Datesasters

Between my two marriages I went on quite a few dates that I refer to as "datesasters." Everyone's had 'em, an important part of education. (Now you youngsters must keep in mind that this was before online dating services became a thing, so we had to do it the old-fashioned way: through blind luck and lotsa courage.)

I'm still trying to forget one of my worst datesasters. It started off at the Kansas City Spirit Festival (an outdoor musical event) nicely enough. I can't remember who the band was (lotsa beers flowed), but my friends and I were sitting in the grass and before you know it I was dancing with a pretty girl (or so I thought at the time...remember, lots of beer). By the end of the show, I asked for her phone number and she gave it to me.

I waited the requisite three to five day period (you never want to appear too "hungry," although at the time I was practically starving)  and then called her. Thankfully her answering machine picked up and I left a detailed message and my phone number, thus putting the onus on her and sparing myself any possible one-on-one humiliation. Which as it turned out would've been preferred to our upcoming two dates. (My male work peer overheard me and said that was a wussy way out, to leave a number on her answering machine. Easy for him to say as he was married.)

She called back. The date was set! I told her I'd pick her up but she said she'd come by my house. (Warning sign number one. What was she hiding, I wondered.)

As I waited for her to come by, I couldn't help but wonder what she truly looked like without my beer-colored goggles. Color me shocked. At my door was a beautiful young Asian woman wearing nice clothes and cool high-top tennis shoes. Bonus points: she had giant 90's hair! (I've had several dates before where I met the women at bars, then set up a future date and when I saw them, I wanted out. Immediately. Guys, don't set up dates at bars when you're wearing those beer-colored goggles!)

But this time I was extremely pleased. I took her to a Cajun restaurant where all the men were sneaking looks at her while trying not to let their own wives/dates catch them. I felt like king of the world (eat it Dicaprio!) and wanted to show her off everywhere I could.

After a movie (Trainspotting at an art-house theatre, natch) which we both enjoyed, I took her home where I tried to kiss her. She backed off and said, "I never kiss on the first date." But then she was anxious to go on a second date.

And that's when it all went careening down to hell like a runaway bus driven by a blind man on an ice-covered hill.

When she showed up that next Saturday, the makeup was minimal, the clothes sorta "comfy" looking, and the Giant 90's hair was nowhere to be found. Don't get me wrong, she still looked pretty, but by the lack of effort she put into it this time, I could sense the honeymoon was already nearly over. (I know this sorta sounds sexist, ladies, but that's how we young guys thought in yesteryear).

Knowing that she liked live music, I decided to take her down to the River Market where there was a Zydeco Music Festival.

She says, "What's Zydeco?"

I explained it to her as best I could. "Hmmm," she said. "Sounds interesting."

On the way downtown, out of nowhere she suddenly blurts out, "I'm interested to see how sexually compatible we are."

YOW! I nearly swerved into another car. Was this the same girl who didn't kiss on the first date?  But once I got over my initial shock, I thought things had suddenly picked up.

And I was wrong. Once I bought tickets, drinks, and food, she said, "I hate this music. Can we go?"

"Um...sure." A mental image of the big bucks I'd just dropped flew away in seconds. We couldn't have been there for longer than ten minutes.

She said, "Let's go back to your house and watch a movie."

"Okay!" I floored the pedal and made it home in record time. She'd chosen La Femme Nikita (which I'd already seen, but I was game) and we piled onto the sofa.

Before I pushed "play," she turns to me and says, "I bet you're a Republican, aren't you?" in the most derisive of manner.

Loud warning bells went off. I heard a horrendous "AOOOGAH!" sound in my mind. And somewhere a cartoon trombone went "Wah, wah, wah, wahhhhhhhh."

I wasn't sure how to respond to her sudden judginess. As I tried to keep my temper in check, I said, "No, no I'm not. I'm very much a liberal Democrat. Why would you even assume that?"

I forgot her answer, but it didn't matter. I'd begun the check-out process. Check-out was completed with her next sudden judgy out-of-the-blue statement: "I think you're just looking for a new mother for your daughter."

That really blew my mind. "No, I'm not. She already has a mother."

But the damage had been done. I left her there to watch the movie alone while I tended to more pleasing things like doing the dishes and taking out the trash and cleaning the toilet.

