rbendici

What Have I Been Up To?

Dec 012024

Funny I should make you ask . . . .

Yeah, it’s been a while since I spilled pixels here, but that’s been because I’ve focused all my free writing time on one project, which after 2.5+ years (wow, that flew by!) is now finally ready to be unleashed on both the suspecting and unsuspecting masses. I hadn’t really intended on going so long or all-in on one endeavor, but sometimes that’s just the way writing life works out when you fall in love with what you’re creating. Which, as I type out loud, sounds like a special “Roll Tide” version of Frankenstein. Or maybe just the plot of Weird Science.

So after I was done writing Satan and the Adventure of the Blue-Eyed Freak—which I fully intended to be a standalone, one-time book—I started working on a somewhat unrelated story I had started a few years ago. That was going very well for a few months, but I found myself still randomly thinking about, and even missing, the characters from B-EF. And one day, while I was out running on my local Melonhead Road, I had a Terry Pratchett-like epiphany: I knew what happened next!

So …

Now available at Amazon, in paperback and Kindle. Cover art once again from the amazing Poltergeist Soup.

What’s it about, you ask? Once again, 300 pages or so … oh wait!

From the back cover:

You can’t keep a bad guy down! Nick Brooks, aka Satan, is being dragged hornlong into a timely new adventure, with only the literal fate of the Universe hanging in the balance. Along with former FBI agent Tonya Daived and everyone’s favorite Blue-Eyed Freak (yeah, she’s back too!), your beloved Lord of Darkness has to navigate tall buildings, speeding locomotives, South African terrorists, a compelling Zulu badass, and a sociopathic cult leader known as The White Rhino—all as ultimate doom looms. [*Cue: “The Final Countdown!”*]

Oh, and to add an extra degree of difficulty (for style points, of course), at the center of Everything is a perfectly divine orphan teenage girl who, like the first Avril Lavigne, can’t help but make things so complicated. Lies, laughs, and love—it’s all here, plus action, adventure, and enough random and inane pop culture references to even make Tina Fey dizzy.

Yes, Beelzebub is back, and you might say, it’s just in the Nick of Time! (Or not, because that’s cornier than Iowa during a dad jokes convention hosted by the jolly Green Giant. But hey, you do you!)

So yeah, that’s happened. And the even worse part? I again know what happens next, so yeah, there will be yet another adventure forthcoming. (Spoiler: I also already know the title of that adventure, which I’ve slipped in at the end of this one, and it’s a spoiler in itself! It’s spoilers all the way down!)

As always, I really hope everyone who takes the time to check this out to has as much fun reading it as I had writing it. I love, love, LOVE this story, and think it might be better than the last one! Although the last one recently got some wonderfully kind reviews on Good Reads and Amazon from my hero, the truly funny and supportive Ashley Ottesen. And yes, she’s holding my first book at the start of this post, so please give her a follow or two since I can’t name my next child after her, what with the vasectomy and all.

Of course, I’m a little worried about living up to that hype and praise, but then again, as my son reminded me: I wrote the book I wanted to read last time, and have done so again this time. So, what could possibly go wrong?

blankity blank

Jun 082022

I was recently watching a MasterClass with Salman Rushdie and he was talking about being intimidated by a blank page, and that resonated with me . . . . because of the opposite!

I LOVE a blank page! It’s irresistible, inspiring, tantalizing. I can’t wait to put a pen to a paper one, or start tapping at keys on a digital one, to mark it up with my inane prattle. I see empty lines or a unsullied notebook, and I’m compelled to sully it—

At the weekly “Shut Up and Write” meetup (one uninterrupted hour of creativity that has resulted in what you’re currently reading), I often go old school and write with a pen and notebook. In approaching it like that, I’ve learned that writer’s cramp (remember that?) feels so satisfying. “My hand hurts so I must’ve done something, right?”

Hmm . . . .

Doing something worthwhile, however, is always the challenge, right? I don’t take for granted how as soon as I start scribbling or typing, my pulse quickens, my chest becomes flush with adrenaline, and ray’s brain kicks into an ecstatic state that simultaneously seems like genius and idiocy. [*Insert ‘Why not both?’ meme*]

I’ve read that artificial intelligence (AI) programs are being developed to mimic creative writing, but churning out words and sentences and ideas without passion seems to be a soulless endeavor. Why say something if you’re not really saying something?

I am, therefore, I write.

At the beginning of the day, I guess it really is about letting my ego run amok. When it’s just us here—me, ray’s brain, a pen/keyboard, a blank page—that party can kind of go anyway it wants.

To wit:

He sits at the desk in his bedroom, just after sunset. The dying light of the day still has an ember or two of magic. The edges of the bed, the dresser, the pile of dirty laundry piled on the chair in the corner, all blur a little. Or soften (he’s got his reading glasses on, after all).

It’s one of those quiet, unremarkable moments that stack up and fill a life when he’s not particularly watching. He’ll probably never fully register this slice of time since there’s nothing noteworthy happening to mark it. But as his fingers continue across the keyboard, spilling thoughts into a digital document and moving around the pixels, the nothing becomes a little bit of a something. It’s granted a weird immortality of sorts, a recorded memory from his sliver of existence . . . .

