Stuart R. West's Blog, page 54

The Judas Ant

I don't care how many CGI kiddy movies are made about ants, they're not cute. All wiggly limbs and creepy-crawly.
Especially since we have a weird infestation in our bathroom. It's not like we eat in there. But, suddenly, they're crawling the walls. It's like a crappy Syfy movie, "Antacula Vs. Toiletsaurus."

So I went to our local hardware megastore. It's an extremely overwhelming gigantic place, especially for a mechanical dolt like myself. My idea of being handy around the house is operating the TV remote (and that can be quiet taxing since we have about six remotes for one set-up).

I wandered the aisles until someone finally took pity on me and then redirected me toward the "pesticide expert." Which is kind of mind-boggling. Just how many "experts" do they have running around in that store? 

When I told the guy my problem, he offered me a malicious grin. Said, "Got just the thing for ya. Kill 'em good and dead." (Like there's any other way to kill them. "Dead," I mean, not "good.") Then he dragged his finger across his throat, accompanied by a "Kkkkkkkk." Sort of an insect sound in itself. No wonder he's the bug expert.

"Ant Bait's" what I brought home. Now, get this...the box claims the drones will take the poison back to the queen ant. Harsh.

I started wondering about the ant who brings back the poison to his queen.  He'll watch as the queen takes a bite, expecting a cookie. Instead, she'll gag, look at the carrier, say, "Et tu, Brute?" The rest of the crowd will die, pointing judgmental ant limbs toward the poor lil' guy. And all the while, he's probably all "What?"

Assuming he survives, he's gonna have some heavy-duty ant therapy to wrestle through.

This innocent ant will have a terrible legacy, too. Henceforth, he'll be referred to as "the one who killed the queen." I pity him, I truly do. In ant history books, he'll go down as the biggest mass murderer ever. In tiny ant colleges, in little ant philosophy courses, the professor will ask the class, "If you could go back in time and kill the Queen Slayer while he's in his pupae stage, would you?" 

And all he ever set out to do was please his queen. An unfair world, especially if you're an ant. Guy can't catch a break. So sad.

I'm rethinking my "antageddon." I'd like to trash the ant-bait, let them live. Are they really hurting anything? Besides just kinda, you know, being gross?

For another frightening tale, check out Ghosts of Gannaway . Spookier than ants crawling down your bathroom wall, guaranteed.

If you could change one thing in the past… by guest blogger, Meradeth Houston

Because Meradeth Snow's excellent new YA, sci-fi, romance book, Travelers, is out, I thought I'd turn my blog over to her this week (and because I'm feeling lazy). Go get Meradeth's book now, thank me later.
Thanks so much for hosting me today, Stuart! I love your work and it’s always a pleasure to hang around these parts.
So, time travel. Let’s be honest: if it were easily available, most of us would use it for trivial things: To fix that gaff in the staff meeting yesterday, to make sure you didn’t actually give someone a vacuum for Christmas (even if they asked for one), or just to make sure you had enough time to finish your taxes. I mean, really, the little stuff would be a whole lot easier. And that little stuff probably wouldn’t change much in the grand scheme of your life.
But, there are other things we might change. Like, the big stuff. The regret-at-night-before-falling-asleep kind of stuff. We’ve all got those kinds of things lurking, just waiting to be remembered when we’re laying in bed, about to fall asleep (wait, we do all have those, right? I’m not the only one?....Right?). Anyhow, I am pretty sure we could all come up with a few of those things we might change. For me, I can think of a few: not rooming with the crazy girl during my Junior year of college. Not listening to certain people who said I shouldn’t take more writing classes because I should stick to my strengths in science. Not doing that really awesome genetics internship in Peru (ugh, I so wish I’d had the guts to do that!). So, yeah, lots of things I’d probably do differently.
Of course, the bigger changes mean lots of other things would be different, too. I’d never have met really influential people on my life. Never gotten my current job that I adore. Never have ended up in my field. Or something like that. Who knows, right? For me, that’s kind of the fun the whole time-travel thing: imagining what would be different. Sometimes it might be better. Other times, maybe worse. It’s hard to say because of how many things influence us, but it’s still interesting to imagine.
Though I still wish I’d done that internship. Hello, what was my dumb 18-year-old self thinking? Or not thinking…  About TRAVELERS: Sienna Crenshaw knows the rules: 1) no time traveling beyond your natural lifetime, 2) no screwing with death, and 3) no changing the past. Ever. Sienna doesn’t love being stuck in the present, but she’s not the type to to break the rules. That is, she wasn’t the type until her best friend broke every one of those rules to keep Henry, her twin brother and Sienna’s ex-boyfriend, alive. Suddenly, Sienna is caught in an unfamiliar reality. The upside? Henry is still alive. The downside? Sienna’s old life, including the people in it, has been erased. Now, Sienna and Henry must untangle the giant knot in time, or her parents and all the rest of the Travelers, will be lost forever. One problem: the only way to be successful is for Henry to die.
Pick up a copy here!
Bio: Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:
*She's a Northern California girl who now braves the cold winters in Montana.
*When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA. *She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.
*If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.
Find Meradeth Houston online at: www.MeradethHouston.com Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

