Stuart R. West's Blog, page 29

My Adventures with Whizzo the Clown

Growing up in Kansas City, I watched "Whizzo the Clown" at every opportunity. The Midwest's answer to Bozo the Clown (he of the frightening four-foot wide perf), Whizzo amused my childish sensibilities with his outlandish antics and silly slapstick. Viewing him through an adult's eyes, it's a more terrifying experience, somewhat akin to watching a manic man suffering an on-air mental breakdown, complete with floppy feet-shoes, a pizza-large hat, a bag of tricks, and non-stop gibberish.

First things first, I've never really liked clowns. Not that I'm scared of them (even though they are creepy). No, I just never found them funny. In fact, more often than not, I felt sorry for them. My first visit to the circus, a clown lost his pants. I was mortified for him. My fellow classmates were busting a gut, while I, sensitive soul that I am, felt extreme empathy for his pantsless humiliation. (Been there, done that...story for another time).

So... It wasn't until my family took me to the same circus, when the clown AGAIN lost his pants, that I forced out guffaws. I finally understood. Clowns were supposed to be funny. Even though they're not.

That's when I embraced Whizzo. I didn't consider him overly hilarious, but wanted to be his best friend. Take him out for a soda and pizza. Maybe tell him to tone it down a little bit, because he was always shouting, stuttering, flabbergasted, and running around at a Three Stooges-on-speed pace.

I begged my mom to take me to  Whizzo's show. Instead I got stuck with being on "Torey Time," an insipid show about an adult in a pork-pie hat and his hand puppet pal, "Ol' Gus." Only thing good about it was "Gus" and he didn't even show up for the show. They told us he'd be put in later. RIP-OFF!
Anyway, after that traumatic event, I had to settle for being a member of the cheap-jack "Whizzo's Birthday Club." Basically, this amounted to a paper membership card supposedly signed by Whizzo himself. No cake, no gifts, nothing. RIP-OFF NUMBER TWO!
At this time in my childhood, I'd pretty much decided to leave my relationship with Whizzo behind. Besides I started noticing girls ("Gosh, she sure has a nice smile."). And so it went for many, many years, until suddenly, through fate's sense of whimsy and irony...Whizzo entered my life again.

One of my first post-college jobs was at a small public relations firms (RIP-OFF TO ALL OF OUR CLIENTS!). My boss told me that tomorrow I'd be driving around a celebrity to several publicity interviews.

"Who's the celebrity?" I asked.

"Whizzo the Clown," she said.

Huh.

"Whizzo can't drive because of his huge feet," my boss explained further, like this was not uncommon.
So, absolutely not knowing what to expect, I fired up my Celica, and picked up Whizzo. A small car, we had a hard time leveraging Whizzo into the passenger seat. Damn floppy feet almost didn't make it, let alone that pizza hat, frilly collar, and baggy pants. And his big bag of props. (Then again, I suspected all clowns were contortionists, having been trained properly with clown cars).

Good Gawd, I thought, is he gonna be honking his horn and whacking me with his "Hissy the Goose" prop the entire day?

But instead of belting out his voice-hoarsening non-stoop shtick, he was a relatively reserved and lovely man. He introduced himself, we shook hands (no joy buzzer), and he maintained an indoors voice. 

Real name Frank Wiziarde, he'd grown up performing different acts in his family's small traveling circus, until he developed the Whizzo character in the '50's. I had no idea he still had an active television show. 

We talked a bit more, then Whizzo cracked the window and reached into his suitcase of tricks. Instead of a rubber chicked, he pulled out a package of cigarettes.

"Mind if I smoke, Stuart?" he asked.

Actually, I did, but that's not what I told him. "No, go right ahead."

He did, man, did he ever. A chimney, he'd stop only to hack and hawk loogies out the window. Once, while idling at a stoplight in downtown, a couple of teenagers crossed in front of us. They pulled a clown-worthy double-take at Whizzo riding shot-gun in my dirt and rust-covered Celica. Quickly, Whizzo lowered his cigarette, jabbed it into the ashtray. Then he smiled and waved frantically at the lookie-loos who waved back, their smiles nearly as big.

When the light turned green, he fired up another cigarette. He turned to me and said, "Can't have fans seeing Whizzo smoke." He grinned, chuckled, and coughed.

