Tantalizer: The Epic That Never Was.

 

                                    Scream Queen Linnea Quigley         

 Director David De Coteau

   

  During those long ago days of the VHS revolution, filmmakers(and I use that word loosely) made horror and sci-fi films for pennies, which ended up populating the shelves of the local video stores. Filmmakers like Fred Olen Ray, Jim Wynorski Ken Dixon and Dave De Coteau churned out a stream of penny ante movies while the audiences who rented them were reasonably entertained in spite of their  woefully threadbare charms. They were the cinematic equivalent of fast food.    

With titles like Creepozoids, Biohazard and Slave Girls From Beyond Infinity, audiences were treated to comic book dialog, nudity, bad acting, dime store special-effects and a "hurry up and let gets this in the can" style of filmmaking. Still, and almost unbelievably, these home groan efforts(and I meant to say home groan) grossed a lot of money for their distributors.

Cut to1989. Bill George for many years harbored dreams of having one of his script ideas being made into a film. This was George's idea of immortality. For reasons that escape me, Dave De Coteau became really interested in an idea Bill pitched to him called Tantalizer. The story was about a sun tan lotion that developed a life of it's own and took control of the user. As for the how's and the why's-well- you'd have to ask Bill George about that and he's dead. Of course, George was hot on the idea that  popular Scream Queen Linnea Quigley be the female star. I can just see the advertising:

                               Tantalizer! A horror film from that triumvirate of terror:

                                            Director: David De Coteau!

                                            Scream Queen: Linnea Quigley!

                                            Writer: Bill George!

During the planning stages, De Coteau announced in a fanzine that Bill Georges script was the most intelligent he ever read. Of course, since most of his films contained all the intelligence of a low level comic book, Georges script must have seemed like pure gold in comparison. 

It was at a Fanex (a film convention held in Baltimore) that Quigley and De Coteau appeared. I had interviewed Linnea a few years before for a book that was never published called Drive-In Madness. At one point, De Coteau, Quigley Bill and myself  were chatting when they decided to go to dinner. Bill says to me," We're going to dinner now. Meet up with us later." I was kind of pissed. So while they're hanging out together I'm eating dinner by myself? I went home. 

I later asked Bill why I wasn't included. He said that Dave had paid for everybody's meal and thought it was unfair for him to pay for mine. I told him I would have paid for my own dinner and wouldn't have expected De Coteau to foot the bill for me. Being the totally mealy mouthed prick he was, Bill replied that  De Coteau would have felt obligated to pay for my dinner anyway.

But knowing Bill, I knew the real reason why: he wanted Linnea and Dave all to himself. Bill didn't want to share the limelight and wanted to bask in the attention of a B film director and a popular Scream Queen. His version of the Hollywood Aristocracy.

For the next year or so (according to Bill) he and De Coteau had a series of phone conversations concerning the making of Tantalizer. As for the eventual outcome, if you've already guessed that Mr. George's Opus was never ever committed to film, give yourself a gold star. You've earned it. 

PUBLIC STORAGE: A GREAT PLACE TO STORE YOUR STUFF, BUT A SUCKY PLACE TO WORK.

   

Photo courtesy of Akimomia.

              

  In 1988 I was hunting for a job. My previous gig as a coffee salesman had come to an end                   and once again I was on the hunt for gainful employment. I saw an ad in the help wanted                      section for relief manager at Public Storage and thought this job would be right up my alley. For the uninitiated, a relief manager works on the live in managers days off. Since I had managed a movie theater and a vitamin store I could do this!

   At the interview, a shit head named Gary Ott, told me Public Storage was a happening company and  I began imagining growing with this company. My goal was to eventually me a district manager. Little did I know was my position as relief manager was where I would be stuck at until I got sick and tired of the job and quit. It seemed to be some sort of requirement that their district managers had previous  experience in the fast food industry. You mean because I never flipped a f***ing burger I wasn't smart enough to be promoted to district manager! Bullshit! 

  I was paid little more than minimum wage. The only benefits they provided was a dental plan that had so many exclusions it wasn't worth using. I had five sick days that if not used were not rolled over in the next year; the days simply vanished. Well, at least I got five days vacation. Whoopie! It was a Mc Job: low salary. No benefits. No chance for advancement. But dick head Ott was always telling me how good I had it. Yeah. Right.

 One time, Ott suggested to me that my soon to be ex-wife and I get back together to co-manage a property( Public Storage hired husbands and wives, mostly elderly, retired people, who lived on the premises.) He said," I think you'd be so good at it." At time my wife had a job pulling in $25.000 to $30,000 a year. I told her about Ott's offer. I said, and not with a straight face, that working for Public Storage she'd be making around $13,000 a year. We had a good laugh about that. 

  Ott always made the live in managers do his work for him. When one of the live in managers complained about this he replied with a smirk, " I'm good at delegating authority." I wanted to say to him that since he made more than twice what they did, he should do his job, earn his keep and not palm off his duties onto them. Since I wanted to keep my job, as menial and underpaid as it was, I kept my mouth shut.  

  He was also the biggest kiss ass I've ever met. And I've met my share of ass kissers. Every time the upper management would take something away from us relief managers as a supposed cost cutting measure, Ott was totally on board with it. One time I heard him tell one of his "masters" that the relief managers had been "spoiled for too long ." How I despised him.  

  And then there was Bill Dunn, Gary Ott's higher up. I talked to him on a couple of occasions                about a possible promotion. I might as well have been talking to a f***ing tree stump. I was known as a hard worker yet received no real raise, beyond a yearly twenty cent bonus. Ott was always calling me Superstar. Shouldn't a Superstar be making decent money with benefits? All I ever got was empty flattery. You can't buy things with flattery. Flattery cannot be put into the bank. I put up with this shit for two years. 