Xenophobic Hollywood

Our world has come a long way regarding certain hot topics. Women's rights (just not in the work force), racism (kinda' depends on what state you live in), homophobia (Ireland, of all countries, is leading the pack).
But, there's still a fear, a deep hatred, toward aliens from worlds beyond. No one trespasses worse than Hollywood.

Scoff if you will, but if it pleases the court, let me present the evidence. The truth is out there, just not presented accurately by movie and TV moguls.

Hollywood presents aliens in two--count 'em, two--different ways:

1) The alien who wants to eat human's faces;

2) The alien who starts out wanting to eat human faces, but due to the nobility of the human species changes its' mind.

Yow. Not a wide spectrum of range there.

Actually, I'm more down with the face-eating alien stereotype. At least the alien knows what it wants. What kind of wishy-washy alien truly examines humans under a microscope and decides they're worthy? To the point of derailing their impending earth invasion to the detriment of their own kind?

Really? I mean, if I were a B.E.M., I'd probably lean toward the eating option. You don't hear about racial strife on the planet Galortica, a well-adjusted and hungry lot.
Yet Hollywood keeps perpetuating the ugly myths. I hate to think that somewhere Droolax and Septeen-17 are sitting on a sofa, checking out Earth's sci-fi shows.

"Droolax, pass the popcorn."

"Yo, check it out! On this entertainment program, the Earthlings are calling us aliens. Us! Gah! We've been around for billions of quadlaxitives longer."

"No kidding. These puny earthlings are so disgusting with their gangly four limbs and cow-like two eyes. I'd eat them, but it'd just be too gross. Buncha' bottom dwellers."

Don't get me going on the "characterization" of aliens on TV. Of course, they're always humanoid. I dare you, Hollywood, to try and create a true character of a gaseous or blobby nature (outside of the hungry kind, of course).

Aliens on TV are always void of emotion. Hollywood's idea of alien characterization, since Earth has a universal monopoly on emotion.

"Captain, what are these strange droplets of moisture welling in the corners of my visual orbs?"

And that's usually a break-through moment for the alien character. Then, commercial break! Back to emotion ground zero. While the humans smirk knowingly like smug parents around toddlers. Sometimes aliens say the silliest things, don't ya' know?

C'mon, Hollywood. Let's give aliens a chance.

(Of course I reserve the right to change my mind if an invading alien decides to eat my face.)

For a frighteningly different sorta tale, check out Ghosts of Gannaway . (No aliens, but ghosts. Lots and lots of scary ghosts). And since my publisher, Books We Love, has temporarily gone insane, the book's on sale for .99!

A Zillion Socks

Here at Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley, there's no such thing as a stupid topic. No, that's a bald-faced lie. But it hasn't stopped me yet. Hence, the saga of a zillion socks (a cautionary tale of math, greed, footwear and humanity's place in the universe).
The other day I was grousing about not finding any of my favorite socks (What? Don't judge me!). My wife says, "Well, what'd you do with them?"

"I've been wearing them," I said. "You bought, like, a zillion pair!"

"Hardly. A zillion pair of socks wouldn't even fit in this house."

I had to stop and think for a minute. A zillion pair of socks. Wow. Sorta' made me feel small in the bigger picture of things. Not only regarding bountiful footwear, but in the cosmos itself. I was but a microscopic creature when compared to a mighty kingdom of socks. It was mind-boggling, awe-inspiring; my little brain couldn't even begin to conceive so many socks crammed into one place.  Sometimes I think God, the fates, or whatever you choose to believe in, maintains the balance of the universe, and hence our sanity, by dropping extraneous socks into a black hole at the back of our dryers. Some things man just isn't meant to see. I brought the number down before my head exploded.