At the first radio station, I escorted Whizzo inside where quiet (TOO quiet) introductions were made. Once the lights struck and the "quiet" sign lit, Whizzo was on! His voice amped up several decibels, he shouted and spat his way through nonstop nonsense that was exhausting to listen to. Yet as I watched him, I grinned just like everyone else in the studio.

I forgot what he was promoting (some charity, I believe), but Whizzo was a true showman in every sense and restored my lost childhood faith in him. Sadly, he died several years later, but I'm sure he's madly racing around that big three-ring circus in the sky.

Meeting him--finally--was definitely NOT A RIP-OFF!

Speaking of clown make-up, check out the frightening make-up on the cover of the just rereleased final book in my Secret Society trilogy, Killer King. Maybe this will tip those straddling the line of Coulrophobia over into an unhealthy fear of clowns!

The S&M Comedy Agony of Lucille Ball

Lucille Ball was a sadist. Maybe a masochist, I'm not sure.

Wait, wait, wait, hear me out before you start lobbing tomatoes at me. Sure, I know she's a national treasure and all, but I've done some extensive research into the matter and am a professional expert on the topic, possibly one of the foremost experts in the country with outstanding credentials to show for it.

For you see...*sniff*...I watch a lot of TV.

Best to start at the beginning. I grew up watching a lotta Lucy on TV. In fact, Lucy raised me as I suckled from the glass teat of an old black and white television. Reruns of I Love Lucy always drew me in and once started, I couldn't look away. It was like watching a train wreck.

Instead of laughing at Lucy's wacky antics, I cringed. I felt pity for her weekly plights of mishaps, her traumatic escapades. Who can forget the horrific conveyor belt tragedy at the chocolate factory, the episode where Lucy was hired to make chocolates and everything accelerated beyond her control. By the end of the show, when she released her trademark "WAHHHHHHH," I felt like crying with her. I just never enjoyed laughing at others' mishaps and embarrassments.
Honestly, I'd thought I was alone in this feeling, but when I met my wife, we shared similar reactions. Sometimes, comedy is unbearable. We call it the "Lucille Ball Factor."

Yet, most comedy is based on sadism, the pleasure of watching someone's wacky downfall. (Ho, those nutty, nutty {pun entirely unintentional} injury to the groin scenes, just can't get enough of 'em!) From the early days of Charlie Chaplin being tortured by modern machinery to the cringe-inducing embarrassment of watching the characters on, say, The Office, make asses of themselves, it's really hard to witness some times.

I suppose there's something to be said about "schadenfreude," the pleasure of watching someone else fail. I'm not beyond or above that sensation. For years, I enjoyed watching several monsters fall from grace during my horrible tour of duty on the front-lines of the corporate cog. But when the characters are empathetic, like poor, long-time suffering Lucille Ball, I draw the line in the sand. No more.

Someone told me the only way to get through President Trump's daily idiotics is to just regard them as comedy. Wise man. And if that's the case, I'm really looking forward to a huge heapin' helping of schadenfreude where he's concerned.
So, to sum up my long-winded treatise, yes, Lucy was a sadist. Why else subject the world to the film version of Mame? Probably more likely a masochist, though. Otherwise, why put up with Desi Arnaz's philandering ways?
"Babaloooooooo!"

Speaking of the dark side of comedy and all things corporate, my blackly comic horror opus, Corporate Wolf , features quite a bit of everything covered above. To the extreme. Don't take my word for it. It can be had HERE. Attendance is mandatory and you will be tested later.

Crime in our Time of Quarantine

The other day my wife tore herself away from perusing the latest electronic headlines with a gasp. "I can't believe it," she said.

Used to our president's daily cup of lunacy, I sighed, replied, "What's he done now?"

"No, for once it's not him," she said with a head shake. "Even during this pandemic, people are still shooting each other."

My wife is one of the last truly noble idealists. 

But I'm not. It all made perfect sense to me. It took all of my control not to go over there, muss up her hair, and give a Mr. Cleaver condescending "don't-worry-your-pretty-lil-head, June" chuckle over it all. (But I knew better...besides, now would be the absolute WORST time to end up in the hospital with a head concussion.)

