Wayne D. Dundee's Blog, page 21

ONCE MORE FOR PAM

Today marks what would have been my late wife's 65th birthday.Pam would have hated that, turning 65 (!). According to her, she steadfastly never aged past 39.
Anyone who has followed this blog or my Facebook page or read any of my interviews, knows that I comment often on Pam. I wonder sometimes if readers find this tiring and see me as some kind of pathetic, obsessive person who can't get past losing her. In a sense, I guess that's true --- I think about her daily and miss her terribly. But I've gone on with my life well enough, thank you. I have persevered. Partly because that's the way I'm made, partly because that's how Pam would have wanted it.In the final analysis, I don't care what others may think. Not in this regard. As a writer who knows how to use words and has the outlets to do so, it is altogether fitting and proper --- maybe even obligatory --- for me to utilize these capabilities, if I wish, to carry on Pam's memory and to share my feelings about the great love of my life. Anyone not interested in hearing about her or my feelings for her is free not to read what I have to say.
This year, to commemorate her birthday, I want to share the words to a simple, sad, sweet song (by Jud Strunk) that heard for the first time a while back on the radio. I tracked down the lyrics and memorized them. I think they do a good job of capturing the kind of love and devotion that I felt/feel for Pam:
He remembers the first time he saw herHe remembers the first thing she said;He remembers the first time he saw herAnd the night that she came to his bed.
He remembers her sweet way of saying"Honey, has something gone wrong?"He remembers the love and the teasin'And the reason he wrote her this song.
"I'll give you a daisy a day, dearI'll give you a daisy a day;I'll love you until the rivers run stillAnd the four winds we know blow away."
They would go for a walk in the eveningFor years I would watch them go by;And their love that was more than the clothes that they woreCould be seen in the gleam of their eyes.
As a kid they would take me for candyHow I loved to go tagging along;We'd hold hands as we walked to the cornerAnd the old man would sing her his song.
"I'll give you a daisy a day, dearI'll give you a daisy a day;I'll love you until the rivers run stillAnd the four winds we know blow away."
Now he walks down the street in the eveningAnd he stops by the old candy store;And I somehow believe he's believin'He's still holding her hand like before.
He can feel all her love walking with himAnd he smiles at the things she might say;Then the old man walks up to the hilltopAnd he gives her a daisy a day.


It's always awkward this time of year to think in terms of the word "happy" – as in Happy Birthday. Yet the occasion of Pam's birthday is a happy time. For if she'd never been born, you see, then I never would have been blessed with having her in my life for forty-plus years … So happy birthday, babe. I love you.