If a bedroom sits empty at sunset, does it get dark?

“Look at me, I’m a philosophizer . . . .”

Maybe I’d still struggle with writing more if my brain wasn’t this never-ending tilt-a-whirl of stupid. Like, it’s easy to fill up a page if your inner monologue doesn’t ever stop to take a breath or have anything resembling a boundary. Quantity over more quantity, I’d say, is my biggest sin.

I’m glad that I’m on a first-name basis with words. Not that it helps me string any together in a cohesive or particularly useful manner. Kind of like that monkey hammering away at a mental typewriter in the hopes of stumbling upon a worthwhile thought or two after a century or so.

I suppose that any received instant I hold a romantic notion that I’m capable of crafting something beyond gibberish. “Crafting” is the emphasis here as it suggests a modicum of skill and intent that there may be significant evidence doesn’t exist in my efforts. “Honing my craft” is another ego-stroking cliche I could toss out here.

I talk about eliminating my expectations as a key to trying to be happy. That should be applied to writing as well. Expecting to create something worthwhile beyond polluting a clean page or blank screen may be a bar set too high. Sometimes, maybe the treasure is just the writing we do along the way.

Okay, hour’s up. Now I have to go shake the satisfying cramps out of my hand.

what i did on my summer/winter/never-ending pandemic

May 032022

Like pretty much everyone else, the past two+ years have provided an opportunity to determine what kind of “I’ve been meaning to do that!” tasks I might actually get done if given ample amounts of free time and nowhere to go.

As it turns out, not ticked off on the “accomplished” list:

Bake bread/cake from scratch
Go through and organize old files/documents/photos
Transmogrify lead into gold
Learn to play a didgeridoo
Find Bigfoot
Fix the sock drawer of my dresser
Watch the entire Ernest oeuvre
Convince Salma Hayek to leave the billionaire husband she loves for some random 167-year-old guy from Connecticut
Write the Great American Novel—

Wait! So on that last one . . . .

I’m not saying it’s great but it’s a novel and I’m American, so that’s like two-thirds of the formula. Close enough, right?

Oh, and before typing a letter more: Shoutout to the amazing Sammi Lewis of Poltergeist Soup for the cover!

So yeah, I’ve been working away on this for a while, and now it’s time to emerge from my writing cocoon to share it. Although I’m scared out of my wits to put this out there, tbh. Like a lot of people who write, I’ve gone to bed thinking, “This isn’t terrible,” only to wake up the next morning and be like, “I’m an idiot, I should delete this, smash my laptop, and stab myself in the eye for even thinking of publishing it anywhere, ever.”

And I might (should?) have, except I now feel I owe it to Sammi because their work deserves an opportunity to be seen. I only hope the way I’ve hammered together 100,000 or so words does it justice.

For what it’s worth, this is somehow the best and stupidest thing I’ve ever concocted, and I mean that in the best way possible (I think). Here’s the back-cover blurb:

Sportswriter Nick Brooks is covering yet another boring baseball game when he inadvertently encounters Sarah Rypien, an extraordinary young woman who immediately spins his existence downside up and cattywampus. Before he knows it, the prerequisite chaos/hilarity ensues, dragging him into one of those absurd irregular-Joe-meets-possible-psycho-and-saves-the-world brand of adventures, replete with action, intrigue, mysterious men in Volvos, a very special FBI special agent, 1.5 romances, and a healthy dash of the LOLs. (You know, like Mom used to make.)

Oh, and on a semi-unrelated note: Nick just happens to be sharing his life with an incarnation of the entity commonly beloved as “Satan.”

In this fun, satiric sci-fi romp—packed with enough pop culture references to give the intrawebz a nosebleed—Ray Bendici vaults readers through an entertaining jaunt that bends brains, time, reality, and genres. On the plus side, no one gets turned into a newt.

Clearly, an autobiography then.

Ultimately, the lighthouse guiding this journey to completion has been to create something that will be as fun to read as it was to write. Which is not a low bar to clear as much as it’s a chalk line on a playground to skip over. Still, I hope you all find it entertaining.

For what it’s worth, the title is like Snakes on a Plane—you already know if you’re in or out, and that’s probably for the best. No offense taken at all if you’re out, I get it.

And if you’re in … well, that’s on you at this point. Peruse/purchase it on Amazon, either paperback or Kindle, keep your hands inside the ride, and enjoy mucking about in rayality!

Wire Service

Aug 122021

Sometimes you’re just wired that way, right?

Like, I tell myself, ‘Don’t be the crazy person’ over and over again, but I’m not sure if it does any good—shoveling furiously against a mental tide that never exhausts itself. It seems futile, and I know it’s futile, yet I must think that there’s some infinitesimal hope that maybe this time I’ll break through, this time it’ll be different, this time I’ll succeed.

“Hey Charlie Brown! Wanna kick this football?”

Yeah, so I’m a blockhead sucker who desperately wants to believe that my self-nurture can somehow win out against my self nature. I guess the comfort—if you’re seeking that in this—is probably not being the only one with cross-wiring, frayed wires, wires that don’t connect, missing wires ….

Why-res? Ugh.

