Sail On, Sweet Loo

 

Last week we lost our beloved Mr. Loomis. 

We knew what we were getting in for when we adopted him at the age of 11, but it doesn't make the pill any easier to swallow.

Mr. Loomis (my wife decided to add the "Mr." to his name seeing as how he was a dignified older gentleman) was my doggy counterpart. Like me, he was old, cranky, achy, didn't suffer fools (dogs or humans) lightly, scruffy, and insisted on doing things his way.

From the moment we first met him, he made this clear. His foster parent brought him to our house for a visit. When he saw me, he approached me, wagging his beautiful classic tail. I thought "Great, I finally am going to get a cute, cuddly lap dog!" I picked him up and he yarked at me immediately. Nobody puts baby in their lap. (And he always "yarked," never barked. Just one loud yark usually did the trick.) So. No lap dog, Mr. Loomis. But he was loyal. Even though he had his boundaries and set them up at the start, he stayed attached to me, always on my heel, never letting me out of his sight.

A lahsa apso mix, Mr. Loomis' breed origins dated back to being "watch dogs" in ancient China. The little guy probably wouldn't scare off or intimidate danger strangers, but whenever someone entered our house who he wasn't comfortable worth, he released a thunderous YARK, the yark heard around the world. (He really hated cable guys and plumbers. Good taste.)

And keep in mind, this lil' adorable, loyal guy was the dog who beat down three different groomers, all of them firing us from ever darkening their doorsteps again. A formidable ornery cuss, Mr. Loomis took no guff from anyone.

But he was extremely sweet to me. My constant partner, he'd always pop up next to me and settle in on the love seat. As long as he knew I understood he wouldn't be relegated to lap dog status, he sat next to me every chance he got.

And we couldn't go to the bathroom without his ever-watchful presence. Sitting at our feet while we conducted business on the porcelain throne, Mr. Loo was on the job.

I made no qualms in hiding the fact that Mr. Loomis was my favorite of our three dogs (but, shhhhh, don't tell the other two). And I think part of that was, in many ways, he was just like me. But he had lots more hair than I did. And he was adorable, something I can't lay claim to.

Always stoic, I never heard Mr. Loomis whine or kvetch. He didn't "say" much, but when he did the message was clear. And that awful morning last week, he told us it was time to end his suffering through a number of uncharacteristic whines.

I still tear up about my friend, Mr. Loomis (I'm doing that now while writing this tribute). I'd never met a dog quite like him. I love him dearly and can only hope that he's taking charge and collecting names of other dogs in puppy heaven.

Sail on, sweet Loo.

You Guys Asked For it!...

 And you got it!

Happy now? (And no, the price of eggs isn't coming down.)

Please, please, please to our friends in England and Canada, attack us and save us from this ludicrous tyranny.

You're welcome!

Spring Break: Senior Style!

PARTYYYYYYY! (Or not.)

As an educator, my wife has been on spring break this week. And while students everywhere have been departing for warmer climates, tropical pool-side bars, and more debauchery than Hugh Hefner ever imagined, where have we been?

Giving our bathroom a makeover. During my wife's spring break, I've been busier than in some time. Oh sure, I can gripe and kvetch about my back and my swiftly spreading arthritis, but it hasn't stopped my wife from assigning me numerous tasks of Herculean magnitude. (Now I would be remiss if I didn't confess that my wife does 90% of the work. She's a master of tools and expert at flipping. The only flipping I'm comfortable with is the bird. But to her this is "fun.")

This isn't the kind of excitement I remember, lo those many years ago during our action-packed and nutty spring breaks. Back in the day, my pals and I would travel to Texas or Florida and from what I can remember of those trips (which admittedly isn't much, mainly due to the non-stop flow of beer), it was a markedly different experience than now.

As I write this, I'm staring at the ginormous box that contains our new toilet, a one-piece monster that weighs 150 pounds. I barely got it off the stoop (and that was by rolling it) and up one step. I'm dreading the moment when we have to carry the beast and lift and position it perfectly.

