The Dreaded Black (Socks) Friday

More Fun Than Shopping on "Black Friday!"

One Thanksgiving, not too long ago but far, far away from home, I realized I forgot to pack socks. A family member suggested I could borrow socks. Well, no. Thanks, anyway, but, um, no.

Socks are important. They're a crucial component of life. I mean, really, without socks, society would break down into violence. We'd be nothing more than savages without socks.

So, I ventured out, looking for socks on Thanksgiving night, the worst possible time to go sock shopping. Because "Black Friday" has now turned into "Deep, Dark, Blacker Then Black Full-On Week Friday," a week long orgy of no holds barred, sometimes violent, shopping free-for-alls.

At Walmart, folks scrabbled, pushed, screamed and raced toward what they perceived as good deals. The sock aisle was relatively barren, yet the over-all ambience of the store was one of menace. Agonized howls rang out through the aisles--not children, but older folks who should know better. Lines were longer than the wait at the driver's license bureau. Menacing glares were exchanged over the last video game available. Eyes were void of hope, yet full of greed. Sam Walton won this round.

It got me thinking about the true meaning of Thanksgiving. It's an American holiday based on how the Pilgrims gave thanks to the Native-Americans for basically saving their lives. And, of course, we know how well that turned out for the Native-Americans. Greeting card companies and big business want us to forget that little tid-bit. From the depths of a wiped out culture rose a Hallmark moment. Thanksgiving now means familial togetherness and love. We get together with our families for one day, get it all over in one fell swoop and move on with our lives.

Yet...it's come around again. Thanks to Corporate America, Thanksgiving's returned to its roots. Once again, it's about violence and survival of the fittest. Weak shoppers will be trammeled over and forgotten. Those with the strongest stamina, pocketbooks and pepper-spray will persevere, no matter who has squatter rights.

I did come away from my Black Friday experience with socks. It took a helluva' long time. While my feet stink less, I feel like a pawn in the Big Plan Of Things. Next Thanksgiving to protest, I'm going to defiantly wear dirty socks. Join me if you will.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Speaking of disorganized chaos, Boundless Book Reviews calls Murder by Massage: "Chaotic, fun and hilarious." It's book #2 in the ongoing Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Collect 'em all!

Avoid those holiday shopping lines, by clicking!

How To Get Away With Murder In Your Sleep by Stuart R. West

I murder a lot of people in my sleep.

Click on through to the other side for murderrrrrr...

Wait, wait, wait... Before you call the police, let me explain. No, I don't sleepwalk and stab snoozily away, nothing like that. Rather, I have a recurring nightmare where I've killed someone (that and the horrifying nightmare where I walk into the world's grossest public restroom barefoot, but that's a dream better left untold).

The odd thing is I never dream the actual killing, nor do I have any idea who my victims are. You'd kinda think those two issues might be important, but no my Id chooses to cut to the Dostoevsky-like chase: waiting for the noose to tighten around my throat as Johnny Law moves in.

What does this say about me as a person? According to the intronets, I have a guilt-ridden mind. Of what? No idea.

I searched my back history for various explanations... Maybe that kid in Kindergarten who I helped to harass because everyone else was? Maybe how I rudely ghosted a woman I dated in college? How about when I used to smoke, I'd toss the butts out on the highway? Or perhaps Karma's getting back at me for cutting in line for a roller-coaster at Worlds of Fun. I don't know...

But these dreams are long, stressful and convoluted. The other night I had my victim all ready to go, trundled up in a plastic trash bag (I assume they were extra, EXTRA strength), and ready to put out on the curb for trash pick-up day. Once the body was picked up and put in the back of the trash truck, I'd be in the clear. However...dogs kept sniffing around the bag. I had to continue shooing them away. Then neighborhood kids kept circling on their bikes, moving in closer, wanting to know what was in the bag ("You kids get outta my yard!"). Then, cop cars started slowly crawling by my house...looking...

How'd it all turn out? Beats me. I ended up at some ridiculous bus station with a miles-long line of people waiting to board the bus, on the lam with my mug plastered on newscasts throughout the terminal.

Much scarier than any horror flick or current political administration.

Apparently, my "guilt-ridden mind" doesn't stop at nightmares, either. Whenever I see a cop, I break out into a cold sweat, start humming some nonsensical tune, hoping the cop will ignore me, view me as an inconsequential, law-abiding citizen. It doesn't matter that I am a law-abiding citizen. It's just one of those things. "Capiophobia" is what my research assistant, Ms. Google, calls this bewildering fear of cops.

Clicky for...um...murder most massagey.

So. I figured that's why I gravitate toward murder mysteries, both writing and reading them. Unlike my nightmares, I can control the destiny and fate of my characters (mwah, hah, hahhhh!), ensuring that justice is served, and that the good guy and/or gal (generally falsely accused) are cleared of any bogus murder raps. It helps to set my day world right, even if there's nothing to be done about my nightmarish night-life.