My Take: THE LONE RANGER

For some bizarre reason (admitting that it is not uncommon for my thoughts to venture into the bizarre), after going to see THE LONE RANGER over the weekend and then sitting down to write this review, I kept thinking of that Latin phrase they hammered into our heads in high school (at least my high school). You know the one: Veni, vidi, vici … "I came, I saw, I conquered."Only in the case of THE LONE RANGER, my thoughts ran (you'll have to excuse the rough translation): Veni, vidi, fructus … "I came, I saw, I enjoyed the hell out of it."
My feelings ever since first hearing about the plans for this movie have been a sort of mental roller coaster ride. First they were kinda high, hoping they'd finally get it right this time --- better than the disappointing Klinton Spillsbury version, and better than the TV thing they did in between (where, at one point, they contemplated a female Tonto); then I heard Bruckheimer's name attached to it and I thought that would be kind of cool, or at least it would translate to big budget and exciting (say what you will about Bruckheimer movies as far as high drama or what have you, they do tend to be exciting); then I heard Johnny Depp would be playing Tonto and my feelings toward the whole deal dropped about as low as I thought they could go; then I saw the first pictures of Depp as Tonto, with the face paint and that dead fucking crow on his head, and I found out my feelings could sink even lower and I pretty much wrote off any chance of me ever seeing this version of the Lone Ranger … But then the trailers started showing up. Damn You Tube, anyway. It looked like a fun, exciting movie and once again I started thinking about the kind of energy (whether the plot makes any sense or not) that a Bruckheimer film can generate … Ultimately, I decided I wanted to go see it when it came out.And I'm glad I did.Was it the Lone Ranger your grandfather (that would be me) grew up on? Nope, not much at all. But --- and this is an important but --- it didn't ruin that Lone Ranger, either. It simply put a different spin on it. More emphasis on Tonto and comedy, introducing John Reid (LR) as a more inept "easterner" returning to the West from law school (not too different from the James Stewart character in THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE) who only eventually started showing more heroic grit and savvy as the movie headed toward its climax, and throwing into the mix some obligatory PC stuff about the mistreatment of Indians and the environment being out of balance due to the corruption and evils of big business (in this case the railroads), etc. In other words, a lot of it didn't really make a helluva lot of sense beyond the core story of Tonto aiding the lone survivor of the Texas Ranger massacre, the finding of his horse Silver, the donning of the mask, and seeking out justice/revenge for nasty ol' Butch Cavendish. In deference to Mr. Depp, I have to admit that it didn't take long for that stupid crow on top of his head (they had some mumbo-jumbo back story to explain that) not to matter so much and to accept/appreciate the comedic-yet-intense (think Buster Keaton) spin he put on the character of Tonto. I wish Armie Hammer's John Reid/LR interpretation would have been a little less dorky (think Brendon Fraser in the recent Mummy movies) in the beginning but, by the closing scenes where he rides off with Tonto to dispense further justice and order in the Old West, you sense that he is on the brink of becoming the more mature, more assured character we're familiar with.
There's really not much more to say.If you want to be guided by Lone Ranger "purists" or more elite critics who have pig-piled onto this (same as they unfairly did for JOHN CARTER) because --- in my opinion --- they simply didn't "get it", then I think you're going to miss a hell of a good time at the movies.For me, when the William Tell Overture music hit at the beginning of the big climactic sequence and the Lone Ranger came riding onto the screen whirling a lariat, there was a nine- or ten-year-old boy somewhere inside me who wanted to surge out of his seat wearing a paper mask over his eyes and brandishing a pair of cap guns and go running up and down the aisles on a broomstick horse. That's how it made me feel. That's how a rip-roaring Lone Ranger climax should make you feel --- and nuts to everything else.My regular movie-going buddy these days, my 20-year-old grandson Bill, didn't know hardly squat about the Lone Ranger going in. So he had no expectations, no illusions. But he told me afterward that, when the music hit and LR came riding back on the screen, he felt exactly that same kind of excitement.I talked to a couple of other old-timers (complete strangers) on the way out of the theater, and they both felt exactly the same way.For a movie to leave people feeling that pumped up and excited and filled with such a sense of youthful exuberance … I'd say the film makers must have gotten something right.