  Ott, sadly enough, was a henpecked wimp. He once told me his wife had him on an allowance. A grown man working as a district manager on an allowance? Grow a pair of balls, dude! No wonder he was always throwing his weight around. At home wifey poo called the shots. If I didn't dislike the prick so much I'd feel sorry for him.

  Another annoying district manager was Roseanne. The poor thing was as flat as an ironing board, yet she thought she was the shit. Even Ott had a perpetual hard on when it came to her. Perhaps it was because his own wife was underdeveloped as well and he had a thing for flat chested women. At one of the storage facilities where I worked, live in manager Randy came into the office one day with two light globes holding them to his chest saying, " Breasts for Roseanne." and we both cracked up. 

 Anyhoo, there are some people get big headed when  given positions of power and Roseanne, like Gary Ott, was a textbook case of power going to ones head. On one memorable day, Roseanne bounced in-no I can't use the word bounce since she was flat chested and had nothing to bounce-more like strode into the office with an announcement: All relief managers would be working four days a week instead of five. The company now considered thirty two hours a week to be full time. 

 I knew damn good and well Public Storage was cutting our hours so they didn't have to give us the same benefits given to employees working a forty hour work week. Roseanne made this proclamation with a big smile on her face. No f***ing wonder. Her salary wasn't going to diminish and she'd still be getting full boat benefits. Why should she give a shit. I realized it was time to look for a new job. Four days a week wasn't going to cut it for me financially. Even with the side hustle I had going on. 

 What I did was, if a customer came in needing help loading their storage area I'd help them move in and they always paid me between ten to twenty dollars. That extra money sure came in handy. The kicker was that management frowned on their relief managers doing that. My attitude was f***' em, I needed the money. 

 Oh, while I have your attention here's an interesting side story: my friend Larry's father co-owned a storage facility but was thinking about leasing it to Public Storage. At this meeting, one of the Public Storage muckety-mucks said to him ," We lease your storage area. You make the money." One of those muckety-mucks happed to be Bill Dunn. When Larry mentioned my name, Dunn said," He's a good worker." If I was such a good worker where was my decent salary, my benefits package, my chance for advancement?

Eventually I found a better paying job, gave them a one week notice instead of the customary two, said Adios and never looked back. Although, for a number of years there was some rancor concerning Public Storage and Gary Ott. When Pulp Fiction came out on VHS, I went out and bought it because my friend and his Dad raved about how good it was. There's a scene where Ving Rhames character tells Bruce Willis's character, " You've lost your LA privileges." As I was enjoying the film, I imagined myself punching Gary Ott in the face telling him," You've lost your Delaware privileges." But that was a long time ago. Nowadays, I'd just give him the finger and call him an asshole. The same as I would Bill Dunn.   

          

Bill George In Love. Well....Sort Of.

 Bill George was the type of person who involved you in his life-wether you wanted to be involved or not. He wasn't one to give a rats ass about what was happening in your life. His problems always took center stage. It was the Bill George Show twenty four seven. 

 When I was married in 1982, I invited him to my wedding. He replied in a snarky way," I don't go to weddings." I should have ended our so called friendship then and there, but for some unknown reason I remained friends with him.

 Anyway, around 1980 or 1981, he had a girlfriend named Teresa. Teresa a very pretty girl, one day announced that she was breaking up with him. It seems she met and fell in love with a police officer. They were to be married. He could provide for her in ways Bill never could. He lived in a nice house in newly developed neighborhood. Bill on the other hand, lived in the upstairs section of his parents house. Her husband had his own car while Bill, closing in on the age of thirty, bummed rides off of his friends. I was one of them.

  Bill simply shrugged his shoulders and meekly stepped aside. He told me that Teresa's husband was going to involve him in the police film program. I rolled my eyes when Bill told me that one. Even I  knew the police  department didn't have any film programs. This was simply a self soothing mechanism he used to help minimize his heart ache, though he denied being broken hearted. He claimed to be extremely happy for her. 

 Bill continued to be in her life, content to be "just a friend" doing things like watching her son while she and her future husband spent time together. Bill never complained. He gladly became an instant baby sitter. Anything to help Teresa. I must admit, it grated on my nerves that Bill let himself be treated like a dish rag. But it was his choice to be relegated as her Eunuch.

 One day I visited Bill and he asked me to drive him to her house. As usual, whenever I drove him anywhere I was repaid with movie memorabilia. The catch was that I was to wait in my car while he visited her alone. I was rather pissed that I had been relegated to being his chauffeur, but the promise of movie memorabilia to add to my growing collection made the situation more palatable.   

 Bill bought a bottle of champagne to offer as a wedding gift. Bill was so proud of the note he had written that he read it out loud to me. It said: Congradulations To Your Upcoming Nuptials. Your Pal, Indy. Imagine the ego of that prick; comparing himself to Indiana Jones. If  he was in a movie it would be called: Indiana Jones In The Temple of  The Castrated Men.

 Well, a few hours later, he came walking back to my car, Teresa's son was accompanying him; it was obvious Bill had been drinking. The kid, who was about twelve or thirteen was comforting him saying,  " It's okay Bill. Everything will be fine." It was pathetic watching Bill, an almost thirty year old man, being given comfort and council from a twelve year old. 

 Bill staggered into my car and on the way home he told me how he spent the whole time he was there trying to convince Teresa to take him back. He even managed to drink the entire bottle of champagne by himself. I felt lucky I wasn't there to watch Bill make a total ass of himself. Oh sure, it would have been funny, but at the same time, it would have been pathetic in a cringe worthy way. On the way home, Bill stuck his head out of the window and shouted, Teresa, I love you!"  And that, for the record, was definitely cringe worthy.

The Continuing Story of Gina and Lori

During an article I wrote concerning abortion, I mentioned two ladies (if you can call them by that term) named Gina and Lori who used to come into the GNC ( General Nutrition Center) store I managed. I didn't go into my entire association with them because I didn't want to stray too far away from my topic. 

