No Joke

I came up with a joke I thought would be perfect for Jay Leno. I went on line to find how to submit it. After a couple of frustrating hours I finally disovered that they don't accept unsolicited jokes. So I sent it to Bill Crider's blog. Now I wish I'd saved it for this site. But on the off chance someone reads this blog and doesn't read Bill's (which you should: billcrider.blogspot.com), here it is:

Hurricane Ike battered the Caribbean so hard they renamed it Hurricane Ike Turner.

Badda-bing, badda-boom!

Which reminds me, I was in the dentist's office a few days ago and picked up a Readers Digest to peruse the jokes. Every one I saw was old enough to have moss. People are being paid $100 a pop to recycle bad gags that were wobbly when Grit was the only source of entertainment in the Corn Belt. Assuming these jokes are actually being submitted by the public and not tossed in by the staff and credited to some made up name.

Head 'em up, move 'em out

Saw the following kids' show credit while channel surfing: Assistant Puppet Wrangler.

Up and Almost Running

Yesterday I assembled the treadmill, helped by my younger daughter. First we had to empty out half the garage, which gave us a chance to dispose of some accumulated junk, and then I had to put the accursed contraption together, again with Kristine's help. Mostly it went well, but one step had me mumbling curses under my breath for about 20 minutes. After it was all together I plugged it in and let Kristine take the maiden voyage. By gum, it worked. Then I moved all the junk back into the garage (except for a space-hogging utility trailer). By then my back was sore and I was tired so I took an Aleve and settled in to watch TV. Soon I'll go out and take a 30-minute walk. Yep, Real Soon Now.

A Conundrum

I like El Toro and eat there at least once a week. But one menu anomaly has been bothering me since I noticed it a couple of weeks ago.

To wit: If you get Dinner #1 (two enchiladas, beans, rice, cole slaw), you pay $9.95. If you get the # 2 dinner (two tacos and the same side dishes as #1), you pay the same price, $9.95. But if you get a #4 dinner (one enchilada, one taco, and the sames sides), you pay $10.25. That's 30 cents more even though the enchiladas and tacos are cheaper if bought in pairs. It makes no sense, and has stopped me from having that #4 dinner. I asked the waitress about the odd pricing and she said she didn't know, that the owner set the prices. So I said to send over the owner. She said he wasn't there. A likely story. And don't suggest I order one #1 and one #2 and swap one of the entrees. The people with whom I dine always order the same boring thing, and it's neither of those choices.

I bought a treadmill. Now all I need is a place to put it. Oh yes, and the will to use it. More to follow, maybe.

Bi-annual Semi-annual Posting

Going back into the mists of time we have:

February: My first novel was remaindered. Still not sure of sales, but I do know there are no royalties on the horizon. I bought 25 copies to sell.

May: I was one of six guests of Portland's Friends of Mystery for a panel on Debut Authors. I think I was the only one to have just one book. However, one panelist's most recent book was his first work of fiction. It was a very nice event from the brew pub dinner beforehand to the kind comments after. Sold a few books.

June: I was one of a dozen or so Northwest writers invited to Powell's Books in Beaverton, Oregon, for a meet and greet. Sold remaining copies of LOVE, DEATH AND THE TOYMAN to the store. Thanks, Powell's. And be sure to order one from them. They're signed.

July: Summer Tankon again at the cabin of Frank "Two Ponies" Denton. Enjoyed myself as always.

August: Tankoner Dale Goble came here for five days to replace the roof on our deck. Did a good job. Linda and Kristine were on a cruise at the time.
Learned that my second novel has been accepted for publication by Five Star, who published my first. Tentative title is THE TOYMAN RIDES AGAIN. In this one, Jack Lorentz joins a troop of 7th Cavalry re-enactors on a trip to the Little Big Horn. They are opposed by a group of Indian activists and events snowball until someone is killed.
Went to a chiropractor for an old back pain. He said a flat left foot was the cause and sent me to a dippy woman who is some kind of foot specialist. $200 later I left with new shoes and arch support inserts. So far they haven't cured me. Time will tell.

