Stuart R. West's Blog, page 19

Assault of the Comic Book Geek

I have a confession to make. I'm Stuart and I used to be a comic book fan. There. I said it. It's kinda weird, though. When I used to be a comic book geek, there was a certain uncoolness and shame attached to it. Nowadays, it's considered cool, even chic. Figures. That's me, always falling and drowning in the wave of cool.

Anyway, thanks to the ginormous Comic-Cons and shows like The Big Bang Theory, comic book geekery has achieved new levels of acceptance. Hollywood goes out of there way to court the army of geeks.

But I'm going to let you in on a little secret...comic book geeks can be downright mean, scary, even.

I know, right?

Let me lay down some hard to believe facts.

You know, when I was a kid, my parents would drop me off at the local big comic book store once a month. There I'd lose myself for hours, adrift in a sea of four-color tights and fights.

Yet the cranky old guy who ran the place hated me. I wasn't sure if it was me or he hated kids in general, but he was downright mean to me. He made me feel like I shouldn't have even been in the store, always yelling and barking at me around his cigar. Huh. Funny. You'd think that comic books were, oh, I dunno, kinda aimed toward kids.

But that's not even the worst comic bookery transgression that had happened to me.

I once saw a couple of older comic book fans nearly get into a fight over who would win in a battle between Submariner and Aquaman. Harsh words were shouted over the comic book counter, the Marvel fan nearly in tears. I left before blood was drawn. (Personally I'd root for Aquaman to kick whiny Submariner's arse.)

Comic bookery can get mean.

The worst comic book trauma that happened to me was at a cheap comic book convention in a Kansas City hotel. I don't even remember why or how my brother went with me (he was as anti-comic book as they come), but somehow I'd talked him into it.

I was looking around, searching for rare back issues of an independent artsy-fartsy comic book called "Zot (years later, my tastes were exonerated in that the auteur behind Zot, Scott McCloud, produced a critically acclaimed and land-breaking "bible" on the art of comic book storytelling)." 

Anyway, I was mulling over one kid's boxes of comics. He asked me, "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

I said, "Back issues of Zot."

This fat, pimply-faced kid whosevoice had barely just broken shrieks in laughter. "Zot! Ha! You're looking for Zot! Zot!" He turns to the dealer next to him. "Zot! Can you believe that? He wants Zot!" Unbelievably, this assault went on for minutes while I just stood there dumbfounded, shocked into silence.

But my brother, hot-head that he can be, sure didn't stay quiet.For once he defended me. "Shut up, Beaver!" (He did kinda look like Jerry Mathers.) "What do you like? Do you get off on She-Hulk? Take the X-Men to the bathroom with you?" It went on and on and got very ugly.

Beaver did shut up, turned into thirty shades of red, and sank into his folding chair. I grabbed my brother and we got the hell outta there before the comic book police showed up.

It's pretty sad when comic book geeks turn on one another, so much for brotherhood in comic bookery.

See what I mean? Comic bookery isn't for the faint of heart. It's a deadly business.

While I'm on the topic of deadly business, Leon Garber's possibly in the most deadly kind of business (outside of comic bookery, natch). Accountant by day, he's a serial killer by night. Not to worry, though, he only targets the worst possible people around. The problem is someone's hunting him now. Worse, it's his former employer, Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. It's complicated. A trilogy's worth of complications. Check out the first book, Secret Society, here.

When Dogs Murder

Psst... There's something dreadfully wrong with my daughter's dog, Baron!

Don't let his cute looks deceive you! He wears those well-earned Debbil's Horns for a reason.

Let me 'splain...

Last weekend, I was visiting my daughter and dog-watching for her so she could go gallivanting across the Midwest. Now, to take on the daunting chore of dog-sitting means I have to sacrifice sleep for the cause. For you see, her two dogs are "bed dogs." Personally, I don't think any dog should be a bed dog (especially when one of them is several hundred pounds of red coon hound who inevitably takes up 90% of the bed), but, hey, they're not my dogs and it's not my house.

So, there I was, tossing and turning, fighting for dominance over the bed with the coon hound. But he's not the problem. It's the other one I'm wary of, needing to keep an eye on.

For you see, once I finally did knock out for the night, I felt a very strange sensation. A presence in my face, the way you can intuit someone in the dark, silent as snow.

I open my eyes and my daughter's Beagle is standing over me, hovering, quiet, still as a statue, snout close to my face. Unnerving doesn't do it justice.