However, I thought now would be a good time to tell the rest of the story. As I mentioned before, Gina was an obnoxious, abrasive, in- your- face women who hurled acidic insults at me whenever she and Lori came into my store. I got the none too subtle impression she thought of herself as a hysterically funny person; a female Don Rickles. Unfortunately, she was sadly mistaken on that point. Except for her best friend Lori, who laughed raucously at Gina's tasteless, lame brand of comedy, no one else who visited my store considered her to be God's gift to comedy either. Both ladies were high school dropouts. 

And while Lori was attending a city funded continuing education program, Gina was trying to enlist in the Army. Gina's problem was, as the recruiter told her in no uncertain terms, before entering the armed forces, she have to get her G.E.D as well as shed thirty pounds. After much foot dragging Gina finally earned her G.E.D, but losing the prerequisite weight was a feat she just couldn't achieve. She would joke about being cursed with a slow metabolism. But the more obvious reason was her love of doughnuts. Everyday I saw her carrying a bag of freshly baked sweets she purchased from a bakery located a block away from my store. Gina never offered anybody one of her precious powdered treats. Not even Lori whom she referred to as" My dearest friend." I always found this particular dynamic to their supposed deep and abiding friendship rather amusing. 

One day, I saw them walking together down the street. Gina's beloved bag of doughnuts was held on the right of her as Lori walked on the left side. Suddenly, Lori noticed an expensive pair of shoes in the display window of a fashionable women's clothing store and walked around Gina to get a better look at them. Immediately, Gina quickly moved the bag to her left side. I watched the entire incident from my store shaking my head in disbelief. Gina could not bear to part with one miserable, measly doughnut and offer it to her" dearest friend." Yet, at the same time, she was also anal enough to wonder why it was so difficult for her to lose any weight. 

 Eventually, I found a better paying job with good benefits which meant leaving GNC, the abrasive Gina and her faithful friend Lori far, far behind. About two years later I ran into Gina. Although I attempted to avoid eye contact with her and beat a hasty retreat before any words could be exchanged. Gina (to my misfortune) recognized me and I was lulled into a narcoleptic stupor with tales of her so called life. Poor Gina still couldn't get the Army to take her into their fold; she remained thirty pounds overweight. The recruiter finally laid down the law telling Gina it had been two years and that until she got serious about joining the Army, buckled down and lost the weight not to waste her time. 

 Gina was also jealous because Lori had graduated with a degree in electronics, which meant that she was enjoying a career while Gina was still drifting. She was mad. She was bitter. Gina felt life was passing her by while blinded to the fact it wasn't bad luck or cruel fate that befell her; it was poor decision making which proved to be her undoing. 

 As for Gina's one woman peanut gallery, I found her working at a local mall as the manager/machine repair person of a video arcade. We were having a pleasant conversation(Gina wasn't there) when all of the sudden Lori noticed a group of teenage girls dressed provocatively and began a tirade about how they dressed like "little whores". This coming from a woman who once bragged about the sexy outfits she wore to the clubs and the variety of "one night stands" she enjoyed. Now all of the sudden Lori is the Queen of Morality? As the saying goes," People who live in glass houses should get dressed in the basement." Or is it " shouldn't throw stones "? Anyhoo, even if Lori had gone through a moral rebirth, so to speak, because of her past she had no right to be anybody's judge and jury. But I held my tongue and said nothing. I knew I'd be talking to a brick wall in any event.

Will Smith Vs Chris Rock: The Slap Heard Round The World.

 

Comedian Chris Rock Gets Bitch Slapped By An Angry Will Smith On Live Television. 

 

Yes, one and all, we're living in what I call The Era of  Media Sensationalism. It's ugly, pervasive and we as a society love it. Take for example the drama that happened at the 2022 Academy Award Ceremony. That's where Will Smith took umbrage at Chris Rocks joke at his wife Jada Pinkett Smith expense. Rock looked at her and remarked " Jada, I Love you. G.I Jane 2,can't wait to see it. Smith strode up to Rock and bitch slapped him. 

Isn't it strange that when Rock first made the joke, Smith was sitting there smiling. But when he saw his wife's disapproving scowl, that's when he went into action. And while many viewers reacted with shock, horror and disapproval, let's be real: how many of these indignant, self righteous people would have reacted with equal parts shock and titillation if Rock had fought back. Imagine if you will, Rock and Smith engaging in a fist fight on the stage, the security guards frantically running over to break up the fracas. A lot of folks would have stared transfixed to their television sets drooling over the drama that played out before them.

Shock, yes. Scowling with their arms folded in disapproval, most definitely. But at the same time, they would been licking their lips with salacious glee. You see: we are a voyeuristic society. We are the reason shows such as The Jerry Springer Show (which ended in 2018) or Maury Povich (who has also recently turned in his microphone) both thrived. We want to see human misery presented before us so that we can feel better about the trials and tribulations concerning our own lives. It is a Bread and Circuses aspect of out culture that has become most distasteful.

Naturally, this tasty little news item has been front and center for six days. Will Smith apologizes to Chris Rock, Will Smith apologized to The Academy, other celebrities weight in with either approval or horror at the conflict, the Academy mulls over what discipline should be meted out to Smith for his egregious behavior, ect,ect,ect-ad nauseum. 

In the meantime, gas prices are shooting up through the roof, inflation is on the rise, Russia is invading the Ukraine and what current event has people up in a lather? Will Smith slapping Chris Rock over a joke Rock made about his wife. Now, it's my understanding that The Academy approves any jokes that are made during the broadcast in advance. As for the joke, as far as I'm concerned it was not offensive at all. And Rock probably didn't know that Jada Pinkett Smith suffered from Alopecia, the reason she wore her hair so short.   

