The Worst City Planner in the Country

After formulating a highly scientific study on every city in the country (or at least a couple near me that I drive through), there's a clear-cut winner in the worst city planner category.

Without further ado, I give you...Roeland Park! Ta-dahhhhh!

Now, don't get me wrong, Roeland Park has its charms. It's a quaint little suburb nestled right into the middle of the Kansas City metropolitan area, with a lovely variance in neighborhoods, houses and yards.

And truth be told, I hold a personal grudge. For you see, Roeland Park is just one block over from where we live and the pampered, sissy Roeland Parkers actually are able to rake their leaves to the curb and the city picks 'em up. Constantly, the Roeland Parkers drive by, taunting, smirking, and honking as we break our backs picking up leaves and stuffing 'em into eco-friendly and awkward to use paper bags.

Jerks.

But I digress.

The City Planner of Roeland Park is either a mad man or is laughing all the way to the bank.

Case in point: Roeland Park used to be a nice little place with small mom and pop stores lining a couple of streets that were easy to drive through to get from point A to point B. Not any longer. Mr. Big Britches City Planner Man decided to discard these streets and stores and plotz a huge, honking eyesore of a Walmart into the middle of town. Now to reach one of the nearest main streets, one has to drive through the Walmart parking lot, while avoiding kazillions of Walmart shoppers (20 points for families!). It simply can't be avoided.

 Also, Mr. I'm So Crazy, I'm Gonna Jack Up This City Planner Guy decided it'd be really purty to put an old-fashioned, partial brick street at the entrance-way to a strip mall. Sure, it's purty. For six months. But after every six months or so, the bricks have to be replaced because they can't stand up beneath the weight of the traffic!

That same entrance-way should be nick-named "Death Drive." There's no light or signage before you're thrust out onto a major thoroughfare. If you're unfamiliar with the quirks of Roeland Park, you're about to be T-boned!

Don't get me going on the art. Check out this statue...

The holy hell??? What is it, some kinda terrifying monster looking to steal kids away from their beds in the middle of the night?

Also, I think Freddy Krueger did the sculptures for the local skate park. They're all gone now, which makes me think the Angry Mom Society must've had their say. But there were sculptures of a dismembered foot on a skateboard along with various other body parts, a serial killer's dream park. I can no longer find any evidence of these monstrosities other than this creepy photo of a killer's mask on a skate board...

Then there's the lovely, billion dollar mural on 47th street. Personally, I like it. But it's dropped into the crazy, winding, deadly 47th street where people like to pretend they're in the Indy 500 and careen down it at breakneck speeds. Who has time to look at it? It's hard enough trying to stay alive (pedestrian or driver) along this snake-like road.

Then there was the time Mr. Hot-Shot, I'll Show You Who's Boss City Planner looked at everyone's homes and dropped mandatory notices that about 95% of the homes had to be painted or else you'd be subject to fines. Some kinda eye-in-the-sky beautification project or something. The problem is, these guys were all about quantity over quality and dinged brick houses and homes with siding!

These are just a few of my gripes with Roeland Park's city planner. (But, really, I think it boils down to my anger that we still have to bag leaves. If our city ever opts for the curbside pick-up, all will be forgiven, Roeland Park!)

While I'm kavetching over plans, it seems some plans are just doomed from the start. Tex McKenna, suburban Kansas high school student, has the simplest of plans. He just wants to survive the trauma of high school, what with its bullies and sadistic gym teachers and other issues. Yet when he finds out he's a witch and there's a serial killer stalking the bullies of his high school, Tex has to make some readjustments to his plans (and that's putting it mildly!). See what all the fuss is about (at least in my head) and check out Tex the Witch Boy.

It's with a heavy heart that I write this...

Okay, I don't want to get all verklempt, but...

Well, here... You know what they say about a picture being worth a thousand words. Please watch this as it will explain all.

BOOM! You've been RickRolled!

Aha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, haaaaaaa! Whew. Had you going there for a minute, right? But, I'm serious. It's with a very heavy heart that I relay this message: how in the hell did I never hear about RickRolling until now?

Last Saturday, my wife and I were sitting out on the deck, enjoying the brisk morning breeze. Suddenly, I found myself humming the inane song, "Never Gonna Give You Up." (Full disclosure before you all think less of me: I've never liked the stupid song, don't even know the words, never owned the CD, cassette, or eight-track tape {look it up, kids}, and couldn't even tell you who sang it. I just know it sucked.)

