food just because you don't like it, right?"

To this, she giggled. Before I was chalking up her ridiculous demand as to her age, but the giggle signified she knew exactly what she was doing. A shrewd tactic, one designed to eat a half bag of gross cookies for free, a ploy worthy of the most tactical military minds of our times. Unfortunately, I was the expendable soldier tasked with carrying out this suicide mission.

Realizing that I couldn't stand up to my superiors, I set out on my mission of humiliation. Choosing to get that job over with before my shopping, head down, I raced to the customer service desk with cookies in hand.

"Can I help you?"

"Um...yeah...I hope so." I gave a little nervous chuckle, hoping to disarm the bomb I was about to drop. But instead, it took me back to the early days when my voice was changing. "I...uh...need to return these," I squeaked.

The grocery clerk grabbed the package, turned it over and over. First her eyebrows raised, then they plunged downward in a menacing scowl. Tough crowd.

"They're not mine," I hastily added in a weak voice. "They're for my mom. I told her that--"

"What's wrong with them?" Still turning the package over and over.

"My mom...NOT ME...says they were stale."

"But she ate half of them."

"I know, I tried to talk her out of this, but--" 

"Fine," she sighed. What little charm I thought I possessed wasn't nearly potent enough. Then she lightened a bit, looked around like a spy, finally grinned. She held the package out to me. "Want one?"

"Um...no thanks." 

First, they looked gross. Second, I thought it might be some kind of undercover trap to capture the notorious cookie bandit who'd been returning half eaten cookies across the greater Kansas City metro area.

I raced away and got Mom's shopping done in record time.

Mom, I miss and love you dearly. But not some of the things you used to send me out to do.

Speaking of guys who have to run fast out of necessity, consider the plight of poor Wendell Worthy. Bad guys force him to run across downtown Kansas City in a limited time to save his brother's life and bring back some takeout chili. Dressed in nothing but his tennis shoes and his tighty-whities. It's complicated. Read about the dangerous situations, wacky mishaps, and bizarre characters Wendell encounters through the night in my comical suspense thriller, Chili Run! It's the perfect book for the reader on the go.

Nakedopolis!

Growing up, my parents filled my little vulnerable head with lots of nonsense: "Sex is a sin (as if; and this was the closest they ever came to talking about sex. No further explanation given.)," "Drinking beer is disgusting and bad (CRAZY talk!)," "masturbation is dirty and a sin (Nooooo! Not my hobby!)" and their crazy interpretations of the Bible. And the Bible is already kinda strange, especially to a young impressionable kid.

"Mommy, where are the dinosaurs?" I asked.

"God created them too," she answered.

"Huh. But they're not in the Bible! And what about cavemen?"

"Mommy's busy right now."

But nothing was more confusing than their interpretation of the story of Adam and Eve.

"But Mommy...why was it a sin for Eve to eat an apple?"

"Because she disobeyed God." 

"But why was it a sin?"

"Because if she hadn't eaten the apple, we'd all be walking around naked today, the way God intended us to do."

YOW! My little brain blew up over that. In my mind, Eve helped us to dodge a huuuuuuge bullet. I wanted to tell my mom that I'm glad for what Eve did, but that probably wouldn't have gone over well.

I started to think about a naked world and it terrified and grossed me out. I couldn't imagine kissing Grandma when she was naked. And what about the naked restaurant server who's hanging out (literally) with his junk at our eye level. Worst of all would be Winter. And walking over all of that rough terrain.

And how about school? I imagine the boys would constantly walk around with their books in front of them, trying to hide their state of arousal when the cheerleaders strolled by. Yikes!

No thank you and thank you Eve. I for one am glad for the original sin! (And come on! Our current "president" commits worse sins on a daily basis!)

So God told Adam and Eve not to eat the forbidden fruit and they did anyway. Then He/She shamed them into clothing.

And because of them eating an apple, we're all sinners. I think. (Or maybe that's all the sex, beer, and masturbation rearing their ugly heads. I still don't quite get it.)

Then I started wondering what's the takeaway from the story of Adam and Eve. That women are inherently evil, luring men into lust and eating fruit?

That's probably in Trump's footnotes in his very special $300 Trump Bible.

Last weekend, at a bar, I brought all of this up to a very knowledgeable Bible "scholar" friend (while drinking sinful beer, natch).

He went on at great length talking about it, but the most interesting thing he said was God lied, Adam lied, and of course the evil Eve lied. "The only one who didn't lie was the serpent," he finished.

