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! 

Afterthoughts and Aftermess in the Amazon by Stuart R. West

Click for the third Zach and Zora comic mystery

Well, all good things must come to an end, I suppose. Even if there were times I didn't think I'd survive the Amazon jungle. Not due to life-threatening situations, mind you, but rather the strenuous activities of hiking through a sauna-like environment in long pants, shirts, and those torturous boots.

Goodbye Peru...

But I made it. Even though the plane trips back were trying--eight days in the jungle and no ailments, but everyone on the plane was hacking and wheezing, sure to be my downfall; also, we had an encounter with an ugly American teenage girl who tried to cut in line (but my wife put a stop to that!)--we began the long, dull process of settling back into routine.

Fun in a germ-ridden flying tin can!

Upon return, Kansas seemed rather...lifeless. Sure, it felt safer and was definitely cleaner, but it lacked the energy, the vibrancy of Iquitos and the unfettered nature of the jungle. Everything about the Midwest appeared so ho-hum.

BO-RING!

Except, of course, for my week-long bout with diarrhea. Yay, TMI! (At least I didn't suffer while in the jungle; I can't even begin to imagine...wait, yes I can).

Wake me when we leave Kansas...

I learned a lot on my adventures. While I'm not quite ready to bunker down in a tent (too many serial killers lurking in the woods), or go backpacking in the Himalayas (too many yetis), or cannonball into a hot tub with Buddha (not enough room for both of us), I've decided to embrace nature as my friend. Finally. Call me ridiculous, but the other day there was a grotesque, hard-carapaced bug skittering down the hallway. I managed to scoop him up and put him outside. In the past, he would've been instant floor-kill.

The incredible power of the Amazon--nature at its wildest, most untainted state--proved awe-inspiring, not only in its beauty and yin and yang of terror, but also in the potential it has as a natural state of energy. If people would learn to coexist peacefully with the river, harness it without doing damage, it has the potential to power a good chunk of the world. It is to be respected.

So are people. After my trip, I've vowed to try and be nicer. A tough chore, but I'm committed. Our visit to Iquitos made me realize just how "rich" we are, comparatively speaking. We saw squalor, miserable living conditions, and even worse health care issues. But the locals' living conditions didn't get them down. On the contrary, they carried on with life, making our trials and tribulations appear petty. We could all learn something from the people of Peru.

I also came out the other side with the pleasure of bonding with new friends and reacquainting with old ones. You can't go through a boot camp of that type, storming the gates of hell, without growing close to those experiencing the trip next to you. And seeing as I write full-time from home, it was the most socializing I'd done in years. Big ol' honkin' baby steps!

New friends/family!

Best of all, I love the fact that "jungle pants" has become a nonchalantly dropped word in our everyday lexicon.

And the stories I heard, the things I saw and experienced, will shape and fill at least one future novel percolating on the back-burner, a paranormal mystery.

Onward and upward, the world's a great big, ol' beautiful and wondrous and scary place, much more than my previously staked-out back yard of Kansas City. I can't wait to explore more. (But, um, just with air conditioning this time).

Peace.

Final Day in the Amazon: Day Drinking with a Shaman! by Stuart R. West

Even more peculiar than the Amazon Rain Forest...

Sniff. The last day of our adventures along the Amazon River...

During our final meal at the lodge, one of the teens in our group mesmerized Antonio, our shaman in tow, with excellent sleight-of-hand coin tricks. Pretty amazing, something I thought I'd never witness: old magic meeting new.

Our new family.

Even more astounding is what transpired on our last day in the jungle, something I never thought I'd do in my lifetime, something that I'd never even considered: day-drinking with a shaman!

Cheers! ("Tink.")

We were told we were visiting the rum "factory." Yay! Something finally more my speed. Still, to get there we had to go via boat, so I blundered into my usual seat (the anchor position), and off we went. Across from our destination, I witnessed entropy in action as a tree toppled into the river with a gargantuan splash. Just another amazing sight, one of many. But the best was yet to come.