The other part of the schematic is that … darkness? black hole? dead battery? at the middle of me. The constant hydra of uncertainty that never quite relents, never really can exhale, for fear of relaxing or being happy—because both of those don’t seem to be things I’m entitled to.

Dumb, I know, but it’s there. And it’s a struggle, really—daily, hourly, by the minute, by the second, to shake that belief that something BAD is always lurking, ready to pounce and devour a good moment or feeling. How do you shake that? You can’t really reach into your mind and rewire it all.

Well, not yet, anyway.

I do better understand and tepidly endorse the concept of a lobotomy, if not the actual procedure itself. If only there was a way to cut away at your gray matter and axons while you’re conscious so you could give an indication of what was being deleted and if it was actually the BAD parts.

*Insert old observation that in Frankenstein, the doctor is the actual monster*

It’d be nice if I could even just loosen up the wiring a bit. You know, to give me some slack as I maneuver through this world so that any random bump doesn’t end up short-circuiting me.

Get help, you say? I don’t know that the kind of help I need is anywhere to be found or accessed. I’ve been trying amateur re-wiring for years to change the way I process the world and experiences, and I’ve had some success in taking in something and not immediately responding with my gut reaction. I’ve learned to be kinder and more patient and more selfless in my actions, and just … nicer. However, those initial mean and impatient and selfish first thoughts are often still there, snapping at me like hungry baby piranha.

Again, faulty wiring.

Maybe I’m just at the point when the wires are too corroded, fused together forever in a helpless, hapless lump of a brain that is beyond fixing? Except I’m somehow trapped inside it, all too aware that the Tilt-a-Whirl is spinning and I can’t get off until someone pulls the plug or it tips over, cartwheels across the carnival midway, and wrecks itself in a corndog-fueled blaze of glory!

Wait, what in the name of Tallulah Bankhead did I just write? ‘A corndog-fueled blaze of glory‘? See, I’m not sure how or why I got to that vivid, yet stupid, vision.

Oh yeah, the wiring ….

Looking back, this all sounds like the ramblings of a suicide note—not that I’ve ever written one. (Maybe someday–fingers crossed! [inside my head joke]) But honestly, that’s not a spot I’ll ever be at. Because at the center of all my wiring, you/I may have noticed, the faint pulse of hope continues to beat. The hope that I can or will somehow beat—or just accept—my wiring, recognize that more good comes to and out of me than BAD on any given day, and that someday, somehow, it all will genuinely be okay to exhale, to relax, to live.

Yeah, hope is a four-letter word. But some days, that’s o-k-a-y.

***

On a side note: This was a first-draft (life raft) that I banged out in an hour. Yay for me for somehow staying on theme for this entire rant. Even after actually coming up with “why-res.” I mean, that’s just got no juice whatsoever. (You know, like that weak joke I just tried to splice in here.)

well, i hope you’re happy …

Apr 202020

… So I was just trying to mind my own business and sort out this danged rayality, and now with so much danged time on my hands and out of household projects, I’ve got to resort to this crap again! “Oh, type something funny blog monkey, entertain us!”

Ugh. I hate you people, even when you’re not around!

So having extra time to contemplate the Universe, I’ve decided to … uh … contemplate the Universe!

Hey, I’ve always loved space and astronomy, and all the wonder of the endless cosmos that surround this tiny blue marble. In fact, it was just about a year ago in this space that I was trying to wrap my mind around the first-ever images of a black hole in outer space, among other cool features and images from well beyond our earthbound existence.

If you’re inclined to notice, the pace of the discoveries being made by astronomers and astrophysicists around the globe is continuing unabated. It seems as if every day they’re finding new exoplanets (more than 50 already in 2020), spotting interstellar objects (such as Oumuamua), and unraveling more and more mysteries about dark matter, black holes and all manner of interstellar mystery.

Oh, and what about all the new constellations! It doesn’t get as much notice as some of the other space stories out there, but there’s been a slew of new connect-the-stars drawings. In 2018, NASA made headlines when it named 21 new constellations that have been identified using the Fermi Gamma-ray Space Telescope. The Hulk (because of the gamma-ray connection), Godzilla, the Starship Enterprise, and Dr. Who’s Tardis are among the latest official additions to the lore of the night sky. Such mirth and madcappery! Who says scientists are boring? Pah!

Of course, with all the other news as of late, you may have missed some of the brandy-new ones that were recently added. Always eager to spread knowledge, let me share a few with you:

First up, if you look to the Western spring sky, is Manny the Manatee—

A bit crude, but you can see him … you know, if you squint a bit.

Next is Steve, the Fisherman …

Again, a tad of imagination is needed, but you can see it. Sort of.

Now if you’re worried that Steve is lonely up there in the Heavens all by himself, don’t worry! Just a few galaxies over is Bertha the Librarian.

Awww … she’s a cutie, right? And I bet she’s a lot of fun when those glasses come off—watch out, Steve!

Speaking of more fun, to the Far North, there’s Squatchy the Sasquatch!

Not exactly a looker, but hey, I’m sure to the right Bigfoot, she’s a … uh … another Bigfoot. I’m not one to judge. Love is love.

And everyone loves dogs, right? Turn South and say hi to Hector, the Support Chihuahua!