What did he want? What did it mean? Why didn't he lick me, at least, or maybe yip, whine, or bark?

I got nothing, except for a case of cold chills.

When my daughter returned the next morning, I told her of my odd, nocturnal, alien encounter.

She said, "I know, right? He does that." She gave it some more thought and added, "Do you think he's plotting to kill us?"

Yes. Yes, I do think that very, very much.

You guys have all heard the horrific story of some woman in France who got wasted, passed out, and her dog ate her face off, right? Fun, I know, but who knows what Baron's plotting. Maybe a fate even worse then face eating. Or perhaps he was envisioning how my face would taste, one step away from giving into his secret cravings.

Who really knows what goes on in the minds of dogs, particularly with my daughter's sociopathic, murderous Beagle? I think he's just biding his time, waiting for the revolt to begin so he and his cohorts can finally turn the tables on their human oppressors and put us in collars and make us go to the bathroom outside in the snow.

All I know is I'm keeping one eye open the next time I sleep over. Of course that would probably be the first delectable morsel Baron would go after.

Speaking of nefarious plots, have a look at my darkly comic and suspenseful serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. There's so much plotting, back-stabbing, murder, mayhem, and action going on, it took three books to unravel my tale of serial killers versus the evil corporate world (psst, the serial killers are the good guys. Kinda. Sorta. It's complicated.). The first book is Secret Society, followed by Strike and Killer King. Whaddaya waiting for? Go!

The Sad State of Customer Service

Last week I dipped into one of the local big chain drug stores to buy some anti-itch lotion. I saw thousands of bottles of lotions, salves, ointments, conditioners, toxins, you name it, but not what I was looking for. I also couldn't find a single clerk to assist me (as loathe as I am to ask, being a guy and all, you know).

Finally, I spied some old guy (and for me to call somebody "old," assume he's ancient) in a red, buttonless vest rushing down the aisle.

"Sir?"

He ignored me on his mad rush down the aisle to inventory incontinent pills or whatever. So I raised my voice. "Sir? Excuse me, sir?"

His white head whips around and he glares angrily at me. "What?" he snaps. That's the first strike. How in the world is that any way to aid a customer?

"Um, do you carry Sarna ointment?"

He tilts his snowy head my way (the better to hear me with) and wrinkles up his already craggy brow in puzzlement.

"Sarna," I repeat. "You know, the anti-itching lotion?" Stupidly I'm standing in the aisle pantomiming that I'm itching. I figured this drug store clerk needed all the help he can get. And he's still just grimacing at me. So I slowly--and very loudly 'cause I thought he might have a hearing problem--spell it out for him. "Sarna! S.A.R.N.A!"

He gives me one of those dramatically (and disgustedly) cinematic slow head shakes. "I have NO idea," he snorts.

I'm thinking, um, would you mind finding out? But I really didn't want to disrupt his day any more than I clearly already had. "Okay, well, thanks--"

Then he jets off without a word before I even finished thanking him. I left the store empty-handed and hive-covered.

I fumed over this for a day or two, contemplating calling the drug store and giving somebody the "Karen" treatment. Whatever happened to the customer is always right? Frankly, I'm seeing less and less of that sorta "work ethic" any more, disdain and anger being the more common response to queries. Or the employees just ignore me. Not too long ago at the grocery store, the checker and the bagger said maybe two words to me, the entire time talking about Joey's upcoming Big Date. I felt slighted. I know it's silly, but the world of customer service didn't used to be this way. As I left the grocery store, I contemplated telling Joey the bagger to make sure he brings protection, but I figure if they can't help me, why should I help him? It's the state of our nation these days, every Tom, Dick and Joey out for themselves.

Anyway, the next day I visited my daughter and I told her my true tale of trauma. Coincidentally, she used to work at the very same drug store back in the day.

"Wait," she says. "I'll contact my old friend who I think still works there."

She texts her. Old Friend says they have nobody fitting that description working at the store.

"Whaaaaaaat?" I say. "What're you saying, this guy was a drug store employee imposter?"

I thought about it. Why would this guy impersonate a drug store clerk. What nefarious drug store conspiracy had I stumbled upon? Then the odd possibility hit me that maybe...just maybe...he didn't work there? I told my daughter that he wore a buttonless, red vest. He HAD to be a drug store employee. Who else would wear a buttonless red vest? It certainly wouldn't be to make a fashion statement.