Whereas my pals and I used to go spring-breaking, now I'm excelling at back-breaking. We used to guzzle beers and snarf chili dogs. Now, it's aspirin with a Pepto-Bismol chaser. At least we're still swimming. But instead of the ocean, I'm swimming in sweat. We used to jump into pools fully clothed. Today my wife accidentally triggered the water shut-off and soaked me, fully clothed of course. And as opposed to chasing girls, I'm chasing a few hours of untroubled sleep (curse you, prostate!).

One of these years, I'm hoping my wife and I "enjoy" an actual, leisurely spring break. But with the caveat that we're still in bed by 8:00 p.m.  You know...taking a walk on the wild side!

If you too are looking to stroll down the wild side, look no further than my book, Corporate Wolf. Sure, it's a darkly comical, satirical, bloody, mystery horror suspenser about werewolves in the corporate world, but part of the tale is "semi-autobiographical," ripped from my interim years. Check it out here!

Duh, My Dear Watson. DUH!

My wife was watching a new show. I asked her what it was.

"Watson," she said, clearly wanting me to shut up.

"Well...what's it about?"

"He's Watson!" She explained this like she had made everything clear.

I stared at her, confused. "Okay....but what is it about?

"He's Watson! You know...from Sherlock Holmes. Duh!"

Looking at the screen, this didn't remotely resemble any Watson I'd ever encountered.

"Does it take place in England?" I asked.

"No."

"Huh. Does he hang out with Sherlock Holmes in the late Victorian era?"

"No. Quiet."

"Is he a rotund, white Brit who wears a top hat, smokes a pipe, and has a walrus mustache?"

"No. He's Morris Chestnut!"

"Then he's not Watson," I defiantly concluded.

"Can I please watch my show in peace?" She sat, remote pausing the show, while I got the glare which was short hand for SHUT UP. So I wisely bailed.

How many iterations of Sherlock Holmes and Watson can TV possibly fling at us? Besides the usual suspects like the fairly faithful adaptations from PBS, we've had Elementary, Sherlock and Daughter (blasphemy!), The Baker Street Boys, The Irregulars, Mademoiselle Holmes, Miss Sherlock, and Moriarty the Patriot (!). I'm surprised there hasn't been a Sherlock Hound...oh wait...there was an anime series.

C'mon network TV, get it together! The streamers have left these brain-dead guys in the dust. There still content on serving up the same, dull, by-the-book, no surprises lawyer, doctor, cop, and billions of boring initials only police specialty shows (NCIS, CSI, LMNOP, ETC.) Is it any wonder, I rarely watch any network TV shows any longer? And I'm not alone either.

They've even served up a new version of Matlock, for God's sake. But instead of the Ritz-eating, cracker-barrel, down-home charms of Andy Griffith, we now have an old salty, lying woman pretending to be dumb and trying to find out which lawyer killed her daughter. Or something. Whatever. Not that the original was any classic, mind you. But do better, Hollywood! You guys at the four big networks (and there used to just be three in my days, whipper-snappers!) haven't done anything original in decades, perfectly happy to spew out the same old, trite case of the week junk, where every serial killer is tidily apprehended by the end of 41 minutes. (CBS--which stands for Chronically Bored Seniors--are still the worst offenders.)

I'm just dreading the day when they start remaking the 70's slate of "handicapable" detective shows. For those not old enough (or trying to scour their brains from these scarringly dumb shows) to remember,  we suffered through such gems as Ironsides (a detective in a wheelchair), Barnaby Jones (a senior citizen detective nearing stroke status), Cannon (an obese detective who couldn't run), and...my personal favorite...Longstreet (a blind detective!!!). I mean...c'mon! Who would hire this "A-Team?" If they come up with "Itchy Britches," a detective show featuring a protagonist suffering from Irritable Bowel Syndrome, my TV's going out the window.

