O hai.

Miss me?

Yeah, I know I've been gone for awhile.

Well, okay. Longer than awhile.

See, I got myself involved with this group of writers called "An Army of Ermas" and wound up writing some columns for them which meant I wasn't writing posts for me because if I write too much I turn into a goat. Or something. Anyhow, Ermas went to teh Intrawebbies Heaven a couple of months ago so now I have the time to write about whatever it is I write about on this blog.

So I'm back. At least for now. We'll see if I have the fortitude to keep it going this time.

If you want to see what I did write about while I was gone, you can go here. You can also check out the other amazing writers, most of whom are way funnier than I ever thought of being. Then you can come back here and see if I've gotten any better. Let me tell you, the odds are against it.

But you never know. Hunny hasn't left me yet,so there are sure to be some interesting things that will happen with or because of her. We still have the new puppy, and it's possible I might write elventy posts about her (have I told you she talks?). And there are those books I've read that I'd like to make some book comments about. So stay tuned. I just might get back in the habit of doing this thing again.

Caberet Lobstah Stew

Hunny's gone. No, not permanently. But she is out in Vegas this week, cavorting around with a couple of old chums and leaving me here all alone. By myself. You know what that means, don't you? Yep. Wet towels on the bathroom floor, dirty underwear hanging from the chandelier, beer cans strewn helter skelter and most importantly, raised toilet seats. I'll tell you what else it means. Lobstah stew for me and one of my buddies.

My regular readers, those two of you who may have read part of one of my blog posts, might remember Hunny as the person who made me kill the lust-filled cricket under therefrigerator, and as the one who likes to keep her garbage in the refrigerator. There's another thing about her that you probably don't know. She hates seafood. If Hunny had her way there would be no seafood. No shrimp cocktail, no oysters on the half shell, no fish and chips, no fish sticks, no McFish sandwiches. But there would be chicken. Lots and lots of chicken. This is a problem for me. It's not that I don't like chicken, but I never signed on for 24/7 chicken. I like some variety in my food. Fortunately, last Sunday, I got to have it.

On Saturday, I went to the grocery store hungry, in hopes I'd overspend on seafood. I did. I bought enough shrimp and scallops to kill a horse, and the two lobsters were a nice touch too. I did a little prep work that evening by cooking and shelling the lobster. Here's the procedure:

First, name your lobsters as you get your pot of salted water boiling.

Next, thrust the little buggers into the rapidly boiling water head first. No, it's not that it's more merciful that way, it's just so you don't have to hear them scream.

Cook them briefly just enough so that they've stopped struggling and that they've begun to turn a lovely shade of red-green. It's important not to overcook them because they'll cook more when they're added to the stew. You're looking for a color like this:

Here's Artee on the left and cray on the right. See how Artee's trying to struggle to the surface? He almost made it, crying like a schoolgirl all the way, but I pushed his head back underwater and he eventually gave up the ghost.

Remove the lobsters from the water let sit until they're cool enough to handle.

Crack the shells, remove the meat from the tail, claws, body (yes there's body meat) and legs. It's work but it's worth it.

Refrigerate the lobster meat; retain the shells.

Chop finely one bunch of green onions and one shallot. Saute the shallot and onions in butter. Retain the chopped green onion tops for garnish.

When the shallots and onions are soft, toss in the lobster shells. If you have any other seafood shells (I had shrimp shells) add them too.

Pour in three cups of milk and three cups of half and half. I used more because I needed extra stock for the seafood linguine I was making.

Simmer on low for an hour or until Hell freezes over I've simmered for up to 2 ½ hours before and it only made the stock better.

Strain the stock and discard the veggies and shells.

Return the stock to the stove, add in the chopped and/or torn lobster and bring up to temperature.

Add one teaspoon of paprika for color; salt and pepper to taste.

Add one to two ounces of dry sherry, if desired. I desired.

Finally, add in a schlop of butter and stir in.

Ladle into bowls, garnish with the onion greens and serve.

You'll notice there are no potatoes in this stew. There are no carrots. The onions (except for the garnish) have been strained out. There is only one star, and it is the lobster. Lobster needs little help to shine. In fact, too many ingredients would only take away from what this dish has to offer. So keep it simple and remember to take your gout medicine.