"Okay," I said, "how about a billion socks? Would a billion pair of socks fit into our house?"

"Doubtful."

"Well, surely a million socks would work. Could we squeeze in a million pair of socks?"

"Maybe."

"Let's get shopping!"

That idea, of course, was shot down. But I got excited when we started trying to figure out the equation. Cubic square feet of house divided by a tightly compressed pair of socks. Or something. Once we realized how much math was involved, the shiny luster sorta tarnished. And we got back to business. As you can tell, a very busy Saturday.

But there are moments, sometimes late at night, when I'll wistfully look about the house and just imagine the wonders of having a zillion socks crammed from floor to ceiling. Awesome!

For other flights of imagination and suspense, check out my Amazon author's page.

While you're there explore the wonders and mysteries of Gannaway, Kansas, in my new historical ghost story, Ghosts of Gannaway .
 

A mall is no place for a middle-aged, out-of-shape guy

When my daughter and two nieces conspired to go the the mall, they asked if I wanted to go.

Did I want to go? Absolutely not. The mall, to me, is a place to be avoided. Full of women's clothing stores and various lotions, ointment and holy-hell-priced tea boutiques.

But I relented, bowing down to the peer pressure of "#familybonding." Plus my nieces claimed (a mighty big stake) they wanted to try Sushi. Well. Mall Sushi isn't probably the best introduction, but I went with it anyway.

Thirty minutes in, sweat started rolling off my shaved head. I huffed and puffed like I wanted to blow the whole place down. I kinda' did, too.


I'd entered a new era, one that hadn't waited for me. I became a dinosaur, a relic of a past age. Teenage girls cruised the halls, bags of expensive clothing dangling from their wrists like charm bracelets. Clusters of energetic boys, wearing shorts far below the level of common sense, hooted and hollered like monkeys. When I saw the price for the three girls to ride the carousel, my wallet weighed down my shorts nearly as far as my teenage brethren. Security guards eyeballed me warily, a Sesame Street game of "one of these things doesn't belong here."

I followed the girls into high-priced and trendy clothing stores, feeling out-of-sorts whenever the young clerks (I wear underwear older than them) approached. I considered asking if they had XL sized men's skinny jeans, but it sorta defeated the whole purpose, I think.

The food court was a trap in waiting. Acoustically amplified voices reverbed off the high ceiling. A multitude of fried foods awaited the unwary traveler, all the kiosks lined up like gaudy shuckster tents at a carnival. And for some reason, the cart-driving janitor had it in for me, ramming his vehicle into the back of my legs, not once, but twice. I suppose I provided a target too good to ignore. He didn't offer an apology, just a dumb, blank look. The look I'd grown accustomed to. Message received. I didn't belong.

And the Sushi, oh, the Sushi. My nieces were predisposed to hate it, something I suspected. But after shelling out big bucks for a tiny tray, these were the results:

My mall adventure was a painful lesson. It had me questioning my "middle-aged" status.
When did I get old? Granted, even as a youngster, I've never enjoyed going to the mall. I've always thought of shopping as a necessary evil, not an event. Get in, grab, get out. Eyes straight ahead, know what you want. Don't turn around, lest you turn to stone.

But the hits kept on coming that day. Later, at the grocery store, the check-out girl tried to ring me up on a senior discount. I haven't yet hit that very unmagical age. So I fought, very vocally, to spend more money on my hemorrhoid creme.That'll show 'em.

For a different kind of horror, check out my new book: Ghosts of Gannaway.

Scarfing up Scares with Author L. X. Cain

I’m dragging one of my fave authors back to Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley today. Shout out a howdy-do to Lexa Cain. Not only does Lexa write awesome fiction, she’s a lounge singer living in Egypt who loves horror. How cool is that? Fan-boys unite! Lexa’s got a bunch of awesome short stories out now and I wanted to hit her up (not too hard!) about them.