I suppose I better bone up on my Bible understanding. (Now where did I put my Trump bible? I think I left it upstairs next to my Trump cologne, Trump wristwatch, Trump virtual trading cards, and...)

Speaking of liars and sinners, check out my darkly comical horror novel, Demon With a Comb-Over (my titular demon on the cover sure resembles a certain president, right?). The book's full of demons, jerky angels, Satan, a couple trips to Hell, and stand-up comedy. Fun for the whole family! You can get it here!

Impromptu High School Reunion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She said, "Did you beat me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom's In The Army Now...

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

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

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

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

But I started thinking of the larger ramifications...

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

"Sir, yes, sir!"

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

"Yes sir!"

Or maybe this scenario...

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

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

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

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

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

"Because we have babies."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Duh, My Dear Watson. DUH!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

"No. Quiet."

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

"No. He's Morris Chestnut!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pink Eye Romance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus began the Summer of pink eye romance.

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

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

War On the Catholics

When I was in sixth or seventh grade, my family made the move to a new neighborhood, mere blocks away and across a major traffic-way from our old residence. I never could figure out the reason for the move, but years later I figured out it was to replace our two story with a ranch to better accommodate my wheelchair-bound dad.

But the reason--at the time--for the move became even more puzzling when my parents kept grousing and grumbling about "all those Catholics in the neighborhood." Another thing I didn't quite understand. I mean, what did they expect with a Catholic grade school and high school right behind us?

But as young witless children do, we blindly followed in our parents' big, couldn't-ever-be-wrong footsteps.

Now the Catholic kids in the 'hood didn't accept my younger brother and I either. They'd taunt us and bully us and call us names. And as the school was just one block behind us, they used our fenced-in yard as a short-cut going to and fro school. This drove my parents batty. Me, I was just afraid they'd do something to our senior dog in the backyard. But Rocky never came to any harm from those nasty Catholic kids, even though my parents were still up and arms about their trespassing.

After we'd had some time to adjust to the new "normal," my brother and I decided to fight back. In Winter, we'd throw snowballs at the passing Catholics, hoping to knock some Protestant sense into their heads.  Battles were waged in the 'hood, but the battle was never won or determined. Yes, just like all "holy wars." (It didn't help that one time, someone "farmed" our front yard with their car, leaving several grass worn tire tracks; undoubtedly Catholics were the culprits.)

I was beginning to think my parents didn't like anyone in the neighborhood. The old man and woman next door were very nice, I thought, and told my dad so.

He replied, "Yes, he's nice. But he's Catholic!"

As I started to grow older, I began to question this silly blind hatred. Finally, I asked Dad, "Why do you not like Catholics?"

"Because they worship Mary," he exclaimed loudly, like I was an idiot for not knowing that. "Mercy!" (My parents' favorite exclamation back in the day.)

This didn't jive well with my limited understanding of religion. Having been brought up in various protestant churches (kicking and screaming on Sundays, I might add, hoping--nearly praying--that my parents would oversleep, because it was a colossal and boring drag), it was always my understanding that Jesus' teachings ruled over everything.

And didn't he teach love and acceptance for everyone?  I mean, Catholics believed in Jesus and God, too, right? It made no sense to my (snowball-addled) young, forming mind.

The war continued for years, finally dying out to maturity (or rather other pursuits that took precedence over fighting neighborhood kids, such as girls, cars, and beer). An unlikely peace pact was made between us and the Catholics and while I don't ever recall any true "friendships" being forged, acquaintances were made and waves even shared at times. Yet the older generation kept firm in their grumbling, blinders-on, nonsensical dislike for anyone who didn't buy into their one TRUE religious belief. It was beyond silly.

Years later, after I'd divorced my first wife (who was Catholic, natch; you can just imagine how that went over with my parents), I took it upon myself to educate myself on Catholicism. After all, when we were married in the Catholic Church, I had signed an agreement vowing that I'd raise my daughter as Catholic.

It was very uncomfortable in the Catechumenal class, but the kindly nun who ran it was very welcoming and accommodating to me. And it was extremely eye-opening.

Once the "controversy" surrounding Mary came up, I sat forward, intent on finally understanding the big HooHah.

Apparently, my parents weren't the only ones who griped about the Catholics' "worship" of Mary. Kindly Sister Old Lady patiently explained that many Protestants had this negative view. "We don't worship Mary," she explained. "We hold her in high reverence. She was the mother of Jesus, after all. We think that's kinda a big deal."

After considering asking Kindly Sister Old Lady to phone my parents and explain this to them, I jettisoned the idea. They'd never learn.

