The Treadmill is my Enemy by Stuart R. West

Great to read while on the treadmill!

I hate the treadmill. Yet I try and get on it three to four times a week. Obviously I must be some sort of masochist, because, honestly, how else do you explain how something so horrendous is supposed to be good for you? Pure agony.

Whoever said exercise is good for you is a huge liar.

Every morning I wake up, knowing I should exercise. "Just five more minutes," I tell myself. It's particularly hard to rouse on those dark Winter and Fall mornings when the only ones up are insomniac serial killers and vampires. Yet, eventually, I get up.

You know, the magical number of "50" is usually a milestone to be celebrated. The human body, on the other hand, has very different ideas. If there's a party being thrown, it's purely a pity party, the body mocking its host all the way to the grave. It's like one of those charts detailing the state of our economy; the one with the arrow plummeting down into the red zone.

Anyway, after twenty to thirty minutes on the "monster machine," I'm done. And it's not pretty. Buckets of sweat roll off me. I look like a wet T-shirt contest reject (doubtful I'd garner any votes, but you get my drift--just, um, stay downwind because I smell like canned spam). My heart is galloping to burst through its cage. I'm leaning over the cursed machine, panting, hyperventilating like a pneumatic air compressor. My back hurts. And my knees! Oh, my knees! When I walk, they emit an unhealthy squelching gelatinous sound. I swear it sounds like aliens replaced my kneecaps in the middle of the night with fish bowls.

The worst part? After all this torture, the treadmill's electronic face taunts me, registering joy that I've burned off a mere 100 calories. 100 lousy calories. If I were to eat half of a small donut, I'd break even. Any more food over the day, though, puts me back over the top. The demonic treadmill is laughing at me

You know, there's gotta' be a more pleasant method of exercising. Maybe I'll try yoga. Now...where's that leotard?

I imagine the character Zach loooooves the treadmill!

The Waiting Game by Stuart R. West

Click for comedy, mystery and murrrrrderrrrrrrr most dumb!

Recently, I encountered surely one of the world's worst waiters at a Mexican restaurant. Let's call him "Nelson (because that was his name)." Combative, non-communicative, just plain bad table etiquette. He mistakenly delivered baked beans instead of refried. My wife told me to let him know about it. No thanks. After the fight he put up over his bringing flour instead of corn tortillas, I didn't want things to escalate to violence. Still, he got the last laugh. When he swept my plate out from under me (without asking), he dropped my knife an inch from my hand. No apologies.

Now I'm no waiter, never have been one, yet I do have empathy for those plying the fine trade of waiting. And, as always, I'm here to help. Hence, Stuart's Easy School of Good Waiting for the low, low price of three $39.99 installments . Order now and you'll receive a free doily.

Waiters, kindly remember these rules:

1) Hairnets. If you have hair like the lunch-lady of my nightmares, hairnets are appreciated. Soup served with croutons and curly black hairs is simply not an option.

2) For God's sake, give me time to take a bite! Overzealous behavior doesn't suit the art of waiting well. Sometimes, before I've even jammed a fork in my mouth, a tip-starved waiter will ask how everything is. And keep coming back. Again and again. It's a weird time-space conundrum. Can't comment until the food's in me. Just...no.

3) Waiters, please don't chortle at a customer's menu selection. It doesn't exactly instill culinary confidence.

4) And do we really need to know your grandmother just passed away? When the waiter starts crying, my appetite starts dying.

5) When I ask what's good, don't respond with a generic shrug and say, "everything." I don't believe you. On the other hand, when a waiter says, "I eat next door," the honesty is appreciated, but gives me pause.

6) Don't be the invisible waiter, the guy who takes an order and vanishes into the Bermuda Triangle. When a different waiter brings out a milk carton with my waiter's visage on it, I know I'm in for an even longer wait.

7) Know your customers. Do I REALLY look like a guy who wants to eat the Kale platter?

8) "Oh, I see someone's hungry."  Well. When a waiter says that, I fire back, "I see someone's hungry for a tip." Puh-leaze.

9) If you're gonna' serve up witty patter, make sure it's at least borderline amusing. And don't deliver your patter like a robot. Bring your material to life. When you bury your face in the order pad, reciting lines like "you say tomat-oh, I say ta-mah-to (and I know you've recited it a kazillion times before)," it makes me wanna' use the steak knife for other purposes. Bad jail-bound purposes.