"Um, Dad, the drug store employees wear blue shirts."

"Oh... Whoops."

Turns out that there was a "Savers" thrift shop next door and those employees wear ever-so-stylish, buttonless red vests (you know, if Savers is gonna stick their employees inside vests, couldn't they spring for buttons? What's the point of going buttonless?).

Okay, well I'm glad I didn't pull a full-on Karen assault. And in an odd way, it helps restore my faith in drug store employees. But it begs the question, why in the world didn't this angry Savers clerk tell me he didn't work there instead of frustrating the holy hell outta both of us? I mean, we've all made the embarrassing assumption of some people being employees when they're not. I've been accused of working at a grocery store. Still, I told the person that I didn't work there. 

And I guess I now kinda understand the old guy's shocking anger.

But it still doesn't explain the buttonless red vest.

While on the topic of buttonless red vests, you won't find any in my Zach and Zora comic mystery series, but in the third one, Nightmare of Nannies (newly reprinted from the fine folks at Crossroad Press), an entire chapter is devoted to the ensuing chase scene when Zach (a dumb, but kind-hearted male stripper...oops, I mean "male entertainment dancer") has his favorite tearaway pants stolen. Silly? You betcha and damn proud of it! That's Nightmare of Nannies available here!

 

I Was a Human Lab Rat

As I lay on the doctor's table getting punctured, drained, and filled up with various mysterious fluids, I asked myself, how in the hell did I ever get talked into this? Good question!

I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. Along with some friendly strong-arming by my allergist, Dr. Mr. Rogers.

Hold on, hold on, let's back up a bit. You guys remember my writing about my mysterious skin rash? You don't? Here: Necrotic Skin-Eating Disease and Dr. End of the World. Go on. Refresh your memories over my trauma. I'll wait right here.

Okay, well, the crazy thing is after numerous medicines, shots, and wild guesses, friendly Dr. Mr. Rogers finally--FINALLY--happened upon some shots that cleared me up! After several years of suffering, I actually enjoyed two months of blissful non-itchiness! Huzzah! (I can just imagine the non-vaxxers having fits over what I went through. "Gimme muh freedumbs!")

And then--as life always seems to have a particularly ironically, unfunny way of doing--my life of comfort was swept out from under me.

"Hello," I said upon answering the phone.

"Stuart, it's me, Dr. Mr. Rogers. You know...from the neighborhood? Well, remember how I cured you? I want to uncure you."

Sooooo many crickets. "What?"

"I've been blessed with being granted a test study from big pharma. You'd be a perfect candidate to test this drug out on."

The crickets came out again. "Why on earth would I do that?"

"We'll pay you."

Ka-Ching! Visions of thousands and thousands of dollars danced greedily before me. "Okay!"

So dumb. So, soooooo very dumb.

When I returned to Dr. Mr. Rogers' office, he was clearly excited and nearly cartwheeled out of our brief visit. Then the techs all landed on me. They ripped off my shirt and threw me onto an extremely cold table in a freezing office and attached all sorts of gizmos to my chest.

"Wait...what're we doing?"

"Oh, not much. Just an EKG."

Like that explained it all.

After shivering my way through the first test, the nurse said, "Huh."

I said, "'Huh.' That doesn't sound encouraging."

"Well, it says here you're having a heart attack."

"Wait...what? Wait!"

"Hang on a minute. I'll be back."

So she leaves me having a heart attack in the freezing office. When she comes back, she's got another nurse. "Oh," says nurse number two, "this happens all the time."

"My heart attack happens all the time???"

"You're not having a heart attack. The machine is just...finnicky."

"That's good to know... I guess."

They run another test. Same results. They bring in the nurse practitioner. Wash, rinse, repeat. She says, "Wow. Do you have a heart problem history?"

"No! Not until now!"

She brings in Dr. Mr. Rogers who whacks the machine a couple of times. "There. That oughta do it."

By the time they finally got a reading that "they'd take," there were about  eight people in the small room, and me shivering with my shirt off wondering if I was having a heart attack.

Then it was off to meet the research kid, Darren! Darren's this fresh-faced, young, snappy-talking kid who tries to be cool by calling me "man" all the time. "So, man," he says, "what do you do?"

"You mean when I'm not being strapped to tables?"

"Yeah, man."

"I'm a writer."

Blank stare. No acknowledgement.