Shaman at work in the rum factory.

Calling the rum joint a "factory" was pure embellishment. Our tour consisted of standing around a hot shed, where an old-fashioned press was operated by a horse to squeeze sugar from cane. Antonio passed around the resultant sugar for us to sip from. I figured if I hadn't caught a rare disease by now, sharing germs with my fellow travelers wasn't gonna kill me. 

Victor explaining rum to a thirsty crowd.

Our shaman then dumped the resultant sugar into a fermenting barrel. Once he set the bowl back on the ground, a friendly pig lapped up the rest (I still don't know if he was a family pet or breakfast). Hey, alcohol kills germs! Apparently the pig had too much to drink and then sat on my wife's feet.

Rum-guzzling pig.

We hurried through the rest of the "tour": there's the fermenting barrel, over there's the oven to boil it, bla, bla, bla, let's drink!

All creatures, great and small, love them some rum.

Gathered around a table, three bottles were plopped down in front of us. Again, we shared a shot glass, all of us practically family now. After the first several shots, germs began to not matter so much.

Na zda-ró-vye! 

Ay caramba, dios mio!

The first bottle was straight up "aguardiente," aka "firewater." Akin to grain alcohol, it could strip paint off a wall and melt a clown's face. My chest nicely warmed, we moved onto the next bottle of booze, a ginger-infused alcohol.

To your health!

Antonio nudged my wife, pointed at the bottle, then wound a finger around his ear: muy loco! Didn't stop him from enjoying his rum, though. What's good for a shaman's good for me. 

Here's mud in your eye!

Ay, yi, yiiii, Viagra!

Next came "Siete Raices," which Antonio described as Viagra. For some reason, the factory owner kept pushing it on me. Did he know something I didn't? Hey, who was I to stand in the way of medicine?

Down the hatch!

Soon, our guide Victor filled up his cup by mixing two of the rums. He claimed it was Antonio's fault since he said he needed his Viagra. We weren't about to let him drink by himself, so the men joined him. 

Education can be fun!

Salute! 

Not to be outdone, the women had their turn at the bottles. Again and again. 

Gettin' some good learnin' done about nature!

Cin-cin!

A perfect way to end our jungle adventures, this went on for a while...

Incredibly, my boat balance appeared to have improved by the time we left.

Prost!

All in all, a very peculiar day. Which leads me into an extremely awkward and shameless segue: Have you read Peculiar County yet? Here's what critic "The Cellophane Queen" had to say about it: "Amazingly good. Brilliant. Pitch perfect characterizations and intriguing use of language remind me of the master writer, Stephen King. Dibby is a heroine of the first order taking charge in a very Peculiar County in Kansas." Visit alluring and strange Peculiar County now.

 

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!

Spiritual Healing Jungle Style by Stuart R. West

Visit lovely Peculiar County, just a click away.

Here we go again, back into the Amazon rain forest...

As things go, I'm kinda skeptical by nature. Which is a funny way to phrase it: "by nature." Because during our eight day sojourn into the jungle, "nature" challenged some of my earlier, stubborn notions.

Me in all my glory getting dowsed by a shaman!

Jungle Momma, the amazing organizer of our Peruvian trip, is--like my wife and many others in our party--a pharmacist. These days, however, she resides in Iquitos and the jungle, soaking up all the information she can regarding the vast, untapped, and downright amazing array of herbal and plant medicines available in the jungle. She's also been apprenticing with a shaman for the past twenty years.

Antonio, the Maestro!

Which brings me to Antonio, el Maestro Magia! Antonio, one of the last of the red-hot shamans, is a fascinating guy. He carries within him immense knowledge passed down from previous shamans, sadly the end of the line. Since his village civilized and moved into Iquitos with direct TV dishes, no one's interested in carrying on the shamanic traditions any longer, preferring the sparkly, new-fangled allure of Western medicine. A shame.