I guess I shouldn't groan and kvetch too much. Instead of the "dark ages" when we had to rely on three channels to force-feed us whatever junk the brain-trust at Hollywood deemed suitable for our glass teat nurtured brain cells, we have thousands and thousands of channels of crap from which to choose. 

Or we could, you know, just read a book.

And, hey! I just happen to know where you can find some books! Look no further than my Amazon author page available here!

BEHOLD...the Spotted Dick!

Spotted Dick!

Go on. Think about it. Now say it out loud. It's okay. Presumably you're at home while reading my blog, so it's fine to say it out loud. Unless you're killing time, loafing at work. Then it's completely acceptable to whisper it.

Spotted Dick.

See? It's funny! The older I get, the more juvenile my sense of humor becomes. (Clearly what the ubiquitous "they" say about wisdom coming with age haven't met me.)

I've been acquainted with "Spotted Dick" before. When I first read about it in my younger days, I gave it a passing chuckle, then stored it away in my brain's Department of Useless Information, where things lay dormant for a couple of days until completely abandoned.

But before last Christmas, I stumbled across a mention of Spotted Dick again (somewhere...doesn't matter where). The important takeaway is it struck me as extremely funny.

Now, those not acquainted with the notorious "Spotted Dick (and be very thankful you're not)," may believe it to be a peculiar STD, something one might acquire on a less-than-cautious Tinder hookup.

Au contraire! Thanks to the magic of Ms. Google, I learned all about Spotted Dick. For I knew, if I were to get away with bandying the term about at Christmas-time, I'd better be prepared to back it up with knowledge and feigned innocence. Forearmed is forewarned (or "foreskinned is foredicked" or something like that).

It turns out that Spotted Dick is a traditional British steamed pudding, served over the holidays, usually made with suet and dried fruit. Yum. Or...not. Maybe if you're a bird. It just may be the British version of fruitcake. (But I imagine our friends overseas hate fruitcake as well.) 

Anyway, I committed the stuffy definition to memory, preparing to enlighten my family at Christmas, knowing full well that it sounds rather...vulgar. But, hey! I had history to back me up! What's the fuss, Gus?

I did manage to rope in one of my nephews to join in the hilarity by dropping "Spotted Dick" at every opportunity, and it warmed my juvenile heart seeing him explain to GMa: "What? It's a traditional British steamed pudding." Even my bro-in-law joined in the merriment until he finally put the kibosh on it.

But it got me thinking...why in the world would someone name a pudding "Spotted Dick?" 

My imagination drew me back to a loo (that's British for bathroom, yanks!), where the conversation unfolded like this...

"Ouch! Ugh! Arrrrrr..."

"What's the matter, Harry?"

"I dunno, mate. It stings when I urinate."

"Hmmm. Let me take a look."

"Okay. Here..."

"Blimey! Harry, that looks like my Mum's holiday pudding! I think you've got a case of..."

Spotted Dick! Hahahahahahahahaha...

Of course, further research shows that "spotted" comes from the dried fruit (raisins, etc.) in the pudding. And back in the day, "dick" sometimes referred to plain pudding, perhaps related to the word "dough."

Naturally I'm not the only wisenheimer to run at the mouth about the joy of the Spotted Dick moniker. Throughout time, someone proclaimed it a "manly type of pudding," clearly running with the double entendre. Even the press jumped in on the fun: in 1892, the Pall Mall Gazette ran a story proclaiming "the Kilburn sisters satisfied hundreds of dockers with soup and Spotted Dick." I'll bet they did (snicker). Surely, by this time, EVERYONE was in on the joke.

Even within the hallowed halls of the Houses of Parliament, the restaurant staff took it upon themselves to rename the pudding "Spotted Richard." I rest my case!