10) Finally, don't overdo it. When a waiter sits down at my table, drops an arm over my shoulder, jabs a toothpick between his teeth, and says, "You know, I'm not really a waiter...," dessert is definitely off the table.

Gang, the next time you go out to eat, recite these rules upfront to your waiter. Trust me. I'm sure they'll appreciate the advice. Absolutely positive.

What does "waiting" have to do with writing, I hear you ask? Quite a bit, actually. A waiter has to guide his/her customer through an entire meal before any kind of feedback is given (and hopefully a tip). A writer is in the same sort of unknowing vacuum until reviews come out (and hopefully sales).

There will be a test later.

Speaking of waiters, my dunderheaded protagonist of the Zach and Zora comic mystery series isn't exactly a waiter (and maybe the world's a better place for it). No, no, Zach has chosen to study and practice the fine art of "male entertainment dancing." Just, whatever you do, don't call him a "stripper." So gauche.

Click for wacky murder mystery hijinx.

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!

The Fine Artistry of Citizen's Arrest by Stuart R. West

Click for Zach and Zora Book #2

"Halt! You're under citizen's arrest!"

Well. That's not the best catch-phrase, but by the time I pull a citizen's arrest, I'll come up with one. I will, oh, yes, I will. Something catchy. See what I did there? "Catchy?"

I'm a bit excited about this. The act of performing a citizen's arrest tops my bucket list, especially after researching the ins and outs of it for my next Zach and Zora comic mystery novel.

There are many worthy recipients of a citizen's arrest. I'd love to enforce my brand of martial law onto horrible and dangerous drivers. I mean, the other day I saw an idiot swerving lane to lane with his phone held in front of him. And there's the prob. How do I chase the offending moron down without Starsky and Hutching everyone else on the highway?

A bigger problem might be what to do with the guy once I catch him.

"Excuse me, sir, but I'm placing you under citizen's arrest. Um, could you come get in my car while I drive you to the police station?"

I don't see this working out in my favor. 

I need a better plan. Of course I certainly don't want to start lugging around guns, even though practically everyone in Kansas has one (and dang proud of it! Ram tough!). Not in this day of commonplace, nightmarish shootings. I could see myself adding to the problem. I've got that addictive sort of personality.

Frankly, I might not know where to draw the line in my impending career as a citizen's arrester. What do I do with those buffoons who wear shorts and t-shirts in thirty degree weather? Do I slip handcuffs on everyone who wears two different types of plaid? I'd be maxing the jail cells out with major fashion faux-pas offenders, a wardrobe-angry Charles Bronson. 

According to Ms. Google, my research assistant, I'm allowed to use "reasonable force" should I find it warranted. I'd say the above offenses definitely warrant a good kick to the hind-end. 

The law doesn't make it easy on we citizen arresters, either. The onus is on the arresting citizen to provide probable cause. Not a problem. One look at my captive's mesh see-through shirt and mullet, the police force will hand me the key to the city.

Now all I've got to do is detain the offender until the cops show up. Easy-peezy. I'll sit on him. I can sit like a champ!

There you have it. My solid plan is in effect. Don't cross me citizens! Stuart's on the job!

I'd probably arrest Zach, the "hero" of my Zach and Zora comic mystery series for being such a dolt. Find out if that arrest is warranted by clicking here!

Trash or Treasure? by Stuart R. West

Trash or Treasure? YOU decide by clicking here!

"Chaotic, fun and hilarious." So says Boundless Book Reviews of my Zach and Zora comedic mystery (kinda cozy) series, detailing the wacky antics of a vapid male stripper (Just don't call him that! He's a "male entertainment dancer," after all.) and his very irritable, very pregnant sleuth sister who has to solve murders to get her doltish bro out of trouble.

But, wait, here's another spin...

"Total trash," says an enlightened, anonymous Amazon reviewer.

Out of my 23 books, this was the only one-star review I've ever received. It used to bug me. Until I learned to embrace it, kinda like that tattoo you got in college of Weird Al Yankovic. I began to wear it proudly like a scar of war, proof of my time in the battlefield of writing.

And I don't know about you guys, but honestly, if someone calls a book "total trash," I'm immediately interested to find out more. Call it our car-wreck, lookie-loo culture or the training ground of voyeuristic "reality" TV, or just plain masochism, if someone calls a book trash, sign me up!