"Um...a novelist."

Blinkity-blink. Cone of silence.

"And a part-time realtor."

"Oh, wow, man! Real estate's such a sweet gig, man!"

Kids today. Anyway, it was time to confront Carla, the resident research nurse.

"I'm Carla," she says through her two-pack-a-day voice while trying to jab and stick me with a needle to draw blood. "I don't like your veins."

After immediately bruising up one arm, causing a world of pain, she decides to switch to the other arm with not much success. I'm watching the needle stick out of my arm with no blood forthcoming. "Hm. Let's go back to the other arm. I really don't like your veins."

"They don't like you much either!"

By the time Carla was finished, I looked like a green and brown patchwork monster.

Then I had to pee in a cup. Now, I don't know about you guys but this is one of my least favorite things to do in the world. I'm never able to urinate on demand. And, of course, the cup is always this tiny little thing. How in the world do you stop the flow without making a mess? It must take a very special talent to master peeing into a cup. Maybe I'd better practice.

Anyway, the actual drug administration hasn't even begun yet. Even more frightening, it's not a shot like I first thought, but an infusion. Which kinda terrifies me. Especially with Carla brandishing the I.V.

And the pay sucks.

But I'll keep you guys posted on my new adventures in being a human lab rat, you lucky readers.

Speaking of lucky readers, why not mosey on over to my Amazon book page and have a look-see. Something for everyone (probably not, but I've gotta try!)!

Attack of the Furniture Salesmen

There's an insidious, very frightening type of person that's hell-bent on getting in your face and taking away your freedoms! They'll lie, cheat, pester, harangue, and break down your will to get what they want. 

What? No, I'm not taking about politicians for once! Of course I mean furniture salesmen.

These extraordinarily heinous pests make today's politicians seem gallant in comparison (Well, not really, but aren't you guys sick of reading about "politicians?").

A couple of weeks ago, my wife and I set out to get a new love-seat. We have a problem in getting one that will work for both of us as I'm quite a bit taller than she is. But it turned out to be the least of our problems...

First stop was Fat Daddy's Furniture Warehouse! I've always been curious about Fat Daddy's. It's kinda in a seedy part of town and has always looked pretty damn seedy from the outside. Naturally, I wanted to check it out.

When we walked into the place, it was like walking into a freezer, much colder than outside in February! Soon a bundled up woman found us and asked if she could help us.

Well, they didn't have any reclining loveseats, but really I just wanted to get the hell outta there to warm up. On our way out, I said, "It's cold in here!"

The saleswoman said, "It's very cold! I have to sit on top of my space heater!"

In the car, my wife says, "There was no Fat. Nor was there a Daddy. Just a very, very cold lady."

Fat Daddy's proved to be disappointing, but compared to the rest of our encounters, we got off easy with the frozen saleswoman.

Next we stopped at Furniture Madness where Bernie raced up to us and presumptuously said, "What kind of mattress are you looking for?" (I guess I must've looked extremely tired.)

We told Bernie what we needed. Then came the salesmen "jokes." 

"If you sit in it, you've got to buy it. Just kidding!"

"You want it, it's yours. I'll hand deliver it today myself if I have to. Just kidding!"

"You sat in it twice, so that means you have to buy it. Just kidding!"

He kidded us right out of the store.

Next we went to Furniture Barn, a huge place with more salesmen cruising the floors than pieces of furniture. Like sharks, they'd swim toward us, the unwitting chum-like rubes, hoping to take a bite out of our wallets.

And I fell into one of their devious traps. We'd found an electronic reclining loveseat with more bells, whistles, gizmos, and lights on it than a starship enterprise captain's chair. For whatever reason, a series of blue lights ran under the chair and up and down the sides. While my wife was horrified, naturally I had to try it out.

We sat down, worked the controls. Fully reclined, I said, "Hey, this is pretty comfy."

"No," was my wife's response as she swiftly landed her seat and raced off to parts unknown. Leaving me stuck, fully reclined. I couldn't figure out how to set the device back to sitting position, thus making me easy pickings for the hungry salesmen. Even worse, I begrudgingly--and very emasculatingly--had to ask one of the sales guys for assistance. After that, I more or less ran for the doors.

(Note to furniture designers: it's probably not a great idea to have the electronic control buttons surrounding the drink holders. I told my wife, it'd last about one day until I spilled a beer on them.)