THE DOG GONE DAYS OF SUMMER

This post isn't really about the weather, although most parts of the country have by now had a strong dose of those hot, sweltering spells of a kind commonly referred to as the "dog days". Who knows, with the endless thumping about "climate change" or "global warming" or whatever the hell they're calling it these days (I have my own terminology for it and it also covers something you scoop out of a barnyard) maybe some time soon it will all be called "the inconvenient Gore days" or some such.By the way, do you know how these hot summer periods came to be called "the dog days"? It's from ancient times when it was noted that these hot spells came during periods when the constellation Canis Major and its largest star, the dog star Sirius, were closest to the earth. It was concluded that the nearness of the constellation gave off extra heat. See? They had idiots like Gore swerving the population back then, too …
Okay, the real thrust of this post and the cutesy title are to talk a little bit about the dogs of my family and especially the ones who are sadly no longer with us this summer. The real dog lover in our outfit was my late wife Pam. As most of you who follow me via this blog or on Facebook or have perhaps read some of my interviews know, Pam passed away in 2008. She left behind three little dogs who were her constant companions --- Buttercup, Peanut, and Bear. These were small mixed breeds: Terrier, Pekinese, and poodle, respectively.Let me explain, too, about those names. None of them were assigned by me, I assure you. "Bear" is kinda cool, but since he (the only male in the mix) is a toy poodle, and the runt of the litter at that … well, there goes most of the manly association, name notwithstanding. Let me also admit that I've always really liked these mutts more than I pretended (which Pam well knew) but they --- and her fawning over them --- were sometimes a pain in the butt. A running joke between Pam and me (a rather morbid one, perhaps, but one made when there was no inkling I would be losing her so early) was that she wanted to have her dogs cremated when they died so their ashes could eventually be mixed with ours when we were gone. (We'd long since made a commitment to be cremated and have our ashes mixed when the time came.)  My response to her request concerning having my ashes spend eternity with those of her mutts was that I'd had to put up with them in life, thank you, that ought to be sufficient. Well, as we all know, words have a way of coming back around, don't they?Sometimes in very ironic ways.
Buttercup died this spring. She'd gotten very slow and frail and I knew it was just a matter of time. But as long as she didn't seem to be in pain I was reluctant to hurry the end by having her put down. She was still eating her regular dog food decently but I also fed her peanut butter toast twice a day to make sure she was getting some added protein and fatty nutrition. She slept, along with Bear, on a cushion on the floor beside my bed. But one Sunday morning I woke to find her lying dead out in the living room in front of the TV. I had her cremated and her remains are now in a little velvet bag leaning against one side of Pam's urn. A couple of weeks ago, we lost Peanut. She, too, got very frail and weak. Her I had to hold in my arms and feed her slices of cheese and pieces of peanut butter toast. When she started to get too weak to barely hold up her head, I had to make that dreaded choice of taking her in for euthanasia. I held her in my arms for that, too. Her ashes haven't been returned yet but, when they are, they too will rest in the living room with Pam, like she wanted. That leaves Bear. Amazingly, he's always been the sickliest one of the bunch. Even when Pam was alive, he'd developed a gimpy back and a recurring cough like he was secretly chain-smoking on the side. Since Pam has been gone he's also gone blind in one eye.I should mention that we acquired all of these dogs circa 1998-99, right after re-locating to Nebraska. We got them all as rescue pups so never knew their EXACT birth dates, only that as of 2013 they were each in the 15-year-old range.In December of 2010, Bear's leg got suddenly worse and was hurting him to the point he could hardly get around and was whimpering much of the time. I took him the vet where she gave him a shot of steroids and some pills and we discussed the possibility of putting him down. But, man, I sure didn't want to have to do that just before Christmas. So I took him back home with me and we agreed that if the medication helped his pain and I carried him up and down the stairs to go out to do his business (I live in a basement apartment of our house since Pam passed), we would hold off until after the holidays. Well, it's two and a half years after those particular holidays and the little fart is currently as spry or sprier than he's been for a long time. It's kinda spooky, but it almost seems like he's some kind of succubus who has sucked part of the energy or life force from the loss of the other two. Needless to say, the little guy has become more devoted to me than ever. And the other way around, too, I suppose. He follows me from room to room and lays near wherever I settle for any length of time. He sleeps beside my bed every night and first thing in the morning, while my coffee is brewing, he snorts and woofs impatiently until he gets some peanut butter toast that he got accustomed to when I was nursing Buttercup and Peanut. Other than that, he's very little bother other than being underfoot too much of the time because he wants to be close to me.
I usually referred to these mutts as "Pam's dogs" and used to put up a gruff front by telling her --- and more recently my daughter and grandkids --- that, if it wasn't for the obligation I felt to Pam, I wouldn't want the stupid things around. Well, inasmuch as she's been gone for over five years now, I guess I can't claim they are/were strictly "Pam's dogs". No, I never petted them nor fawned over them to the degree she did. But I must have treated them okay for 'em to make it to the fifteen-year mark. And now that two of the "stupid things" are gone … well, I can't pretend I don't miss them. And for reasons beyond just my obligation to Pam.Remember what I said about your words coming back around on you? Believe it, they do. Even ones said in jest.
So now we're into the dog days of summer and two canine critters who were part of our family for fifteen years are gone. The fact it's summer probably impacts on me even a bit more than their loss otherwise might.I think about Pam and miss her all the time. But I think about her more around certain holidays and in the heart of summer because her birthday is July 14. So now I'll be missing her and Buttercup and Peanut. I know the mutts are getting good care and I know Pam is happy to have them with her again. The thought of that is somewhat comforting … Not as comforting, of course, as if they were all still here with me. But we don't get to make those choices, do we? I know Pam has been watching and I think she must be pleased with the way I took care of "her dogs". I'll find out (hopefully) when Bear and I make the trip and join them again one day.
Persevere.

