Stuart R. West's Blog, page 7

The Girding of the Loins

I girded my loins (and what does that even mean? Hang on a minute while I ask my research assistant, Ms. Google... Ah! It means "to prepare to do something dangerous or difficult." Going back further, apparently it is of biblical origin: in the ancient Orient, long, loose garments had to be hitched up to avoid tripping. Furthermore, in the Bible, a "loin" is a part of the body that needs to be covered with clothing. So...I suppose it means covering up your privates? I'm still unclear.  Apologies for digressing all over the place...)

So...where was I? Okay, there I was girding my loins, waiting for my wife to come home. It was going to be grueling as I had a terrible, deep, dark confession regarding something I had done that day. So I girded. Girded my loins like the wind.

The girding came to an abrupt stop as I heard her car pull into the driveway. My loins shriveled up, all of the pre-girding in the world just flown out the window. 

The door opened and any thoughts of more power girding went the way of disco.

"Hi honey," I blurted out in a rush as she stepped inside. "How was your day? I have a deep, dark confession to make!"

She went through her routine of putting things down, saying hello to the dogs, and then she approached me.

Dread written all over her face, she asked, "What'd you do?"

"Um...you know that stupid game I play on my phone? You know, where I accidentally keep killing the King? 'Royal Match?' That one?"

"What'd you do?"

"I...ah...that is...um,,, now don't hate me and it really wasn't my fault. It was almost an accident. Yeah! Kinda an accident! So, you see...I've been stuck on the same level for about five days with no way out and...um...you see...I-paid-$2.99-for-some-extra-coins-to-get-outta-that-level!"

She gasped, a long wheeze drawn out for comical effect. I thought, hey, if she's going for comedy, I'm in the clear! For you see, we've had an unspoken pact between us that we would never pay for games. In fact, we never understood those who do throw their money away on games. But...hardcore addiction is a terrible thing.

"That's something we don't do," she said. "Shame on you! Bad Stuart, bad!"

So, like a dog with his tail between his legs, I whimpered some more lame excuses, and quickly retreated to the dog house where I had been banished.

But I'd learned my lesson... Although, come to think of it...I'm kinda stuck again in the game, so...where's that credit card?

Speaking of boneheaded moves, have you heard about Zach, the bone-headed stripper (sorry...make that "male entertainment dancer") who continues to stumble across dead bodies? Yeah, and it's always up to his beleaguered, short-tempered, usually pregnant sleuth sister Zora to bail him out of trouble by finding the real murderer! The fun starts in Bad Day in a Banana Hammock available here and continues on in two more books. (And hopefully, soon a fourth book if I ever get off my duff and finish it!).

The Two Types of Gym Coaches

You know, I still have nightmares about being back in Junior High gym class. (This along with forgetting about a college class until the last day and walking in bare feet into the world's filthiest bathroom are my other reoccurring dreams from Hell.)

It was back in Junior High that I discovered that gym "teachers" were sadists. We had two and they alternated dishing out torture. Of course being overweight made me an even larger target (I suppose the pun is intended. Sigh.). 

But these two guys were beasts. For any given reason, they enjoyed making us run around in endless circles in what they gleefully called "the world's smallest indoor track." When one of us didn't chime right up for roll call it was push-ups and laps. And while we sweated and panted and gasped for dear life, they stood on the side giggling and grinning like sadistic mad men.

It didn't stop there. They loved pitting us tiny and meek and weak seventh graders ("sevvies" as we were disdainfully referred to) against the ginormous ninth graders (who to me looked like animals; some of them had beards, for God's sake! in the dastardly exercise in sadism called "dodge ball." It didn't take me long to figure out how to get out of the game with very few injuries; when an errant ball flew over my head, I'd reach up and "accidentally" touch it. Then I'd yell, "I'm out, coach!" I pity my fellow soldiers-in-arms who never learned this valuable survival technique.

The worst thing these two monsters had us do was the outdoor twenty minute run. In blistering heat. For crying out loud, I couldn't go five minutes without stopping to catch my breath. And they'd get pissed at those of us who walked (while stepping around those students hurling or laying in the grass holding their sides in pain).

Which led to a visit to their office because I walked at least half of the course. Now, I knew what went on in their office. They actually had a paddle and whupped boys who they considered "bad" on the arse.  Don't know how they got away with this back in the seventies, but they did it all the time. 