As the day progressed, the stores got worse, the salesmen even pushier. Soon the loveseats all started blending together, nothing more memorable than the last. Yet the worst place was one of our last stops.

Zagaraga's claimed to be having a "grand opening" with "everything slashed 80% or more!" or so stated the numerous signs up and down Shawnee Mission Parkway. Sounded too good to be true.

As soon as we stepped inside, a particularly heinous silver fox in a suit jumped on us, "Hello, I'm Art. And you are?" So taken aback by his rude effrontery, neither of us answered right away. So he pushed on even louder. "AND YOU ARE??"

"Annoyed" was the answer I wanted to give, but I didn't and ended up giving him my real name. Then he attacked my wife. (Later, my wife suggested we give fake names. I really, really wanted  a salesman to keep calling me "Hubert," but then worried we may have to come clean later if we bought something).

Art also lied to us. "I'm walking through the store and randomly slashing prices at 80% or more on furniture."

Well, one look at the crossed out prices told the real story. A crappy love seat doesn't cost $60 grand. Anyway, Art wouldn't leave us alone. He hounded us, told us to come with him, showed us crap we didn't want, followed us, bugged us, and kept shouting our names out in the store. Finally, he says, "Well, I'll let you take a look around, then I'll check in on you."

That lasted for all of thirty seconds. He dragged us immediately over to a hideous eyesore of a "loveseat" that wouldn't even fit in our TV room.

Under my breath, I said, "Let's get outta here."

As we made our hasty exit, Art caught us. "Hey, Stuart! Stuart! I didn't make that too painful for you, did I? Nothing I hate more than being jumped on by pushy salesmen."

Clearly, Art suffered from grand delusion.

Anyway, exhausted and sick of doing our due diligence, we circled back to Furniture Barn. Swallowing my pride from having to be rescued in one of their furniture traps, we bought a loveseat. Anything to be finished with the full-on attacks of these guys, even far worse than car salesmen.

Beware the furniture salesmen!

There's a whole lot to beware in my book, Dread and Breakfast. Okay, so none of it's as bad as furniture salesmen, but I'd have to say it's a close second.

The Crown Prince of Jerkdom

It's me, the crown prince of jerkdom!

Finally, I'm royalty!

Not too long ago, my wife was sleeping in incredibly late.

I went to roust her and she said--very groggily--"I keep waking up to a jerk."

Doh!

I said, "Well, I know I'm not Mr. Wonderful 24-7, but I generally am 23-7. Hmmph. You keep waking up to a jerk, indeed."

As she stared at me, waiting for wakefulness to spark, she finally said, "No, that's not what I said!"

(It's not the first time I've been called a jerk before.) "Well, what did you say?"

"I said, 'I keep waking up with a jerk.'"

Sooooo many crickets. Finally, I asked, "How is that any better?"

"You know...restlessness. I kept jerking my leg." Seeing as how I still didn't get it, she demonstrated a leg jerk.

"Ooooooooooohhhhhhh," I said.

Later the same day, she requested my aid in lifting a printer out of a box. With the job completed, she said, "I'm done with you now."

Stunned, I asked, "Is it because I'm a jerk?"

I tell you I get no respect.

Bada-boom!

While we're on the topic of really dumb comedy, nobody's dumber at comedy than lackluster stand-up comedian, Charlie Broadmoor (well, except for maybe me since I created him). Things go from crappy to sucktacular in a very quick and splatacular manner for poor Charlie when he accidentally heckles a demon during one of his routines. It's Demon with a Comb-Over available here!

 

Bubble Guts

I can always tell when my daughter's having a slow work day?

How?

Because I get the following text:

"Hey, Dad, have you ever heard of bubble guts?"

"No. What are they?"

"Look it up."

Sigh. So now she's got me hooked, an unwitting ally in her nefarious game. Just when I think I'm out, she draws me back in. As my fingers fly across the keyboard, I'm wondering what the elusive and mysterious "bubble guts" could be. What possible treasures of knowledge might it lead me to? Surely, for my daughter (and co-workers) to take time out of their busy work day to discuss bubble guts, it has to be something of such great import that it will lead to something to enrich my life! To improve the world!!!

Bring it on!

According to Ms. Wikipedia, bubble guts is a stomach rumble, also known as a bowel sound, peristaltic sound, abdominal sound, bubble gut or borborygmus, produced by movement of the contents of the gastro-intestinal tract as they are propelled through the small intestine.