By the way, we also had seafood linguine. Here's a pic. Be jealous.

And I have leftovers.

And you don't.

Sleep Study, Part the Second

Suppose you were a dog, and suppose somebody grabbed your snout, stuck it in their mouth and then blew a continuous stream of warm, fetid air into your nostrils for the next eight hours. That's pretty much what happened to me last Thursday night, except for the dog and snout part. Yes, that's right. Five months after I had Sleep Study,  Part the First, I finally got around to Sleep Study, Part the Second.

If you read the earlier post, you'll remember I promised a follow up report. The thing is, I hated the first part of the test so much that I did everything I could to avoid setting up the second part. But my daughters were not amused, and my doctor was not amused, and especially the people who stand to make money by renting me their equipment were not amused, so I finally bit the bullet and went in for the rest of it.

The preparation was much the same. It started in a small torture chamber where they loaded me up with twenty pounds of wires and electrodes placed every few inches all over my body, with the technicians taking special pains to both glue and duct tape them to the hairiest parts. Yeah, that included my lower legs. How electrodes attached to my lower legs can help them detect sleep apnea, a breathing issue, is beyond me, but what do I know? I wasn't complaining. At least they didn't use pop rivets this time.

Once they got me all wired up we returned to my room for the mask fitting. The bed had already been turned down, but, sadly, there was no chocolate mint on the pillow. I blew off the poor service and allowed the tech to stick the mask onto my face and adjust the straps to the point that they dug into my skin deep enough to cause gangrene. The seal would be better that way, he told me. I'm pretty sure he expected me to believe that.

"You'll feel a slight rush of air when I turn the machine on," the guy said. Right. And I'm sure when Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were strapped into their respective electric chairs, somebody told them, " You'll feel a slight tingle."

He flipped the switch. Hurricane Katrina blew up my nose and out my mouth.

"You've got to keep your mouth closed," he said.

I closed my mouth. My head asploded.

Ten minutes later, I finally figured out how to breathe with the gear on. The technician turned out the light, and wished me a good night's sleep. He retired to his SEEKRUT HIED OWT where he proceeded to watch me all night when he wasn't videotaping me for whatever kinky website they sell those things to.

I'll say this. The experience wasn't particularly pleasant, but I was somehow able to sleep all the way through with that stuff covering my nose except for one interruption when the tech guy had to come in and retighten the mask. He didn't re-tuck me in and he didn't give me a good night kiss, which was, I believe, best for both of us.

He woke me up about 6:30 and, after de-masking, de-wiring, de-hairing my body and making me fill out thirty seven forms in three different languages (French, Italian and Hebrew) they sent me on my way.

So now I'm waiting for the insurance company to approve the system the doctor ordered. Like all insurance companies, they are in no hurry to comply, but I expect they will eventually. When they do, I'll have to use the system all the time or they'll take it away. They'll check. I know they will.

The good news is that I've talked to a number of people who are wired into a CPAP machine every night. They tell me that 1) you do get used to it, and 2) I should expect to have weird, bizarre dreams. As a writer of horror stories, I'm all about weird and bizarre dreams. So I'll let you know if I get any good stories out of it.

EPILOGUE

The machine arrives Friday. Pray for me.

*shudder*

Dickwads

I'm a wee bit unhappy with some of my neighbors. They're not close by neighbors, living as they do in a more affluent section of town, but they're close enough that if they played golf at the public course where I play, had a beer at the local gin mill, or picked up chicken at the local KFC like I sometimes do, I'd run into them from time to time. But, of course, they do none of those things. They can afford better.

Now, before you think this is going to be a slam against rich people, think again. The ability to go from poor to rich has always been one of the Great American Dreams and I will never fault anyone for having achieved it. Nor am I envious. I like my public golf course. They know me at my local pub and treat me just fine so I'm happy when I go there. And I really enjoy KFC. Honest.

Okay. Okay, KFC is crap. But the rest of it is true enough. Mostly.

So, why am I perturbed with my almost neighbors? I'ma tell you.