And like my nightmares, the murders are never gruesomely delineated. It's the aftermath that's important.

Huh. As a kid, I always thought episodes of "Columbo" were boring. Why? Because they always showed from the on-set who the killer was. It became ninety long minutes of watching the killer sweat it out while Columbo ("Just one more thing...") circled the drain. 

I suppose I might like Columbo better now as I can definitely relate with the killers' increasing paranoia.

Sorta like my character, Zach, in the Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Only he's innocent. You see, Zach (a vapid, but big-hearted male entertainment dancer--don't call him a "stripper!"), has an uncanny knack for stumbling across dead bodies, generally becoming blamed as the killer. It's up to his sister sleuth, Zora, to investigate and clear his name, usually with her entourage of four kids in tow. Together they traverse a warped path to the truth, complete with characters straight outta my nightmares: The hippy parents! The singing and dancing detective! Menacing nannies! The paranoid computer geek! Corrupt politicians! Frenzied furries! Rival strippers! Murderous televangelists! The list goes on...

So, take that, guilt-ridden mind! (Freud would be proud.)

Click it like it's hot!

If You Enjoy a Good Laugh by Victoria Chatham



 AVAILABLE HERE

Like all writers, I have to make time to read books, too. I have fairly eclectic tastes from fiction to fact and back again. My own preferred genre is Regency romance, but I enjoy thrillers, cozy mysteries, and now Stuart R. West’s Zach and Zora mysteries. I’ve read several of his books, but Zach and Zora had me laughing out loud. I get that humour is subjective and what amuses me may leave you cold, but I found Bad Day in a Banana Hammock a clever read.

On the face of it, Zach is a self-absorbed dim-wit. Not the most likely character to arouse my interest, but when he wakes up practically naked in bed beside a dead guy, I want to know more. Zach’s almost sure he didn’t commit the murder, but he has no recollection of the previous night. The fact that he’s is a male dancer (please do not refer to him as a male stripper) and is still wearing his ‘uniform’ adds to the mystery.

The one person Zach knows will help him is his long-suffering sister, Zora. With three kids and another on the way, the last thing she wants is to be involved with Zach’s problems. But he’s her baby brother, and she’s a Private Investigator, so what can she do but help him? This excerpt pulls it all together for me as it shows the relationship between the siblings and her way of handling her kids. If you enjoy this book, check out Murder by Massage and Nightmare of Nannies. You won’t be disappointed.

*****

With a diaper bag strapped over her shoulder, Zora hustled Nikki and Justin out the front door. “Come on, kids. We’re going on an adventure.”

“Adventure,” parroted Justin.

Nikki, already the sullen teen before her time, whined, “Mom, what’re we doing? I’m busy!” “Girl, I don’t wanna hear about busy. Just get in the back seat. Enjoy the sunshine. Remember what that is?”

“So stupid!”

“Zach,” she yelled up the stairs, “Samantha’s already in her seat by the door. Grab her on the way out.” A task surely even he couldn’t mess up. Then again, when it came to her brother, all bets were off.

Justin struggled with his seat, always a battle. No wonder her swear jar had evolved into a bucket. “Just stay still…almost….there.” Clack.

“Mom, really, what’re we doing? Why was Uncle Zach naked?”

“He wasn’t naked, Nikki. Just under-dressed.”

“Is he in trouble again?”

“No.” Yes. “We’re just gonna try and help him with some stuff.” Zora pressed down on the pedal, revving the engine. Hoping to speed her brother along, never the quickest guy to get things done. She checked her phone, fully charged and 10:30 a.m. Plenty of time to clear her brother of murder, get back and have dinner on the table for Phillip by six.

Despite the situation, Zora laughed when her brother stumbled out of the house. He had Samantha’s carrier seat in one hand and kept his pants cinched up with the other. A belt lapped off the end-loop, a wagging brown tail. The suit looked like a relic from the ‘80’s, entirely too large and probably never in style.

As Zach rolled open the back door of the mini-van, he sighed. “I know, right? I look ridiculous. Doesn’t Phillip own any regular clothes? Jeans, a polo, anything?”

“Hey, stylin’ guy, shut up and get in. It’s better than you waving your…golden sack around town.”

“Golden sack, golden sack, Uncle Zach has a golden sack!” Justin joined his sister in song. “Golden sack, gold—”

“Kids, enough! I don’t wanna hear that again about your uncle!”

“But, Mom, you said it first!”

“Again. Not a democracy.” She turned in her seat, double-checking Zach’s strapping in of Samantha. Unbelievably, a grin threatened to eat his face off. Clearly proud of the song his niece and nephew had concocted in his golden sack’s honor. No shame. “Get in, Zach.”

West, Stuart R.. Bad Day in a Banana Hammock (A Zack and Zora Mystery Book 1) Books We Love Ltd. Kindle Edition.

 AVAILABLE HERE