Huh.

Furthermore, "the scientific name borborygmus is related to the 16th-century French word borborygme, itself from Latin." (Which doesn't tell me much except for borborygmus is taken very seriously by someone on Wikipedia and"bubble guts" is much easier to pronounce than "borborygmus.")

Okay. I now am aware of what bubble guts are. But honestly? I don't really feel my life is enriched all that much. And just why in the name of God did my daughter want me to look it up? And WHY were they discussing it at work?

She's not told me why, not yet, but I imagine the conversation went something like this:

"Oh, man, I've got bad bubble guts this morning," exclaims employee number one.

"What's bubble guts?" asks employee number two.

"I'm so glad you asked! Why, it's a stomach rumble, also known as a bowel sound, peristaltic sound, abdominal sound, bubble gut or borborygmus, bla, bla, bla..."

As I said, busy day at the work place.

But enough is enough. Why do we have an unpronounceable name for something that could just as easily be labeled as "gas?" And who gave it the "bubble guts" baby moniker? ("What's the matter, sweetums, has mommy's lil' baby gotums some bubble guts this morn-morn?") And not only is it taken seriously by the French, but dates back to Latin importance as well! That's a lotta high-falutin' involvement for gas!

Gah! Instead of enriching my life, it's just opened up a whole new world of mystery and unanswered questions.

I think I'll stick with "gas," thank you very much.

While I don't offer any books dealing with gas (and for that you should be very, very grateful), my character Zach (he of the Zach and Zora comical mystery series), is certainly full of hot air (see what I did there?). That is until he continually stumbles over dead bodies leading him into a world of trouble that only his sleuthing sister, Zora, can bail him out of. Check 'em out: Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and Murder by Massage. (More on the way soon!)

 

Chevy Chase Owes Me

The way I see it Chevy Chase owes me. In fact, he probably owes a lotta people. I mean he's never hurt me, not personally.

No, scratch that! He has hurt me personally and cost me financially.

Let's go ahead and jump into the Way-Back Machine for some perspective and background, shall we?

Our first stop is October 11, 1975, a Saturday night. Being unpopular as a kid meant I spent a LOT of time visiting with my one true faithful friend, the TV. I just left the TV on the NBC affiliate and let it ride (remember, this is back in the days of three--count 'em--three(!) TV stations, possibly four if the weather cooperated). Suddenly, a show came on that was unlike anything I'd ever witnessed before. There was a whole new and fresh vibe, a young person's comedy full of sarcasm and underlying anger. They showed commercials that had me stumped whether they were real or not. No canned laughter (which I'm still stunned that several shows still use today; Hello, CBS!). And best of all, they sometimes broke through the fourth wall to address that they were in a skit, something Green Acres would never attempt.

Hello, comedy that spoke to me; Goodbye, Hee-Haw and all the old fogey comedy it represented! I worshiped at the altar of Saturday Night Live.

And anchoring it all was a strangely smart alecky, deadpan, lanky comedian named Chevy Chase.

I was all in.

Well, Chase didn't last long on Saturday Night Live. At the beginning of the second season, he bolted for Ginormous-Mega-Movie-Super-Stardom, aka, "Big Head Syndrome." The writing was on the wall. If only my young naive self had been aware enough to read it and pay heed.

I championed Chase. No matter where he went, I followed. I'd brag to family and school acquaintances that he was the funniest guy working in entertainment and to catch his newest vehicle. Without seeing it first, that's how much I believed in him.

In 1977, he spat up a TV special. It guest-starred Tim Conway and Dr. Joyce Brothers. I thought, "Wait a minute...what happened to the new-fangled cutting edge satire? These are...my grandma's guest stars!" Chevy made "funny faces" while wearing mime make-up and sticking his tongue out. Ha ha. It took him all of a year to sell out to The Man. Mortified, the next day I made the rounds apologizing to everyone to whom I recommended this epic disaster.

But I thought it was a one off! A bad day for Chevy! Undeterred, I continued to follow his career.

First we had Foul Play, a "rom com" with Goldie Hawn. While this is considered to be one of his "better" movies, I felt ripped off and left with a feeling of "meh-ness." Chase wasn't even acting, just coasting at best.

A year or so later, I found out he was starring in Oh, Heavenly Dog. Alongside "Benji (Now, again, for you whippersnappers, Benji was a dog that starred in several family films. Don't ask me why.)" But I thought, surely he'll make it into a subversive satire. Again, I dragged a buddy off to the theater. It was a short-lived friendship.