Lexa, first of all, after my gushtastic introduction, can I use you as a Femme Fatale in a future book?
Sure. Anything for you. *wink-wink, nudge-nudge* (Gotta play up that Femme Fatale side.)
Let’s start with my favorite of your trilogy of terror, The Inter-Galactic Gourmet. Yak a little bit about it.
Well, there’s an average, number-crunching cubicle worker—only she’s not—who meets a lost little boy—only he’s not. One thing there is though, is an alien invasion, which doesn’t go well for Earthlings or invaders.
Everyone loves a good cannibalistic, sci-fi story now and again (or should). But I really appreciated the irreverently dark humor involved. Right up my alley. Do your tastes in writing and reading run to the unhealthy? Should we be worried?
You should always be worried.
After reading your excellent first novel, Soul Cutter, we found out a few things that scare Lexa, the author (snakes, spiders, drowning, dark caves, heights, the works). So what about The Inter-Galactic Gourmetscares you more? Cannibalistic aliens or public transportation?
Public Transportation. The opening scene is taken directly from my experiences on the NY subway system when I used to live there. And what Cynthia, the main character, does, is something I always wanted to do but didn’t have the guts or the strength. Nice to live vicariously through my characters!
The cover reminds me of cheesy sci-fi flicks from the ‘50’s. An inspiration?
Those old sci-fi flicks are hilarious! Even the newer “Mars Attacks” has the same sort of tongue-in-cheek humor, and I tried to capture that aspect of my story with the cover.
We’re moving onto Biggun. Everyone’s got a zombie tale in them, something I believe (and wanna trend: #everyone’s zombietale or something). I wrote mine (Shameless plug: Zombie Rapture). This ‘un, Biggun, is yours. And it’s a winner. I gotta say the title fooled me; the “Biggun” in question wasn’t what I thought it’d turn out to be. What’s the truth behind “Biggun?”
When there are so many zombie tales out there, it’s hard to come up with something interesting, something original for the reader. But I try to make sure all of my works are unique, and the twist in Biggun just came to me. I’ve never seen anyone else do it, either.
I think the nature of zombie tales is one of despair, here especially. I don’t want to give anything away, but the ending in particular is downbeat, hearkening back to George Romero’s original Night of the Living Dead, the zombie king of all entertainment. I really loved what you did with your zombiepocalypse in such a few pages. Any chances of a full-length zombie tale by Lexa?
Despite the fact that zombies are super popular, what with “The Walking Dead” and all, I prefer to write original monsters. No zombie novel in my future.
Okay, quick zombie throwdown survey: *How do you like your zombies? Running or shambling? Sentient or dumber than lawn furniture?
Old is gold. I like them shambling and stupid.
*If you woke up in bed next to a zombie, what would you say?
Could you hit the “snooze” please? Just ten more minutes…
*Who would kill more zombies? Jason Statham, Donald Trump’s stupidity or the music of Slim Whitman?
That one’s too close to call!
Sorry. Back to real questions. In Biggun, the main character is a mother, determined to protect her “little ‘un.” Nothing’ll deter her, certainly not zombies. Where’d the inspiration for this character come from?
I figured in a real zombie apocalypse, the hardest hit would be the “average” people in rural areas. So my main character is an old-fashioned stay-at-home mom who has a baby and goes to church socials—until she’s forced to kill the nice little ladies of the quilting circle because they’ve become bloodthirsty zombies.
Finally, let’s talk The Mission. Readers, imagine Stephen King twisting an adolescent Tremors. Bam.  I love coming of age tales, particularly when monsters are involved! Every boy should grow up with at least one serious monster incident.  I kinda wonder where your enthusiasm for all things spooky comes from, Lexa. Not being sexist, of course, but let’s talk skullduggery…
It’s very unusual for me to write a male main character, but the idea of sneaking out to a “forbidden” place just to see what’s there seemed more boy than girl. Thus Cody was born. 
I love your prose, Lexa, very nice, bordering on poetic at times, especially strange when considering the morbid subject matter. What’s up with that? Intentionally turning horror on its side? Or just damn lucky you’re a good writer, no matter what the genre?
I believe any book should be as well-written as the author can make it no matter what the genre. And I’m not a good writer—but I’m a very good reviser. lol
In The Mission, I think, the landscape’s pretty much the main character. All about the ambiance and setting. Again, it reads like you’re writing from experience. So, how does a singing writer living in Egypt know how to write about the dry lands of Texas?  
I’ve never been in the American West, but who hasn’t seen hundreds of westerns with John Wayne and the like? I think a writer can write about anywhere they can imagine, they don’t have to have actually been there.