Coach Supple (we'll call him that, because...well, that was his name) had taken his usual stance, leaning over the shower stall wall and ogling all of the boys (I know, right?), when he shouted, "West! In our office. NOW!"

I said, "Ummmm...can I get dressed?"

"No! I gave you a command! Get in there now!"

Humiliated, embarrassed, dripping wet and starkers naked, I slapped feet into their office of doom, cupping my junk while standing in front of the two grinning mad men. Then they commenced to break me down psychologically by calling me names and screaming at me. 

I very much wanted to avoid the paddle of pain, particularly as I didn't even have on shorts to protect my arse, so I broke into tears, hoping to tug at their heart strings. Foolish me, I should've know they didn't have any. But my ploy worked, they were disgusted by me, threw a towel my way, and told me "clean yourself up and get out of here!"

Fun!

And that's why I avoided my one year of mandatory gym in high school until my senior year. Big mistake as I was the only senior in the class. But I put it off for two years because I really didn't want to suffer through more sadistic gym teachers.

It was tough and due to all of the exercise, I managed to drop one hundred pounds for the first time. And surprise of all surprises, this gym teacher was a nice guy.

For instance, when I aced a written test about the rules of sports, he called me out by name to brag me up. Even better was the day we had to run and jump outdoor hurdles. Now, I don't jump. Not very graceful, I envisioned myself tripping over every one and plummeting to the concrete, tearing my knees open and bleeding a bloody river. All to the lovely sound of humiliating freshmen laughter.

But to my astonishment, Coach Geiss (again, his real name. Hey, I don't mind calling out the good and bad guys in this post!) considered me when it came to my turn. After a minute, he said, "West, you look a little pale. Why don't you go lay down on the bench in the locker room."

Incredibly grateful, I couldn't help but smile as I pretended to be feeling sick and walked past the coach. Who gave me a quick pat on the back. He may as well have winked at me, too.

So, eat it, Coaches Corder and Supple, you mean, sadistic, violent jack-asses who appeared to enjoy watching boys shower! Coach Geiss showed how to do it with grace and humanity.

Whew. Glad to get that off my chest.

While I've got sadism on the brain, meet Leon Garber, protagonist of my darkly comic thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated. Leon's a successful accountant, handsome, appears to have it all. He's also a serial killer. But hang on! He's the good guy! Some of the other serial killers he comes across...not so much, giving my junior high gym coaches a run for their sadistic money. Heads are chopped, dropped and swapped in the first book, Secret Society, and that's just the beginning! Check 'em out here!

Sleep Apnea-Nation

I put it off as long as I could, really I did. First, my sadistic dentist had proclaimed me as having sleep apnea after I took some lousy, at-home test. (I thought "how in the hell can my dentist accuse me of having sleep apnea when the lousy, dad-gum test kept me awake all night?") But she hollered, "J'accuse! You have zee sleep apnea!") 

She wanted to fit me for this two-piece device that would jut out my lower jaw, which sounded tantamount to torture. So I kinda said, "Uh, yeah, no thanks. If I couldn't sleep with the test, how in the world do you expect me to catch some z's feeling like a faulty, high-wired cyborg?"

Time went on. And my wife started telling me I've stopped breathing in my sleep at times.

To which I shunted it off again. Now, you gotta understand where I'm coming from. I always kinda thought "Poo poo, sleep apnea is one of those made-up things that the entire medical community is using as a go-too tool to sell CPAP machines."  Kinda like how I viewed "restless leg syndrome," which I attributed to anxiety or too many Red Bulls. So...I likewise thought if I could lose some weight, then that'll solve my so-called sleep apnea problem. Ta-daaaaaaaaaa and BOOM!

Plus I didn't want to end up with one of those damn machines strapped onto my face like an Alien face-hugger.

But my wife persisted. And after a couple of friends told me that they loved their CPAP machines and it helped them get great sleep, I began to break my iron will on the topic. (Okay, it's maybe more like a "tin will.") I gave in.

After over a month of not hearing from the CPAP people, I contacted my doctor who kicked their butts into gear and scheduled a meeting. At the CPAP meeting, there was another cranky guy (I think everyone who gets a CPAP is a high-ranking member of the Cranky Guy Club.) who had no interest in social niceties, but made sure he let us know that he was getting a CPAP under duress by his insurance, so he could eventually get some sorta surgery. Waaaaay beyond my paygrade to comprehend.

