Hissy Fit

           St. Bob is throwing what, in his home state of Louisiana, they would call a “hissy fit.”  And what has upset him, you ask?

          The ending of a K-Drama we just watched. This is the second time we’ve been robbed of the wedding scene. Episode after episode brought the couple together, we waited FOREVER for them to declare their love, and FOREVER again for them to kiss, and now, just when you’re sure they’ll marry, they don’t.  Oh, they’re still in love.  Just no wedding yet. The End.

          Thanks to my friend, Nanette, who has watched just about every K- Drama that exists, I got hooked on these wonderful, funny, clean, well-written dramas with sub-titles. St. Bob did as well. And in case you have been living under a rock and don’t know about these, they are shows produced in South Korea, hence the K.

          K-Dramas are having a moment. Entire college dorms have K-Drama night, when all the students watch, glued to the suspenseful story. Around the world, people are starting with “Crash Landing on You,” and getting hooked. In that one, the couple became a couple in real life, which only heightens the romance.

          But in any movie, you have certain expectations. You want the villain to suffer consequences, you want the hero to prevail. And you want to see the culminating wedding scene if it’s a romance. Even if you’re an action movie guy who thinks he’s James Bond and has Mission Impossible for his ring tone.

          So, next time we watch a K-Drama, St. Bob is going to forward to the end to see if there’s a wedding. And if not, on to the next one.

Or… you can make less of a time commitment and just learn life hacks by watching my Youtube Mom videos.

Whodunnit?

           I have the perfect idea for a murder mystery.

          I told you St. Bob and I enjoy trying to solve detective shows, and I have yet to see one that uses my idea:

          You have the coroner be the culprit. Think about it— if you want to be a serial killer, your first step should be to become a licensed coroner. Then you can hide virtually any murder, sign off on whatever you like, and no one will be the wiser.

          Now, if you gasped that I am advocating dishonesty, let me just point out that 1) We are talking about fiction here, and 2) Lying bothered you but killing somebody did not?

          It reminds me of a conversation our son had with a friend’s mom a few years back. She’s a pathologist and they were talking about remote little towns and how they operate.  “Let’s face it,” she said. “You own the coroner, you own the town.”

          Ahh… something tells me this is truer than we know.

          However, you can trust my Youtube Mom videos completely. They are filled with life hacks, not the kinds of hacks murderers employ.

It's a Crime

        Okay, I’ve been thinking about criminals again. They fascinate most of us, which is why there are so many detective movies and TV shows. Who would have the guts to do the things they do, right?

          You might recall this post some time ago, about the various crimes that could have explained what I found in my bathtub.

          But today I’m thinking about how deftly criminals seem to escape the odds.

          For example, in big urban areas where there are muggings, how come a mugger never gets mugged? A pickpocket never loses his latest treasure to another pickpocket, either. How do they beat these odds?

          Let’s say a burglar breaks into your home. I have never once heard of him finding another burglar already there.  “Sorry, Mate,” he says—I’ve made him British—“Didn’t see your name on the calendar.”

          “No worries,” the fellow replies. “Can you help me lift this TV?”

          Crazed killers never run into other crazed killers, either. I imagine it would be a buzz-saw showdown, but no. They somehow manage to skirt around the other lunatic’s territory.

          Which brings me to my theory that this is why it’s called Organized Crime. They have secret calendars (online of course) where they “dibs” certain days, times, and addresses. An old criminal with bad knees coordinates the entire enterprise, and gets a cut of the proceeds.

          And that is how they never overlap. You’re welcome.

You might want to stack a bunch of my books near your TV, for them to get engrossed reading, and then you can catch them.

What TV Needs

          We’ve all been watching too much TV while cooped up during this pandemic. But even before that, I’ll bet you noticed certain problems with television shows. Here are four of my observations:

Is there anyone on TV who does not have a pistol in their desk drawer?