September: Is only one day old. I stayed home from work, of course, and stained some boards for the deck. We lost four to rot because the old roof leaked.

October: Hasn't arrived yet, but when it does I get to enjoy a colonoscopy. Using the latest scientific techniques, they're going to shrink Raquel Welch down to a quarter of an inch and send her in on a tether. That ought to tickle my fancy--or something close to it. Film at eleven.

The only theatrical movies I saw during this period were IRONMAN and BATMAN: THE DARK KNIGHT. I liked them both but the latter asked me to suspend my disbelief way beyond my capacity to do so. Way back before CGI I was a comic fan, collector, and fanzine editor/publisher (in conjunction with various friends). I wish they'd been able to produce movies like this at that time.

Sadie/Mittens/Puddy Tat

It seems I never post unless an animal dies.

After 20 years as a companion and friend our little kitty is gone. Her name was Sadie, but over the years I've called her Mittens and Puddy Tat. She was generally well-behaved. She never scratched the furniture or bit and clawed us. She proudly left parts of birds and rodents on the front stoop and could be trusted to go outside without running off. She wasn't a lap cat, but if you laid down she'd happily lie on your chest and accept petting. I made up a song about that called "Quality Time" and the girls and I would sing it to her as we stroked Sadie's long fur.

But time caught up to the old girl. Lately she's refused her food, allowed her coat to get matted, and her eyes have leaked. She was supposed to be put to sleep three weeks ago, but I figured that as long as she could leap a six-foot fence I'd wait. Today was the day she was scheduled to be put to sleep, but she cheated the hangman. Yesterday morning she went out and never came back. We assume she found a quiet, private place to sleep the big sleep.

I wish I had a better photo in my computer of Sadie, but this is such a typical scene; opening the door to find her patiently waiting on the stoop. Good-bye kitty, and thanks for being our dear friend for all these years.

Brandy

Thirteen years ago Stephanie, then five, got a little bundle of fur for Christmas she named Brandy. Brandy was a chocolate Lab mix and as adorable as any puppy can be. A few years later Steff sent a photo and short essay about the dog to our local paper, which has a "My Pet" feature each day. By then Brandy was a big dog that went wild with happy excitement whenever anyone would visit.
Alas, Brandy had to be put down a week ago due to a serious medical condition. She was a good dog and is missed.

Five Months Later...

When last we saw our hero he was back from Summer Tankon in July 2007. In 18 days Winter Tankon beckons, which means I'm one heck of a slacker when it comes to doing this blog. People like Bill Crider, Mark Evanier, and Ken Levine manage to blog daily even if they're miles from home or feeling poorly. Ah, to have their fortitude. Ah, to have a life worth blogging about in the first place. But to catch you up a bit:

AUGUST: My cousin, Dennis Weaver, died. Not Chester from GUNSMOKE, a different Dennis Weaver. He was five months younger than me and apparently had a heart attack. Ironically, his father died two months before, almost to the day.

SEPTEMBER: My cousin George, born about 19 months before me, had triple bypass surgery. A real shock, since he was always active and in good physical condition. He did smoke, however. The good news is that he's recovering quickly and ought to be fine eventually. Dennis, George, and I were very close as teens and usually hung out together. The dynamic of the relationship could very well be likened to that of the three Texas Rangers on the TV show LAREDO. George was Neville Brand, the older and tougher one, while Dennis and I were Peter Brown and William Smith, always making Brand the butt of our jokes. Sometimes we got punched for our efforts, but that didn't keep us from doing it. To think that I am, by default, the healthiest man of that trio scares me.

OCTOBER: My older girl, Steff, turned 18 and finally got her driver's license. She's also back in school and doing well.