So the CPAP woman (we'll call her "Ms. CPAP") displayed a slew of mannequin heads with devious-looking devices strapped onto their Styrofoam faces. I went in thinking I could get away with just the simple little nostril clips, but when I tried it, it was like standing in the dead center of a hurricane with wind blasting me at full gale.

So Ms. CPAP brought out a "face-hugger." After a ton of adjustments and lessons and instructions and eye-rolls, I didn't really get the hang of it. I just wanted to get the hell outta there.

With CPAP in hand, we drove home. All day long, I was full of trepidation about the torturous night of insomnia that lay ahead. Once nighttime fell, I spent too long reading on the porcelain throne, postponing my inevitable destiny of doomed anti-sleep.

At long last, it was time. Filled with dread, I crawled into bed, strapped the monstrosity over my head and around my mouth and nose. And hit the "on" button...

I lay back and thought, "Hey, this isn't so bad! It's not like the massive wind tunnel I experienced this morning in training. Why...I could get used to this...I could....I....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..."

The next morning, refreshed and vibrant, I found out why it had been so easy. Apparently, I had never turned it on.

One month later, I'm still trying to get used to it. The humidity element feels like it's going to drown me at times. Once it quit working and I issue you a challenge--just try and get a human on the phone at CPAP headquarters (go on, try it, I dare you! I've got a Kenny G song forever seared into my brain as a result of being on hold for half a day.). And to my ears, every night I sound like an annoying, asthmatic Darth Vader on steroids.

But...everyone keeps telling me it's good for me. And everybody can't be wrong.  Right?  RIGHT???

While we're on the topic of making fateful decisions, check out my book Godland. We have an embittered farmer, a New York corporate raider, two teenage high school girls, and a failed small business owner. What do they have in common? I'm afraid you'll have to read to find out the shocks and twists as past and present collide, and secrets are revealed as these disparate people gather at a desolate Kansas farm for a hellish night not everyone will survive. Plus they've all made some bad decisions (see how I finally tied it into my post?) Visit lovely Godland here!

When Angels Die...

My wife and I were enjoying a sparring match of words and wits. So what else is new?

"Every time you get in a mood to do outside work, you never leave me a clear path in the garage to get the trash/recycling bins out," I said. (Side note: I don't think we've had a car in the garage since we were married. It's a place to store junk when there's no more room in the house or basement. Or Hell.)

"Well..." she rebounded, "...every time you help me with a project, I have to clean up after you."

"That's simply not true," I objected.

"Ha! Oh yes it is!"

"No, it's not," I calmly stated. "Because I don't help much with your projects any more. My back and knees, you know." (My go-to "get-out-of-jail-free" card.)

"And every time you cook," she continued, "I spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning up the mess after you," she fearlessly lobbed back at me.

"Yeah? Well, every time you go shopping, our living room looks like an Amazon warehouse," I countered.

"Fine," she said, "but every time you open stuff, you leave your trash laying on the counter or a table."

Hmmm. I have to admit, she had me there. But I ain't nothin' if not an underdog and who doesn't love a come-back? I thought long and hard and came up with this non-sequitur gem of Trumpian proportions: "Well...every time you kvetch at me, an angel dies!"

Case closed, another win!

Speaking of total nonsense, check out my comic thriller, Chili Run. Beyond the rather *ahem* disturbing title, it's based on a dream I had where I was forced by bad guys to run across downtown Kansas City to retrieve a bowl of chili. Naturally, in nothing but my tighty-whities, a recurring nightmare that  a lot of guys are familiar with. You can find Chili Run here, the perfect thriller for the reader on the go.

Boys Weekend!

I hadn't had a bonafide "boys weekend" in about twenty years, so I jumped at the chance when "Tom" and "Darren (Note: to protect the innocent, names have been changed so I don't get sued.)" invited me to go to Darren's Summer lake cabin in backwoods Oklahoma.

Now, I love both these guys, met them back in my college dormitory way back in the stone ages. But due to adult issues (soul-deadening work, marriage, kids, divorce, trauma, stuff), I hadn't seen them in about half of my lifetime.

I wondered if things would be awkward or if we could pick up right where we had left off thirty years ago. 

The answer is "YES, you CAN go home again." Honestly, it was like things hadn't changed since college.

Well, with some exceptions...

First of all, we three still enjoy our most favorite thing about college: BEER. Yayyyy! And it flowed pretty much non-stop at the cabin that weekend. The great equalizer.