He looks sorta mean for support pup, no? Well, I’m sure he makes some nervous frequent flyer happy, even if he’s not all that friendly.

Oh, you know who’s always a friendly? Dorothy the Dinosaur!

Romp-pomp-a-chomp!

And while we’re on iconic children’s figures, how can we have a party in the sky without Fudgie the Whale?!

And, of course, a quasar to the left, his good friend Cookie Puss!

Hmm … not sure why, but do they kind of look … oh, never mind! I’m just seeing things.

Okay, I’m not going to pretend to understand this one, but hey, it’s Flappers the Two-Headed Goat!

Yay? Hmmm …

Finally, this one over the night skies of Philly is simply called Ongo the Influencer.

Derivative!

Anyway, always happy to drop some knowledge on you all. Sweet dreams my little blogaroos!

hero work

May 192019

NON-WARNING: READ AT YOUR OWN LEISURE, THERE ARE NO SPOILERS AHEAD

So like the rest of the known universe, I recently saw Avengers: Endgame. And unlike most of the theater-going masses, I kept my pants on throughout.

I mean, I liked it, just didn’t love it. Certainly, there were scenes and moments that were amazing and that I’d really enjoying watching again … but I’m not sure I’d pay $12 to sit through the entire 3+ hours a second time.

While I was watching, however, it occurred to me that the Avengers have this enormous, sprawling complex and … well … there’s no one there but a half dozen or so Avengers. (And don’t try to peddle me that “Marvel/Disney can’t afford extras” malarkey!) I understand that the focus of the movie is on them (it’s in title, I get it), but it seems to me that given what they do and the scope of their operation, there should be support personnel hanging about, right?

Like, I know that Tony Stark is big on robots, tech and artificial intelligence, but even he needs Happy to drive him places (and keep Spider-man out of trouble). So, even with bleeding edge tech, the Avengers complex should be teeming with friendly human faces—teamwork to make the dream work, as it were.

For example:

Cleaning crew—Okay, the MCU addressed this somewhat in Spider-man: Homecoming with the Vulture’s company tidying up the city after the Battle of New York. But what about just keeping the Avengers complex spic and span?

Even if the place has self-cleaning sinks and showers, what about dust? Who is vacuuming the couch, wiping Thor’s cheesepuff-stained fingerprints off all the glass displays, or collecting his empty beer cans? Who’s tackling a toilet the day after Hulk has downed a few dozen tacos? Plungers, assemble!

Costume and laundry team—Yes, Tony Stark builds his own Iron Man suits, but who is Black Widow going to for her skin-tight leather outfits? And who is sewing her into those, not to mention getting out the sweat, blood and stains after a day of battling aliens? Can’t exactly toss those into a washing machine. Someone’s at least got to take them to Edna Mode for dry cleaning.

Besides, Thor’s trousers and tunics didn’t let themselves out. Bruce Banner shreds clothes every single time he Hulks out—who is replenishing his wardrobe? And what about the “regular” togs the team wears between missions? Pretty sure Steve Rogers isn’t cruising the Old Navy at the local galleria for a pair of jeans, or even washing his own sweats after destroying a half dozen punching bags.

Food service—We all know how much the Avengers love their shawarma, but it’s not like they can go out for it every night. Someone has to put together meals for the team, and given their constant physical exertion, they must pack away the calories.

We know Black Widow makes a mean peanut butter sandwich, but I’m pretty sure a Russian super spy isn’t heading over to the local Shop-Rite to buy her own Skippy. Even if they order all their food through Peapod, someone has to take the delivery and stock the pantry.

Legal team—Obviously Stark Industries has a battery of attorneys to protect Tony’s propriety inventions, but what insurance and protection do the other Avengers have? Who does Hulk turn to when he gets sued after accidentally smashing someone’s car or house or office building? What about electronics wrecked when Thor discharges lightning?

Given the amount of damage sustained, cities flattened and widespread carnage on any given adventure, there would need to be a legal team the size of Wakanda to handle all the claims. It’s not like they can just snap all their legal woes away.

Medical team—Seriously, the Avengers are beaten, bruised and bloodied constantly. Who provides the necessary first aid and surgery? We’ve seen Dr. Bruce Banner occasionally patch up team members, but he’s not a neurologist who can treat them for the multiple concussions incurred during so many incredibly violent fights. I mean, after getting knocked around by Thanos and broken open during a battle, Captain America isn’t going to the local walk-in for stitches.

And what about just the normal preventative care stuff? I doubt Black Widow is meandering over to Dr. Newsbaum, OB-GYN, for exams. Oh, and lets’s talk about dental care—they all have gorgeous white teeth, despite constantly being in fist fights. Smiles isn’t where Hulk is going for a root canal.

Armaments makers and mechanics—To paraphrase Jack Nicholson’s Joker, “Where do they get all those wonderful toys?”

Again, we know Tony Stark builds his own weapons, but you never seen Hawkeye crafting a quiver full of normal arrows, not to mention all the gimmick ones. War Machine and Black Widow go through bullets and rockets as if they have an infinite supply, but you never see either at the local ammo shop stocking up.