But if all combatting participants would just wise up and listen to their more open-minded younger generations (I'm looking at you, too, Republicans and Democrats), I hope I see in my lifetime a move forward as a more united planet. It shouldn't matter what our beliefs (or non-beliefs) are or even if you accept the Bible's interpretation of Jesus; it's the lesson imbued that we should all strive for: acceptance, tolerance and kindness. Kumbaya and all that stuff!

Whew. Off my soapbox...

But while we're on the topic of "wars," there's an entirely different kind of war going on in Kansas one fateful Halloween night; a bitter old woman has declared war on three trick-or-treaters from Hell! It all leads to....murderrrrrr. This is just one of the darkly comical tales of horror in my short story collection Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. Check it out here!

Dr. Quack

From as far back as I can remember, my parents used to drag my brother and I  (kicking and screaming) to a doctor who they swore by all the way up through high school. We'll call him "Dr. Quack" for that's what he was.

He was also a "baby doctor," meaning he specialized in toddlers, or so it seemed (I had this theory verified one day when I was about fifteen. I was stuck next to my mom in the waiting room and to my surprise, in strolled a notorious, chain-smoking, fully-bearded stoner, led by his mother. He groused loudly, "Mom, why do I have to go to a baby doctor?" I never thought of him as so notorious after that.).

Anyway, no matter my ailment, this quack's response was always the same: "Hmmm, I'm going to prescribe Singlets. If you're not better in two weeks, come back in." These "Singlets" never did a damn thing. Dr. Quack clearly had a special deal going on with the Big Pharma manufacturer of these sugar-coated placebos. He made a fortune off of Singlets just through my family alone.

Oh, he had one other thing he kept threatening to do to me. "Hmmm, if he keeps getting stuffed up ears," Dr. Quack said solemnly to my mom, "We'll have to put tubes in his ears."

Whaaaaaaaat? The thought of tubes in my ears terrified me. Not only would it be painful and torturous, but I easily imagined the bullies lined up at school waiting to pummel the unfortunate kid with tubes sticking out of his ears. Barbaric, worse than electro-shock treatment to my grade school stuffed up ears.

One day, Dr. Quack had convinced my mother that my brother and I had allergies. So off to another quack we flew. This guy decided I was allergic to peanut butter (absolutely not true), milk (ditto), and a slew of ordinary things that I constantly indulged in without any problem whatsoever. Regardless, we had to get painful shots each week. And even though we knew it was coming, we tried to block the tragic day out, utilizing a child's ability to believe that what you don't think about won't hurt you. And every Friday, there was a stubborn, tear-filled fit with my mom always winning. I don't even remember getting lollipops.

Finally, once I hit college, I escaped the menace of Dr. Quack, choosing instead to just power through the illness or go to the campus clinic. Until one day I was talking to my friend and things came around to Dr. Quack.

"Dr. Quack!" exclaimed my buddy. "He was a terrible doctor! Everybody knew that he was the guy to go to if you wanted to get out of gym or play football or whatever. I can't believe you guys went to him! HA HA HA HA HA HA..."

So, it seemed that even though I'd put distance between myself and the notorious Dr. Quack, his long shadow still loomed over me with a handful of Singlets and plastic tubing.

Years later, as an adult I went to a nearby walk-in clinic due to bronchitis. I nearly shrieked when I found out the doctor on call was...Dr. Quack Junior! My past still haunted me.

Speaking of haunts, visit beautiful Gannaway, Kansas. A cozy little mining town originating in the '20's, Gannaway offers plentiful jobs and beautiful country living and murders and ghosts and scares and ancient curses...and...and...wait! Okay, maybe you shouldn't visit Gannaway. Instead, why not read about it in my historical ghost tale Ghosts of Gannaway, the perfect book to cozy up to on these cold winter nights.

The Agony of Marching Band

I despised marching band. I know not many people share my sentiment on that and everyone I ever meet has nothing but good, jolly memories of their tenure in high school marching band.

Not me. It was hell on earth. (Then again, I hated all of high school, so what do I know?)

Even before my freshman year started, we had to get up early every morning and go to band practice. But it was all outside and more like football than anything music-related (I was actually in football in junior high for three days...but that's a story for another time.).

On the field, in the blistering heat of the last days of summer, we were forced to learn how to march (like good little soldiers), and suffered drill after drill until we got it right. Me? Apparently, I wasn't ever a good marcher, because the cruel dictator band teacher had all of these teacher's pet band seniors tap you on the shoulder when they thought you were good enough to go rest. Invariably, I was always the last one on the field, marching to my own beat while the "band bullies" laughed at my efforts. (Overweight and not very graceful at that point, I was an easy target).