I’ve had the pleasure of reading most of Lexa’s work-in-progress, Bloodwalker. Tell the folks about this absolutely awesome book. I can’t wait for readers to discover this creeptacular circus epic.
I think the most exciting thing about Bloodwalker is that it’s about a clown that creeps out at night from the circus and steals away little children. Since the circus travels around Eastern Europe, and there are children missing from different towns, no one’s figured out that the culprit lives in the circus yet—except one man, and he’s determined to find the killer.
So you have a scary clown, from a creepy circus, who’s killing kids. What more could you want in a horror novel?
Perhaps a heroine whose job is to prepare dead bodies and who knows all the ins and outs of evacuating bowels and sewing eyes shut. She’s a Bloodwalker. Someone’s murdering other Bloodwalkers—and she’s next.   Thanks so much for having me on your blog, Stuart!  
Readers can find me at: Lexa's Blog:  http://lexacain.blogspot.com/
Lexa on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/lexa.cain.1 SOUL CUTTER on: AMAZON: http://www.amazon.com/Soul-Cutter-Lexa-Cain-ebook/dp/B00H2WCTMQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1386174417&sr=1-1
AMAZON UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Soul-Cutter-Lexa-Cain-ebook/dp/B00H2WCTMQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1391908250&sr=8-1&keywords=soul+cutter
MUSEITUP: https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/coming-soon/december-2013/soul-cutter-detailKOBO: http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Soul-Cutter/book-V13qW0XkP06WAy9yl1bvAw/page1.htmlSMASHWORDS: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/372641BARNES&NOBLE: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/soul-...
LX Cain on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/lx.cain LX Cain on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/LXCain Biggun, The Mission, and The Inter-Galactic Gourmet on: Smashwords:https://www.smashwords.com/profile/vi...

Creature in the Kitchen

Recently, my wife cracked open her grandmother's box of recipes.

Many interesting items lurked within. Fudge made from cheese, anyone?

But there was one item that stuck to me like peanut brittle between the teeth: "Herman."

Here's the deal...Herman is an ongoing project. A beast that's kept around in the kitchen, one you need to constantly feed yeast, sugar and other sundry items to keep it growing. And, like sea monkeys, you need to tend to it over an extended period of time, an on-going project.

Frankenstein's recipe.

The nightmarish qualities of something you need to feed, growing on the counter-top until it's chow time sorta freaked me out.
I couldn't help but anthropomorphize the dang thing. I've watched a lot of horror films. Not in a good way.  Tendrils of snaking dough, crusty brown teeth, dead cooked eyes. I tend to not want to eat things that may eat me in the middle of the night.

But is Herman much different than fattening pigs up for barbeque?

I think, yes. With pigs, you know what you're gonna get. (I just don't want to be around on slaughter day). A squeal, bloodletting, a guilty conscience over your fulfilled tummy and satisfied taste glands. Plus, pigs are kept outside. (Unless you're one of THOSE guys.)

With "Audrey" growing on the kitchen counter? Yow, scary stuff.

Herman haunts my dreams, sours my stomach. It stares at me from the counter, mesmerizing me...mentally invading my brain, saying, "Feed me!"

Where will it end? Could there be a growing conspiracy of fellow "Hermans" waiting to devour us, an invasion from within?

And, why in the world did someone name it "Herman?" Humanizes it a bit much, I think. (Although, I wonder if "Herman Munster" played a factor back in the day).

I've got my eye on you, jar of ewww, sleeping with the other eye open.

For other scary things (both inside the house and out), check out the trailer (provided by author extraordinaire Meradeth Houston) for my new suspense thriller, Ghosts of Gannaway:


Get the book here:  Ghosts of Gannaway and others at my Amazon author's page.

"Huh."

Recently, my wife brought to my attention (and it takes a lot this side of a tire iron upside the head) that I've been responding by saying " huh " a lot. One little word. Not even a word, really, more like a caveman's grunt. Where'd I pick up this habit?

Lightning struck me, not the usual cartoon bulb of enlightenment either. My mother uses the word, wielding it like Thor's hammer.

Mom will ask me, "Are you going to church tomorrow?"

"No, Mom, sorry. Other plans."

"Huh."

Boom! There it is. Hauls more weight than a big ol' sixteen-wheeler careening down an ice-covered highway.
Joan Crawford: Founder of the Clever Mother SocietyAs a writer I'm ashamed to say I can't conjure up any wordsmith that could possibly match that one word's severity. It's a sound that makes me grind my teeth.

But the word works on me. Oh, yes, it works.

"Mom, we really need to look into your TV options. You can't get free cable forever."

"Huh."