Antonio's part miracle worker, part doctor, part magician, and a pinch of dirty ol' man. Maybe even a sliver of Catskills vaudeville stand-up comic. Savvier than he appears, he pretends to not speak English at all, although we had our suspicions.  During his stay at our lodge, he was sequestered in the back conference room, down a very long walkway and closer to the jungle, because he couldn't handle all of the city energy in the lodge for too long. 

Yet, the reach of civilization had touched Antonio, too. Wearing an Americanized ballcap, emblazoned with the letter "M," and duded out in designer jeans and stylin' kicks, he resembled a tourist emulating American style (or lack thereof). I so wanted the "M" on his cap to stand for "magic." Alas, it was a corporate symbol for Iquitos' mega supplier of cable TV and cell phone plans.

The stories surrounding Antonio are amazing. With one look he diagnosed someone's cancer with his "MRI vision." He healed someone's growing fungal attack with jungle plants when all  Western medicine failed. Father of many, lover of even more, no one truly knows Antonio's age, but it's guestimated at around 82 or so. Given that, he's in better shape than I am, leaping off boats with ease and (terrifyingly) running through the jungle bare-foot.

El Maestro Magia!

Our first night in the jungle lodge, Antonio arranged a group blessing. This consisted of us donning our swimsuits; one by one, he doused us with a bucket of cold water with flowers stirred into the mix. His blessing went untranslated. For all I know, he could've been singing the Brady Bunch theme song.

We were then given the option of having a personal, spiritual healing session with el Maestro Magia. I waffled back and forth, wanting to experience it, yet fearful of what he might find out about my health. Did I believe in his unexplained abilities? I don't know. But I was afraid enough to waffle. And after the stories I'd been told by intelligent, sane people, I'd be a fool to dismiss Antonio's talents out-of-hand. So, I continued to waffle. Man, can I waffle, more waffling than the local pancake shop, a waffling talent I've perfected over many years of waffling. I mean, if I've got some kind of necrotic skin disease, isn't it better to not know about it until the last second?

At the final moment, I took a giant leap of faith over my waffles and landed in Antonio's domain, off the griddle and into the frying pan. 

I entered the circular room, empty except for Antonio sitting in a folding chair, head bowed. I approached him, shook his hand. Quietly he muttered something, gestured toward the folding chair across from him. I sat. He slapped some kinda nice-smelling oil on my face and doubled down on my head (I kinda think he liked the feel of my slick pate as he gave it a few extra smacks). A cigar was lit as he smoked herbal tobacco, constantly blowing it on me as he whistled a nameless, tuneless song. I closed my eyes, went with it, tried to "get out of my head" as I was instructed (usually an impossible task; I mean where else am I gonna go?), as he brushed palm leaves all over me.

I'm not sure what happened, but something did. The constant rustling of the dried leaves fell into a drum-like pattern. Pungent, rich smoke transported me elsewhere. With my eyes shut, I envisioned the past, ancient tribes beating drums, dancing around a fire, a community of respect for Mother Earth.

A duck-like call at my temples brought me back; Antonio sucking out the bad energy from my head. When it ended, I was disappointed. Eyes still closed, I waited. Finally, Antonio said, "okay," a universal word. I opened my eyes, felt comfortably numb, rested yet exhilarated.

I stumbled out to the communal hammock/nap room and just lay there contemplating my navel for half an hour.

Was I really transported back in time? No. Probably just my writerly senses propelling me into a flight of fantasy. But I felt more rested, comfortable, and at peace than I had for a while. It also made me consider bigger issues than my rather small Kansas City backyard.

Other members of our group experienced different things. My wife felt connected to water. She said, "We're moving close to water." I said, "Okay, as long as there's air conditioning."

Another person felt a shoulder wound heal and the word "metaphysical" kept bouncing around his mind. One woman said it felt like the aftermath of a really great massage. I couldn't argue with that. Another guy shrugged, said, "it was alright."

On the other hand, Antonio also strongly believes in love potions, so there's that.

Speaking of unexplainable and magical happenings, book a trip to scenic Peculiar County, where things are never as they appear.