There's a VA hospital not far from where I live (for those of you non-'Mericans, that's a Veterans Administration Hospital). The hospital's even closer to where my well-to-do friends live. The hospital and the upscale neighborhood existed side by each without incident for years. And then the Vietnam vets started getting old. And the Iraq and Afghanistan vets came home needing medical care. The hospital census exploded. With inpatient and outpatient counts through the roof, hospital parking was at a premium. The VA had no choice but to build another parking structure. But, of course, it takes time to build a parking structure and their need was immediate.

Enter the Huron Hills Church. They were only a mile down the road from the hospital, had extra parking space available and were happy to lease it to the government as a temporary staff parking lot. The hospital purchased two vans and arranged a shuttle service, ferrying workers back and forth between the church and the hospital. And everybody was happy.

Well, not quite.

Much like Ted Kennedy objected to the proposed energy-efficient windmill farm in Nantucket Sound that would have obstructed the scenic view from his Hyannis Port compound, the residents of Glazier Way in Ann Arbor have objected to the "howling, screeching shuttle buses" that pass through their otherwise serene neighborhood ruining their reverie. The noise is apparently more than the residents can bear.

"We and our neighbors are the victims of the noise and traffic generated by this commercial enterprise," said the president of the neighborhood association in an article in Ann Arbor.com. "The buses literally wake us up every morning and annoy us all day long."

Well, boo fricken hoo. Excuse me while I shed a tear for the "victims."

Then there was the woman who, in a comment appended to the story, objected to the look of the vans. "That paint job is pretty 'loud' too, "she said. "Maybe something less obtrusive?"

The paint job she objected to can be seen in the top picture in this post. Those "obtrusive colors," are contained in a representation of a red, white and blue American flag. Having served under those colors for three years, I can't quite find it in my heart to agree with her, and I expect the patients of a Veterans Hospital might have the same problem.

But that's not important. What's important is the serenity of the residents--the victims of Glazier Way. Never mind that these shuttle buses are only a temporary inconvenience. Never mind that these shuttle busses are using a public road. Never mind that these shuttle busses transport staff who take care of sick and injured veterans--perhaps preparing their meals or cleaning their treatment rooms or checking vital signs or changing their IV bags. Perhaps they're there just to hold a veteran's hand as he dies. None of that matters. To them.

But like I said, I have nothing against these folks just because they're affluent. In other circumstances a poor person might act this way I suppose. But poor or rich, I do have something against dickwads. And now I know that some of them live on Glazier Way.

One Guy's Perspective: Book Comments - Dustin Time - Part II, a Guy Friendly Chick Book

Special thanks to Kay Theodoratus, from whom I have stolen the term "book comments."

As you may recall, in the previous blog post (Why I Wasn't an English Major, AKA Dustin Time Part I) I mentioned the title of a book, Dustin Time, and named the author, June "Bug" Kramin. And that's pretty much all I had to say about it. The past couple of weeks my life has been a living hell because of that, what with June Bug plotting my death and all, so I decided I'd better take the time to write out a few book comments to go along with that sterling introduction. I'm writing book comments because I never do book reviews. Never.

Here we go.

In the interest of fair disclosure, I should admit I know June Bug personally. We have had more than one cocktail together and several meals too. I have introduced her to probably the best deli in the world inside of which sits the best cheese shop in the world. At least the best cheese shop in Ann Arbor. She could have shared a piece of the cheese she bought there had she been the kind of person willing to share her cheese which she is not.

No, I have not born any of Bug's children, but it's safe to say we're friends. So you might think I'd let our friendship get in the way of a fair and accurate review of her book. Perhaps it is possible I might overlook glaringly purple prose, as-you-know-Bobisms or even excessive adjectivitis. Because we're buds it's conceivable I might avoid commenting on two-dimensional characters, poor plotting or ghastly grammar. Because we're pals, I might just ignore seriously bad writing and give her great props, just because.

Nah.

If Bug's book sucked, I'd tell you so. Okay, maybe not. More likely, I wouldn't write about it in the first place in order to spare her feelings. She'd do the same for me too, I know. That's why I know when she finally blogs about any of my stories, I'm sure it will be a good review. That is, when she reviews anything of mine. Which she hasn't yet but will, I'm sure.

Some day.

Any day now.