For you see, an increase in crime during the quarantine makes perfect sense to me.

I ticked off the reasons. "Law enforcement is thinly stretched and I would imagine taking precautions themselves, thus hindering their ability to perform to the best of their abilities. Also, since most employees are at home now, places are ripe to be robbed. Crooks can just break into a bank, no security guards, no risk of getting shot. And criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot...wait, that's "Batman"...I mean, crooks are predators."

As she thought about it, I could see her unflagging faith in the over-all goodness of humanity dim a bit. "Yeah...I suppose. And with everyone wearing masks, it's harder to identify them. Plus, they have an excuse to wear gloves, so no fingerprints."
(If my wife ever decided to go over to the dark side, she'd make a great criminal mastermind with her devious mind.)

Further case in point, recently my daughter sent me a list of scams taking advantage of the ongoing pandemic. There are stimulus check scams: these scumbags are asking for bank and personal information or even going as far as to ask for a fee! Honestly, unless your personal check has the Orange One's personal signature on it (along with an accompanying orange Dorito make-up thumb-print), it ain't kosher.

Scammers are also imitating health organizations and selling fake supplies and/or once again, asking for personal financial information. There are charity scams, hospital and provider scams, the list goes on and on.

This is truly vile and reprehensible behavior. I mean, daring and ingenious heists are one thing, but this? Taking advantage of a world's collective fear is beyond even an Ocean's 11 type of starry-eyed, Hollywood-styled romance.

I've even heard fear-mongers discussing the possibility of the United States adversaries taking advantage of our vulnerability during this time.

America's leadership isn't helping. Our commander-in-chief is so busy covering his own arse, he's creating his self-created "fake news" by making up stories daily and pointing fingers at everyone except for himself, blaming the virus on China, Democrats, Obama, journalists, and...oh, I dunno...the movie Cats, maybe?
Enough! White flag waving! 

On the other hand, I hear a lot about the generosity of many people from all walks of life. Millionaires donating scads of money (hear that, Trump?). Poor people volunteering to help. Communities coming together, supporting, and helping to bring food to the elderly. People are lining up in the streets (taking necessary precautions, natch) and applauding the brave health-care givers at the ends of grueling shifts. Likewise, this list of kindness goes on and on.

Maybe my wife has the right idea after all.

Be safe. More importantly, be kind.

(Week five of captivity and bored outta my gourd! Who woulda ever thought eating, drinking, and binging Netflix could get so boring? Somebody take Tiger King...please!)

Everyone's New Favorite Hobby: Voyeurism!

In the great 'tine of 2020, I would imagine I'm not the only one who's taken up the fine art of what I like to call watching the neighbors. However, my wife refers to it as spying or worse, voyeurism.

Let me clarify something... I've pretty much been a voyeur for the last eight years, the length of time I've been working from home. Nothing happens in my 'hood without me knowing about it. And I've seen some really interesting things. There was the goth daughter of "Captain America" who used to secretly smoke at the back of the house. One day I waved at her and she flew into full-on panic mode. (Like I'd ever rat her out to "Captain America". Couldn't stand the guy with his outdoor Neil Diamond sing-alongs and grill daddying.)

There was the ludicrous neighbor who used to take his beer cans into the street, spread 'em out, then drive back and forth over them in his pick-'em-up truck. Keep in mind this was before recycling. His huge-ass grin kinda explained it all.

Then there was the huge-ass blow-out I witnessed (aurally, not visually) by the neighbors catty-corner to the back of our house. The husband came home midday to find his wife in the arms of another man. Things got heated and loud. And I scribbled down notes, fodder for a future book.
Of course I wrote an entire book about the weird, mysterious and rude neighbors across the street, Neighborhood Watch . You'll have to read it to find out their story. (Coda: after the book came out, the dreaded neighbors packed up in the middle of the night and left, leaving behind all of their belongings. No one knows why and no one's seen nor heard from them again.)
Now everyone's catching up to my hobby, including my wife. While she's not really people watching, she is spending time looking out the upstairs window. In the past, we've had quite a few varmints pass through our Kansas suburban backyard in the past: a great granddaddy of opossums who liked to stay out all night and crawl beneath our deck in the mornings; squirrels that attack by throwing acorns when we leave the house; birds who just love to use my car and deck for target practice; bunnies (my wife's bane) who devour the garden; and a mysterious creature that leaves huge piles of scat at the bottom of our walk-out basement (a bear, gotta be a bear, based on the size of the pile. One with a sense of mischievous humor).