At the end of the movie, I ushered her to the door. Where she lingered for an awkward twenty or so minutes, obviously wanting to see what would happen next. Clearly, in addition to being judgy, she was delusional. In what possible world, could anyone have viewed this as a good, successful date?

I opened the door and said, "Okay. Bye."

So the datesaster process began anew once again. (Now that I think of it, this datesaster wasn't nearly as bad as some upcoming ones I suffered through. But that's a post for another day!)

The only guy who had a worse dating profile than me has clearly got to be Shawn Biltmore. On the surface, things don't look so bad as he has two attractive women interested in him at the same time. But could one of them possibly be a murderous, flesh-rending and gnawing werewolf? Find out in my darkly comical horror satire, Corporate Wolf, available here.

Drunk Raccoon!

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

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

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

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

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

Or did Drunk Raccoon do it on a dare?

"I'm bored, Hank."

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Secret Message of Dogs

Recently, we've encountered a problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suffering Side Effects!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monster Cat On The Loose!

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

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

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

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

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

Uh-oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm wondering if I should call 911.

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

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

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

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

Ooooooh, That Smell!

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

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

"Good God!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Con is On!

Joe-Bob Briggs pretending to read one of my books!

The seal has finally been broken! I pedaled books at my very first convention, Scares That Care, in beautiful Williamsburg, Virginia, a couple of weekends ago. Huzzah! Play those celestial trumpets and end with a comedically sad wah-wah-wah-wahhhhhh trombone! I managed to sell a box of books and it only cost about $3,000 to get there!

Okay, it's a slight exaggeration. And it just so happens my wife had business to take care of on the East Coast as well, so we turned it into a "working vacation."

Why is this a big deal, you ask? Because everyone knows all writers are ridiculously introverted and given the choice, I'd much rather hunker down with Me, Myself and I. I've never been good at selling myself so it was a challenge. And now I'm ready for more.

Under the  tutelage of the maestro of the con, Russell James (read his books already! Great writer and I've supplied a handy-dandy link), I learned much.

What did I learn? Pay attention as class is about to begin...

A) People watching at conventions is awesome. Check out my photos.

What's a "Teatrix?" I dunno and was too afraid to ask!

B) I learned quickly how to spot readers from non-readers. When people shook their heads disparagingly and/or rolled their eyes when they spotted a table full of books, that was a huge, honkin' clue that my sales pitch would be wasted. Also, full families never--I repeat, NEVER--stopped to look at books.

Hey, it's Father Evil, truly terrifying in his malevolence.

C) Some people just wanna talk. It doesn't matter about what as long as it's not about my books.

D) Several Big-Name authors are very cool; others...not so much.

Me and my new BFFF Jonathan Maberry (one of the cool ones!).

E) When potential customers say "I'll probably be back," generally you never see them again. (I'd never worked so hard to make a sale as I did on the last day when a couple grabbed my book, stood there and read several pages, laughed appropriately, deliberated, hemmed and hawed, then vanished into a black hole. I put their photos on a milk carton. I still want that sale.)

He's havin' a yabba-dabba-doo time.

F) Now I know how it feels to be the last one asked to dance.

G) Standing for eight hours on end is tough, particularly after having been booted from the hospital two days prior. But at least I had an appropriately gruesome looking cut and multi-colored eye to sport at a horror convention.

Famed horror movie host Count Gore De Vol scaring up interest.

H) The "Celebrity Room" was kinda creepy and a little sad; there wasn't a whole lotta joy to be had as you navigated a sea of handlers. Just ask poor Wilford Brimley sitting at the back wall. I never did get a chance to chat with him about oatmeal. (And the awful, sickly green walls were...sorta oppressive and demoralizing.) Feeling sorry for awesome character actor Sid Haig (and more than a little afraid of him), I gave him a wave and knowing nod to which he returned.

The llama suit looks kinda comfy except for the massive head-gear (and I don't even wanna know about going to the bathroom).

I) After a while, I started playing with my sales patter. I had nothing to lose and didn't want to lug home one hundred pounds of books (yes, I was naively over-zealous). "Winnah, winnah, book winnah!" and "We got thrills, chills, and blood spills! Heads are chopped, dropped and swapped!" Anything to keep it entertaining for three days.