*crickets*

So, here's the thing. You have to understand that Dustin Time is a chick book. I mean, all you gotta do is look at the cover to figure that out. I knew that going in, and the last time I checked I'm not a chick. So I wasn't quite sure what I'd be getting myself into when I started reading. I did know Bug is insane and that she's funny as sin. I hoped some of that would come through in the story to help get me over the hump of all the "relationship" crapola that would of necessity also be there in a chick book, draining my man-energy and forcing me to take periodic breaks flipping through chain saw catalogs in order to set my head straight. As it turns out, I didn't have to do that. Bug fixed it for me. How, you ask? Shower scenes.

I'll explain. But first you need to know a few things about the story.

See, there's this chick, Kaitlyn who's seeing this guy Dustin. There's not a thing wrong with Dustin. He's handsome, clever, funny, employed... But Kaitlyn, being a chick, has to find something wrong with him (if you're a guy you'll understand what I'm talking about here). Dustin's younger than her, and in Kaitlyn's mind this justifies ending the relationship--notice I just used the dreaded "R" word. So Kaitlyn's thinking about all of this when she steps into the shower. She stops thinking about it when Dustin lets himself into her house (she gave him a key) and joins her in the shower, which is sort where I started paying attention to the story. And it's that kind of thing which is repeated enough in the story so that it kept my attention from cover to cover. In other words, Dustin Time may be a chick book, but Bug wrote it with enough bait so a guy could enjoy it as well.

There are other things that make this novel guy-friendly. Kaitlyn travels back and forth in time repeatedly which is a kind of science fictiony thing which guys dig. Especially when you throw in the occasional grope, which Bug does. That is to say Bug writes about the gropes. She doesn't grope herself. It's Kaitlyn who does the groping. Well, Dustin too, but you know how guys are. Anyhow, there's lots of groping. There's an old janitor too, but I'm not going to talk about him, except to say he doesn't grope. He might have when he was younger.

Don’t get me wrong. This book is certainly not pRon, nor is it erotica--not that there's anything wrong with that. But there is enough sexual tension in it to maintain a guy's...um...attention.

It has an ending too. A good ending. But I'm not going to tell you what it is because if I did there'd be no reason for you go out and buy this book, which you should. While you're doing it, keep in mind that there will be a sequel too. And you'll really like the sequel. I know, because I've been privy to some of the plot points. And you haven't. Pbthhhht.

So guys, go ahead and get out your credit card and go here to order your copy of Dustin Time. If you don't want the other guys to know you've ordered it, use your first initial on the order form. No one will be the wiser, and I won't report you for any man-card violation. By the time you're halfway through the first shower scene you'll thank me.

Why I Wasn't an English Major

Do you wanna know why I wasn't an English major?

Do ya, punk? Huh?

Do ya?

You don't?

Well, Ima tell you anyhow.

One word. "Book reviews."

I hated book reviews with a passion in high school, and the first few English and/or Literature classes I took in college gave me more of the same. No, it wasn't exactly like High School book reviews, but it wasn't all that different either:

"Describe the theme in this book."

"Characterize the relationship between the protagonist and her siblings.

"Discuss the reason the author chose purple as the color of Matt's bedroom wallpaper."

"Why did the vulture land on Mrs. Winkle's veranda, and what, if anything, did it portend?"

"What did Bob mean when he said 'Ma, I killed the cat?'"

Grrr.

I came to writing later in life largely because in my youth I believed that, in order to be a writer, I had to start with a theme, develop an outline, have a reason for everything that happened in the story, and, when one of my characters killed a cat, there had to be some reason for it other than "I just wanted to kill the damn cat."

But I did start writing eventually, and found that I didn't need a theme, I didn't have to write an outline, and my characters can sometimes kill cats just because they're sociopathic dickwads. The characters, not the cats.

I still don't do book reviews though. Why? Because I refuse to look for themes. I will not characterize relationships. I won't try to get inside the head of the author and pretentiously assume that I might understand why he did "a" in a story rather than "b."  And if Bobby Jim kills the cat, I'm not going to look for any special reason why. I'm simply going to assume that's part of Bobby Jim's character, and that it's important to the story or the author wouldn't have written it like he did, and then I'll go on from there.

So that's why I don't do book reviews.

Except that I'm going to start doing book reviews. But I'll be doing them on my terms. There will be no discussion of themes, no pretending I actually know what I'm talking about (because I most assuredly do not), but I will tell you what I like and what I don't like and why.