But I digress. Last week, my wife's in her upstairs office, supposedly working, but in actuality gazing out the window into the neighbor's yard. She pounds down the stairs and in a hushed voice, tells me to come quickly. In the neighbor's yard sat a large, horned owl. Just hanging out in a tree staring at us. Tossing some of that voyeurism right back our way. And if you've ever had a stare-down with an owl (with those large terrifying, unblinking orbs of eyes), it's no contest which species always wins.


And a lil white baby owl!Stranger yet, it's broad daylight. A portentous omen? A sign of luck? Or one goofy owl who can't tell time.

Anyway, my wife claims there was a smaller one hanging out with it earlier, but I never saw the two. Just that big large dude with the unblinking gaze into my soul.

What's the point of all of this? I dunno. Maybe nature's looking right back at us during the 2020 'tine.

But in lock-down, there's not a whole lot else to do. Who would have ever imagined watching movies, reading books, drinking beer, and overeating would ever get boring? 

I've read we're supposed to shut off the idiot box and take up a hobby. Enjoy real life. Enjoy the outdoors.

That's what I'm doing! Enjoying "real life" and the outdoors through the wide-screen bay window of my house! MUCH better than TV. (Pass the popcorn and crack open the beer! I'm not sure I recognize that new car in front of the randy nurses' house!).
Week four of captivity...

Stay safe.

Trump's Feel-Good, Down-Home, Ol'-Fashioned Remedy!

"Step right up, ladies and germs (wait, too soon?) for Donald Trump's amazing fix-it, feel-good, down-home remedy for curing that nasty ol' virus! Yes, sir, one small glass of this amazing concoction will do you up right, made you whole again! Better than snake oil, more effective than leeches, I'm talkin' a' course about Donald Trump's Lysol! Who would like to sample just a taste of this do-it-all miracle drink? How 'bout you, sir? No? What about you, madam? It's gonna be...great. It's gonna be...fantastic."

Okay, you get the idea. Yep, our president made the colossally bone-headed, extremely dangerous, absolutely unfounded, foot-in-mouth recommendation that we start injecting disinfectants. By Trump's clearly scientific standards, this means meth addicts have already got a foot up in the fight against COVID 19.

Wow, just...wow. Thank God Clorox, Lysol and other corporate Gods stepped up quickly and told everyone to not do what the president suggested.

But Trump's got his followers (although, really? Still?), so it's no surprise there was a huge uptick in sales of major disinfectants following Trump's suggestion. But, oh what a fickle world politics is, Trump has now turned his back on his Trumpites and refused to accept responsibility for the surge in popularity of disinfectants. There hasn't been a clear number of fatalities due to this major Trumplosion, but I'm sure they've occurred.

Backpedal, Trump, backpedal like the wind! Now he says it was "sarcasm." Hmmm...didn't sound like it to me. And even if it was meant to be sarcastic, I'm kinda thinking what you all are: sarcasm is exactly what I look for in a leader, right?

Trump's cabinet members (Fox newscasters?) have warned him to stop going off page with his shoot first, duck later comments. How'd he respond? "Fine, these briefings are a big waste of time anyway. I'm taking my disinfectants and going home!"

Ooh. How so...so...*swoon*...presidential.

I'm reminded of two people: 1) the aforementioned snake oil salesman; 2) the late (not so great) Reverend Jim Jones. As everyone (excluding some millenials--Hey, it's sarcasm!) knows, Jones was a crazy-ass religious zealot in the jungle of Guyana who coerced 909 followers to drink the poison Kool-Aid. Sound familiar?
But what do I know? To try to make some sense of the post-Trump world, I took it out on my characters and stories in my collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley . Things get kooky (but I'm kinda thinking "kooky" is the new "normal").
 

Health PSA From My Daughter!

My daughter works in a small Kansas town bank.