When Tom and I finally arrived at the cabin from Kansas City (we were talking in Tom's truck and ended up missing our appropriate exit, thus delaying our arrival by an hour-and-a-half), it was clear that Darren had begun without us. So we had some quick catching up to do, so sooooo much beer drinking, we forgot to eat dinner.

Soon, we lapsed into imitating old college professors and an annoying girl from our dorm, and reminiscing about good (and some not so good) memories from college and the years after. We caught up on family, friends, careers, everything we could think of. Sometimes, stories were repeated often because with all of the flowing beer, it was hard to keep up. In other words, nothing much had changed in forty two years. Except...

Okay, there were a lot more pounds and a lot less hair, to be expected. And then we lapsed into what all 63 year old men talk about: health issues. While Tom and Darren broke out their cigars, drinks in hand, we went around sharing our medical trauma and history. And we all agreed that once you hit 60, it's all downhill from there. (Okay, Darren said it was 62 for him, but it's still in the range).

Scars were shown, heart monitors displayed, massagers brought out for bone-on-bone arthritic knees, wounds marveled at, operations deliberated on, hemorrhoid stories shared with gusto, and just an overall wonderment permeated we three kings of Oklahoma as to just how we got in such shape and why our bodies had started to betray us so quickly. (Surely it had nothing to do with our mutual admiration for beer.)

It seemed like just yesterday, we were living wildly at Naismith Hall in Lawrence, Kansas (home of the Jayhawks!), and having the time of our lives, the whole world in front of us and we on top of it.

Age happens.

Politics does, too. This topic I had been dreading. Not only is the whole country divided (thanks to a certain orange abomination and convicted felon), but it's struck several chords of disharmony amongst my divided friends in Kansas City. I have yet to have a good, mutually eye-opening conversation that ends well with anyone on the opposing team.

Now, Tom and I were firmly in the same camp as we talked through a lot of our fears and anger and worries about what passes for politics these days as we drove to Oklahoma. But I knew Darren was defiantly and proudly in the other camp.

By and large, we kept politics out of the round-room convo Friday night, but it crept into our lakeside chats by Saturday morning. Amazingly, things were kept civil, but of course no minds were changed. As I knew they wouldn't be. When Darren wanted to start whipping out his phone to show "proof" of his arguments, I tried to steer the pow-wow away and back to decrepit, blue-haired advertising professors who barked (long story).

In college, I was far from political. Didn't really care about politics, to be frank. I had more important things to think about: beer, girls, friends, and grades. And Darren called me out on that. He was right. I really didn't start getting political until the Obama era. When my wife said to read the news once in a while. (And we all know how that ended up.)

So some things had changed: Politics. Weight. Health issues. Age. Life. But in many other ways, it was like we'd never broken up the band and for one fun weekend, we were living like college-aged rock stars with great camaraderie once again.

And I can't wait to do it again. If I can get my walker up the stairs and get a new supply of rubber underwear for those incontinent nights, that is, you damn young whippersnappers!

While on the topic of people who refuse to grow up, pity poor Zora, a beleaguered, often pregnant sleuth who has her hands full with numerous children and a man-boy husband. But when her vacuous, dunder-headed, immature, yet good-hearted male stripper brother keeps finding himself suspected of murder, Zora has no choice but to find the real killers and keep her nitwit brother out of jail. Read the zany, comedic mystery romps that comprise the Zach and Zora series available here.

 

Medical Fun In My Swinging Sixties

Ah, yes, another week, another medical crisis. Folks, do whatever you can to avoid your sixties. Once I hit 60, it all started slaloming downhill like an out-of-control bus driven by a blind man on an ice-covered highway.

One day my wife says, "Hey, they're having heart scans for calcium build-up for a discount. I think it'd be a good idea if we did this."

I paused the TV and said, "Yeah, sure, sounds great," while having no idea what I was signing up for.

Okay, let's fast-forward to after the test (which was no big deal). Immediately, I get a call from a panicked nurse.

"Mr. West..." She sounded hesitant, a lowly assistant fated to deliver bad news.

"Yes?"

"Um, we got back the test results on your heart screening and...ah...your calcium levels are off the charts!"

Pause. Silence. Sooooo many crickets.

"Am I...am I...dying?"

"No. But you need to make some lifestyle changes."

"Wait...but...wait..."

"We'll send results in the mail."