While this incident was news worthy for a day or two, is it worthy for almost a week of constant scrutiny by all the new networks, tabloids and You Tube video's? No. No and no. Right now as a country, we have far more pressing matters at hand than Will Smith taking offence at a Chris Rocks joke about his wife and slapping him on national Television. As for myself, I have better, more important things in my life to think about. And so do you.

My New E-Book: Road Lizard: The Thrill Is In The Kill.

This is the story of a divorced, disillusioned middle man( Jack Deakins) becomes involved with a teen age prostitute named Tracy. As their relationship deepens, Jack hopes that they'll eventually marry and he'll have the kind family that he's always wanted but never had. But unbeknownst to Jack, Tracy is a serial killer who calls herself The Road Lizard. She has killed men in three different states while leading a double life.

Detective Ron Spear is in charge of the case, but cannot seem to apprehend The Road Lizard. She leaves no tracible evidence behind and goes so far as to call him on the phone just to taunt him. Eventually, through a series of events, all three of them intersect with each other, culminating in a tragic outcome.

Road Lizard is a story of love, sex, human desire and violence. Of wanting and of needing. It's currently available on Apple, Amazon, Kobo, Scribed and Barnes and Noble. Until April 22, the e-book  will be free. If you liked Death On Highway 13,be sure to read my latest novel. I guarantee it'll mess your mind.    

Lynne Stewart Gets A Slap On The Wrist As Justice Gets A Slap In The Face. Originally published in 2006.

You know, I gotta stop reading the newspapers. I also have to give up watching tv news shows and listening to news radio; hell, the way things are going I might as well move to an isolated island for that matter. You see, it seems that ever time I turn around the world gets crazier and crazier with each passing day. And just when I begin to delude myself into believing that the world couldn't get any stranger than it already had become, something(or someone) comes along to prove me wrong. Believe me, it sure is tough to be an optimist these days.

Every time I look for a pony in the horseshit, I find myself up to my elbows in horseshit but the damn pony is nowhere to be found. On Monday, October 16th, Judge John Koeltl gave lawyer Lynne Stewart a slap on the wrist for committing the treasonous act of sneaking a letter out of prison written by Sheik Omar Abdel-Rahman, her client at the time. The inflammatory missive penned by Abdel-Rahman encouraged an Egypt-based terrorist organization to kill those who did not subscribe to his extremist interpretation of Islamic law. Convicted in 2005,that evil, blind towel head was sentenced to life imprisonment for plotting to blow up five New York landmarks and assassinate Egypt's president. 

Stewart also broke an agreement to use translators at her meetings with Abdel-Rahman solely for legal matters and use them to pass on messages to the sheik followers in Egypt. But instead of having her obese carcass tossed into a jail cell for a well deserved 30 years (a verdict sought by prosecutors), Stewart was given a far more lenient 28 months sentence behind bars. In addition, the judge also ruled that Stewart could remain free on bail while she appeals her conviction.

 Now you're probably sitting there scratching your head in bewilderment thinking to yourself," Why would he give her such little jail time considering her crime of treason?" Well(hold on to your chair), Judge Koeltl felt the light sentence was justified given Stewarts recent treatment for breast cancer as well as her 30 year career representing the poor and unpopular clients. By unpopular he meant clients such as, a former mob hit man and a man accused of trying to kill nine policemen. 

In other words, Stewart represented the cream of the crap, the scrapings from the bottom of an already rancid barrelful of the flotsam and jetsam in our society. Big deal. Who cares? I could give a pinch of shit if she rescued orphans from a burning building while carrying a boxful of baby kittens down a rickety, old ladder. Stewart is a bleeding heart liberal who willingly aided and abetted terrorist activity. Yet, her attorney presented Stewart as a victim. That's right, a victim .

 Seeing Stewarts obese mug smiling in self satisfied triumph as she waddled away from the courthouse while her supporters cheered victoriously was vomit inducing to say the least. My question is, where in the hell were her detractors booing and name calling while pelting her with rotten eggs and moldy tomatoes? Please, I need a moment to calm down before my blood pressure goes through the roof and I end up suffering a massive coronary. This is justice? Not in my book! Now here comes my favorite part, despite Stewart losing her license to practice law(can you spell disbarred?), she sincerely hopes the verdict will vindicate her and that she can go back to her career as a do gooder, liberal lawyer. Not only is Stewart unrepentant, she's delusional as well. Obviously her high cholesterol count is severely affecting her brain. 

 In the wake of the terrorist attack on 9/11, her sentence is a supreme insult to anybody who lost a friend or family member on that tragic day. Still, the judge, in his wisdom,(?) saw fit to give Stewart merciful leniency; a courtesy her terrorist client would never see fit to show his victims. Judge Koeltl felt that since she had lost her license to practice law, Stewart was no longer in the position to repeat her crimes. But, suppose she somehow manages to become reinstated? Let's face facts, she'll go right back to defending the terrorists, the criminals-the scum of the earth. And that will be the ultimate injustice.

Moussaoui Deserves Death! (Originally published in 2006)

The memory of the horrifying events on September 11,2001 still reverberate through my mind even after almost six years have passed. I was at work that day(at a telemarketing office) selling worthless insurance products to credit card holders who could've cared less. Then at around ten'o'clock, the office manager came into the room and calmly told all of us to put down the phones. She said that a plane had just flown into the World Trade Center and the building was burning.

 The entire room feel into silence at that moment as all of us looked around at each other. Then came the news of a second plane crashing into the other World Trade Center building and a sense of disbelief seemed prevalent among everyone in the room. The office manager said that she was closing the office for a few days and would let everybody know when they could return to work. A group of us stood outside discussing the events that had previously unfolded, when one of the co-workers walked up, an expression of shock on his face, and announced that The Pentagon had been blown up.