Today, on her facebook feed, she posted this:


PSA: Microwaving cash does not stop the spread of Corona. Actually that's the worst possible thing you could do while at home. Don't do it. That is all.

This PSA has been brought to you by things people have actually done.
Okay, constantly I'm mind-boggled by the utter cluelessness of people. My daughter said that things didn't turn out so well for her customer who said she had done this. (And there were even more customers bringing her the same lame-brain, microwavable pandemic fix-it-all).
In fact, it blows my mind when I consider how far some people will go to microwave various items.

A friend of mine had a post-college girlfriend. Yet, on day, she was mysteriously wasn't present. I said, "everything okay in La-La Land?"

He rolled his eyes, told me she'd blown up her kitchen.

"What???"

"She didn't know foil was metal. I asked her, 'what do you think foil's made of?' She said, 'How was I supposed to know aluminum is metal?'"

La-La Land died a quick death after this encounter.

But, wait! It doesn't stop there! (The less said about a cat in a microwave the better.)

I hear you saying, "Well this is all nice and fine, Stuart, but surely there are some things people wouldn't microwave...like a lava lamp."

Au contraire! Some enterprising hipster slacker did just do that! I suppose he wanted to turn his microwave on with some decorating.
CD's, spray paint, a watermelon (which admittedly looks pretty cool exploding inside a microwave), gummy bears, a light bulb, chewing gum, soap, a highlighter, a phone, a Furby (my personal favorite; this evil entity should be microwaved everywhere), and, um, a dildo have all been victims to the microwaving craze. Someone even found a way to microwave a microwave! Talk about "meta."
SO...during your Coronacation, I hope I've given you all food for thought and some fun things to try when you get bored! But wouldn't it be safer if you picked up a book? Hey, just so happens I've written 23 of 'em. WHICH CAN BE FOUND HERE!


 

The Most Dangerous Woman in Kansas

I walked into my mom's apartment with my customary greeting, expecting to hear sighs of ill health. The way we roll. "Hey, Mom, how're you doing?"

Instead, my mom backed away. "Stop. Stay where you are." Hand out, like some kind of cop or something.

"Why?" I worry she might be sick. "Is something wrong?"

"No, but I'm dangerous!"

Now there are many words to describe my mother, but "dangerous" wouldn't top anyone's list. Well, except for the fact she still thinks Trump is a wonderful, "God-fearing" leader. And, let's not forget when she was still driving past her expiration date, Mr. Magoo-ing her way through orange cones and stop signs. I'm sure she was pretty dangerous then.

But now?

I had no choice but to play along. "Okay, Mom...why are you dangerous?"

"Because it's what everyone keeps telling me. About this virus."

Well. First thing's first, she doesn't really see or talk to anyone. Who are these mysterious people proclaiming her dangerous?

"Mom, you're not dangerous."

"But it's what everyone keeps telling me!" She shakes her head, ticked off that I'm not getting it.

"You're vulnerable, not dangerous!" I raise my voice to get my message across loud and clear. Hard of hearing that she is, I repeat it three times.

"You don't have to yell at me, Stuart!"

But I kinda do since she refuses to get a hearing aid. "Mom...you're considered elderly which makes you more vulnerable right now. I'm probably in that category, too, now. That's what 'they' mean."

Still shaking her head, she's not gonna budge. "Everyone says I'm dangerous, Stuart. You just don't get it." 

I get that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, so I'm just gonna live with having a dangerous mom.

Be careful out there, folks. And if you see my mom coming...RUN!

In fact, why not "run" safely to Amazon, and check out the new rerelease of the final book in my Secret Society serial killer, darkly comic thriller series, Killer King , put out by those fine folks at Crossroads Press? Go on...I'll wait for you right here.

How Not to Murder Your Spouse while Quarantined

My wife's under the impression that during our current time of quarantine, there will be a huge explosion of babies come January and February.

I beg to differ. Not even having completed our first week of being quarantined, I believe that spouse murder will be on the uprise in the near future. But fear not, for I have an easy plan to guarantee you stay out of jail, as long as you adhere to my rules! (Hell, I might even throw in a free, used Popeil Pocket Fisherman.)