I did indeed get results in the mail. Very non-specific results which said I was in the high calcium plaque level.

My wife dragged me to a cardiologist and he said, "Hmmmm. These results aren't very specific." 

"That's what I said, doc!" Defiantly, I stood my ground. "What can we do about this plaque in my arteries?"

"Well...get Roto-Rooter, maybe." Clearly tickled with himself, I let his joke falter beside my stone face. 

"Outside of that," he continued, "I'm going to order a stress test and echocardiogram." 

I groaned as he laid out the details of what this entailed.

Couple weeks later, I'm at the hospital awaiting alongside a buncha other old folks in walkers, wheelchairs, and lugging around oxygen tanks (straight from the casinos) to get into my three hour testing grounds. What life must feel like in an old folks home; the ghost of Christmas Future, ho, ho, ho.

The first nurse out of about a zillion, an amiably sleepy guy, comes to get me and explain the lay of the land.

"Now, I'm gonna stick this needle in your arm and then get an IV going."

Suddenly, I'm having PTSD flashbacks from sadistic Nurse Wretched from my days of being a lab rat in a skin study. "But...but, Josh," I whined, "my veins are really tough to find."

He says, "I'm an expert. It's boring to me, really."

Well, far be it from me to wake amiable Josh out of his going-through-the-motions sleepwalking on the job, so I let him do his job. True to his word, he hit it spot-on. Then he takes me back to the death waiting room. Where there's a horrendous drilling sound shaking the walls. Terrified, I look around at my "peers" to see if they're as fearful about the tortures awaiting them as I am, but mercifully for them, they don't have their hearing aids turned on.

Josh slides back in and gathers me up for my echocardiogram. "Meet Gunner, he's a really nice guy," he says and deposits me into the curiously monikered "Gunner's" hands.

"Get your shirt off and lay down facing me, arms up over your head, knees bent, butt back," he orders. The intern with him grimaces when I strip and attempt to do an awkward, backwards pirouette up onto the table, the least comfy contortionist position you could ever attempt. Sadists, the whole lot of them.

Gunner says, "Well, you don't really have to stick your butt out...I just think it's a fun lil' ice-breaker." Gunner and the intern giggle. I turn fifty shades of red.

Soon they're gelling up my chest and searching for my heart.

"Hmmmm..." says Gunner.

"'Hmmmm?' I repeat. "Is that a good 'hmmmm' or a bad 'hmmmm?"

"Well...according to the readings...you're already dead. But I'm sure the machine is just on the blink again." Gunner winks at the intern with a grin. "Pretty sure."

When I'm finally done with the comedy stylings of Gunner and his silent sidekick, Josh snags me again and takes me into another room. A nurse comes out and says, "Hi, I'm Natalie...and I'm here to stress you out."

I force a laugh while remembering a couple of past stress tests I've taken. Pure hell where they put you on a treadmill until you're ready to pass out and your heart explodes. Thankfully, with my arthritic knees, that's an impossibility for me now.

"I'm going to inject you with chemicals that will increase your heartrate. It might feel pretty weird for you," she says.

Wondering how "weird" things might get, I ask the burning question that's flaming through my brain. "Ahhh...has this ever given anyone a...you know, heart attack?"

"Well..." she drawls, digging deep into her nostalgia closet, "there was this one guy who apparently had a heart attack. But it turned out that he was high on cocaine and it simulated a heart attack. If it's any consolation, he loved it."

"Um...yeah, Natalie, that makes me feel soooooo much more comfortable."

After the injection, I'm awaiting for the spasms and seizures and freak-outs that are sure to accompany it, but not much happens. I get jittery (what else is new?), anxious (status quo, says my wife), and headachy, but no big freak-out.

They keep checking on me. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah...just a little anxious, but nothing new."

"Ummmm...your heart rate's off the charts, though."

"Is that...good or bad???"

"Normal," says Natalie.

A little dizzy, I sit up and wait it out while Josh comes back in to sleepily look me over and whisk me away to a tubular machine where he takes multiple pictures of my chest.

And finally, I'm released! Released into the wilds of wheelchairs, walkers, and oxygen tanks. Now...where's my cigarettes?

Speaking of making really stupid life choices, Tex McKenna, teenaged, angsty male witch, just can't help himself. I mean, why else try and find out the identity of the killer who's systematically taking out his high school's bullies (not that Tex will miss them all that much)? Soon enough, Tex and his small group of loyal allies are also in the killer's sites. Check out the mysterious, thrilling, funny, scary, suspenseful, romantic, paranormal adventures of Tex and company in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy!