Now I hear some of you shouting, "Hey, what about National Lampoon's Vacation, Caddyshack, and Fletch?" Well...Vacation has some good stuff in it, but is uneven; Caddyshack was woefully stupid and childish (my date liked it if that tells you anything about her), and Fletch was...insufferable. Kinda like how I was beginning to feel about Chevy Chase.

I mean, really, can one base a movie career on smirking, shameless mugging and smarminess?

Yet, call me a half-glass full kinda guy, I followed Chevy through Under the Rainbow (Fun fact! The diminutive co-stars in this rotten comedy about the making of Wizard of Oz had a non-stop Bacchanalian orgy going on behind the scenes! The more you know!), Modern Problems (Not a single laugh to be grasped), Deal of the Century (No, God, why me?), European Vacation (Wake me when it's over!), Spies Like Us (THIS is a movie?), and the list goes on and on.

I drew the line at Follow That Bird, the heartwarming tale of a giant, intellectually-challenged, baby-man-bird getting lost far from home.

Enough was enough. I'd thrown down a small fortune banking on Chase's "talents" at the box office, lost many friends over the cinematic atrocities I'd dragged them to, and had many, many one-date-onlies due to his crimes against moviedom.

He owes me. Big time.

But it doesn't stop with me. Apparently, Chase is quite the jackass, alienating coworkers left and right. That's why they killed him off on the TV show, Community. He'd publicly bashed the show, saying he didn't think it was funny. This coming from the man who thinks mugging and buck teeth are a laugh riot.

In a recent interview, Chase said "I don't give a crap about how I've acted on shows. I am who I am."

There you have it in a nutshell. As I grew up suffering through Chase's "output," it slowly dawned on me that he didn't "give a crap" about what he churned out, thinking so little of his audience that he'd put out anything for a buck. 

I guess there's kinda a happy ending. Because of his jackass reputation, Chase went into straight-to-video pablum (the "Eric Roberts of Comedy") to hardly finding any work.

He still owes me. Anyone else? How about a class action suit?

While we're on the topic of "comedy" and substandard practitioners of the genre, have you heard the one about middling (at best) stand-up comic, Charlie Broadmoor, and how he displayed the poor judgement to heckle a demon in his audience? No? Well, here's your chance! Demon With a Comb-Over available here!

 

The Self-Preservation of Running Away

Fighting sucks.

I don't care how cool, bad-ass, or "romantic" movie tough guys make it look, but it's pretty much the epitome of uncool.

Not that I've been in that many fights. Most of my so-called "fights" were with my brother, one where I gave him a blue ear and he gave me a fat lip all transpiring on our iced over driveway one morning before high school. And, of course, there have been the requisite fights with friends, but that usually involved copious amounts of alcohol, so those really don't count. Oh, and how could I forget getting punched by school bullies for being overweight or "different." But I'd hardly call those fights, as one-sided as they were.

It's weird, really. Guys are brought up to envy all of the tough guys in movies, the kind that sew up their own wounds without even flinching. (Yeah, right; digging a splinter out is agonizing enough.) My so-called "friends" in high school were a bunch of knuckleheads who thought it was really cool to get in fights with strangers. They saw it as a sort of rite of passage into manhood. Or something. I remember hearing about one tale where they got into a huge, massive knock-down drag-out in a pizza parlor parking lot. Fun! Glad I didn't attend that night's festivities.

In college, I found some more like-minded individuals who also thought fighting was stupid and, well...you know, could be considered dangerous. Except there's always that ONE guy who's looking to fight. Once we were in a small town bar and a burly local yokel bought us a round of milk. Most of us went along with the joke at our youthful expense, tipping our glasses toward him, and chugging it. Then our one acquaintance clenched his fists and said, "C'mon, let's go get him."

Well, no. Why put yourself into the path of danger over a dumb glass of milk?

So, our acquaintance called us a bunch of "pussies" and chose not to hang out with us very much after that. Which was fine with me.

The one thing tough guy fighting movies fails to teach young men is that when you hit someone, it definitely doesn't sound like a firecracker report. I remember the first time I threw an admittedly weak punch at some kid on the playground, the resultant expected CRACK never ensued. More like kinda a weak OOF or worse, a dull THUD. So in shock was I over my lack of soundtrack, the other guy took advantage and pummeled me. Lesson learned!