1) Get a safe or panic room. Okay, maybe you can't afford one (or perhaps no one's willing to come out and install it these days). Barring that, double-check to make sure the lock on your bathroom works. Men, I'm aiming this one primarily at you, as we all love a good peaceful sit-down.

2) Separate your work spaces. So, when we moved my wife's office home, we ended up on our dualing computers, sitting across from one another. Cute...for five minutes. That's when I made the decision to work exclusively on my laptop downstairs and she could have the top floor.

3) Hide all sharp cutlery. This isn't particularly a problem at our house as most of my knives from my bachelor days wouldn't cut through hot butter. Of course, this could lead to an even more grueling death if bludgeoning seems the method of choice.

4) Load up on alcohol. A must! And, apparently, you all agree with me, as booze sales are skyrocketing. Right now, WalMart's stock is thriving because they're the one-stop shop: booze, toilet paper, candy, and hand sanitizer, something for the whole family!

5) Drink lots of alcohol. (This step should be self-explanatory). 

 6) When in doubt, bake it out! Yep, instead of fighting or blowing a gasket over some dumb little irritant, go bake brownies. Your spouse will appreciate it immensely.

7) Read! E-books are cheap, you don't have to go anywhere to get them. So shut off the damn TV and open a book.

8) At the end of the day, greet your spouse back from a hard day at the office (okay that last part is "pretend," but it works!). Don't forget to love them, make them feel welcome, kiss them, hold their hands (after proper sanitation, natch), and take a walk.

There you have it! Your Stay-Outta-Jail card! I swan, I really should be charging you guys for this.

Be careful out there.

Hey speaking of ebooks, did you know I have a ton of 'em available at Amazon and other fine ebookeries? No? Huh. I can't believe I've neglected to let everyone know! Well, check 'em out, fine entertainment to take your mind off reality for a while: http://bit.ly/StuartRWestBooks

Fester's Party Barn

Hey-ho, something different this week at Twisted Tales as I hand the reins over to guest blogger, friend, and sister-in-law, Julie Pederson McQueen. Why am I doing this? Because I found her recounting of a recent family vacation horrifying and hilarious, the way we like things around here. (Oh! And because the last time I tried to keep up drinking with Julie, I ended up with a broken leg! That's the kinda gal she is, just sayin'!). Take it away, Julie...
So as I sit here, self quarantining with my family, it reminds me of another time that I went through hell...enter "Fester’s Party Barn," located in Piedmont, Oklahoma. Friends had told us of the fun and charm of this "quaint" tourist trap, so we loaded up the family. But wait...let’s start at the very beginning. First, it’s 98 degrees out & WINDY.  Second, the drive, the endless, torturous drive! Picture this: happy family on an October day heading out on an adventure to the pumpkin patch, anticipating the petting zoo, hayride, big slide, oh my! And of course, pumpkins!!! What could be more fun?!?! Turns out, staying at home.
Fester's Party Barn is in nowhere land. We get lost and the boys start complaining. We, being parents, threaten to “TURN THIS CAR AROUND AND GO BACK HOME!” If only we had done that. However, on the wings of a prayer and dumb luck, we finally arrive at Fester’s Party Barn with excitement in our minds and our hearts. So I’ve mentioned it’s October, time for Halloween, but it’s 98° outside and incredibly windy. Upon arrival, my husband and I, paste on our excited faces, and rouse the troops by shouting, “Yay! Come on, we get a free pumpkin, there’re animals to see, a hayride, a corn maze, and a big slide! Let’s go!!!” We forge ahead, fighting the winds of the plains. We may as well have been singing, “OooooOklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!” Parking far away, we enter the (according to friends) beloved Fester‘s Party Barn. 
At the ticket booth, we discover our Groupon (yes, I said Groupon) doesn’t work. The accommodating clerk gets us the nice fat discount anyway. Good thing, too, because after it was all said and done, it should’ve been free. First stop at Fester's is the “petting zoo”. So two minutes in there, yeah we’re done, let’s move along. There's hand sanitizer at every stop, which might've been our first clue. (Keep in mind, this is before Corona virus time.) So we move past the petting zoo and look at the other animals--donkeys, horses--Really, I'm not sure what they were because I think I blocked it out.  Next, we head to the refreshment/gift shop area for room temperature waters all around! I did mention it was like 98° right? Anyhoo, with brave parent faces strapped on, we say, "Hey, let’s do the hayride! Because it takes us to the corn maze that leads us to the big giant super duper slide!” We get on said hay ride, sans the hay, and we’re sitting on benches. A cyclone of wind  carries my husband's hat away.  Apparently, we'd been through a drought, so the corn maze is chest high for the boys, at best.  We wave at each other in the next rows, say, "hello, whatever." My husband, ever the cheerleader, rallies with, “It’s gonna be all right guys, come on we can do it, the big slide is ahead!” The “big slide" isn't so big, the size of the slide I had on my jungle gym when I was five. Our older boy was good sport enough to go down it even though he rode down it with his arms crossed, looking really annoyed. It was awesome. That was the best part. 