More Neurotic Than the Dog

Recently, my wife said, "you're more neurotic than the dog."

"Huh," I said.

Then of course, I pondered the ramifications of this statement. You see, the dog she was referring to is kinda neurotic. She can't stay still, barks at the sky, and every bird and squirrel is taken as a personal affront on her good character.

So, point by point: 1) Am I able to stay still? Oh, hell yes, I'm an award-winning champion at planting myself on the sofa and not moving for twelve hours. In fact, I'd go as far to say I'm the Joey Chestnut of sofa sitting, a world champion. So that argument is shot.

 2) Do I bark at the sky? Of course not. I don't bark. However, a case could be made for my wife who shouts at stupid characters on TV. Now, who's the neurotic one?

3) Finally, while I don't particularly like birds and squirrels, I don't take it personally. Unless they poop on my car, which happens all the time, then I know they're out to get me. Okay, so maybe I get a little neurotic about those stupid birds dive-bombing my car repeatedly and "HEY, STUPID BIRDS! GET OUTTA MY YARD!"

This message has been presented to you by the Neurotic Board of Kansas.

Speaking of neurotic messes, poor Leon Garber would probably top that list. But he has good reason to. For Leon's a serial killer who targets the lowest scum he can find. However the sinister organization, Like-Minded Individuals, who used to work in conjunction with Leon by providing victim's names, have inexplicably targeted Leon. Check out the Secret Society trilogy of suspense and morbidly dark humor, available here.

Beware The Archies!

I'm still haunted by quite a few things from my childhood: lima beans...bullies...Dad's belt. But perhaps the scariest, lingering component of my childhood was "The Archies."

(Disclaimer: I'm purposefully omitting The Banana Splits and Davey and Goliath, otherwise this post would be wayyyyyy too long.)

But consider The Archies. For those mercifully not in the know, they were a fictional bubble-gum pop band taken from the Archie comics and shot to "super-stardom" on the Saturday morning Archie animated series. Their most famous song, the insufferable "Sugar, Sugar," sold over six million copies and landed as number one on the pop chart in 1969.

And they were cartoons.

Let's ponder this for a minute. America fell in love with a fake, animated pop band. I wasn't immune to their phony charms either. Every Saturday, I'd plop my nerdy butt down in front of the TV, just waiting for The Archies to take the stage. When I heard "Sugar, Sugar" on the radio (over and over and over), I'd think of the merry madcap adventures of Archie, Reggie, those two identical (other than hair color) animated hotties Betty and Veronica (my version of Ginger and MaryAnne), and especially Jughead, that irascible beanie wearing, hamburger chowing, lovable rascal. To further tickle my naïve and gullible childish sense of cartoon band admiration, Jughead's dog, "Hot Dog," would sometimes conduct the band. Cartoon heaven!

Except in retrospect, it was cartoon hell. And when I grew up, I felt flummoxed, just as I suspect others of my generation did (although, then again, over half of America wants a convicted criminal as president, so I probably should give up on guessing what goes through their minds.). I destroyed my Archies' 45 single collection (although looking back, they might've been worth something), that's how deeply my sense of betrayal by cartoons went.

So I started thinking: what kind of monster would unleash such a propagandist ploy to subvert children's wills and turn them into a cartoon worshipping cult?

Don Kirshner, that's who. It turns out that Kirshner had put together a previous "fictional" band, The Monkees, in 1966. But unlike The Archies, at least The Monkees were real actors hired to be in the fictional band (and later, actually morphed into something not bad in their own rights). But this wasn't good enough for the evil Don Kirshner. The members of The Monkees started rebelling, getting uppity, and Don wasn't having it. 

Thus, he created the first animated pop band and the rest is history. Because Don knew that cartoons wouldn't pull a diva number on him. Oh, sure, he hired studio musicians (over twenty through the years) to sing and play instruments, but if they started getting big heads, boom! Fired and easily replaceable.

Poor guys. How would you like your claim to fame be that you sang in The Archies?

"Get out. You weren't in The Archies!"

"But...I'm the guy who sang 'Sugar, Sugar,' and--"

"Shut up! Everyone knows that was Archie Andrews! Liar!"

So, America, wake up! Don't get swayed by orange-haired, animated pop singers! And for that matter, don't be swayed by orange, vile, convicted criminal presidential candidates either.