I think Mom just lucked into this superpower. It's not intentional; she's a loving, kind person. But it's definitely my Kryptonite. Sure Mom uses other catch-phrases, all of them potent, such as "I think it would be nice if...." and "I think it'd be fun for you if...(and, of course, this leads into a suggestion that is usually anything but "fun")." But those I can deal with. Just not "huh."

It's the sound that destroys worlds, reverses face-lifts, causes dolphins to bark,  turns lima beans yummy, makes kangaroo pouches envelop their owners. The utterance that has won wars.

"Huh."

My mom's a better writer than I am with one simple word.

For something even scarier, check out the trailer (provided by author extraordinaire Meradeth Houston) for my new suspense thriller, Ghosts of Gannaway:

Get the book here:  Ghosts of Gannaway and others at my Amazon author's page.

The Fine Art of Spatchcockery

My wife told me she wants to "spatchcock" a turkey. After my initial giggle-fit ended, she explained that spatchcocking's a method of cooking poultry by cutting out the backbone and flattening the carcass. It's supposed to cook more evenly. Or something.
Miss July from Spatchcock MonthlyThat doesn't matter. What does matter is I've found a fabulous new word. I'd like to "trend" the word. I wanna' make it rain with spatchcockery.

Spatchcock. Everyone take a minute and say it out loud. I'll wait. Done? It's fun to say, isn't it? Rolls right off the tongue. I find it kinda' cathartic, too. Violent sounding without the physical fall-out. And wonderfully vulgar. Plus it makes the twelve-year-old boy in me laugh because of its inherent naughtiness.

But the word can be used in many more creative ways. The next time the office clown gets on your nerves? Hit him with, "I'm gonna' spatchcock that smile right off your face!" Or how about this? "Looks like you stepped in a deep pile of spatchcock now." Or "I'm gonna' spatchcock the crap outta' this yard." See what I mean? A multifaceted word, guaranteed hours of fun.
A painful looking display of human spatchcockery.Where in the world did this awesome word come from? Mr. Wikipedia wasn't much help, nor Ms. Google. I wonder if some guy went postal on his turkey, ripped out the backbone in a fit of cooking rage, and screamed, "I'll dispatch you yet, cock!"

Or maybe some chef had the misfortune of being named "Spatchcock," a minor footnote in cooking history.

But, as I said, none of that matters. Do please use this term, incorporate it into your daily vocabulary. Then sit back and watch the puzzled looks and dumbfounded responses.

I'll update once (if?) we ever end up spatchcocking a turkey. In the meantime, I've gotta' go spatchcock the dog. (Tee hee.)

Bam. You've been spatchcocked. 

No spatchcockery to be found in my newest suspense thriller, Ghosts of Gannaway. However, plenty of Hitchcockery is on display.

Now for the limited sale price of .99: Buy it here!

My little cubby-hole of clothes

My wife has ample closet-space. I, on the other hand, have very little. I've been downgraded, my clothing relegated to a tiny nook, a teeny-weenie black hole filled with dust and moths and Hawaiian shirts that haven't seen the light of day since the 80's.

Of course I don't have as many clothes as my wife. I don't need them. Seven pairs of underwear (are they "pairs?" If so, why? Seems to me they're in one piece), boom, laundry day. Works out just fine, clothing minimalism at work.

Shoes? Green tainted lawn mowing shoes and hanging out kicks. That's it.

My wife has a battalion of shoes, an army of feet covering. If it please the court, I submit that shoes should be functional. Provide protection. On a rare occasion, shine at weddings. Actually, most women's shoes don't look comfy. Which should be of the utmost consideration. Walking on spikes has gotta' be killer on your back.

I didn't think relinquishing closet space would be so bad. I mean, years ago I'd already sacrificed my totally awesome bachelor furniture to the dumpster gods: a cardboard, life-size beer girl; a leaking bean bag; an inviting sofa with my butt-prints fossilized upon one end. And, granted, I never did use much of the closet space to begin with. But...but...

When I told my wife I was going to blog about this topic, she basically said, "Good luck. You won't get any sympathy."

I'm not out for sympathy. I'd just like to reclaim the night, grab an extra shelf. Quit having my clothes so compacted they come out more wrinkly than a prune. More often than not, I look like a saggy, baggy elephant.

I know most of my blog readership is comprised of women. But, please, ladies...if you have a significant male other, consider his closetary needs. Give space a chance. Can't we all just get along?

For other horror stories, check out my newest book Ghosts of Gannaway and my Amazon author's page.