Then we got back on the wagon ride (no hay, remember?), went back through the nonsense to pick out our free pumpkin, the choices about the size of my hand. At this point, everyone's cranky. The boys were like, “I don’t even want a pumpkin!” I was kind of the same but trying to salvage a little bit of adulthood so I wouldn’t leave my husband alone in his attempts at fun, but the rest of us were done. We put our “pumpkins” in the back of the car--because the cup holders were full--and drove home in silence. 
Hey, guys and gals and monsters, it's me again, the usual author of this blog. While we're all hunkered down, trying to avoid the Vile-Cooties, and what-not, take back to reading. Your eyeballs ain't gonna like staring at a telephone and/or TeeVee screen for too long. Here're my (ahem) totally non-biased recommendations: http://bit.ly/StuartRWestBooks















 

The Lost Art of Hand-Holding

Okay, these days nobody wants to hold hands (or touch anyone else) due to a certain pesky virus that's sweeping the world. (But don't worry...just like all of you, I'm sick of hearing about CV and you won't be reading about it here!).

No, what I'm talking about is hand holding between couples. These days, it's rare to see couples strolling along and holding hands. And I know why this is...it's because their hands are always busy playing with their gawd-damn smart phones!

My wife and I are dedicated hand-holders. Whenever we walk in public we're attached at the hands. However, I've noticed a disturbing shift lately in how we're perceived.

I brought it to my wife's attention...

"You know...it used to be when we held hands in public, people would smile at us, their message clear: 'Sigh.  Ain't love grand?' But now, everyone's smiling at us in a different way."

"Really?" she said.

"Yeah. Now, it's like sadness behind batted eyes, saying, 'look at the cute old folks in love.'"

"Nooooooooo!"

Yes, it's true. We now garner attention like tiny puppies instead of big, galloping, romancing horses.

The odd thing is, I don't ever remember holding my first wife's hand. Hand-holding's not everyone's cuppa joe. It got me thinking...where in the world did this practice start? It's hard to imagine cavemen holding hands. And if you swing that way, I imagine Eve grabbed Adam by the hand and pulled him toward that forbidden fruit, natch. But, where, oh where did this quaint custom start....?

Frankly, my usually competent research assistant, Ms. Google, let me down. However, she did uncover a few interesting facts:

*In the Chapel of St. Morrell in Leicestershire, England, archaeologists found a pair of skeletons who had been holding hands for 700 years! Now, that's commitment!


 *According to the "Touch Research Institute (and I wonder how hard it'd be to get a job there?)," holding hands stimulates the "vagus nerve" which decreases blood pressure and heart rate and puts people in a more relaxed state. (Vagus, of course, being Latin for "vague," kinda like this study, I think.)

*President (Junior) Bush caught some flack for holding hands with the crown prince of Saudi Arabia in 2005. The photo's just adorbs! I never thought lil' Bush had it in him, to be all touchy-feely. It must've killed him inside.

So, get out there, kick start your "vagus nerve," drop the damn phone, already, and grab your partner's hand. You'll feel better for it (unless you're Pres George W. Bush).

Speaking of ancient skeletons and buried secrets, come visit Gannaway, Kansas. Sure, it's a highly toxic area due to the abundant chat piles gathered from mining, and alright, the town's had its fair share of evil and murder, and okay, okay, okay, there is the small matter of ghosts running about, but hey, the Gannaway Bureau of Tourism has a pretty thankless job these days. Ask for Ghosts of Gannaway by name!