My wife turns to me and says, "Why in the hell are you humming THAT song?"

I shrugged and said, "Dunno, it just popped into my mind."

"Well, you're the one who told me what 'RickRoll' was."

Now it's my turn to stare at her like she's wearing the crazy pants. "What're you talking about?"

"Oh, that stupid RickRoll prank that was going around. You explained it to me."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't. How could I explain it to you if I don't even know what it is?"

"You explained it to me."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I..."

(Cut to later that same day):

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you..."

Anyway, I'll forego the rest of that conversation. Contrary to what my wife told me, I didn't know what RickRolling was, so I hit up Madame Google.

Around 2007, some brilliant pranksters came up with the idea to hide Rick Astley's bonafide, bone-headed video hit, "Never Gonna Give You Up" in a link purporting to be on topic with what was being discussed on message boards, hence "RickRolling."

Than it RickRolled into an avalanche. Students turned in exam papers on RickRolling. Protestors RickRolled scientologists with a barrage of boomboxes blasting the song. And my personal favorite: the Foo Fighters RickRolled over members of the heinous Westboro Baptist Church.

Wow. True history and I slept through it. Now, some of you may be saying, "Stuart, why are you wasting your time talking about RickRolling when we could be discussing the Mar-a-lago raid for the kazillionth time?"  Well, Mr. Smarty-Pants, A) Clearly you're a newbie to my blog. Here at Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, I thrive on every day stupidity; and B) Isn't everyone just about burned out on All Trump "News," All the Damn Time?

My question is...how in the world did I miss this?

Apparently, I was living under a rock in 2007. SO I'm gonna bring RickRolling back. Big time.  And I urge you to do the same. It's your duty as a patriot.

Get going, start your Rick and Rolling!

Speaking of all things amusing, have you read my book....well, here check it out!

 

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaa! Gotcha!

But, seriously, if you're looking for sophisticated humor and witty dialogue and poignant storytelling, do check out my Zach and Zora series, available right here and right now! 

 

Oh no, ho, ho, ho, haaaaa, heeeee, ha, ha, haaaaaaaa! Can't believe you fell for it again! Whew! Tee hee.

Okay, I've got it out of my system. Besides, everyone knows that my Zach and Zora books are ANYTHING but sophisticated, witty and poignant! Psych! But if you're still interested, you can find them here.  

Snicker, snicker, snicker, ha, ha, haaaaaaaaaa.... 

Brotherton...A Quinn Martin Production!

"All men are brothers. But not all brothers are men. This fall on CBS...Brotherton! A Quinn Martin Production."

Okay, hang on, let me back up a bit...

Meet Gary Huggins, local Kansas City filmmaker. I've had the pleasure of viewing Gary's many years in the making black comedy, Kick Me. Definitely seek it out when it's made available. 

But I digress. I met Gary years ago when he called me up regarding an article I wrote for a film magazine about fun, dumb, bad movies as he worked at the local art house theater in my neighborhood. The theater's long-gone but our friendship isn't (although diminished because of that pesky old pandemic). But there I go digressing again.

Gary and I had similarly geeky interests growing up, such as getting excited about the new TV seasons. We've both pretty much put network TV behind us as the crap that it is, but we're somewhat experts on awful television shows and movies. And we both have a lot of spare time on our hands.

Which finally brings us to "Brotherton," our imaginary, perfect television show. It started out innocently enough when I texted Gary the burning question, "Were Raymond Burr and William Conrad the same person?"

He texted back, "No, same bodies, different people."

After giving it a little thought, I suggested they could play twin brother detectives in a small town and Shelley Winters would be the (rather large) wedge driven between them.

The premise was taken one step further. In Hollywood, the hackmeisters would call this a "high concept." Our unholy high concept was that actors who looked alike would play brothers, whereas brothers who are actors would not. 

Ta-dahhhhhh! We have what it takes to make it big in Hollywood!