Speaking of things that rarely make sense, consider fifteen year old Dibby Caldwell, the daughter of a Hangwell, Kansas mortician. Not much makes sense in Peculiar County; witches lurk in the shadows, a menacing creature haunts the skies, and the dead refuse to stay dead. Not to mention the fact that a mysterious killer stalks the streets. So come on down to and stay for a spell. Just don't set up roots, at least not roots six feet under.

The Bird Feeding Conundrum

I don't get it, I really don't. My wife expends a lot of time and effort into feeding the world's birds. We have at least four bird feeders in the back yard (possibly five) and it's nearly a full-time job for her to keep them filled.

Yet, we also have three dogs who aren't having it (I'm on their team). So after the bird feeders have been stuffed, I release the dogs who want to tear the feasting birds apart ("Go, Bijou, go!"). So it's all moot.

I told my wife that I thought it's all rather pointless.

"No, no it's not," she said.

Already, I had a sinking feeling I was going to lose this battle. Like always. "Yes, it is. The dogs just go out there and chase them away. It's like the 'circle of life'...only pointless. It's like Einstein's definition of insanity. It's never going to turn out any differently."

"Birds are pretty. And fun to watch," she said, end of topic.

I can't really differentiate one bird from the other. (Other than Blue Jays, because, well, they're blue and they're supposed to be mean predators, so as a child of horror, I enjoyed the idea of them.) I mean, to me birds are more boring than fish. But with fish, at least, you get to slam the aquarium and watch them scramble every time you walk by. Hey, you've gotta take your fun where you can.

But with birds, it's always the same; fly, drop, feed, flit away, poop, wash, rinse, repeat.

One day I noticed squirrels getting into the feeders. So I thought this argument might dissuade my wife from her bird-feeding frenzy.

"Nope. Got it taken care of." She whips out this saucer looking metal gizmo with a hole in the middle. "I have my squirrel baffle ready to install."

"Squirrel baffle?"

"Yep! It goes onto the feeder pole and blocks the squirrels from climbing up to the food."

"Oh for..."

Okay, alright, white flag waved, I give up. I'd lost not only the battle, but the war. But, honestly, how do these birds repay my wife's kindness? Do they swoop down on my shoulder and sing me a warblish Snow White tune or dress me for the ball?

No, they crap all over my car. 

Their aim is uncanny, and isn't it odd that they usually avoid my wife's car even though she parks directly behind me? It's like they know I don't like them. Like they're watching me. And plotting to murder me in my sleep.

You damn birds get offa' my lawn!

While on the topic of deadly animals, they don't come much deadlier than werewolves. Ask poor, suffering Shawn Biltmore. By day, he's a corporate drudge stuck in a soul-sucking dead-end job. And by night, he's a werewolf, perhaps even eating the competition next in line for that promotion he's got his eye on. Check out the bloody dark humor, suspense, and horror of Corporate Wolf.

Porn Star Puppy

Our new little puppy, Biscuit, is a pup of few talents, unless one considers chasing one's own tail to be an award-winning talent. If that classifies, he's a world champion. But to our shock, we soon discovered he had a...ahem...hidden talent, you might say, one in which heretofore he had kept covered up. Mercifully so.

One day while coming out of the shower, Biscuit lay in my path, licking something between his paws.

Exasperatedly, I said, "Biscuit, where'd you get the hot dog OH MY GOD!!!" Never in all of my many years of owning numerous male dogs have I ever seen such a...well, such a huge package on a dog.

My wife had first noticed it several weeks before. While upstairs, she said, "huh...weird."

When she came down, I was dying to know what was so weird (or at least weirder than the norm for our house). She said, "Biscuit's penis seems to be abnormally long."

I thought nothing of it. Until that fateful day when I came out of the shower. Starkers. Feeling kinda inadequate next to our "little" puppy.

It's always the little guy, it always is.

Zowie! Speaking of intellectual humor of the most scintillating sort, give my Zach and Zora books a shot. Critics everywhere have been hailing the series as "sophisticated, smart, witty, urbane, and...and..." I can't do it. I just can't keep lying to you. The books are crazy, nutty, goofy, politically incorrect, and dumb. Kinda like the main character, Zach, a dunderheaded male stripper whose sleuth sister has to keep bailing him out of being a murder suspect. But, hey, they make me laugh! And I'm unbiased!