So during the next holiday season, join in the fun! Wow your Grandma with your knowledge of a traditional holiday British steamed pudding! Impress your aunt and uncle with how worldly you are about British treasured foods! Astound your visiting clergy person with great tales of an overseas culinary confection! But mostly, relish the opportunity to use the term "Spotted Dick" as many times as you can possibly get away with!

Yes, since I won't allow myself to write about our disastrous and shameful current White House administration, I'm reduced to blogging about Spotted Dick jokes. You're welcome!

If you enjoyed that dip into juvenilia, surely you'll get a bang out of my Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series. The title alone of the first book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, should alert you to the high-brow sophistication and enlightenment that can be yours here. Again...you're welcome!

Pink Eye Romance

I think we can all agree that "Pink Eye" is one of the worst ailments that can befall someone. Especially when you're younger. You may as well be wearing a huge-ass scarlet letter over your eye or the mark of Cain. Watch people avoid you at all costs, crossing the street to get away. I mean, it's not like an STD. No, those people are lucky and can hide their ailments within pants.

Not only is pink eye extremely irritable and annoying, it's just flat-out ugly and gross. (Just ask my daughter; once she had to wear an eyepatch to an outdoor concert.) And God help the hapless kid who becomes afflicted by the pink curse while in high school.

No one wants to be near you when you've got pink eye. Just one of life's harsher facts.

Now let's jump into the Way-Back Machine and travel back to my wild and wooly bachelor days full of non-stop fun and partying and nary a single adult care to get in my way. There. We're here! Did you have a pleasant trip?

But what's this? Oh nooooooo! Poor Stuart has pink eye!

And with just two days until he and his friends' big party at the Berdella house (okay...it wasn't really the "Berdella house" but my good friend--host of the party--lived one block away from notorious Kansas City serial killer Bob Berdella. The more you know!).

What was poor Stuart to do? He'd already invited a girl that he'd had romantic dalliances with during college. But with his eye all swollen and watery and itchy and redder than an angry sunset, he couldn't possibly attempt to kiss said girl.

So Stuart groused and grumbled until the big day of the party. When his guest showed up that night, he noticed she had a long lock of blonde hair uncharacteristically swooped over one eye.

"Hey," Stuart said, "You might want to keep your distance from me 'cause I got pink eye."

Suddenly, she swooped back her hair exposing a swollen, watery, itchy, and redder than an orangutan's bottom, eye. 

Celestial trumpets sounded! Clouds parted! Somewhere dogs and cats hugged it out! 

Stuart had no choice but to grab the girl and kiss her.

Thus began the Summer of pink eye romance.

It's as they say, "God loves a fool with pink eye." (Or maybe I've got that quote wrong...)

Now that I'm in a silly, kinda pink eye mood, I may as well plug my shameless Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Take one stupid male stripper, mix with his usually pregnant, bright sleuth sister, and stir into a murder mystery with nutty characters, thrills, spills, suspense, and embarrassing humor and you have the Zach and Zora series! Don't be left out in the cold! Check out what all the cool kids are reading here!

The Day the Earth Swallowed Me

Just another ordinary day. No, scratch that. Unlike our horrible Winter, it was an unnaturally beautiful February day. No snow, no ice, no winds, no tornados...just the temperature hanging out in the terrific upper '60's. And it felt great.

So Spring Fever beckoned me to sit out on the deck and watch my dogs do their business (an old guy hobby I've developed; you've gotta take your fun where you can find it.).

Now, our senior (mostly blind) dog was lagging behind as usual. So, I ventured out into the yard to gather him up and carry him inside.

With dog in arms, my arthritis dwindling due to the warm temperature, everything was going extremely well!

Naturally that's when Mother Nature decided to play a nasty trick on me. Halfway through the yard, the deck and back door into the house well within sight, BLAMMO!

The hell?...

I'm not sure what happened to our dog, but my entire right leg had fallen through the earth. Incredulous, stunned, I was stuck in the earth, my leg dangling below me into a hellish crater.