Brotherton was born and we took off from there: Broderick Crawford as Burr and Conrad's dad; Junior Samples as the evil mastermind of a cartel who killed their mother; Orson Welles as the mysterious Mr. Biggerstaff who'd always vanish in a whiff of magician's smoke; Brian Dennehy and Charles Durning as twin competing skip tracers; narration by Jerry Reed; Gary Busey as the mayor; we decided that all the brothers are just sort of a CBS coincidence and would run that disclaimer at the top; Lawrence Tierney and Robert Tessier as twin priests (the nice, straight kind, of course); Pia Zadora as the wisecracking Mexican maid played by Stacy Keach (this takes some explanation: when Gary worked at the library in the movie section, a customer rented "Butterfly," the notorious Zadora/Keach sleaze epic. Every time the customer would return, he'd eye the cover with Zadora's pic on it and go "Mmmm, Stacy Keach." Gary never bothered to correct him); Eli Wallach, E.G. Marshall and Martin Balsam as triplet fry cooks; James Farentino, Anthony Franciosa, and James Franciscus as triplet gynecologists; real life twin brothers Conrad and Bonar (yes he really exists but his parents must've hated him by giving him that name!) Bain as feuding, unrelated next door neighbors married to the also unrelated Landers sisters; the Hagar twins as unrelated door to door salesmen; Pink Lady and Jeff as triplet jugglers...

Whew. Pretty epic, yeah?

Here's my favorite that Gary suggested: Gene Rayburn and Jack Palance as thawed neanderthal brothers who do odd jobs for rocks. Their business card says "GRUNT." I smelled a spin-off here.

And we kept going nuttier: Ed Asner and Vic Tayback as kooky cosmonauts whose capsule lands in a duck pond and now they have to pretend to be Mexican. Don't ask us why, because we haven't got that far into production yet.

And still going: The Hudson Brothers comprise the unrelated police force; Dom Deluise and James Coco play twin badass mafia collectors; Jack Lord and Robert Conrad are FBI brothers chasing the cosmonauts but unwittingly hire them to shingle their roof while the neanderthal brothers supply the foundation work by piling rocks; David Keith and Keith David are identical twin inventors who accidentally does the town's water supply with Viagra; Imogene Coca, Jo Ann Worley and Alice Ghostley as the most expensive hookers in town; Moms Mabley and Redd Fox in drag could play the twin madams with hearts of gold in a "very special episode"; Mel Torme and Barney Rubble are twin big game hunters who open a donut and taxidermy cafeteria; Dolph Sweet, Brian Dennehy, Kenneth McMillan, and Charles Durning are door to door quadruplet masseuses; Elizabeth Taylor and Divine as twin hairdressers; and it goes on and on and on.

I'll spare you the less savory suggestions.

Man, talk about a golden age of television!

Brotherton...a Quinn Martin Production!

Speaking of high quality entertainment, you won't find it in Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, the first in my continuing Zach and Zora comical mystery tales. But if you're looking for lotsa dumb yuks, you've come to the right place! 

Ladders and Ironing Boards and Maps...Oh My!

I don't know what the deal is. Really, I don't. But, I constantly have trouble trying to open and/or close ladders, ironing boards, and maps. Call it my Triad of Tyranny, but trying to put these three items back away in storage positions completely flummoxes me every time. 

They're much worse than trying to solve a kazillion piece puzzle. (By the way, I once asked my wife why she likes to do puzzles. "It's relaxing," she says. Huh. Since when is extreme aggravation relaxing? Worse, after you've slaved over them for weeks, you immediately destroy the results! I say, it's a far, far, mega-far step away from relaxation. But there I go again, digressing like the wind...)

Putting away ladders is definitely not relaxing. It's anti-relaxing. The other day, my wife left a huge and tall, extended ladder in the backyard, propped up against a tree. "Hey, would you put the ladder away?" she asked me.

"Sure." I mean, how hard could it be, I thought. Right?

Turns out plenty. I needed four hands. You have to steady it, there goes two hands. Then you need to unclasp the latch (hello, third hand!) to bring it down one lousy rung at a time. If you're lucky. (Of course your fourth hand is busy darting back and forth, trying not to get the bejeezus pinched out of it). It's a clear-cut case of a true four- hander. And that's assuming you can figure out how to work the nonsensical clasp gadget and annoying ropes that dangle in your face like annoying gnats.

Defeated, I went inside.

"Did you get the ladder put away," my wife calls out.

"No," I say morosely, arms folded and sinking into the sofa,  sulking that a stupid ladder defeated me.