 First, The World Trade Center towers had been attacked by two passenger jets. Now the Pentagon had been hit. What was happening? I tried to calm down my co-worker saying that we should all go home and watch the news on television for further information. He grabbed my shoulders and said in a panic stricken voice," The Pentagon's been destroyed, Joe! It's all gone!" I reiterated we should all go home to watch the televised coverage and find out all of the facts.

 Like most of you on that day, I spent hours watching the televised newscasts of the triple tragedy created by the extreme radical Muslim group al-Qaida. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of religious group, who supposedly love God, could engage in this act of mass slaughter without such a heinous act weighing on their consciences at all. It seems that their God is a God of hate and destruction ;not a God of love or compassion. Well, what can you expect from a band of yellow cowards who behead their victims while covering their faces with a towel. These punks are a craven bunch, if I do say so. And now we have Zacarias Moussaoui on trial for conspiring with the al-Quaida to fly a plane into the White House. During the trial Moussaoui had been defiant, mocking and unrepentant. 

His lawyers have attempted to elicit sympathy from the jury(and the rest of America) by citing his impoverished childhood in France and throwing in a claim of mental illness into the mix. Pardon me if I don't boo hoo hoo for this waste of a human being. And while the majority of Americans want Moussaoui put to death for his part in the 9/11 massacre, his lawyers(whom he has shown nothing but contempt for)want him to be given a life sentence. So while the families of those killed during that horrifying September day will for the rest of their lives have to live with the results of Moussaoui's heartless actions; Moussaoui will be eating three squares a day, sleeping in a warm bed, will be afforded medical and dental care; all at the taxpayers expense. 

There is an outcry that if Moussaoui is executed he will become a martyr to the al-Quaida followers. Well, so what? If he is executed, he'll be a dead martyr and that's just fine with me. In fact,(the A.C.L.U be damned) on that glorious day when Moussaoui The Traitor is put to his rightful death, let's bring back the gallows for this very special occasion! Hang 'em high! It's exactly the sort of justice he and the rest of his al-Quaida buddies richly deserve.

A Moral Dilemma: Doing What's Right.

During the summer of 1990, I began working for a now non existent sandwich company as a route driver. The money and the benefits were substantial enough to make the decision to leave the other McJob I was at(a well known storage company) a particularly easy one. As I said, the money was good and having tangible medical benefits(as opposed to being constantly promised them)was a definite improvement. Plus I enjoyed the job. Except for having to put up with the owners, Dick and his wife Shelley, two people who should have put an end to their wretched excuse of a marriage a long ,long time ago. 

 Not a day went by during the four months I worked there that myself and the three other employees  weren't subjected to their petty bickering and naked animosity. One time, Dick was so infuriated by an insult hurled at him by his shrewish wife that he gave her the finger in front of everyone. Their rancor extended to Dick arriving at work driving his beloved black Mustang while Shelley drove her white Lincoln Continental. Whenever she deigned to stay home during one of her moods, Dick would be in high spirits. No wonder, he didn't have to argue for eight hours incessantly with Shelley. And since the wife was away, Dick felt free to regale us with stories about the twenty five year old mistress he was screwing on the side. One time he was bold enough to bring her by and show her off to us! Dick was always going on and on about how young and pretty she was, unlike Shelley. And we were treated to blow by blow descriptions of their sex life, while Dick nudged whoever was closest to him in the ribs all the while winking and giving a thumbs up.

 Now, I will confess that Shelley was not the nicest person that God ever let draw breath. She was bellicose and rather short with people. I imagine that being married to her was no slice of heaven; more like a long, torturous tour through Dante's Inferno. But Dick once told us point blank that he was staying married to Shelly because it was "Cheaper to keep her"; that a divorce would put a serious crimp in his finances. So, while he remained unhappily married to his wife, Dick would sneak off to get some loving with his girlfriend, whom he kept in a nice apartment and provided living expenses for. Whenever she would broach the subject of Dick leaving Shelley and marrying her, he would paint a false picture of financial ruin incurred should divorce become a reality. Naturally, his girlfriend not wanting to kill the goose laying her golden eggs agreed that their current arrangement was indeed mutually beneficial. The matter, at least for the moment, was dropped. Dick was successfully juggling a sham marriage and a torrid love affair at the same time, while myself and the other three employees heard endlessly about his double life.

 Dick was quite proud of himself. Behind Shelley's back, Dick would refer to her as " Shelley Stank Vein" and" Mama Ugly Vein" because of a rather noticeable vein which ran the entire length of her leg, incurred during the birth of their only child, a son named Bob. Out of curiosity, I asked why he didn't take her to a plastic surgeon to get the supposedly disfiguring vein fixed. Dick replied he felt this was throwing good money after bad and why waste money on that middle aged shrew when it could be better spend on his younger, prettier honey? I may not have liked Shelley in the slightest, but I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Her husband, in my estimation, was a slimy, ball-less weasel.

 By September of that year, the recession was upon America as well as the company I worked at was feeling the effects of it. Sales became sluggish at certain stores, so the routes were trimmed as the accounts who weren't doing sufficient business were eliminated. Unfortunately, someone  was going to be laid off. Three guess's and the first two don't count as to who the unlucky person was. If you guessed me, then put a little gold star next to your name. You know the rule, last hired/first fired. As Dick told me the bad news, he assured me that I would get an excellent reference from him. He then shook my hand and wished me good luck. 

This was during a very bad recession however, so jobs were hard to come by. I lucked out and procured a posit on as a collector at Barklays Bank, a financial institution attempting to rid itself of millions of dollars of delinquent accounts while trying to find a buyer for their white elephant(I 'll go into detail about this story at a later date). The upshot was, this failing bank expected each collector to rake in no less than ten thousand a week or they were shown the door. I was shown the door after a month, so it was back to pounding the pavement in search of gainful employment. Around Christmas time of that year, I received a call from Dick at ten o'clock one night. He was in quite a predicament, one of his own making. It seems that his wife Shelly suspected he was cheating on her and she in turn threatened divorce in which she stood to take him for half of everything. Dick wanted me to verify his story of spending time at a local tavern and lie to her that he and I spent evening in this establishment knocking back beers and playing pool.