My first thought was This can't be happening. My second thought: My God, what kind of huge-ass creature burrowed this cave beneath six inches of top soil and is it going to eat my leg off? Finally, my most realistic thought occurred: I've stumbled into The Mole People's den!

Panicked, I began to yell and holler for my wife who was working upstairs. And it was the first time I ever cursed our house for having great sound insulation.

Stuck in the earth, no one to hear my cries for help before the Mole People devoured me, I weighed my options. My phone wasn't with me, so that was out of the question (never again will I belittle kids for having their phone glued to their hands). And as in the James Franco film where he cut off his arm to survive, that option seemed unlikely as I had no cutting utensil and my teeth couldn't reach my thigh.

If only one of our neighbors would look out the window, they would see me with the earth enveloping the entirety of my right leg and my left leg buckled beneath me in an agonizing contortionist's squat. No time for embarrassment!

The dogs were no help. The two younger ones just stood on the deck, wagging their tails while watching me squirm in pain. (I think they thought I was "taking care of my business.") Finally, the older, near-blind dog walked up toward me and I tried to shoo him away. If he fell into the hole, I wasn't sure we could fish him out as the cave felt like it went all the way to China (like in those informationally accurate cartoons I learned geography from).

I was on my own. With a great Herculean surge of energy, I unfolded my bent leg. Using my arms, I pushed through the surrounding mud (created by a foot of recently melted snow) until I got a good grip on the ground and pulled my leg out of the hole. It was still intact! Clearly, the Mole People were still slumbering.

But I couldn't get up. My arthritis was on fire, aggravated by my plummet into the earth, my knees, back and toes screaming for relief. Plus I had nothing to leverage my way up to standing.

Survival instinct kicked in. Using mostly my arms I pulled myself-- half-slithering, half-crawling--through wet grass, mud and dog poop. Lots and lots and LOTS of dog poop. Finally, I reached the deck where I was able to hoist myself up on my battered legs.

That was when my wife finally came to the rescue. She came into the kitchen and stopped at the open back door when she saw me.

Painted all the pretty (and smelly) earth-tones of mud and doggy-poo, I must've been quite the sight.

"Oh my..." she said, her eyes widening. "What happened?"

I explained. Carefully, she went out to the new hole in the yard, put her phone inside and took pictures. A vast cave just like I had thought, but that wasn't the weirdest part.

"Whoa," she exclaimed. "There's a concrete wall down there!"

I hobbled my way toward the excavation point, careful to stand as far back as I could. I couldn't see the wall, but her picture showed me the proof.

That's when my thoughts swam from woe-is-me tragedy to big-bucks-bonanza for us!

Obviously, we'd discovered Al Capone's TRUE vault, full of stacks and stacks of cash and Jimmy Hoffa's body! Eat it, Geraldo!

Then my wife sorta brought me back down to earth. "I don't know who to call in this situation."

"The press! Our financial guy! Everyone who's ever hacked us off, so we can rub our new riches in their--"

"I'll call our insurance agent," she said, ever the voice of reason.

The insurance agent told us to call the city. The city guy came out and said, "Not our problem. It's an old septic tank. Maybe an old cellar."

Boom. Fizzle, fizzle, fizzle... All of my dreams of fabulous monetary wealth went up as fast as my leg went down into the earth.

But...who do you call to restore the earth? I'm sorry, Mother Nature! Don't take it out on us! We recycle and do what we can to preserve our earth. Blame it on the Maga's! Make THEM fall through their yards! 

While I'm whining about lost opportunities, I may as well plug a book. Hey, it's Tex, the Witch Boy! My very first book and still one of my wife's favorites. It's got suspense, mystery, murder, witchcraft (natch), humor, pathos, romance, ghosts, supernatural shenanigans, a serial killer, and I do believe there's even a kitchen sink in there somewhere. But quit reading the hype, and go buy the dang thing already!