J) The last day? Yawwwwn. Everyone was broke and they let us know about it.

I'm sure I felt pretty similar to this tortured Hellraiser guy on Sunday.

There was much to be learned. And as Russell James had stated in his excellent three-part article on doing conventions, you're not there to get rich. Because you won't get rich unless you're Stevie King. Nope, you're there for the love of books, writing, and meeting the fans. I hope I made some new ones and I can't wait to do another con.

Speaking of cons, something's not quite right at Lerner, Incorporated, a huge billion dollar corporation dedicated to... well, what exactly is it dedicated to? Could it have something to do with...WEREWOLVES? Read Corporate Wolf and find out!

Hospital of Horrors!

Hey, it's a new week and what does that mean for me here at Tornado Alley? Why, another new medical crisis, of course!

Except for when it's not. As I kept explaining to all of the medical experts who wanted to study and dissect me, "Dammit, sometimes a fall is just a fall!"

I see a little background is needed. Couple Sundays ago, my full bladder woke me up at 5:30 A.M., business as usual. Except I got up too fast, became dizzy.

Calamity occurred. Lots of high-speed thuds, bangs, and cracks ensued as I renovated the bedroom in a hurry. As a last minute Hail Mary before I fell, I snatched onto a book-rack, pulled it down on top of me, and gashed my head open on the cedar chest at the end of the bed. Blood flowed. We're talking George Romero gushers. On the floor, I sat up, felt the blood pouring from above my eye. My wife rushed to the rescue.

Not one for drama (although my wife would beg to differ), I jumped up, showed her how okay-fine-and-dandy I was. 

Um, except not, I suppose. The next thing I know I'm waking up on the bathroom floor and my wife's on the phone calling 911.

I say, "Hey, that's not necessary. I'm fine."

She tells me to stay put and I fight her on it, stupid me. I tell her I need to go to the bathroom.

She says, "Yeah, no. You've already gone."

Consciousness swims back in. So does a gross liquid warmth in my boxers. "Oh," I say.

Along with the first responders, I find out exactly what happened. Apparently, I made it as far as the bathroom, passed out again, fell to the floor, and started "gurgling." Then I went dead silent for 90 seconds. My wife thought I had a seizure.

But I was intent on showing the cops, medics and my wife I was okay. Just a little wet, humiliated and bloody. When asked who our president was, I scoffed (perhaps a little too long as I don't even like mentioning the Orange Dorito's name), then gave the appropriate answer. Regardless, the medic wanted me to go to the ER.

My wife decided to drive me as a luxury cruise in an ambulance was beyond our budget.

Alright, I've never lied to you guys (exaggerate is a different beast), so it's truth time. Sunday night, I had beers. Too many. So it didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out what had happened.

But bring on the brain surgeons the hospital did! Along with every type of medical doctor, specialist, intern, psychologist, chaplain, and janitor they could find. I went through tests of all sorts. I was poked, prodded, probed, jabbed, jolted, shocked, studied, stared at, talked about, forgotten when it came to meal times, and bored outta my mind.

I kept explaining to everybody, "I drank too much, I'd just restarted the low-carb diet, my blood pressure medicine makes me dizzy, and I got up too fast! Let me outta here!"

No one would listen. My nurse--who I fondly look on now as a classic "frienemy"--was younger than a pesky hang-nail  and probably weighed about 60 pounds, half of that being her various piercings. We battled round and round and round. I had my jeans and shoes on from day one, ready to blow the joint. She kept telling me I wasn't going anywhere yet (even though I think she'd rather I had skedaddled). 

After a day-and-a-half of horrific boredom (I watched about every movie the hospital offered on TV, down to my very last pick, Crazy Rich Asians, a romantic comedy, for Gawd's sake!), the results finally came in. Everyone's fanciest guess was my "seizure" was delayed trauma from the blow to my head. Nurse Ratched, Jr. told me, "You know, I think you just fell."

Smartest person in the place.

Speaking of horror in the most mundane environment, check out my new thriller, Corporate Wolf. You'll believe werewolves WORK among us! I'm not kidding. Really. No lie. It's a friggin' true story.