Then there's the curious case of ironing boards. First off, it's gotta be said, my ironing skills suck. For whatever reason, it takes me twice as long to iron an item than it does my wife. By the time I carefully iron one quarter of my shirt, then flip it over to iron the other side, the wrinkles sneak back in on the previously ironed portion. Arghh! Talk about an exercise in frustration. Then I've also been known to melt my shirts. I didn't even know such a thing was possible!

"You're melting your shirt!" In a hotel room, my wife shoved me out of the way and assumed emergency position at the board, trying to resuscitate my apparel. "Let me do it!" 

"Good!" Again, I'm left in a defeated, emasculated manner. "Wish you woulda done it in the first place."

"Here," she thrusts the shirt toward me. "Put the board away."

Okay, I thought, time for me to pull my weight, piece back together a little bit of my frail, shattered male ego. But then I find out, it's not so easy, another example of why humans should have three hands. The latch beneath it never works for me. I push, pull, wiggle, jab, smack, curse at it, and the stubborn legs still won't fold up like a good ladder. By the time my wife comes out of the bathroom, I've got the dumb ladder upside down on the bed, wrestling it like an alligator.

Show-off that she is, natch, my wife collapses it with a finger and nary a curse word.

Don't even get me going on roadmaps. It's impossible to fold them back the same way twice. In fact, they seem to grow in thickness like a wet sponge every time I attempt to put them right again, too big to slip into the allocated glove box spot. Usually, I end up cramming a big, fat ham sandwich of paper back into the box, hoping my wife doesn't see my map killing spree.

Where do people learn these ladder and ironing board and map-folding skills? Clearly, I was playing hooky at school on those days. Or something. And my parents never taught me about the tricky intricacies of putting said items away, I guess assuming it was common sense. Perhaps women intuitively know how to handle these things? Maybe born with more common sense than men? But that doesn't make sense as more men know how to whip ladders into shape than women (at least from what I've witnessed, so don't go casting sexist stones at me!).

Or...maybe it's just me?

Nahhhhhhh. Uh-uh. No way. Couldn't be. It is to laugh! Ha! "Me." Sheesh... What was I thinking?

While we're talking about men getting confused over things, consider poor Zach, a "male entertainment dancer (NEVER a stripper)," who seems to be puzzled over everything in life, except for taking his clothes off for pay. Imagine his befuddlement when he wakes up with no memory of the night before, no clothes, and a dead man next to him in a strange bed. It's time to involve his sister, the long-suffering, usually pregnant, highly competent, yet incredibly irritable sleuth, Zora, to save his hide (and prove to everyone he's not gay; he has a rep with the ladies to maintain, natch). It's just the start of the non-stop wackiness, mystery and murderrrrrr that unravels in Bad Day in a Banana Hammock (the first in a series of Zach and Zora comedy mysteries). Zach's very bad, no good day can be discovered here!

The Best Time to Diet

When is the best time to diet during the year?

NEVER!

Look, I'm sorry if I bait and switched you with the lead-in, but quite simply, the best time of the year to diet is never. This answer has been formulated using the best, most up-to-date scientific data and analysis formulation.

Let's take the seasons one by one, shall we? We'll start with Summer, since that's what we're currently suffering.

Summer is a time for outdoor fun in the sun. Along with that fun in the sun comes...what? That's right...barbeque! Summer's when you go nuts at the store, fire up the grill and toss on all sorts of fattening, red-blooded, testosterone-driven, artery heartening meats! Yeah! Okay, okay, there's always some guy who brings a healthy chopped salad to these gatherings, but never mind him. Just set him away from the meat-eaters, pat his head, and chow down. And what would fun in the sun be without beer? Of course, I'm not talking about "a" beer, either. What are we, a buncha amateurs? So...Summer's disqualified from dieting.

Leading us into Fall. The leaves turn and drop. So does the temperature. And moods. We move inside, taking the edge off the chill in the air. Wait...chill...hmm, what does that remind me of? Chill, chill, chill...Hot damn, it's chili season! As soon as that first chilly weekend hits, I dash to the store for a huge heaping of chili fixings! And you gotta have cornbread with that chili or it just wouldn't be right. Fall is also a time for everything pumpkin, of course: pie and more pie. Looks like Fall's out from the dieting plan.