So, my next tactic at dealing with avoiding fights was to try and talk my way out of it. That never worked out so well. Actually, in defending a friend three times, I've been cold-cocked and knocked out, thrown out of a bar where I landed on my chin and required stitches, and tossed out of another bar. Once again, I learned a valuable lesson: apparently my golden gift of gab is highly overrated in my eyes. Or more than likely, I'm just one of those guys that other guys want to punch.

And one other thing bad-ass battle movies fails to portray realistically is that these altercations are rarely actually "fights." You remember how Clint and Charles (or Jason and Vin for you youngsters) would trade blows back and forth with a worthy foe until good ultimately won out after twenty minutes or so? Remember those fights? Well, they're one big damn lie! Fights are always--ALWAYS--one-sided, with the brute (always my opponent) wailing on the underdog (always my position) relentlessly until the loser (moi) lays in a broken, bleeding heap. And it's usually so fast, that it's over in the blink of an eye or until bouncers or whoever intervenes.

Where's the "romance" in that, would-be tough guys?

Either way, my fighting days are at an end. The only safe way to handle a fight is to run away. And, there's the rub. Now that I'm old and fat, my running days are pretty much over, too. (Pretty sure my bar-going days are a thing of the past, too. Not hard during a pandemic.)

So, kids! And adults who never grew up! Heed my words! Your movies are built on a foundation of lies, as far removed from reality as politics today (and in many ways, its pretty much the same thing). Don't give into the fists. It's much better to be considered a "pussy" than end up in the hospital and/or jail.

You've got a lot to answer for, Clint and Charles (and Jason and Vin and...)!

While on the topic of tough guys, my anti-hero, Leon Garber, from my Killers Incorporated trilogy, is by no means a traditional "tough guy." Instead he chooses to kill people by using his wits and a minimum of physical exertion. (Okay, fine, there IS the whole thing about killing people, but at least he picks off despicable, evil victims.). Find out more, right abouuuuuuuut...HERE! 

 

The Sporting Way

The nature of high school sports has changed since I was in school. (Not that I ever participated--oh, hell no!--but I've observed things.) 

My nephew plays freshman basketball in Oklahoma. Recently, they played out a tournament where they got trounced. My mother-in-law sat at ringside, keeping us posted of the slaughter via texts. When my nephew finally chimed in, he said the other team had a guard that was just killing them.

Here's why...

 Now, recruiting has been going on in high school sports for some time, nothing new there. But when they start recruiting adult athletes from the pros and college teams? C'mon!

"He's big for his age," the coach might say in a local press conference. "Um...and...he got held back a couple years."

A good dozen, maybe.

My nephew explained it that because of Covid, the opposing team had to put in seniors to replace the ailing underclassmen. At least that's the official line, wink, wink. All's fair in sports and Covid, right?

It's like David and Goliath, only this time David got thoroughly trounced.

Bad influence uncle that I am, I told my nephew to "Tonya Harding the guard's kneecaps." Sports, right? My mother-in-law jumped on me and said that even when my nephew's team accidentally knocked down an opposing player, they'd help them up.

Huh.

From all the action photos my nephew has showed me, he thoroughly enjoys feeding elbow to the other team. Maybe he'd been on good behavior that day since grandma was in the house.

Anyway, this isn't an isolated incident...

Meet Antonio. 

That's Antonio lurking over his teammates. Antonio's a foreign exchange student who can't speak a word of English. Talk about culture shock: Antonio's still probably dazed by being plucked out of his country and dropped into the Midwest. (I wonder how the coach communicates with Antonio...but it probably doesn't take much to pantomime putting the ball into the hoop and SLAUGHTER!).

Judging by the looks of Antonio's mustache and height (not to mention he's as wide as a house), I'd say the other team's star player is pushing late 20's. But, hey, I'm sure he's getting good grades in Oklahoma.

What's it all mean? I dunno. But clearly, "bad sportsmanship" isn't relegated to just the "pro" coaches and agents any longer.

While on the topic of the underdog facing overwhelming odds, pity poor Leon Garber who has the police, sanctioned hit men, various serial killers, and the ex-company he used to work for all after him. Really, all Leon wants to do is scratch that itch by killing bad guys. It's complicated. But uncomplicate things by checking out the first book in the Killers Incorporated trilogy, Secret Society!