The reviewer in question goes on to say (specifically about Bad Day in a Banana Hammock), "I only read the first five pages. The guy wakes up in a strange room with a dead body yet he stops to pose in the mirror an (sic) notice how good he looks...too much for me" 

(Despite how this sounds, the books are a mild PG rating across the board.)

Total trash! Yay!

Hmm. Regardless that it's ludicrous to rate a book one star based on the first five pages (and, yes, I tried to battle the Amazon behemoth on this; a very polite robot responded with a rote reply that had nothing to do with my complaint), I think the real issue is the (sorta) reader didn't think the book was funny. In fact, I'm not even sure Mr. or Ms. Enlightenment even realized it was supposed to be a comedy.

That's okay. Humor is extremely subjective. I cringe at most modern comedy films (Adam Sandler, anyone?) and I know it goes against being a guy, but take the Three Stooges...please! I mean, writing and reading are very subjective, everyone knows that, but humor is really tough. It's impossible to please everyone when it comes to writing humor, so why do I continue to do it? 

Two reasons: A) If I make even a few people laugh and forget their daily grind for a bit, it's worth it.  B) I can't help it. Many times I set out to write, say, a straight horror tale, but then things take a turn for the absurd.

As Steve Martin said, "Comedy isn't pretty."

Quick! Someone notify the Decency Council!

Back to my enlightened critic on Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, I'm not sure if their inability to grasp the humor of the book says something about the reader or my lack of writing skills, but, um...can you possibly read that title and not expect a comedy? Or maybe look at the other reviews? Read the blurb?

I'm reminded of the hullaballoo in the 80's when the remake of the horror film, Cat People, came out. Parents were outraged because they took their children to see it and witnessed gore, sex with animals, nudity, and other fun family topics. It's their own fault. The fact the movie was rated "R" should've probably tipped them off that the subject matter wasn't about cute, lil' kitties. Or maybe they could've read a little bit about the movie. Look at the poster? Nah, too much work.

So, what have we learned here today? Some people like Adam Sandler movies. Don't take your kids to see Cat People (the 80's version, at least). No matter how dumb, drunk and young you are, never ever, EVER get a Weird Al Yankovic tattoo. Oh! And the third book in my ongoing Zach and Zora series, Nightmare of Nannies, in a remarkably timed coinkydink, happens to be on sale this week for the incredibly crazy low price of .99! (Don't worry, you don't need to read them in order). Read it, laugh, or send me hate mail...please!

Funny or not? Accept the challenge!

Mandatory Sex Practice by Stuart R. West

Now that I have your undivided attention with that title (sorry, sorry, sorry, etc...), please allow me to explain...

Clickity-click for laughs and mystery fun!

Recently, my awesome mother-in-law sent us a post-holiday card. Within it was a personalized message to me.

"Stuart," it read, "you better start practicing your sex--will expect entertainment in the nursing home."

Huh.

After I rolled my tongue up off the floor and tucked it back into my mouth, I reread the card. Yep. Same thing.

What the...

The ramifications of the note were mind-boggling. And not even a bit cryptic. Kinda an order from her.

Which begs the question: what in the world have my wife and her mom been talking about? Furthermore, what does my mother-in-law mean by "practice?"

I suppose I could use a little boning up on my sex technique. But honestly, I'd rather not have my mother-in-law as teacher.

And what kind of nursing home are we talking about here where sex is used to entertain the crowd? I imagine the facility has quite a long waiting list. (I'd better get signed up now.)

After the fireworks in my head fizzled out, I took a closer look at the note. "Stuart," it read a bit differently this time, "you better start practicing your sax..."

Ooooooohhhhhhh...... Okay. That's better.

Which is my long-winded way of getting to the point. Often (okay, rarely), people ask me where I get my ideas. Nothing's funnier than real people in real situations. This will undoubtedly end up in one of my Zach and Zora comical mysteries as do many people I meet or situations I hear about.

I'm always on the look-out for comedy gold. I mean, you can't make half of this stuff up. At restaurants, I listen. My wife calls it eavesdropping. I call it "artistic license." She also warns everyone we meet to be careful because you could end up in one of my books. Duly warned!

So...have you heard the one about the dumb male stripper and his sharp detective sister working together to solve murders? No? Well, you're late to the party! Click here already for the first book in the series! 

Piranha Fishing on the Amazon River by Stuart R. West

One click away from mystery, murder and humor.

Continuing our further (mis)adventures in the Amazon Rain Forest...