Let's back up a second... I hear some of you saying "band bullies? There are no such thing! Everyone knows that the kids in band were all geeks!"

True enough. But even band geeks had their hierarchal system where they would try to demean and beat down those they found even lower than them in the high school picking order. And bullying always runs down hill. Bullies originate from being bullied themselves. And I was the band geek's target. Shows you how much I ranked in high school! The meaner ones called me names, openly humiliated me, threatened me with violence (there was a particularly evil, pimply-faced drummer), while most just chose to ignore me.

But that wasn't even the worst part of band. During junior high, I was a relatively decent alto saxophone player. And it was okay. I didn't have to march and there, everyone in band seemed on a pretty even keel. But once the hallowed hellish halls of high school tried to suck me into its vast black hole of despair, marching made me truly despise band.

When the weather turned cold, there we were out on the fields every morning at 6:00 am, tromping through rain, mud, and snow. By the time I got off the field and into my first class, I'd be either freezing from being rain-soaked or from sweat or both. Probably not a pretty sight nor smell.

And the dictator who taught the class absolutely hated me. Why? Because I wasn't the "golden boy" my older brother was who he had loved when he was a "marching band star." The teacher even resorted to insulting me and calling me names as well. (Okay, sure, I missed the bus ride the band took one weekend for an out-of-town game and that pissed him off, but I honestly had the departure time off by one hour. An honest mistake....or WAS it?)

The following Monday the teacher confronted me (in front of the entire class, natch). There he humiliated me and ordered me to write a fifty page paper on a classical composer. Being the apathetic student I was back then, I didn't comply and flunked the class.

My dad was appalled. Having played overseas in an army band (saxophonist extraordinaire, of course), he just couldn't understand how in the world I could flunk band.

Finally, he took pity on me and let me drop it (under the pretense that my other grades would improve. They didn't, not for another year when I learned I was about to flunk out if I didn't turn my act around).

So let this be a cautionary tale to you, boys and girls! Stay far, far, FAR away from marching band. Don't give in to the terrorism of the band geek toughs! If you're a geek (who will eventually rule the world, you just have to survive high school), then get into theatre. There, if you're a straight guy (so a friend told me), you won't have ANY competition for the theatre girls.

Speaking of high school hell, check out my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy. It's a supernatural, murder mystery, suspense, horror, comedy, romance, topical issues series that is often loosely autobiographical (excluding the serial killers and witchcraft elements, natch). You can find all the madness and fun here!

"I've Been Smiling For Four Hours"

Recently, my wife came back from working at a Covid vaccination clinic. 

As soon as she came in the door, she said quietly, "I've been smiling for four hours. I need to be alone."

Yow! Holy ghost of Marlene Dietrich!

But I definitely empathized with her, for I too, suffer from a terrible malady: smilitess.

What is smilitess, I feel you wondering. It's the disease of not being able to smile on cue. (Okay, I made it up, but it doesn't make it any less real.)

Ever since childhood, I've never been able to produce a smile on command. It's no wonder in my year book photos, I always looked pained and constipated. Part of it was my unwillingness to show my teeth. I'm not really sure why, but I remember being self-conscious about them.

Matters were only made worse when the photographer attempted humor.

"Okay, say 'cheese.'"

Nothing.

"Well, let's forget the cheese...say 'grillled cheese sammitch!'"

Again, not funny. But I could tell we were going to be there all day if I didn't attempt to crack a smile. 

Later, my parents said, "Mercy! You call that a smile? You look like you're about to cry! Open your mouth!"

This problem has plagued me all my life. The only time I feel an unforced smile is when someone makes me laugh, no easy task.

Several years ago, I worked a booth at a horror convention in Washington pimping my books. By the end of the first day, I felt a TMJ headache forming in my jaw from the constrictions of fake smiling for every potential customer. Hardly worth the effort. I looked like the Joker. Or worse, one of the victims in last year's horror film, Smile.

Picture time is always a drag for me. I hated it as a kid (mainly because I couldn't wait to get out of my lime green leisure suit on Sundays, but there was also the smiling thing.). And I still dread on holidays, whenever someone whips out their phones and starts directing us like we're on the set of Heaven's Gate or whatever.

So beware. The next time someone says to me, "smile for the camera," I think I'm in my full right as a tax-payer to protect myself and smash the phone.