 I felt this was simply asking too much of me and that I shouldn't get involved in a situation which was not any of my business. Never the less, I asked Dick if I could take a day or two to think it over and then give him an answer. He unexpectedly roared at me," Tell me now, Goddamn you! Shelley will put my ass into a sling if you don't come through for me!" Now, I felt bad for Dick, but I was at a moral crossroad: do I lie for him when I know this is the wrong thing to do? I mean, was it my job to help Dick maintain he and Shelly's cardboard cutout of a marriage? Or do I tell Dick no and risk offending him? He wouldn't allow me the time to think things through, but I knew in my heart what the answer was. The right answer, that is. I said I wouldn't lie for him and that my conscience was more important than his double life. Dick shouted at me before hanging up," I'll fix you, sonofabitch! I'll fix you!" I thought to myself," What can he do to me? I don't work for him anymore." Talk about famous last words!

 For the next month or two, I must have applied to fifty to sixty places for a job and noticed I was getting nowhere. Then, during a second interview for the position of liquor store manager, the owner informed me that when he called Dick for a reference, he was told," No comment at this time." No comment at this time? Whatever happened to my excellent reference? Needless to say, I didn't get the position. Yes, this is how Dick, that miserable, gutless, cheating pile of crap got even with me for not lying on his behalf. If it weren't for the fact that I would have gotten arrested for assault, I would've kicked his candy ass up and down the street where his business was located. Instead, I took it on the chin. 

From that day forward Dick and I were enemies. A few years later, I heard rumors he and Shelley moved to Florida in order to save their comedy routine they called a marriage and opened up another business. Other rumors surfaced that Dick snuck his girlfriend down there as well and was still carrying one with his double life. Whatever the truth is, all I know is that I stuck to my guns and did the right thing, despite the consequences. In the end, that's all that really matters.

September 11, 2001: The Day America Was Attacked.

 

Even twenty years later, I find it hard to express my thoughts on the tragedy of 9/11. It's a painful place for me to revisit. But it's necessary. There are those who consider it history. To me, 9/11 is a day that will burn in my memory forever.  

On September 11, 2001, I was working as a telemarketer. To me, it was just another day at work as I sat at my desk calling people to encourage them to buy some totally worthless product they didn't need or want. I'd been there for two hours, when suddenly the supervisor came into the room and told us to put down our phones. She then said that The Twin Towers had been attacked. Then she added another bombshell: The Pentagon had also been destroyed. The shock and the horror echoed throughout the room. What was happening? We were told to go home, but we would be paid for the entire shift. Just as an aside, the company only paid us for two hours.

Out in the parking lot, people listened to their car radios to find out more. The unthinkable had just occurred : America had been attacked by Al-Queda terrorists. How could this have happened? Myself, and many others, believed that something like this could never, ever happen to us. We held the mistaken notion that America was invincible. However, in reality,  we were vulnerable. And it was scary. After all, this hadn't occurred before. All of America had been living for years with a false sense of security.

We were bombarded with reports of the attacks and were trying to sort out all of the information as it was being broadcast. Everyone was going home to watch the news reports on tv. As I was going to my car, a fellow employee, Godford, ran up to me in a panic saying, " The Pentagon was destroyed." Although I was in a state of shock, I replied, " Let's get more information from the news reports when we get home." He grabbed my shoulders and said loudly, " The Pentagon is gone! It's all gone." I tried to calm him down by saying, " Godford, let's go home and find out what's happening." He agreed.

I spent most of the day riveted to my TV as reports came in. The images of the destruction and the devastation were both horrible and disturbing. I remember the rage I felt when a news report showed Islamics chanting gleefully at news of the attack. One women, a rather ugly one at that, was waving an Islamic flag and making victory sounds. How I would have enjoyed wiping that smile off  her face. Now, I' m not going to lump all Islamic people together. That would be unjust as well as unfair. I'm talking about radical Islam. Let's get that straight.  

 I personally know of several people who would not leave their homes, because they felt the attacks would find their way to Delaware. I told one person, " If you refuse to leave and stay holed up in your apartment, the terrorists win." Around three in the afternoon I went for a drive to clear my head. There were firemen taking donations in my area to help the police and firemen in New York City. I gave what I could to help out.

But despite the terrorist attack, America showed the world what we're made of. People from all over rallied to the aid of New York City. Some went so far as to drive up from other states to offer their services. The terrorists struck America a terrible blow, destroying property costing many innocent lives, but they didn't win. We banded together to show the world that you can injure us, be you can't defeat us. We became more patriotic as a result as a nation. 

However, along with the heroes, there were scoundrels, people who profited from the attack for their own financial gain. There were reports of black owned radio stations whose on air staff told their black audience to support their Muslim brothers and destroy The White Devil. I have no way to verify this, and believe me I've done my research, but if it's true these radio stations should have their FCC license's revoked and the announcers tried for treason.

There were psychiatrists who felt the terrorists should be given counseling and treatment. I guess these mislead professionals firmly believed that with enough love and understanding we could turn them into our friends. Well, in theory that sounds quite wonderful. But when they state, " Join us. Kill us or be killed.", that doesn't present us with a whole lot of choices.

My personal favorite was hearing about the lawyer, or lawyers, I can't remember which, who wanted to defend Bin-Laden if he were taken to trial. Really? While it might be a boost for their career as a lawyer, if I were them, I could not in all good conscience defend a murderous thug like Bin-Laden and be able to look at myself in the mirror without wanting to vomit.   