After another night of sleeplessness, we... Oh. Wait. Did I not tell you the unfortunate sleeping circumstances of our lodgings?

You see, the Heliconia Lodge is very nice, offers great food, and the staff is top-notch. 

But seeing as we're in the jungle, of course, air conditioning is unheard of. Electricity, too, for the most part, which is why the lodge runs off a generator. Naturally it wouldn't make much sense to run it full time, so they turn it off three times a day, usually when I wanted to shower.

(Side note on showering: Our first day at the Heliconia, we kept going out on excursions and each time I'd soak through my clothes. Not by rain, mind you, but sweat. So I kept showering and changing clothes. Six wardrobe changes in one day, I felt like Cher in Vegas. By the next day, I pretty much just gave up on hygiene. Sure, you didn't want to sit downwind of me, but everyone in our group was in the same boat. Literally.).

Anyway, I could live without electricity during the days. We were never in our room anyway. But then they'd power down the generator every night at midnight. The room fans would stop as the entire compound ground down with a dying, monstrous groan: pretty much an alarm clock to jolt me awake. I usually clocked in a solid 45 minutes before the generator stopped.

In bed. NEVER asleep!

Then nature's sound machine took over, keeping me up most of the night. (And the endless sweat, natch. In fact, I've come up with the perfect slogan for the Heliconia Lodge: "At Heliconia, we sweat the hell outta you!")

What does nature's sound machine sound like, you ask? Kinda like this (ahem)...

"OOOH, OOOH, AHHH, EEEK, EEEK, EEEK, OOT, OOT, AHHH, OOOT, HOOO, HOOOO, OOOOOO, EEEK, EEEEK, AIEEEEE..."

You get the drift. Some kind of unidentified bug/animal/monster took to haunting me right outside our room: it sounded like a blacksmith pounding out metal. Also, I was too busy wondering what sort of varmints were scampering around in our dark room to sleep. The horror stories about scorpions, tarantulas, and snakes didn't help.

So. Sleep deprived, missing the wonders of air conditioning and quiet, we wandered once again into the jungle on a medicinal plant trail, great for pharmacists, exhausting for we mere authors. 

Our guide, Antonio, using his version of G.P.S.: "Great Product of Survival"

However, we did something very cool. We planted mango trees in the Amazon jungle in honor of Earth Day. I'll gladly brave the sleepless nights, nocturnal monsters, and near death experiences by visiting again in five years to eat a mango from our tree.

Cool was the order of the day as later we went piranha fishing. Danger's my middle name (not really, not even close).

Time and time again on our trip, we'd been told piranha were good to eat. I'd never realized piranha was an edible fish, just sort of thought of it as an eating fish (remember: movies are my education). I kinda think it might just be practical on the Peruvians' behalf to eat what they have plenty of (otherwise I'm completely baffled by the choice of monkey's head soup). Oddly enough, though, piranha was never offered to us at the lodge. But we were prepared to catch dinner for everyone.

Off we went on our fishing expedition! I warned everyone I was prepared to fall. They all agreed, hardly a shocker. 

Before the fishing trip with happy and high expectations!

Hooks were baited, lines were sunk, and we waited. And waited. And waited, just merrily bob-bob-bobbing along. The blasted piranha kept nibbling at our bait, just eating it. Our buddy fed the piranha a lot (next fisherman: "Man, that's one fat fish.").

Only one of us snagged a piranha (teacher's pet, teacher's pet, teacher's pet!), a small one at that. 

Expectations dashed!

Still, all in all, how very awesome it is to snootily drop into conversation, pinky finger raised, "The other day we were on the Amazon River, fishing for piranha..."

While we're on the subject of sharp toothed critters, check out the second in the Zach and Zora comic mystery series, Murder by Massage. My hapless heroes face all sorts of shark-toothed, crocodile-teared types such as
dancing cops, ex-radical hippy militants, pompous pastors, and a creepy set of "Furries." What're you waiting for? The party's started and it's a blast!

Beware the Most Dangerous Animal in the Jungle...by Stuart R. West

Of course I'm talking about the great lumbering beast: the American Ox. Otherwise known as myself.

Click for comic mystery antics.

 I don't camp. Never have, never will. Nature and I don't get along. If I so much as glance at poison ivy, I turn into a giant blister bubble. On the other hand, my wife loves camping and nature. Everything that is nature except for...the unspeakable eight-legged critters. She suffers from a truly bad case of arachnophobia. 