 Now, I don’t know about you, but my desk drawers are filled with pens, scissors, tape, printer paper, files, lotion, and lip gloss. I must be eccentric. Or maybe I need more exciting visitors.

Next, is there any men’s room on TV where you will not be killed if you simply walk in?  The minute some guy heads in there you know it won’t end well.  Apparently villains like tile? Porcelain? Odd odors?

Third, is there any pair of binoculars in this world that gives this effect when you hold them to your eyes?

No, there is not. Yet this is still the technique they use to let us know it’s a view from binoculars.

And last, is there any empty warehouse that is unavailable to kidnappers?  Such facilities apparently abound—all with working lights and easy-to-open garage doors. No one thinks to lock them, so no key is  needed.

And you already know how I feel about those black hoods all kidnappers seem to have in bountiful supply because I blogged about that here. 

I’ll tell you what would be a good idea. I should be the Stupidity Consultant for these shows. Wait. Maybe that’s not such a great title. Nevermind.

But rest assured there will be no cliché pistols, men’s rooms, binoculars or warehouses in any of my books. You can find the books at my website, along with my Youtube Mom videos!

Book 'em, Danno

          I know I’ve been writing a lot of blogs about St. Bob, lately, but if you don’t want to be in my blog, stop providing so much material, right?  And, actually, he doesn’t mind appearing here.  It’s like I’m writing his biography for him.

          So, did you know that St. Bob has been an actor as well as all the other amazing things he’s done?  Quite true.  Starting in his teens in community theatre, he played Riff in West Side Story and then Biff in Death of a Salesman (I sense a rhyming trend here, don’t you?)  I also wonder if the reason only one of our sons is married is because he found someone named Tiff.

          Bob went on to appear in various TV shows, including the Emmy-worthy moment when he said, “He got away” on Hawaii Five-O back in the late Sixties. I wonder if his character’s name was Ziff. (Five-O actually equals 5, but Hawaii 5 just doesn’t sound the same.  Nor does it depict our 50^th state.)

          And, for this illustrious moment in dramatic history, Bob occasionally receives royalty checks.  I am so hoping this will continue long after we’re gone, and that our children will be able to inherit this phenomenal cash cow.

          Here’s the stub of his most recent check.  You’ll notice his payment--ten dollars-- circled in red. 

          Yes, folks, show biz is a remarkable thing. Between this windfall and the occasional 67-cent checks for various game shows he’s hosted, we will be able to visit the current Hawaii Five-O in person!

You, of course, can subsidize my tropical dreams by purchasing my books right here.  I’ll even eat a pineapple in your behalf.

Death Ray, Part 2

          Well, it finally happened.  Our gigantic 90s Big Screen TV died.  We knew we were living on borrowed time, but kept hoping it would last forever.  Not so.  The 60-inch behemoth finally bit the dust.

          St. Bob dutifully forced himself to go Flat Screen Shopping, which is akin to my being forced to try out a fantastic new restaurant.  Since I have little interest in tweeters, woofers, and other things electronic, I let him make the day of it and soon he was back with a much smaller television and a much crisper image. 

          Not among those mourning the loss of our gigantic old TV was our son, Richie.  You may recall that he’s been waiting for this moment like a cat with a mini-cam on a bird’s nest, eagerly anticipating the first crack in an egg.

          Richie, you remember, wants to make a death ray out of it.  You can read about this insane idea here, which he got from an equally worrisome physicist on the internet.  So it doesn’t take long for Richie to come over and break open the dead TV to remove the filet—a sheet of plastic that magnifies the sun’s rays enough to roast a weenie or anything else in its path.  Here are some lenses he will no doubt repurpose into something explosive

          And here he is with the prized sheet of plastic which will stir envy among all his peers

          And here he is tilting that very plastic to show how one can fry a lawn if fried lawn is your thing.

          I, of course, turned the former TV alcove into a cozy home office with a little wallpaper, some lamps, and a desk stolen out from under St. Bob in another room.