In the end, many of the terrorists were killed, culminating with the assassination of Osama Bin-Laden, who after many years of hiding finally paid for his crimes. As we Americans cheered his death, his followers claimed " We will turn your laughter into tears." Sorry you radical towel heads, I'm still laughing. You may have wounded America, but you damn sight didn't destroy us. Let's always remember 9/11. 

                                         

Bill George:Red Hot Planet and Beyond Pt 4.

So anyhoo, Baltimore Flavor Magazine, another one of Bill George's money making schemes, not only set him back about fifteen grand, but as I write this, boxes of the magazine can be found in the basement of his home never to see the light of day. The shitty part is: not only did I not get paid for my work, but once again that total control freak George rewrote all of my articles. As I read each issue of his vanity mag, it was extremely difficult to control myself; I really wanted to punch his weenie face for treating me with such flagrant disrespect.

 Bill George has little or no respect for me and has never considered me his equal when it comes to the art of writing. That pompous, self congratulating asshole! His next big attempt at the ever elusive fame and fortune was to help finance a micro budgeted, shot on video turd fest titled Hallows Point. He has vehemently denied investing in this unreleased(or is it unreleasable?)clunker made by an obscure filmmaker named Jeffrey Lynn Ward. George claimed that they gave him the title of executive producer because he was such a big help on the production.

 Yeah. Right. Anybody with even a cursory knowledge of film knows that the executive producer is the one who ponies up the dough to finance a movie. In this instance, it was three misguided cretins who threw their money at Ward's amateur night excuse for a film. George once again tried to cover his ass, so he doesn't come off looking like some doofus who foolishly squandered his money on another loser of a project. But he did. If I didn't have such contempt for George, I'd feel sorry for him. 

George even went that extra mile by going on several horror websites and horror conventions touting Hallows Point as a great film that was destined to be the next big horror movie. On one website, George (under the pseudonym BGeorge238)claimed that " I'll bet the farm this film prompts a franchise." Now, how in the hell can a film prompt a franchise when the first one hasn't been released. It was completed in 2007 and here it is in 2010 and still no takers. But you can't blame George for using such aggressive campaign tactics, he wants to make his investment back!

 A couple of years ago when I talked to George, he was animated about his newest project:3D television. He and a group of people were going to shoot films locally, then show them on television using this new and radical 3D process. To me this was just one more lofty pipe dream for him to foolishly toss his money at, in his eyes it was the wave of the future; the opportunity of a lifetime. You see, Bill George is a dreamer. His dreams are as big and as grand as they come. Dreams that will bring him riches, that will bring him fame. The only problem is, they're never grounded in reality. And that's a big problem. But on the bright side, he has several tax write offs at his disposal. 

 As an addendum: two years after discontinuing Red Hot Planet, George told me he was thinking about restarting the web site. Imagine the egotism of that dick! Doesn't he realize that once you break the momentum of something, it's hard, if not impossible, to regain that momentum? Oh no, not Bill George. In his special, delusional, little world, there are tons of folks who are patiently waiting(with baited breath, of course)for the return of their favorite horror web site. Is he an ego surfeited asshole or what?

Bill George: Red Hot Planet And Beyond. Part II.

It was during my unpaid tenure at Red Hot Planet that another one of Bill Georges annoying traits reared it's ugly head; he is an unbridled control freak. George thinks he's God's gift to the auctorial arts, his talent as a writer is unparalleled and that there are few writers of his caliber. In his conceited mind, George considers himself to be The Gold Standard when it comes to writing. More like fools gold if you ask me. His is a stuffy, pompous, pseudo professorial writing style that looks down at the reader while at the same time pretending to be one with them.

 He once bragged to me that he never writes without consulting his Thesaurus. How pompous! What a pretentious fop! A Thesaurus is an aid for a writer, not a f***ing crutch! Big words are meant to add color or heft to a writers work, you don't write the article or book around the big word or the fancy phrase, that's both pretentious and insulting to the reader. Bill George doesn't care because he is on a mission to intellectually impress you and everyone else he meets. Unlike his parents, who spoke like the regular working class people they were, George speaks with the cadence of a highly educated man with a doctorate of some sort. Nah. He has a liberal arts degree which in some cases isn't worth the sheep skin it's printed on.

 I know of what I speak because in the late 1970's, I had a friend who graduated with a liberal arts degree. The reason for this decision was actually kind of stupid; a guitar player in one of his favorite bands, Hot Tuna, had a liberal arts degree, so he thought getting a liberal arts degree was a good idea. See? I told you it was kind of stupid. Anyhoo, following graduation my friend found it extremely hard to get a job with his measly degree. One company executive told him that as far as he was concerned, a liberal arts degree meant four more years of high school. Eventually, he did land a good paying gig, but the company ended up sending him back to school to add to his rather flimsy college education.

 Now in George's case the soup thickens; his liberal arts degree is in screen writing. Yeah, there sure is a lot of demand for screen writers in Baltimore, Maryland. Is Bill George an arrogant dick or what? Because of George's penchant for rewiring my work and then having the balls to tell me I should be grateful for his improvements, I began referring to him as The Bard Of Baltimore. (Just as an aside: I didn't know until a year or two ago that this appellation was actually given to that writer/genius Edgar Allen Poe. I used it as an derisive insult to self proclaimed genius Bill George, a self impressed prick if ever there is one.) I even went on several IMDb message boards to disown any of my interviews that George saw fit to completely rewrite using that special auctorial magic only he, that Wizard of Words, can provide. I felt that George treated me like a talentless hack, whose sole talent was the ability to turn the tape recorder on and off  during an interview.

 However, at one point I won a small victory: after one of our arguments, George went to one of his friends as well as The Red Hot Planet's webmaster JB, showed them my article and asked," Isn't this terrible? Doesn't it need rewriting?" They both replied," There's nothing wrong with his article, it's his style." I would have enjoyed being a fly on the wall for that: imagine the look on Bill Georges face, egg splattered all over, as his delusions of superiority were dashed before his eyes. It felt really good to win for once and have George put in his place, if only temporarily. To be contined..... I ain't done yet.