Now, before we proceed with the final two seasons, you might think this post is purely food based. Au contraire! What do you need to do in addition to dieting to lose weight? Ugh...exercise. Which brings me to what I call, The Exercise Quandary. Who needs to exercise the most? Fat people like me, natch. The problem is, with my weight gain, my back and knees hurt. I can't punish that treadmill like I used to. Whereas I used to be able to knock out four miles daily on the dreaded treadmill, now I'm lucky if I can eke out one to two. Then my knees and back give out. With bad knees, that deposits me back onto the sofa. And what does one do on the sofa? Chow time!

So, The Exercise Quandary gives you a Sophie's Choice: remain fat or live with damaged knees. No contest.

Back to the seasons, rudely pushing us into my least favorite, Winter. I mean...who wants to get out in two feet of snow and freezing ice? Nope, not me, not even to get chili fixings. And when it's inhumanly, miserably cold, you need to plug gas into your body to stay warm. You ain't gonna keep warm by gnawing on carrot sticks and yummy kale. Winter's immediately knocked outta the running for dieting.

Finally, Spring! Spring is a time for thawing and renewal and moving back outside again and eyeing that grill that's been dormant for so long and...and...man, burgers with all the trim sounds really, really good. 

As you can see, top scientists agree, then, that there is simply no good season to diet. There are alternatives to losing weight, of course. My wife and I try to have a "dry" month or two every year. No alcohol. This has advantages. It's not a three month period of suffering after all. That's why I usually choose February. It's the shortest month. (Of course, any fool who tells you they're going to have a dry November or December is lying to you, not with those holidays.)

Another solution is to "juice (No, you fiends! It's not when you wear gloves that don't fit and stab your ex-wife and lover! It's fasting with juice.)." This agony goes on for only two to three days. That's what I'm doing now. The first couple hours of day one, I was all, "Hey, this is a tenable diet! No problem!" By lunchtime, my stomach's playing the blues. On day two, I mowed the yard. After a couple of rows, I started seeing stars and Ed McMahon coming back from the dead to tell me I'm a Reader's Digest sweepstakes winner. Mercifully, I accidentally swallowed three bugs which gave me a little protein boost.

So, all methods have pluses and minuses (mostly minuses). I suggest you just go get your stomach stapled and call it pretty.

Speaking of untenable situations, poor young Dibby Caldwell, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Hangwell, Kansas's mortician, is caught up in some strange doings.Witches lurk in the shadows. A menacing creature haunts the skies. And the dead refuse to stay dead. Come visit quaint Peculiar County, available right here!

 

People Can't Be Cancelled!

Let me see if I have this right...

At first, Johnny Depp was cancelled. Then he surprisingly got uncancelled.

But now Amber Heard is the unfortunate recipient of cancellation.

Oh, but, wait! Star witness James Franco is cancelled, but not because of the Depp/Heard trial. No, he was cancelled for reasons before this that doesn't involve the Great Cancellation Trial of the Cancelled Century.

Gah! I can't keep up with all of the cancelled people! And it aggravates me. Listen up, you whippersnappers: People can NOT be cancelled. Cancellation should be reserved for some third-rate TV sitcom about three hot girls with a dog and adopted twins who meet-cute hunky triplet lifeguards. You can't just look at someone like you're the Nielsen ratings board and pompously declare them "cancelled," because you don't care for the way they didn't use their turn signal in traffic. "You, sir, are cancelled! So, THERE!"

Wow. The sudden new influx of crazy politics, conspiracies, and threats has birthed a slew of horrible new "theories" and/or usage of words that just don't make sense.

I also have an issue with "woke." Now before you all get in a huffy tizzy, understand I think the ideas behind "woke" are great, something everyone should strive for. I hope I'm woke. But it seems to me if you're truly woke, you don't need to go around saying you're woke. It's kinda like giving an anonymous charitable donation, but then telling the press you did it. (Now, the deep far right people would have you believe that being woke is a heinous thing. Trump shouts at the top of his orange-hatred-filled lungs about anyone who disagrees with him, lambasting them as suddenly woke. I'm not really sure how anyone who acknowledges racism and unjust behavior toward those of different races, color, creed, gender, etc. as bad could be considered evil, but the rabbit-hole right divers certainly do).

No, the only issue I have with "woke" is how it's used. Shouldn't it be "I'm awake" or "he's awakened" or "recently, I woke up?" Absolutely drives the writer in me nuts.