Plus, there’s a fleet of cars, planes, motorcycles and other modes of transportation that seem to be endlessly at their disposal—perfectly maintained, fueled and ready around the clock. Who takes care of it all? Given the way the Avengers abuse their vehicles, just keeping any one primed and running would require a full-time NASCAR pit crew.

Oh well … maybe at some point in the next 22 movies, Marvel/Disney will show some love to Tim, the Avengers’ landscaper. That lawn isn’t going to re-sod itself after Endgame!

guy night out

May 122019

So on a recent Saturday night, something suddenly came up and my dinner plans fell through. It was a somewhat pleasant night (finally), so rather than sit home alone with the remote and a plate of cheese and crackers, I did something I never do: I went out to dine by myself.

Yeah, it had been a looooong week. I wanted to be around people, but not exactly with anyone. If that makes sense. Besides, didn’t Ernest Hemingway hit bars by himself all the time? And look how that worked out for him!

So I pulled up my bootstraps, mustered whatever pluck I had laying around, and found my way to a hip brew pub about 15 minutes from my house. Even though I don’t really go for any of the 117 local craft brews on tap there, I really like the food and vibe.

When I get there, the place is busy but not overwhelming. Perfect! I take a deep breath and head inside.

In the back of my mind, Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” cues up. Not that I’m the lyrical storyteller he is, but I can see pieces sort of coming together.

“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in …”

Okay, more like six o’clock—I ain’t no 30-year-old wild man! I find a stool at the bar and then order a glass of water and mozzarella sticks because, you know, I’m a wild man like that.

I pretend to focus on the college baseball game on the TV over the bar, but I’m really glancing around surreptitiously. Couples are dining together, some laughing, some chatting, some in stony silence staring anywhere but at one another. Other couples, trios, quartets, etc. drink, eat and interact socially. The place isn’t exactly teeming with odd characters, which is fine. I don’t see any real estate novelists, although I’m not sure that anyone really has.

As an inveterate people watcher, I’ve often observed people who are alone at bars or restaurants. I try to not pass judgement, but I do tend to whip up back stories as to why they might be on their own in that particular instance. “Hey, bet that guy in the jacket is an international diamond thief who is laying up here until a fence can be found for the cache of jewels he has hidden in the sole of his sneakers.” Or “That lady at the bar with the burger and glass of white wine is a seventh-grade science teacher who just had the worst Match date at a coffee bar an hour earlier with a recently separated guy who is ‘in between’ careers and ‘temporarily’ staying with his elderly parents, neither of which was mentioned in his profile.”

I’m sure anyone watching me dip my mozzarella sticks in marinara is thinking, “Whoa, check out that super cool, bad-ass, off-duty special forces dude. I want to be with/like him.” Surely not, “Yup, there’s a dork biding his time until he’s abducted by a pack of melonheads and turned into their brood queen.”

“It’s a pretty good crowd for a Saturday …”

On one side of me is a group of a half dozen middle-aged friends/couples celebrating some event, although it could just be that it is Saturday night. They definitely have been here for a while and are well into the libations, barely this side of sloppy drunk. Overly loud, stumbling and slurring, they seem very excited about taking a number of group selfies from different angles, and then racing to post them on social media—like the college kids they still think they are do!

By the comments that I can’t avoid overhearing, I feel like they all have known and tried to outdrink/swing with one another for decades, with varying levels of success.

“Yes, they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinkin’ alone …”

Farther down the bar is a couple in which the female wearing a tattered baseball cap looks to be at least 20 years older than her purposefully mustachioed hipster date. A cougar in its natural habitat? Rowr!

Their overly aggressive public displays of affection are not sitting right with the last bites of mozzarella sticks, but I power through and order a hot dog smothered with bacon and cheese. You know, because I’m still wild like that.

“And the waitress is practicing politics, as the businessmen slowly get stoned …”

On the side of me and down a few stools is a group of grizzled bar regulars. They seem pretty focused on mixing shots and beers, and giving the young female bartenders a hard time.

I don’t catch what precipitates it, but a bartender who I think may actually be a manager (she’s been here every time I’ve been here for the past year or two) throws up her hands and loudly declares to one of the guys, “Sorry, but I’m not talking to you any more!” All his buddies chorus together like, “OOOOH! You’re in trouble.” Except the bartender doesn’t look like she is joking, and sure enough, assiduously avoids that part of the bar until the group leaves.

When it initially happens, I consciously slide my barstool a few inches away from the hyena pack so as not to be inadvertently included among them. Not to be all white knighty, but like many of you, my patience for this kind of “locker room” shenanigans is absolute zero nowadays. This isn’t helping repair the damage done by decades of societal misogyny, to say the least.

Look, I understand the situation in a sense—the bartenders are all female and all busty, or at least dressed to give the impression of being busty. (Think Renaissance faire, but without the ill-fitting corsets, smoked turkey drumsticks and the “Huzzah!”s.) And of course, they’re being friendly to try and boost their tips ….

BUT that isn’t an invitation for anyone to be crude and/or offensive. And yet somehow not everyone understands that, no matter how much it’s pointed out. Sigh.

When I get my tab later, I ultimately make sure the tip exceeds 20 percent, you know, because that’ll somehow make up for some other guy being a dick. Even though I know it doesn’t work like that.