NOVEMBER: I became an official old geezer. I'm already thinking about whittling and spitting off the porch during my next summer vacation.

DECEMBER: Which is where we are now. I spent a weekend in Portland where I did some Xmas shopping (no sales tax) and joined fellow Moops Dave Lewis and Tough Jim Gaston for fun, music, and Chinese food.
My baby, Kristine, turned 17. She now has a boyfriend and is doing very well in school.

I'm also taking guitar lessons, working on my second book (will have it ready for submission after Winter Tankon), and telling anyone who will listen that Hitlery would be the worse thing for this country since The Civil War, The Great Depression, Prohibition, The Electoral College, and Scientology combined.

I've read about 60 books so far this year, far fewer than I'd hoped. One was SHE, by H. Rider Haggard. What a chore. There was a good idea under all those layers of repetitive exposition, but I felt like I was hacking my way through a word jungle with every page. I don't know why I bothered finishing unless it was to compare it to the movie. I could only find the 1935 version on Netflix, and it wasn't bad. Helen Mack (who was far lovlier than the actress who played She) was enchanting, and the plot was distilled down to a decent adventure flick, though why they changed the setting to a polar region and not the African desert is beyond me. Anyway, I could have polished off 6-10 westerns in the time it took me to wade through SHE, and I kind of resent the delay. But, it was my call and at least I can say I finished the dang thing.

Some Guys Shouldn't Ad Lib

The TV was on as I worked today, so I wasn't watching it carefully, but I know that golf was on and an interview featured some golfer talking about his game. He said, "I'm aware of my weaknesses and I'm trying to make them stronger." Wouldn't we all like stronger weaknesses?

Stooged Again

Yesterday I felt the urge to visit the same Three Stooges slot machine I'd dreamed about (and won on) some months ago. To make a long story short, I hit four bonuses in about 20 spins and walked out after five minutes with $135.85 in my pocket.

Last night I finished AMERICAN DETECTIVE, by Loren Estleman. This is his 19th Amos Walker book and involves a retired Hall-of-Fame Tigers pitcher who wants Walker to offer his daughter's prospctive husband a bribe to take a hike. The young woman is about to come into a trust fund and her father thinks the fiance is ony interested in the money.
Before long there's a murder and Walker is bumping heads with powerful crime lords and gruff cops. Estleman's side-of-the-mouth dialogue is a joy to read, even if the plot has more twists than a Chubby Checker album. Although a private eye in the classic sense, Walker tries to make a concession to modern times by carrying a cell phone. The experience proves more trouble than it's worth. Back to deskbound blowers and shadowy tails.
I've always thought of the Amos Walker books as the closest heir to Chandler around, and this does nothing to change that idea.

Quick Quip

It occurs to me that many days I don't have a lot to say, but I have a stray thought or two that might be grist for the blog mill.

So today I'm watching a commercial for L.A. Weight Loss. A rather attractive blonde, standing in that "after" pose, is offering a testimonial about the efficacy of this system. She continues that since she is now so attractive and energetic she and her husband can step out and do things--like go to dinner.

Hey, isn't it all that dining out that chunked you up in the first place, Mimsy?

(more)

In a commercial for one of those godawful schools that teach young innocents to be dental assistants or fashion designers, a cute little airhead is listing her reasons for not attending a regular college. Among them: she wouldn't know anybody and would feel intimidated about speaking up.

What? Is she planning to attend Matchbook University with a coterie of friends? Is she anticipating asking foolish questions in a real college?

Just a thought. Okay, two thoughts.

BRAIN TO FINGERS, BRAIN TO FINGERS

On my previous post I typoed the word "cavalry." The irony of this is that I've corrected scores of people on eBay for misspelling that word. Usually they spell it calvary, which is a legitimate word, but has nothing to do with mounted soldiers. I saw so many different misspellings of cavalry on eBay I started keeping a list. To date I have 17 variants, all incorrect. One or two might be typos, as mine was, but usually they're just the products of people who can't spell the word and don't want to look it up.