Speaking of smashing things, you'll find a heartwarming tale of bigfoot eviscerating campers and destroying a camp in my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. Don't worry...it's a love story! That's just one of the many macabre delights awaiting you in the book. So with Halloween approaching, get it here!

The Two Types of Gym Coaches

You know, I still have nightmares about being back in Junior High gym class. (This along with forgetting about a college class until the last day and walking in bare feet into the world's filthiest bathroom are my other reoccurring dreams from Hell.)

It was back in Junior High that I discovered that gym "teachers" were sadists. We had two and they alternated dishing out torture. Of course being overweight made me an even larger target (I suppose the pun is intended. Sigh.). 

But these two guys were beasts. For any given reason, they enjoyed making us run around in endless circles in what they gleefully called "the world's smallest indoor track." When one of us didn't chime right up for roll call it was push-ups and laps. And while we sweated and panted and gasped for dear life, they stood on the side giggling and grinning like sadistic mad men.

It didn't stop there. They loved pitting us tiny and meek and weak seventh graders ("sevvies" as we were disdainfully referred to) against the ginormous ninth graders (who to me looked like animals; some of them had beards, for God's sake! in the dastardly exercise in sadism called "dodge ball." It didn't take me long to figure out how to get out of the game with very few injuries; when an errant ball flew over my head, I'd reach up and "accidentally" touch it. Then I'd yell, "I'm out, coach!" I pity my fellow soldiers-in-arms who never learned this valuable survival technique.

The worst thing these two monsters had us do was the outdoor twenty minute run. In blistering heat. For crying out loud, I couldn't go five minutes without stopping to catch my breath. And they'd get pissed at those of us who walked (while stepping around those students hurling or laying in the grass holding their sides in pain).

Which led to a visit to their office because I walked at least half of the course. Now, I knew what went on in their office. They actually had a paddle and whupped boys who they considered "bad" on the arse.  Don't know how they got away with this back in the seventies, but they did it all the time. 

Coach Supple (we'll call him that, because...well, that was his name) had taken his usual stance, leaning over the shower stall wall and ogling all of the boys (I know, right?), when he shouted, "West! In our office. NOW!"

I said, "Ummmm...can I get dressed?"

"No! I gave you a command! Get in there now!"

Humiliated, embarrassed, dripping wet and starkers naked, I slapped feet into their office of doom, cupping my junk while standing in front of the two grinning mad men. Then they commenced to break me down psychologically by calling me names and screaming at me. 

I very much wanted to avoid the paddle of pain, particularly as I didn't even have on shorts to protect my arse, so I broke into tears, hoping to tug at their heart strings. Foolish me, I should've know they didn't have any. But my ploy worked, they were disgusted by me, threw a towel my way, and told me "clean yourself up and get out of here!"

Fun!

And that's why I avoided my one year of mandatory gym in high school until my senior year. Big mistake as I was the only senior in the class. But I put it off for two years because I really didn't want to suffer through more sadistic gym teachers.

It was tough and due to all of the exercise, I managed to drop one hundred pounds for the first time. And surprise of all surprises, this gym teacher was a nice guy.

For instance, when I aced a written test about the rules of sports, he called me out by name to brag me up. Even better was the day we had to run and jump outdoor hurdles. Now, I don't jump. Not very graceful, I envisioned myself tripping over every one and plummeting to the concrete, tearing my knees open and bleeding a bloody river. All to the lovely sound of humiliating freshmen laughter.

But to my astonishment, Coach Geiss (again, his real name. Hey, I don't mind calling out the good and bad guys in this post!) considered me when it came to my turn. After a minute, he said, "West, you look a little pale. Why don't you go lay down on the bench in the locker room."

Incredibly grateful, I couldn't help but smile as I pretended to be feeling sick and walked past the coach. Who gave me a quick pat on the back. He may as well have winked at me, too.

So, eat it, Coaches Corder and Supple, you mean, sadistic, violent jack-asses who appeared to enjoy watching boys shower! Coach Geiss showed how to do it with grace and humanity.

Whew. Glad to get that off my chest.

While I've got sadism on the brain, meet Leon Garber, protagonist of my darkly comic thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated. Leon's a successful accountant, handsome, appears to have it all. He's also a serial killer. But hang on! He's the good guy! Some of the other serial killers he comes across...not so much, giving my junior high gym coaches a run for their sadistic money. Heads are chopped, dropped and swapped in the first book, Secret Society, and that's just the beginning! Check 'em out here!