“There’s an old man sitting next to me, making love to his tonic and gin …”

At some point, a guy who I’d peg as in his mid 60s comes in and sits down next to me at the bar. I can tall by his posture that he wants to engage me in conversation, but I’m tired and just trying to mind my own business. When my full dinner arrives—the aforementioned hot dog smothered in bacon and cheese (Hey, I ran 5 miles this morning!), he leans over and says, “Now that looks GOOD!”

I say, “Yeah, it does, thanks!” And I politely end the conversation there. He leans in as if to invite more conversation, but again, I’m just not feeling like a lot of conversation tonight. He then drains his second beer in about 2 minutes, gets up and quickly departs, letting the front door slam behind him. Not quite sure what was going on there, just happy I avoided it.

I polish off my dinner, debate about having dessert, and decide I’m not that much of a wild man tonight. I pay my tab, take another look around ….

“Oh, la la la, di da da, la la, di da da da dum …”

Yeah, I guess I’m finally feelin’ alright. I nod to the bartender, go out the door, and head home for what’s left of Saturday night.

let’s be friends

May 052019

So I was recently enjoying a welcome spring eve on the front veranda, exchanging pleasantries through the ether with my sister The Whore via the latest iteration of Bell’s wireless communicator.

As we talked, I was just sort of looking up and down my street, mindlessly watching the cars go by, neighbors walking their dogs, and kids happily cavorting without care. After a few minutes, I noticed the 8-year-old girl who spends a lot of time at her grandmother’s abode across the street. She was playing with another girl from down the street (I think) who is the same size and, I’m guessing, age. They were both jumping on and off their bright, streamer-festooned bikes, and running around the yard, jumping, screaming and doing who the heck knows what.

(Disclaimer: I know the girl’s name, see her regularly, and have talked to her a number of times—her aunt used to babysit my kids back in the day, and the family has been good neighbors for nearly two decades. I go out of my way to NOT be the neighborhood creeper, thank you very much.)

Anyway, I was still chatting with The Whore a few minutes later when I noticed the two girls were now filling their mouths from water bottles, and then going to stand together in the middle of the street where they just let the water dribbled out of their mouths and down their chins. I’m not sure exactly what they were doing or why, but it was silly and goofy and just endearing as hell. They were both laughing hysterically and having the best of times, with nary a phone or electronic device in sight.

In short: THEY WERE PLAYING TOGETHER! LIKE KIDS!

The madness, right?

I described the scene to my sister and what we were really witnessing—the birth of a beautiful friendship. Effortlessly bonding and joyously building what ideally will be a lifelong relationship.

I’ve been lucky in that, despite struggling with shyness, I’ve always been able to make friends, and lifelong friends at that. I’ve been friends with the notorious Senior Smoke since 3rd grade (we learned to paint on cave walls together). I have multiple friends from grade school who I talk/text to regularly. I don’t have any brothers, yet I’ve somehow managed to be a best man five times. So yeah, I’ve sorted out the concept of building friendships to some extent.

But not everyone learns how to do it so well. For example, one of my sons is very introverted and spends a lot of time by himself. Fortunately, although he’s alone, he never seems to be lonely. I want him to make more friends, and broaden his horizons and experiences a bit, except he’s just not all that interested in it. I guess I want to make sure he has someone to hang out with in case I get abducted by aliens or accidentally dragged to my death by my car (again). But you can’t force these things, I suppose.

Ultimately, making friends is a uniquely human experience, right? I mean, no other species really has the same concept. Sure, domesticated animals that live together in the same space might occasionally be friendly—we’ve all seen videos of cats and dogs interacting. But it’s not like they’re calling each other to spend the day at the beach, then go to the mall for pizza, hit the arcade to play a few games of Zaxxon, and cruise the Post Road trying to meet West Haven skeezers. (Which is what my buddy Milo and I did on any day we weren’t working during our college summer breaks.) Hamsters and parrots don’t stand in line together for 6 hours to see Return of the Jedi on opening night, like I did 36 (!) years ago this month with my friend Chris. Even though dolphins will hunt (and rape) other animals together, they don’t gather together every New Year’s Eve to watch Showgirls like it’s The Rocky Horror Picture Show, as I did with Big Balls Bob and his wife before we all had kids.

True friends have your back, and are there to celebrate and commiserate, often without asking. You look forward to and enjoy their company without reservation, and consequently often spend more of your life with them than actual blood relatives. Everyone understands what “a friend” is, even if they are incapable of making or keeping them.

However, some days it’s a challenge to figure out who is just someone you know who does the same things (say like a coworker) or clicks a button on a social media to earn the title, and who is someone who will stand in the middle of the street with you and laugh hard as water just dribbles down your face, even years later.