THE MAN IN THE MOON by James Reasoner

A new release from James Reasoner is always good news. And when it's a mystery featuring a tenacious new PI, that makes it even more so.
Okay, technically, neither THE MAN IN THE MOON nor its protagonist, Markham, are exactly new. But they are to me (and, I expect, a number of other readers). You see, this title and this PI originally appeared back in 1980 within the pages of Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. Although I've been reading Reasoner for as far back as 1980 (the same year as his cult classic novel, TEXAS WIND) and also checked out MSMM on a fairly regular basis --- yet I had somehow missed this title and others in the series.
Happily, THE MAN IN THE MOON has now been re-issued as a stand-alone 10,000-word novella for Kindle. What's more, other tales featuring Markham are scheduled to be released soon.
On top of all that good news, I'm happy to report that THE MAN IN THE MOON reads as fresh and entertaining as if it were written yesterday. Yes, there are some outdated references but, hey, that just makes it a period piece, right? Although based out of LA, in this tale Markham is traveling on his way back home through rural Arizona late at night when he encounters two children walking alongside the road. Markham returns them home and a competent-seeming local sheriff takes over from there, assuring the PI that everything will be taken care of. But we all know how things are in those quiet rural towns, right? Nothing is ever as tranquil and tidy as it seems on the outside. And we also know that a loner PI like Markham isn't going to just walk away without satisfying himself that the kids are going to be okay and all of his questions are answered.You will be very satisfied, too, with the way Reasoner/Markham wraps everything up. This is a good one --- I'm glad I finally got to meet Markham, and I can't wait to read the other stories featuring him.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Man-Moon-ebook/dp/B00DFKPTLM/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1372641446&sr=1-3&keywords=the+man+in+the+moon

New Bodie Kendrick Novel: DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH - Preview & Special Sales Offer

My new Bodie Kendrick adventure, DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH, will be available on Kindle this coming Saturday (6/29). It's a corker, if I do say so myself. It takes a few bits of history (like the U.S. Army Camel Corps that operated in the Southwest both before and after the Civil War, resulting in a handful of escaped "phantom camels" that roamed the region for decades afterward) and then spins a wild fictional yarn around them. Here's the Kindle blurb to tease with a few more details:
Bodie Kendrick wasn't in time to stop the stagecoach from being ambushed, but he did manage to save the lives of the driver and most of the passengers. Among the latter was Amelia Gailwood, a freelance journalist working on "the story of a lifetime." In order to try and make sure her lifetime doesn't end too soon, Kendrick agrees to hire on as her protector while she continues to chase her story. The chase will take them from the gunfire-laced streets of a rowdy mining town, to the smoky mysteries of an opium den, across a punishing desert, and into beautiful but treacherous remote mountains. At the heart of their quest is a legendary gem from the time of Caesar and Cleopatra. But before they can lay claim to it so Amelia will be able to reveal it to the world and tell its fascinating history, they will have to survive betrayal from within and menace from fierce mountain Apaches—all the while eluding pursuit by a pack of hired guns who will stop at nothing to seize the stone for their unscrupulous employer.
Three-time Peacemaker Award-winning author Wayne D. Dundee spins another exciting yarn of grit, gunfire, and gallantry in the Old West! Read Diamond In The Rough and find out why his work continues to win praise and gain followers.