         But best of all, is what I plan to do with the shell of the TV.  Tell me this would not make a PERFECT puppet theatre for my future grandkids!  Some red velvet curtains, some puppets, and away we go!  I can’t wait. 

            Bob thinks this is entirely ridiculous since we have no grandkids and no rumors of grandkids (more ridiculous than a death ray?  I think not) so I’m storing it in the garage.  Next to the baby crib I got last month.  Hope blooms eternal.

You cannot go through life without hope.  Although you can survive quite nicely without a death ray.  And my hope is that you’ll buy my novels, Jungle, Pinholes Into Heaven, and Sisters in the Mix. They are waaay cheaper than a flat screen TV, and you can find them on Kindle and in hard copies at Createspace.  Just saying.

Schlepping for Dollars

            Have you ever seen someone demonstrating new products on a morning TV talk show?  People think this sounds like a glamorous, easy job, right?  Guess what?  I do this, folks, and those three minutes on camera are the only easy part of the entire job.  

The second the segment ends, the work begins.  You pack up your props, grab a cab, head to the airport, fly to a new city, get another cab, check into a hotel, eat, sleep, grab a cab to the TV station, and start all over again.  You visit 10 cities in 10 days (zig-zagging across the country, usually), often hauling giant crates of props that can’t be checked into standard luggage.  You are, basically, a mule with makeup.  And you usually have seven or eight sponsors to please in that short bit of time, so you must memorize all the talking points, yet be flexible enough to chat with the show hosts. 

Airlines lose luggage, sometimes you have to demo food that must be purchased at 4:00 in the morning, and you take taxis around town to find a supermarket open at that hour, so you can get to the TV studio by 5:30.  And you do all this with makeup and hairdo intact.

You are on Eastern time in the morning, and Pacific time that evening.  Then Eastern time again the next day.

You get searched at every airport because none of these flights are round trips—aha!  Just like a terrorist would book flights!  You see a sign in Phoenix that says, “Terminal Baggage Claim,” and you think, yes, that is exactly right. 

         You speak mostly with cab drivers for a week and a half.  Most of them are from countries that do not like America, so you get a history lesson about what is wrong with us as well.  You try to be friendly and ask one of them if he has always lived in New York and he tells you you’re in Orlando.  Oh.

You wait for a Southwest flight in Dallas or Chicago, who can remember, and realize they have sign that says, “Checkin.”  As a word person, this irritates you.   You decide that they can say check in, or check-in, but not just checkin.  It looks like chicken, misspelled.  It looks lazy and sloppy with total disregard for accuracy, and those are not qualities you want in an airline.

“Most people don’t think twice about it,” a fool behind the counter says.  Well of course not.  If someone can’t think once, how are they going to think twice?

You check into a hotel in Atlanta and you see a sign that says, “WELCOME PRO-HEALTH DOCTORS” and you think, “You mean there’s another kind?”  This is where you’ll probably have a fire drill and the halls will fill with boobs who are attending that convention and find nothing wrong with its title.

In Washington D.C. you are booked into a hotel called “Rouge,” where everything is red and I am not joking.  The walls, the beds, all of it: Red.  Okay, the carpet is leopard print.  But the ink in the pens is red.  The mini-bar in each room contains red wax lips.  Naked statues are out front.  And you’re supposed to climb into this bed where God only knows what’s gone on before you got there.

In Los Angeles you see a live dog in the X-ray as a bag is going through.  No one says a word.  Somehow an entire animal goes unnoticed, and these people are worried about manicure scissors.   

At baggage claim a man lifts a gigantic SNAKE from his bag and happily presents it to his delighted boys.  Again, a writhing, 3-foot skeletal system was not detected on the x-ray screen, and then people wonder how movies like “Snakes On a Plane” get made.

But I love this job.  I live for those glorious three minutes.

Portions of this post appear in Sisters in the Mix, a chic-lit comedy about a woman with two things:  OCD and a cooking show.  Available at Amazon and Createspace.