Also, I'm a terrible typist. I never learned to touch type, and my two-finger method is quick but sloppy. I have a feeling it'll only get worse as I achieve my dotage. Sorry.

IT WAS 131 YEARS AGO TODAY

June 25, 1876, is the day Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer perished along with some 210 men of Companies C, E, F, I, and L on the hills above the Little Big Horn River. Another 50 to 60 men died with Major Reno and Captain Benteen on Reno Hill, about four miles away. That battle has generated more debate, books, movies, and emotions than any other in U.S. history--perhaps world history, as well. Exactly what happened, and when, and for how long has fed speculations from armchair generals young and old, pro and con, and at all points of the compass. Was Custer an heroic figure who perished trying to enforce a policy set forward by greedy, unscrupulous politicians? If so, he wouldn't be the first. Or was he a glory-seeker trying to recapture some of the fame he'd enjoyed as a Civil War hero? Everyone has his own opinion and it's not my desire to either change or reinforce what you think. I do want to pay my respects to thoe who fought and died that day, on both sides. And so I do. "Garryowen in Glory!" "Hoka hey!"

There a couple of myths about that day I'd like to clear up. First off, it wasn't a massacre. The soldiers died in battle. Second, the 7th Cavalry wasn't destroyed. Of the 1250 officers and men authorized to fill the ranks of the 7th, about 260 died. The regiment was brought up to strength and has lasted in one form or another until this day. Custer did not kill himself. Nor was he killed by Rain-In-The-Face and have his heart cut out (RITF probably mutilated Tom Custer, George's brother). Sitting Bull did not participate in the fight. No white man survived the battle who fought with Custer's five troops. A recent article in WILD WEST says there was one, but it's buncombe.

Speaking of those who fought and died, my Uncle Gene passed away yesterday after a long bout of Parkinson's Disease. He was a WWII vet and worked for Uncle Sam for many years. This marks the end of an era in many ways. While my mother and her sisters are still alive, all the men from that generation (my father and uncles) are gone. A daunting prospect, to be sure, and the realization that one day I'll be one of the oldest family members bums me out a bit.

Catching Up is Hard to Do

Since my last visit here I've spent three weeks in Charleston, South Carolina, bought my younger daughter a car, and got the local paper to agree to do a story on my book.

Charleston was hot, the school I attended fairly easy, and the tourist attractions interesting. I didn't know, for example, that rice was a major cash crop in the Charleston area before the Civil War. However, it was such a rotten job to keep the paddies up that they couldn't get anyone to work them once the slaves were freed, so the industry died.

As a result of the school I'm qualified (pending a certification review) to be a ground loadmaster. That means I can do most of the jobs a regular Air Force loadmaster does. I was already qualified for some of them, but this class expands the envelope. What it doesn't expand is my paycheck. A letter to my congressman will address this issue forthwith. When some of us mentioned to the guy that started this APEX (Aerial Port Expeditor) program his response was, "Just be glad you've got a job." Hell, I was glad to have a job before they added more responsibility to it. And who the hell does he think he is, some coal mine owner in 1890? What an arrogant ass.

OJ skated, Bobby Blake may have skated, and Christian Brando got off easy, but Paris Hilton is doing hard time in the Crossbar Hilton and I can't help feel a sense of satisfaction. If I'd never heard of this vapid, self-centered, no-talent brat I wouldn't have cared about her at all, but the way she and the media have conspired to shove her useless life down our throats has made me wish she would simply dry up and bust. That goes for all those other celebrity media whores out there. Who needs them?

And remember my 2008 Presidential Slogan: ANYONE BUT HITLERY!