If that doesn't whet your appetite, how about a sample of the kind of action you'll find inside:
Kendrick was just about to cross the mouth of a narrow, dark alley—after passing through a weak shaft of light that spilled from the window of a print shop with somebody working in the back—when a rifle barked on the opposite side of the street. The bullet passed close enough to singe the hair on the back of his neck before smashing into the corner frame of the shop and spitting back a stinging spray of wood chips.Kendrick instantly pitched forward off the end of the boardwalk and went into a diving roll as he hit the hard-packed, sandy ground. He continued to roll, twisting and scrambling to make it deeper into the blackness of the alley, the cigar that flew from his mouth leaving a rooster tail of sparks as it sailed through the air.More shots cracked and roared behind him. Two rifles firing now. Bullets whined all around him, some slapping off the sides of the buildings bordering the alley, others chewing into the dirt behind his frantically digging heels.Kendrick bumped against a fat wooden rain barrel shoved up to the side of the print shop building. He dragged himself in behind it with one hand, got his Peacemaker unholstered with the other. Slugs continued to slam into the alley. One of them hit the empty rain barrel, making a hollow boom like a drum, and exited an inch above his head.Scrunching down lower on his belly, Kendrick leaned out cautiously and spotted the muzzle flash across the street from one of the guns firing at him. He wasted no time returning fire, but he’d gained the advantage of having the muzzle flash to aim at. He triggered three rounds just as fast as he could cock and fire and had the satisfaction of hearing someone cry out as if hit. But there was no time to savor this because he’d now revealed his position in the darkness by his own muzzle flash. The second shooter was quick to act on that, pouring in a fresh volley of lead. The wooden barrel boomed and shook crazily as bullets pounded into it.Kendrick pushed himself up, gathering his legs under him, and then shoved forward hard, away from the barrel, going into another double roll that took him to the opposite side of the alley. He found no cover there, but at least he’d distanced himself from the spot that was drawing such heavy fire. And he noted there was only one rifle firing now, giving a good indication that the cry he’d heard before meant he had indeed scored a hit on one of the shooters. What was more, the volley from the remaining rifleman now had his position revealed. Much like Kendrick, he was in the black maw of the same alley as it continued on the opposite side of the street.Raising his .44, Kendrick aimed at the flashes he’d seen there and emptied the Colt of its last three loads. After immediately squirming to a new position, he began reloading as fast as his nimble fingers could perform the well-practiced task.The shooting from across the street had let up also and, after a moment, Kendrick could hear somebody say in a harsh whisper: “Reese! … Reese, you there? … You okay?”As he shoved fresh shells into the Peacemaker’s cylinder, Kendrick couldn’t resist responding. “No, he ain’t okay, you dumb sonofabitch. I killed him … And now I’m aimin’ to do the same damn thing to you!”

Additionally, as a kind of get-acquainted special offer for those of you who may not be familiar with Kendrick yet, I am offering for three days only --- Friday 6/28 through Sunday 6/30 --- the previous title in the series, RIO MATANZA, for the bargain price of $0.99.You can buy both titles and still have enough left from a $5 bill for a dollar soft drink from Mickey-Ds. The soft drink may not last long (especially if you're experiencing the kind of heat we're getting out here in Nebraska these days) but the books will give you hours of great Western entertainment.Trust me, you won't be sorry if you give 'em a try.

My Take: MAN OF STEEL

I grew up on the George Reeves version of Superman via the Adventures of Superman TV series that ran throughout the mid-1950s, and then for many years thereafter in syndication. That was probably the peak of my interest in Superman. I remember regularly watching and enjoying the show, but hindsight suggests that may have had as much to do with limited choices for anything else to watch as a genuine fondness for the character.As far as comic book super heroes in general, my tastes very early on ran more toward Batman and the Challengers of the Unknown. Superman was simply too much --- too invincible, too perfect, etc. Without trotting out some tired old variation of exposing him to krypton, where was any sense of danger or risk or suspense?I will admit to enjoying the first Superman movie, with Christopher Reeve in the role, but never paid much attention to any of the ones after that (which, from all reports and from the bits and pieces I've since seen of them while flipping through cable TV channels, got rapidly and progressively worse).