My wife (kinda, sorta) avoiding arachnids in the jungle (what she doesn't know won't kill her.)

Over the course of our trip, several people thought they could cure my wife's fears easy-peasy with some Dr. Phil nonsense: "Oh, the best way to conquer your fear is to face it." Someone else tried the routine of "no, no, spiders are good! They bla, bla, bla..." While their intentions were good, they've never witnessed my wife jump out of a moving car once she spotted a spider. While she was driving. Twice.

So, for obvious reasons, people thought we were crazy for going to the jungle.

My wife, um, enjoying the floor.

Me, I possess the grace of a big, clumsy meth-head trying to thread a needle. Getting in and out of the boat proved extremely problematic. Our guide, Victor--an amiable sort, fluent in English and bird-song--grew weary of my (literally) rocking the boat. Constantly, he told me to "slow down, slow down." But he didn't understand speed was the only way I kept from falling, sheer momentum my only ally. Amazingly, I didn't capsize the boat, but I capsized myself a couple of times. 

Victor standing at ease and defying gravity in our boat.

Once, Victor wanted to redistribute weight throughout the boat so he instructed me to move back a bench. I'd successfully moved myself back before by just using my arms and swinging my body backward, so I thought I could do it again. Methinks I'd forgotten the 50 pound backpack attached to my body. I fell between the benches, legs up in the air like half-price day at the old-West brothel. A particularly poor day to wear white pants (and what was I thinking wearing white pants into the jungle anyway? Terrible fashion choice.). 

A good larf was had by all (except for me and my wounded pride. Not to mention my wounded posterior).

Falling isn't anything new for me. Gravity and balance are not my friends. While escorting us across wooden planks to the local jungle health clinic, Victor remarked on one of our cohorts' very good balance. I said, "I think she has better balance than me." 

Victor readily agreed. "Much better," he said. "Much, much better."

Of COURSE nature just loves Victor.

So there I am, floundering around in the jungle, trying my damnedest not to fall on snakes or worse, planting my feet ploddingly, arms out like a new-born tyke learning to walk. Hardly jungle material.

Back to that health clinic... The Yanamano Clinic--a small, humid building just off the river--is run by a doctor from Wisconsin and services the locals (or at least those who've embraced Western medicine). The doctor, understandably frustrated by the government's lack of aid, caring and health care, ripped through a list of her recent patients and their alarming ailments. Needless to say, machete wounds topped the list. A sobering (and sweltering) visit, it truly made me grateful for what we take for granted in the States.

Solar-powered (and without air conditioning, natch), the small operating room was a sparsely lit hot-box where the doctor sweats over her patients while sewing them up. Recently, a fan had been installed (a huge deal) and a bright light bulb had been donated (again, victory). Doctors Without Borders swung by one day with good intentions and big ideas, but little could truly be done. It's a very bleak situation for both the locals and the doctors because help doesn't come from many places. And the locals are uneducated about their own ailments and what modern medicine can do for them. 

Later, I was told this was one of the better clinics. At least there weren't holes in the ceiling.

On the way out of the clinic, I made a big mistake, a huge one.

As we left the clinic, I held the door open for everyone because Mom taught me to be a gentleman. Our boat driver, Walker, glared menacingly at me as he slowly walked through my proffered opened door. Victor, our guide, actually stopped dead in his tracks, stared at me. He opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and hurried through the door. Hands flailing, they chatted animatedly and angrily back to our boat. Clearly I'd done something to offend them.

Only later did I realize my whoopsie moment. 

The culture of Peru is muy machismo. Men are men and the very mention of a "metrosexual" will get you beat up. Men drive motokars and women work in the kitchen, end of story. However, the men are fooling themselves, for women truly rule the roost. It's a very sexist culture, but only superficially so. Regardless, men take their manly manliness very manfully.

Things weren't right between Victor and myself until the end of the trip.

Friendsies again! (L to R: My wife, Victor, me, Jungle Momma Connie)

On the bright side, my wife had only one minor spider incident. In the boat, she reflexively kicked our friend's butt to get rid of a small, menacing arachnid. (I purposefully didn't tell my love about the lodge's four pet tarantulas until we'd left). Not bad odds for the jungle!

Speaking of odds, what're the odds Wendell Worthy can race against time to save his brother's life by running through downtown Kansas City in his underwear? Not very good! Find out in my comic thriller, Chili Run.