Which also brings up the entire "critical race theory." Another proclaimed EVIL theory. The deep, deep dark right would like to have you believe that slavery, lynchings, hateful race crimes, our slaughter and robbery of the first true American people, and the Holocaust simply didn't happen. "Lies!" they shout to other crazies who'll listen. "Lies perpetuated by the vile, evil, communist left-wing liberals!" God forbid children should be taught about these dark crimes, so as to, you know, not repeat the crimes of our "forefathers."

Then there's the entire ludicrous "Great Replacement Theory" continually perpetuated by a self-proclaimed lying jackass on Fox "News."

Frankly, it's all rather distressing and depressing and entirely racist and hateful (Thanks Donald!), not a very rosy picture for the future of our rapidly deteriorating democracy.

I think I'll cancel myself, temporarily become unwoke, and go back to bed. Woke me up when it's all over. G'night!

Hey, hey, now, hoka-hey, you ain't gonna find any depressing "politics" in my Zach and Zora series! Nope, this mystery comedy series is all about Zach, a clueless male stripper (oops...I mean"male entertainer dancer") with his usually pregnant and very irritable sleuth sister as they try and solve the most outrageous murder mysteries since Jessica Fletcher discovered she had 5,000 nephews and nieces. There're three of 'em out now, and a fourth on the way. Check 'em out here!

 

Like a Phoenix...Tex, the Witch Boy Rises Again!

Being in high school sucks.

Oh, sure, I know it didn't suck for everyone, not the popular kids. But to me, high school was torturous, every day filled with bullies (of the student and teacher variety); cliques that snubbed me for ludicrous reasons based on status, sports, money, and privilege; the simultaneous joy and terror of possible burgeoning romance and the ensuing fear of rejection; and worst of all...dodge-ball, the most insidious trauma and physical pain inflicted on young boys.

All of these things are present in Tex, the Witch Boy. What is Tex, the Witch Boy, I hear you asking (or maybe that's the sound of your nodding off...I dunno, hard to tell through the intronets)? Anyhoo, I'm glad you asked! Tex, the Witch Boy is the very first novel I wrote and had published (I got spoiled; my very first submission turned into a pick-up). Unfortunately, the publisher went down and abandoned Tex amidst a sea of orphaned books.

Until now! The good folks at The Wild Rose Press have tossed Tex a life preserver, pulled him into dry, and have now republished his exploits!

I'm proud of this book. Not only is it my very first attempt at writing, but I did it on the sly. I didn't even tell my wife and daughter I was writing a book. You know...back to that fear of rejection thing. But apparently it worked. To this day, my wife still says the books one of her favorites.

Of course, it's highly autobiographical. It's me exorcising my high school demons. However...I'm not a witch, not like Tex is. Tex finds out in his sophomore year that he's inherited witch powers, which just complicates his already messed up high school life. Oh...and, yeah...there wasn't a mysterious serial killer roaming the halls of my high school (that I know of), knocking off bullies and others. Not like in the book.

But everything else is true (for the most part)! All of the bullying incidents either happened to myself or a friend of mine. To this day, one of my best friends still can't fully use three fingers on his hand (you'll have to read the book to see which incident I'm referring to). From the misfit teens who find one another, to the hard hawk-nosed authoritarian principal who picks on the underdog students, to the sadistic high school teacher, to the truly insane bullies, to the nerd who gloriously reigned on the skateboard, and the cool, rebel girl who everyone either feared or loved, they're all here, still fresh from my memories. (Or from my daughter's days in high school captivity).

And when I said that I was exorcising my high school demons? Tex, um, has his own exorcism to take care of. A much more frightening one. You'll see...

More importantly, I hope the book finds a wider audience as the powerful anti-bullying theme is just as pertinent today as to when I was in school in the late '70's. Parents need to be aware and teens need to know that things get better.

Hey! Watch the cool trailer video I had made years ago for Tex (just ignore the old cover and publisher)!

Even better news, The Wild Rose Press is picking up the other three books in the series, with the second one slated for September (but more on that when the day approaches).

As a first time writer, I crammed everything into this book: humor, mystery, love, suspense, horror, pathos, action...you know...kinda like uncertain, chaotic high school life. (If you read carefully, you'll even find a kitchen sink in there). By all indications, the meshing of all these genres shouldn't work. But ask the 51 critics and readers who've given it a 4.7 outta 5 rating on Amazon. Or even better, ask my wife (and the smart money is on never disagreeing with her!).

Ah, hell, make up your own mind. That's Tex, the Witch Boy, available here and other fine online retailers.