Sooo, here’s:

10 Ways to Tell if Someone is Actually Still Your Friend

They take the time to text you when the Jets are winning to say, “Stop smirking—your team still sucks.”
When you say, “This is …” they immediately respond, “chocolate babies.” Ditto for the best lines from your favorite obscure movies, such as “I kick ass for the Lord!“
They have more hope than you do that you’ll eventually hook up with your longtime crush.
They remember you have a blog, and occasionally still read it.
They do NOT text/email pictures of clowns on your birthday, even though they really want to.
When news breaks about aliens, bigfoots, Loch Ness monsters or other supernatural events, they reach out immediately. For instance, when Lorraine Warren recently died, I received more texts than articles I’ve written about local hauntings. (Side note: Still waiting for Lorraine to reach out from The Other Side—maybe like a message written in the condensation of the bathroom mirror after a shower: “Ed & I are always watching! So stop touching yourself so much—no one’s butt is that itchy.”
Speaking of, they know the chances of you being abducted by aliens are dramatically higher than your chances of ascending into heaven, or spontaneously human combusting. And they understand your ultimate demise will come, rather appropriately, courtesy of the melonheads.
When they invite you to dinner, they never serve anything smothered in onions or any sort of giant bug with claws from under the sea. And there’s always a chocolate-themed dessert because they also live by the incontrovertible rule it’s not dessert if it doesn’t have chocolate.
They smile, nod and even still chuckle a bit no matter how many times you overshare the details of your colonoscopy.
Even if you don’t hang out like you used to do, you still find the absolute silliest things to laugh at. You know, because even though you may get older and go down different paths, those goofy, water-spitting friends are always somewhere inside you.

monster mashup

Apr 292019

So the other night I was watching House of Dracula—one of the first crossover horror films. Like, think The Avengers, but with the classic Universal monsters: Dracula, The Wolfman and Frankenstein’s Monster.

Also like The Avengers, the movie was a commercial success, although not quite on the same scale. It features Lon Chaney Jr. in his iconic role as eternally tortured Lawrence Talbot (aka The Wolfman), whom he transformed into numerous times throughout the 1930s and ’40s.

Glenn Strange was the Frankenstein Monster—and I always like to point out that in Mary Shelley’s original book, Frankenstein is the doctor’s name, and arguably the real monster of the story.

Rather than Bela Lugosi, Dracula is portrayed by John Carradine, who is the patriarch of the Carradine acting family that includes sons David (“Kung Fu” and Kill Bill), Robert (Lewis from Revenge of the Nerds) and Keith, who has dozens of great roles and is father to the criminally underrated Martha Plimpton (Goonies and “Raising Hope’). Thems some good acting genes!

So as I gander around at the entertainment landscape, it’s apparent that we’ve hit a weird mental block when it comes to monsters since we see the same ones over and over and over again. Every other show/movie is about vampires or zombies. Or vampire zombies. Or even worse, zombie vampires. And don’t get me started on the number of serial/axe/slasher/torture killers on TV shows and in movies—pretty sure they outnumber the number of victims at this point.

Endlessly tapping the same veins for terror is just lazy, especially when there is now a new generation of monsters terrorizing us in real life, an assortment horrific creatures sallying forth from the darkest of places to plague us. Among them …

Social Medusas—Rather than having snakes for hair, this genderless gorgon deploys a tangle of cellphones, tablets and other digital devices to incapacitate, essentially turning people to social stone as they endlessly check their messages, play games and eschew human interaction.

Super Egos—An insidious pseudo-intellectual entity that craves digital validation with tweets, posts and snaps to draw an infinite stream of upvotes, likes, retweets and responses. Catchphrase: “I post, therefore I am.”

Gully Bulls—A cadre of crazed freaks who suck intelligence from the rest of us by falling prey to every half-baked conspiracy, from global warming and moon landing denial to anti-vaxxing and essential oil pyramid schemes.

AWGs—The most entitled of all monsters, Angry White Guys want to oppress everyone not them and run roughshod over decency, tolerance, equity—all in the name of making things “great again,” you know, when they irresponsibly wielded power with cruelty and avarice.

Anticreators—A multiplying horde of ignorance who constantly reproduce but take no responsibility nor exerts any interest or control over its progeny, which continues to grow, sucking more resources from the rest of us and creating more waste.

Drama Llamas—A myopic cretin who turns every molehill into a mountain, finds crisis in the casual, and feeds off sowing chaos into calm. They appear to be a perpetual victim of circumstance, but before you realize it, you’ve been drawn into the spirals of their mania.

Private Pirates—Surreptitious electronic critters who continually steal bits of your privacy for their nefarious purposes by asking for your name, email, phone number, shoe size and dental history for every site, purchase or service in creation. Via security cameras, they watch every breath you take and every move you make. Your phone gives them access to your face and thumb print, your home “assistant” constantly monitors your every word, and your web browsers track the nuances of your web habits. (Too bad for you I just randomly linked to adult diapers) They watch everything you do, everything you say, everything you’re thin—

OH GOD, THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE YOUR OWN HEAD!!!

Okay, that might be a bit too silly. I’m overreacting and overreaching. These are just a bunch of made-up monsters that aren’t really all that monstrous. As per usual, this is just me being stupid ….

Then again, with every good monster, the victim never sees it coming, do they?

draft party

Apr 212019

Okay, with the NFL draft nearly upon us … I’m going in a completely different direction this week.

Psych!