Therefore --- getting to the subject at hand in a rather roundabout way --- I was somewhat surprised to find myself interested in seeing the new Superman "reboot", Man of Steel. I guess all of the preview trailers did their job: They hooked me. The edgy tone, the promise of Christopher Nolan and Zack Snyder, etc, all played a part.In the final analysis (at least mine), Man of Steel is a good action movie that could have been a great film if not for the almost total lack of humor and the excessively long CGI action sequences at both the beginning and end. In between, the heart of the film --- how Kal-el was sent to earth, how the Kents of rural Kansas raised him as their own son Clark, how the boy and then young man learned to cope with and eventually develop his phenomenal powers, how he finally presented himself to our world in order to protect and ultimately save it --- is extremely well done. The performances in rather brief roles by Diane Lane and especially Kevin Costner, as the Kents, are outstanding. And Henry Cavill stamps the lead role as his, pretty much blowing away all who previously have donned the cape and slapped the big S on their chests. Even though Cavill's acting chops may not be that strong, he still sells the hell out of this part. I mean, after all, we're talking Superman here, folks, not Hamlet.
Where the movie falters, in my opinion, is: First > In the overblown, overlong "framing" sequence on the world of Krypton. There's everything from childbirth (the first natural one, we are told, on that planet in centuries) to flying, four-winged dragons to civil war to manmade environmental disaster to the rebels being condemned to the Phantom Zone … and still the planet implodes, as we knew all along it was going to, but only after the baby Kal-el is placed in an escape pod and launched into space where he will land on Earth and one day become Clark Kent/ Superman.Second > After the Krypton rebels, led by General Zod, are inadvertently freed from the Phantom Zone by the destruction of their own planet, they search the Universe until they finally track down Kal-el/Superman. From there, a series of battles ensue in the attempt to force Superman to hand over the codex (trust me, some of this is too convoluted for me to begin to try and explain) that will allow them to take over Earth and re-populate it with a new race of Kryptonites. These battles go on and on and on and on and on … get the point? … and involve the destruction of hundreds of Metropolis skyscrapers and various other buildings, buses, cars, planes and helicopters --- not to mention demolishing the farm where Clark/Superman grew up, along with his nearby hometown and, just for good measure, a few anonymous chunks of countryside in between.I don't have to tell you who ends up winning.
When the dust finally settles (literally), the stage is set for the next entry in this series (which there is certain to be, given the huge monetary success of this one). Man of Steel fades on newly hired "stringer" Clark Kent being introduced to his co-workers and fellow reporters at the Daily Planet newspaper …
All in all, I liked this movie more than I might have made it sound. I'd give it, say, a 7.5 out of 10.I only wish there was somebody with the balls and/or authority to rein in these wonder-boy director/producers who have one or two huge hits and then are turned completely loose, unrestrained, on a subsequent movie that snowballs into a bloated, excess-laden piece of work that could have been so much better if only there'd been someone there to hold them back a little. (Classic example: Peter Jackson's 2005 remake of King Kong.)
Man of Steel is worth seeing, especially if you can catch a lower-priced matinee (like I did). And, if you're smart, avoid the scam of paying extra for 3D.

"You're The Hot Dog Guy!"

I got the idea for this piece a couple of weeks ago when I was preparing for my planned trip to attend the Printer's Row Lit Fest in Chicago. In addition to the event itself, I was looking forward to spending time with some friends (Andrew Vachss, Mike Black, Zak Mucha, and Lou Bank, among others) I hadn't seen in too long.

I was also looking forward to getting re-acquainted with another old and dear friend --- a for-real, honest-to-goodness Chicago style hot dog. Oh yeah, I planned to spend a lot time with that old pal.But then, as most of you know by now, a last-minute eye problem (essentially a stroke in my right eye that cost me most of my vision there, and necessitated some rather complex and ongoing treatments) prevented me from making the trip and kept me busy with other thoughts to occupy my brain over the past week or so.Yesterday, however, as I was writing about my dad for the Fathers Day post I put up, thoughts of hot dogs again drifted through my mind.Now anyone who knows me or has read any of my interviews where the subject came up, knows what a passion I have for Chicago style hot dogs … a commodity sadly lacking out here on the Nebraska frontier. (Side Note: I have to admit, though, that the Sonic fast-food chain in this area has begun featuring on their menu for the past couple years , a Chicago dog that ain't too bad. It's not the real deal but, when the carvings are strong enough, it'll help you make it through. Sort of like dating the okay sister of the really hot babe you'd rather be with.)Anyway, the link between hot dogs and my father is simple: He, too, was a hot dog lover. His passion, when I was growing up, was always for "wieners with the skin on" --- i.e. hot dogs with a natural casing over the beef filling, so that when you bit into one and broke through the casing it would make a kind of cracking sound. No doubt they were good, but they were hard to find even back then and all the more so later on.So I introduced him to Chicago style dogs and he grew to enjoy them almost as much as me.In his last couple years of life, when he was in and out of the hospital a lot, I would frequently take him a bag of Chicago dogs when I visited him in his room of an evening. Sometimes he'd even request it. It wasn't on his recommended diet, of course, but he had so many different things wrong with him near the end that a few dietary no-nos weren't going to make a helluva lot of difference anyway. I never mentioned to the nurses on duty what I was smuggling in, believing it to be a classic case of "Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission" should the question arise. The capper to all of this came a few years after Dad had passed away and my wife and I were at a clinic in the Rockford area (where Dad had spent a number of his hospital stays) for reasons related a health issue Pam was having. I noticed that one of the nurses who came in and out kept looking at me in a funny way and I realized there was something vaguely familiar about her, but I couldn't place why. I sensed she was having the same problem. You know how it is in such cases … nobody wants to be the first one to say anything in case the whole thing is a mistake.Finally, full recognition hit her and she blurted out: "I remember now --- you're the hot dog guy!" It turned out that she had been on the hospital nursing staff a number of times when I'd made those covert hot dog deliveries to my dad. She went on to tell Pam and I how the aroma of the booty I thought I was so cleverly smuggling in would fill the corridor and then linger there, leaving her and the other nurses agonizing for hours afterward with a hot dog craving. It was a funny little story that I still chuckle over when I think of it. I hope you get a smile out of it, too.I guess I'd rather stick in the minds of pretty young nurses due to my dashing good looks and charm. But that ship left the dock a long time ago. So, what the hey, reckon I'll settle for being the "hot dog guy". There are worse things to be remembered for.