Another Thumb Up

Noted critic Jon Breen has this to say about LOVE, DEATH AND THE TOYMAN in the May 2007 issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine:

"Jack Lorentz, a Tacoma-based collectible toy dealer, is asked by an old lover to look into a mysterious death on the property of her husband's wealthy and influential family. The first novel from the longtime fanzine editor known as Cap'n Bob is a commendable job, including surprising variations on familiar hardboiled elements: the rocky romance, the dysfunctional rich, and the hero's loyal but somewhat unstable sidekick."

Now, if just 1% of EQMM's readers buy the book, I'll be happy as a clam.

I wonder when that element Jon refers to as the sidekick actually started. I'm guessing Robert B. Parker's Hawk was the first of any consequence, although I'm just pulling this off the top of my head. But Mike Hammer, Mike Shayne, Dan Turner, Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, etc. were loners. Nowadays it's more common (think Coben's, Burke's, and Lehane's books for starters) for the hero to have an ally/friend who's basically a homicidal maniac. Waldo, the sidekick in my novel, isn't like that, and I should point out that I started this book a long time ago, before any of the others I mentioned hit the scene.

On another note, I have my first signing lined up. I hope everyone who can be in Seattle on St. Paddy's Day, March 17, will drop by the Seattle Mystery Bookshop (117 Cherry St.) and say hey.

Honest, Or Just Plain Stupid?

A little earlier I went to get some cash from an ATM. A woman was already there ahead of me. She suddenly turned and walked off; as I stepped up to the machine I saw it was still in use. The screen asked if I wanted another transaction. I hit NO, grabbed the receipt and card as they ejected and yelled for the lady to come back and get them.

Then it hit me. The card was in, the pin number activated, and the account there for the robbing. Not that I'm a thief, but I'd like to have had a chance to mull it over before I take the high road. Maybe I could have pinched, say, $100, taken it to the casino, and shared the winnings with her if I had any. Nah. It has been my curse in life to be pretty honest about such things. Were I not so I might be rich.

Great Anti-Cult Video

Don't hesitate, check out this great slam on the Scientology Organized Crime Family. Here's the address: //www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GmCa6hqpVQ

And You Thought MLK Could Dream

Last night I had a dream. In it I went to the Emerald Queen casino, sat at the middle slot machine in the row of Three Stooges machines, and made a high bet.

So today, since I was out and about and passing the casino on my way home, I dropped in. At first I played a Lobsterfest machine, which didn't do well at all. I moved to the one next to it and won some of my money back. I then decided to follow my dream and hit the Three Stooges slots. The row has an even number of slots so there's no real middle one, and there was a lady at one of the middle ones, so I played the one on the end. I broke even for a while, and then started to lose, so I went over and sat beside the lady, at what would count as a middle machine. About six spins into it, and playing 36 nickels a pop, I hit sevens all the way across and won $100. After three or four more spins to see if there was any magic left in the machine I cashed out and went home. Grubstake: $60. Cashout: $116.65. Not a fortune, but it bought me some gas and lunch and left me with a few bucks to play with.

I hope I have a dream like that again.

Rebecca Bunny, R.I.P.

About ten years ago I bought Kristine a bunny for Easter. She named it Rebecca. For a number of years I kept the bunny in my office, but there was a sanitation problem that caused me to finally put her hutch outside. I was afraid the winter weather might do her in, but she did fine. In the summer we'd put her in a pen in the yard on sunny days, and sometimes we'd let her in the house, as we did during a recent spate of cold weather. If you want to know what it's like to stroke a heavenly cloud, pet a bunny some day.

Yesterday the bunny was listless, and today when I came home I found her dead. Not really a surprise, but a sad thing to bear nevertheless. I hope she was happy here, just as we were happy to have her as part of our family for so many years.

Two smaller disappointments rounded the day off. I learned that I won't get my new, sportier glasses in time for Left Coast Crime, and the library on the Air Force base where I work has no funds and can't buy any new books, including mine.

The good news is that I wasn't nominated for Civilian of the Quarter for our squadron. Every single nominee from the old six-two lost, including the military people.

The Holiday For Primates Everywhere