Laughs and thrills just a click away!

Welcome to...Monkey Island! by Stuart R. West

Despite the banana in the title, this has nothing to do with Monkey Island except a whole lotta monkey business.

 "For you see, Mr. Bond, Monkey Island is a training ground for my personal army of monkeys where I shall eventually unleash them on an unwitting world to conquer...Disneyland! Mwah-hah-hah!"

Marvel at the cute, wacky antics of lovable monkeys!

Yes, Monkey Island sounds like a James Bond villain compound, a perfect setting for a future secret agent novel, one that has the creative juices flowing. And, yes, Monkey Island actually exists. Come with me now, intrepid explorers, as I recount more adventures in the Amazon ans we visit...MONKEY ISLAND!

Tuesday morning we set out by boat on the Nanay River, an Amazon River tributary. Where the tributary meets the Amazon River, a visually distinctive color change differentiates the two rivers from "black (that's what it's called, although it's not really. Hey, I don't make up the rules.)" to light creamy brown. Shifting sediment causes color change. 

Thrill at the incredible changing water color!

Which is just one of the many amazing things about the Amazon: the landscape changes constantly. (I saw a huge tree actually topple into the river as we traveled. And there are "walking trees!" They uproot themselves and move toward sunlight. Sure, they're slow, but they'd probably beat sloths in a foot race any day.)

See the incredible, uncanny tree that walks like a man!

Soon, we neared MONKEY ISLAND ("ka-blammo!"). My spidey senses tingled (or maybe that was water sickness). As we disembarked, I was quickly reminded of my lousy sense of balance and lack of grace. Pay heed, folks, for we'll be revisiting this theme many times.

Excitement swelled in our group as we walked the planks up to...Monkey Island! ("Bum, bum, bummmm...") 

Duck and cover from flying feces!

Another habitat (brought to you by the fine folks of the previous manatee habitat), Monkey Island personnel rescues rare monkeys and nurses them to health. Unlike the manatee habitat, though, the monkeys roam their island freely to mess with unsuspecting visitors.

Our host warned us to wash off all bug spray and sunscreen since there'd been an earlier incident where several monkeys died by licking toxic bug lotion. We were also told, "monkeys are curious. So watch your jewelry." Understatement.

Our group washed up, stripped down, and prepared to enter...MONKEY ISLAND ("Dun, dun, dunnnnnn...").

Three minutes into our tour, a woolly monkey approached my wife, crawled up her body, and tossed its arms around her. For twenty minutes, they were inseparable as the monkey licked and kissed her and tugged playfully at her necklace.

Get jealous as my wife finds comfort in the arms of a furry stranger!

One of our traveling companions wasn't so lucky. Sara's monkey started off all cutesy, innocent and sweet, but within seconds "cute" morphed into stark-raving TERROR! The monkey climbed atop Sara's head, yanked at her hair, entangled its limbs throughout Sara's tresses, and held on tight. Like a victim in the film The Birds, Sara ineffectively tried to disengage her primate pal, plucking at it to no avail. That monkey wasn't going anywhere.

Elsewhere on MONKEY ISLAND ("Zinnnnnngggg!"), another fellow traveler, Liz, welcomed a monkey into her arms. But this monkey had a hidden agenda, an evil one. Feigning sweetness, it jabbed out, snatched Liz's glasses, and tore off into the bushes. Miraculously, one of the guides was able to retrieve the glasses.

Don't dare trust these little buggers!

Yet another monkey dragged one of our pals, Kelly, by the hand. We all thought it the cutest thing. Until the demonic beast's true intentions became apparent. The creature stopped Kelly by a small tree, positioned her oh-so-carefully, then used her as a ladder to climb into the tree's limbs.

Hold onto your wallets and purses!

Even the sloth appeared less than trustworthy, evil gleaming in its eyes. (But I wasn't too worried; even I could outrun a sloth should it come to it.)

Me? My only contact was with a parrot. Oh, sure, it was friendly enough as it roosted on the teens in our group, but when I approached, it pecked at me.

Beware the feathered face of evil!

Maybe these surface-cuddly beasts truly were a secret, evil army in training after all. 

Speaking of nefarious goings-on lurking beneath the facade of innocence, check into the mysteries surrounding the citizens of Peculiar County.

Visit enchanting Peculiar County today, just one click away.