I won't be doing reviews on famous writers. They have enough reviewers to keep them unhappy. I'll concentrate on not-or-almost-ready-for-prime-time-writers--many of whom will be peeps I've come across since I've involved myself in the writing world.

I'll be looking at stories that are way outside my comfort zone too--romance, fantasy, erotica and, yes, even literary. But I'll review them my way. Not Miss Webster's* way, may she Rest In Peace.

And I'm not going to do this all the time either. I'll do it to fill in from time to time in between my normal meaningless drivel. And only when I feel like it. So there.

So I'll be starting today with my first review: Dustin Time by June Kramin.

*checks watch*

Oops, sorry Bug. Out of time. Too bad it was such a short review. Maybe I might get the chance to post a little more about it next time.

And, Bug? One more thing. Please don't hurt me.

*Miss Webster was my English teacher in Middle School for two years running. She pounded a great deal of grammar into my head and some of it even stuck. She taught me that "not is always an adverb." And, Dog bless her heart, she taught me to hate outlining, even as she loved it so.

Birds of a Feather--Fathers' Day Edition

Do you remember the Mourning Dove that had her nest in a little alcove above the door to my apartment building last year? No? Well, maybe you would have if I'd bothered to post anything about it. Anyhow, that's her in the picture to the left. She had one chick and they both stayed vewy, vewy quiet, afraid as they must have been of all the screaming little kids who live in my building and are in and out of that door dozens of times during the day.

Alas, the dove decided not to join us this year. I can't say that I blame her. In addition to the mob of overly loud children in the building, there's now a pack of teenage boys. I refer to them as "The Gang of Four." Hunny simply calls them "The Hoodlums."

As a former teenage boy, I am acutely aware of how evil teenage boys can be, and it wouldn't surprise me if one or more of them decided they'd like to find out if eggs bounced or if newly hatched chicks fly when tossed into the air. Mark Twain once said, "When a boy turns thirteen, seal him in a barrel and feed him through a knot hold. When he turns sixteen, plug up the knot hole." Then, as now, that is good, practical advice.

But like I said, that Mourning Dove outsmarted the teenagers by not showing up this spring. So instead of Mourning Dove babies outside our front door, this year we had Robin babies outside our bedroom window.

I'll explain.

We'd been watching since the day an enterprising male dragged the first twig into the bushes by the side of our building. Apparently nobody told him about the kids or the hoodlums who live here, because he built that nest at eye level, way too close to the ground. But nobody touched it.

Through all the wind and rain we had this spring, that nest stayed in place, as did Momma, plopped protectively on her eggs. We never knew exactly when the eggs hatched, but one mrning I awoke to much bird screeching. I peeked out the window and saw two gaping mouths poking up out of the nest, and they were making a whole heck of a lot of noise.

The chicks grew quickly as children are wont to do, and pretty soon the first chick took off, leaving her brother behind. No, I never actually checked their respective sexes, but girls always develop before boys and I saw no reason to believe it would be any different with birds. We figured that in a day or two he'd join his sister and we'd have nothing to watch out the window any more. But the little fellow stayed. And then he stayed some more. Oh, sure, he'd venture out into the bushes occasionally, but never far from the nest. And there's no question he was too frightened to try to actually, you know, fly.

It finally hit the fan one day. As Junior inched along some branches a good foot from the nest, Dad came by with breakfast. As the sight of his father, Junior opened his beak and demanded his Happy Meal. That's when Dad snapped.

Did you ever hear a Robin swear? Well, this one did. I'm sure of it. And he swore in spite of the mouth full of worms he'd been carrying. He screamed back at Junior. Then he screamed some more. And Junior retreated further and further away from the nest until we could no longer see him in the bushes.

It was tough love, is what it was, or maybe Dad had simply had enough. But Dad kicked Junior out of the house that day. Told him to go get a job. Of that I'm certain, because we never saw that little bird again.

So let that be a lesson to all you fathers out there this Fathers' Day. There may come a time when it's past time for your kids to leave the nest. Don't be afraid to scream at them through a mouth full of worms, and don't be afraid to show them the door either. And whatever you do, once they're gone, don't forget to change the lock.

*actual pics of Momma Dove and Junior Robin*