IN THE NAME OF MY FATHER

My dad passed away several years ago. I don't need a politically-selected day to remember and/or honor him. I think about him almost daily and I hope that I honor him at all times by conducting myself in a way he would approve and be proud of.Nevertheless, one does think about their father on Father's Day and I may not have gotten around to writing this piece if I hadn't received a nudge by that being the case. It also was given impetus by the book I'm currently working on.So let me try to piece all of that together and explain …
It goes back to dad's name. Elwood. Elwood William Dundee. The "Elwood" part doesn't really roll musically off the tongue, does it? Try to name a famous or well-known Elwood … Okay, Elwood Blues from the Blues Brothers. But that's about it, right? Hmm, there might be a pattern or clue starting to form.Another clue might be that, in his lifetime, Dad was known by different nicknames such as Al, Tony, and Epse (can't say that one's a helluva lot better, and how it came to be is too convoluted to go into). But then, our family, on both my mother's and father's side, used to be big on nicknames, so maybe that doesn't mean so much after all. I had plenty of my own, as a matter of fact: Buck, Pancho, Dingo, Angus, and Boobie (never mind about that last one – yes, it got applied in high school but not for the reason you might think). Anyway, to get back on point, it became a sort of running joke in our immediate family – as my brothers and then various grandchildren started being born – if it was a male child there would be talk of naming it after Dad. "Elwood" would be discussed but then, when it came right down to it, nobody ever had the guts to follow through with it, not even as a middle name. As my mother put it when my brother Mike came along: "I just can't do that to a poor little baby." Even Dad chimed in: "For Christ's sake no." Hence there are about a dozen offsprings (starting with both of my brothers, Michael William and Robert William, plus various grandsons  and nephews) who bear the "William" tag. (My own grandson, Dad's first great grandchild, is William Wayne) … But, alas, nary a single Elwood.
Until, that is, (sorry, Dad, here comes a little bit of self-promotion mixed in) a central character in the new book series I am working on with my pal Mel Odom. The over-arcing banner is THE WESTWARD TIDE and it tells the tale (in 30,000-word novella segments) of emigrants crossing the country in the 1840s/1850s on the Oregon and California trails. The first book (or segment, as you will) is done. It's called Trail Justice. I'm working on the second one --- Trail Manhunt --- now. (We wanted to have at least two titles in the hopper so we could kick off the series with a fairly quick one-two punch; future titles will alternate between Mel and me under the house name "Jack Tyree" and we're aiming for the first title to be out by early August.)
But what I want to emphasis in closing is that one of the main recurring characters in these books will be a scout/former mountain man named Elwood Blake. He's a solid, old-fashioned, larger-than-life hero in the mold of John Wayne, Clint Walker … and Elwood Dundee.So there, finally, is your namesake, Dad. I think you'd like him.Happy Father's Day.

ICE ROAD TRUCKERS 2013 SEASON - YES!