Sooo … I’m struggling with writer’s reluctance, but I thought I’d share the opening of a fiction manuscript I’ve been working on for a few months. It’s a coming-of-middle-age story, of sorts, drawn on a short story I wrote like 100 years ago. I feel compelled to add that it’s NOT based on actual incident (fiction, remember), so if someone out there thinks it’s about you … well, it’s not about you.

Anyway, I still have a long way to go in writing—and more importantly, re-writing—but I have the entire story framed out. I’m hoping that sharing it here will keep encouraging me to git ‘er done.

Oh, and even though this is still a draft, all copyright and legal stuff goes here. I have a title, but I’m keeping that off the intrawebz for now, thanks.

Okay, deep breath. And exhale. And enjoy ….

I tried not to think about Hayley’s husband while I was kissing her.

First off, it was totally ruining the buzz of the moment—the magical head-rush of a first kiss always should be drunk in deeply, especially when it’s been long while since the last first kiss, and who knows how long (if ever) until the next.

Secondly, it was forcing me to keep my eyes open so as not to have the mental image of him standing there, glaring at me. (I’m a very visual person, you’ll come to discover.) When I was young and still figuring out girls, and the whole making-out thing, I did smooch with my eyes wide open so as not to miss anything. The view was weird and myopic at best, and as I got older, more experienced, and more jaded, I realized there may be nothing less arousing than watching someone kiss you, so I eventually got into the habit of closing my eyes. Now, however, the distraction wasn’t quite working the way I had hoped.

Thirdly, and probably most importantly—she was married! That still matters, to me at least.

Really!

Ever-so-reluctantly, I pulled back. “Look, we can’t do this,” I whispered.

Hayley squinted at me, her hazel eyes dancing in the shadows, then smiled. “It’s because we’re in a storeroom, isn’t it?” she said, gently scratching the back of my neck. “And you’re afraid if we get caught, we’ll both get fired, right?’

“Uh, not exactly,” I said, glancing around the steel shelves, dusty file cabinets, and silent boxes of old magazines. “I thought that part was sorta cool and exciting, to be honest, right up to the moment you mentioned getting fired. That’s not so cool.”

“Come on,” she said. “No one is gonna fire us for this! As a matter of fact, I bet half the office cheers.”

“Well, I’m not that good.”

“You don’t suck,” she said, sliding her lips back up against mine. “Yet.”

“Mmm . . .” I said, allowing myself a nano(no-no)second of pleasure before brushing her back again. “No. Come on. We can’t do this. It’s not right.”

“Feels right to me,” she said, snuggling her firm little body back up against mine.

She wasn’t wrong. From the moment the strawberry-blonde firecracker strode through the doors of our media group ten months ago, it’d been Chemistry 101—spark, snark, and constantly hitting each other’s mark. (Sorry, that sounded cooler in my head.) A game of cat and cat ensued, each of us seemingly finding reasons to cross each other’s paths, not easy to do with me in the editorial department and her over in client services. Through a carefully calculated series of “accidental” break room encounters, “coincidentally timed” restroom visits, and “necessary” emails (plus a very happy happy hour or two), we drifted closer and closer and closer until we found ourselves in the fortuitous position we had a few moments ago: the two of us in the storeroom alone. Together.

And then she kissed me! Or I kissed her. It all happened inexplicably fast, like a train wreck or how “Gangnam Style” got to one billion views. I knew she was married—I saw the shiny gold band on her left hand Day One, except she never mentioned her husband, and if she had, she never uttered his name, now that I thought about it. (Once I took a moment to look at it, the mental picture of “him” glaring at me was really that stupid sexy Ryan Gosling!) On those ultra-rare occasions she did discuss her marriage, she kept saying those kinds of things that make a relationship seem not particularly lovey-dovey, or that it was seriously adrift and about to wreck on the rocks. You know, comments that float hope to interested third parties.

Besides, the game had been flirty and exciting and more fun than I’ve had in a hound’s age, so I kept playing along, never thinking anything would actually come of it. Then, somehow we bumped into each other in the storeroom . . . the banter got cranking . . . things escalated quickly . . . someone threw a trident . . . and boom! Kissyface.

Regardless of how our lips came together, it wasn’t too late at this point for my annoying conscience to stop it all before substantial damage was done. I gave her one big, overlong last kiss and eased her away, although everything in my chromosomes was screaming to pull her closer. “I can’t,” I said. “I’m sorry. I mean . . . it’s not right. What about your husband? What would he say?”

She glanced to the side for a moment, then leaned back into me. “I am one hundred percent certain he won’t say a damn thing.”

“Really?”

She grabbed my shirt with both her hands, and with a reckless urgency, pulled my mouth hard to hers again.

Okay, for the record, that’s all titillating and true, but this isn’t the letters page of your second-favorite porn mag. (“Dear Squish, I never thought this could happen to me . . . .”) Although neither of things are things any more. Man, I’m old!

Anyway, I should slow it down here a second so I can get you up to speed. Don’t want you to think it’s that kind of story. (Not that there’s anything wrong with it.) You might even be interested in other events that led up to the aforementioned storeroom snogging session.

Actually, other than the lurid tease of an intro you just read—which, come on, will be an awesome opening scene if this ever gets made into a movie—I really don’t know where to begin ….

Again, still a work in progress. Thanks!

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