A big part of what gets me through Sundays during the NFL’s off-season is the Ice Road Truckers series that the History Channel runs on Sunday evenings.I’m not exactly sure why, as I am not a big fan of “reality TV”, but from the second I inadvertently stumbled across this show in its first season I have been a huge fan. For one thing, I had no idea that such a thing as “ice roads” and the various industries that function around (and because of) them ever existed; let alone the remote, isolated communities that absolutely are able to exist due to the services the provide. What a fascinating slice of still-existing frontiers and the rugged people who inhabit them is presented here!Another thing I like is that the “stars” of the program are not a bunch of bizarre individuals reveling in their dysfunctionality. For the most part, they are simply working stiffs taking a shot — and willing to work hard at it — in order to make a big score for the betterment of their lives and their families.To be sure, there are some colorful characters in the mix. Such as:Hugh “the Polar Bear” Rowland  >  a literal bear of a man who is gruff, profane, but one hard-working, balls-to-the-wall sonofagun; he also has exhibited a sentimental side a time or two when he visited co-worker/friends Alex and Rick on occasions when they were hospitalized; and another time when Alex presented him with a special framed of Hugh’s father.Alex Debagorski  >  also tall and imposing and as hard-working as Hugh, but gregarious (with a rumbling, hearty laugh), always willing to lend a hand to others, and very pious (he never curses and often says prayers aloud when facing challenging conditions).Lisa Kelly  >  the show’s “eye candy” who just keeps getting sweeter and also more competent as she works genuinely hard to improve her independence and overall trucking skills.Rick Yemm  >  the chain-smoking, chronic complainer of the bunch who leans toward Mohawk haircuts died different wild colors and seems to have a love-hate work relationship with Hugh.(One of the funniest exchanges came at the start of last season when the truckers were gathering to start out on the haul road. Alex cracked to Hugh (who was partnered once again with Rick, having shown up with a bright blue mohawk): “Did you tell him yet that he’s really your son?”  To which Hugh dryly replied: “I tried to explain to him that I **bleeped** a parrot once when I was a teenager, but I don’t think he got the hint that he might be the result.”
Anyway, as recently as a few weeks ago I was under the impression they might not be airing Ice Road Truckers this year. The horror!However, I now know there will be a new season and it starts on June 9. If you’re not already an IRT fan, I suggest you give it a try. I think you’ll like it.

Guest Blogger: John L. French - author of PARADISE DENIED

WD:  John L. French is a very lazy individual who only finds time to be a dedicated family man, work a full time job as a crime scene investigator for a major eastern city, edit a number of highly entertaining crime anthologies, and write novels and stories in a widening span of genres.
Otherwise, I have no idea how he occupies himself.
But here's John himself to fill you in a bit more: 

Hi, I’m John L. French. First of all I’d like to thank Wayne for inviting me to be a guest blogger. It’s somewhat appropriate. I’m a writer (among other things) and I don’t know if Wayne realizes it but he is partly responsible for my being one. Way back in 1985 Wayne started Hardboiled Magazine. It was put out on a copying machine and sold through the mail. It was in its pages that I discovered C. J. Henderson’s Jack Hagee (“What You Pay For” HB #4) and Wayne’s Joe Hannibal. It didn’t take long before I started writing my own PI stories and eventually “Past Sins” showed up in the pages of Hardboiled 13, now edited and published by Gary Lovisi.
That was a little more than 20 years ago and thanks to the help and support of Wayne, Gary, C. J. and others I’ve gotten some books published and even edited a few. Wayne gave me stories for Bad Cop No Donut (his award winning “This Old Star”) and To Hell in a Fast Car (the deserving of an award “Starless Midnight”).
By nature I’m a short story writer, writing crime, pulp, supernatural and lately science fiction – whatever the editors ask for. Given that my paying job is crime scene investigation for an east coast city (I can’t say more because of new rules issued by the department) most of my stories have some kind of crime element in them.
The reason Wayne invited to guest blog is that I have a new book out. It’s a collection of short stories I’ve written over the past twenty years. It’s called Paradise Denied and it’s got crime, superheroes, hitmen, vampires and zombies. Not all in one story although that would be one hell of a tale. Paradise Denied is published by Books of the Dead Press. The publisher has asked me to put the word out about it and knowing that I’m too lazy, er, make that busy, to write a blog myself Wayne was kind enough to help. In order to get people reading, and hopefully buying, Paradise Denied, the publisher has asked me to make it available to those willing to post a review on Amazon. If you’re interested, write to me at jfrenchfam@aol.com and I’ll send you a copy in pdf, mobi or epub.
That’s it. Thanks for your time. Hope to heat from you soon. Wayne, thanks again for having me as a guest.