The Story About The Cover Of Death On Highway 13

                                                             

                                 

Now, I'm the kind of person who usually doesn't dole out advice unless specifically asked. It's just my nature. However, these days with the proliferation of  E books being put out by aspiring writers I would like to offer one piece of hopefully sage council: it's about the cover of your book. The cover is the first thing prospective readers will see, so you should present the kind of artwork that immediately catches a persons eye and draws them in. If you have an anemic looking cover the reader may look elsewhere . In my opinion, the cover is the door, the book itself is the inside of the room. A writers job is to get the reader into that room and tell them your story.  

Some  E book  publishing companies offer to provide you with a cover, for a fee, and they use a company called Think Stock that has templates. These self publishing companies will simply choose the template that comes closest to matching the title of your book and Voila!, you've got a cover. Many times the poor author is stuck with a lackluster cover. The person looking at it will probably think, "Meh. Not worth it."

When I wrote Death On Highway 13, I envisioned the cover as described in the prolog as a truck driving away leaving a dead body in the street. The corpse resembles a child's doll after the kid had tired of it and has thrown the doll away; crumpled up with wide, staring eyes. You might be thinking, " That sounds like a good idea. Joe should draw it himself."

However there was one teensy-weensy problem: I can't draw to save my life. In fact, my high school art teacher once wrote on my report card: Joe has a lot of imagination, but little to no artistic ability. Ouch! So the hunt was on to find an artist to bring my vision to life. The ones I contacted were rather expensive and I simply did not have the funds to pay them for their work. 

I did make the acquaintance of a woman who claimed to be a talented artist and would draw my cover for $400.00. I made the huge, walrus sized mistake of giving her the money first. One day, the so-called artist dropped by my house to show me what she had done so far. It was awful. It was amateurish. She claimed it was just a rough painting and that she was getting ready to put the finishing touches which would look wonderful. Stupidly enough, I didn't know where this woman lived. All I had was a phone number. I blindly trusted her. When I called her to find out when my cover would be delivered, all I got was: This person's voice mail box is full and is unable to receive any calls. For about a month I called the number she gave me and always got the same answer. So I got zip, zilch, nada, zero for my money. Four hundred dollars down the drain. If I remembered the name of this woman, I'd tell everyone across the web to avoid this con artist at all costs.

So, back to square one. In the meantime, I discovered a website  called  Fiverr where you can find artists. Luckily for me I found an artist named Chiara Noemi Monaco from Italy. This time, I paid $180.00 and she asked me what I wanted. I described the cover I had in my mind. When she showed me the finished product, I damn near had a hundred heart attacks and at my age that's not a good thing. Of course, I exaggerate mightily, but that's how much I loved Chiara's illustration. She took my vision and added in her own creativity. 

Remember, the first thing that commands a potential readers attention is a killer cover. It draws and hopefully, rivets their attention to your novel. From that point on, your words and story telling ability do the rest.  When you get right down to it, it's really up to you, the self published author, to promote your novel to the world at large.

The Story Behind Death On Highway 13.

When I began writing " Death On Highway 13", most of the characters were born from my imagination. But a few of them are based on people I have known in the past. When it comes to the mind of a writer, everything becomes "grist for the mill". Weather it emanates from experiences you've had, people you've met, stories you've heard, things you've seen on on TV, in a movie, something you've read, it's all "grist for the mill" as far as a writer is concerned.

Naturally, a couple of my characters were based on some actual people I had encountered over the years. I'll never lay claim that they were the nicest people I've ever met, but they were interesting in a twisted, distorted sort of way. They were the inspiration for those characters.

"Disco Dotty" aka Myra Bolecker was inspired by two women it was my displeasure to know. Her physical appearance was based on a  women named Dotty whom I met while I worked for Delmar Photo, a film processing lab where I worked as a delivery driver.

For reasons best known to herself, Dotty thought she was a femme fatale, you know, a real looker. In reality, she was short and stumpy, with frizzy hair and buckteeth. And while Dotty did have a nice pair of breasts, her buck teeth, knobby knees and hair that looked like it had been attacked by a rampant curling iron detracted from her being a "major babe". She once told me a hot chick like her wouldn't be seen with a guy like me. Yeah, Dotty. Keep kidding yourself. Oh, and she was dumb as shit, too. Her major contribution to any conversation was an enthusiastic, " Yeah".

I have no fear that if Dotty ever reads my book, and I really doubt that dumpy illiterate can read, that she would come to the conclusion I used her as the physical model for Disco Dotty. In fact Dotty's so dense, so thick, that I would literally have to go to the page in the ebook that describes her, point to it and say," I based this character on you" before comprehension would finally set in.

Dotty always felt that working in a photo lab was lowly work and felt she was meant for better things. What kind of better things Dotty thought were in store for her is a mystery since she possessed no skill sets of any kind. Well, a couple of years later I found out she was working as a waitress in some greasy spoon in Wilmington. You know, the kind of joint that was known for being literally one step ahead of the board of health. The kind of place you would discourage anybody from going there to eat or drink anything. Yes, this was the only type of "better thing" that Dotty, with an IQ of a baked potato, could ever aspire to. Talk about dreaming small.

For the spirit and personality of Myra, I based her on a a real piece of work named Mara. In 1974, my mother, whose boyfriend was in jail at the time, met her because Mara's husband Robert was doing time for robbery and my mother invited Mara to stay at our place until she got back on her feet. From the jump, Myra was sleazy and dishonest. Oh and here's the kicker, she was proud of who she was. Mara once laughingly stated that if she and Robert f***ed over someone, they deserved it for trusting them. She even started having an affair with my brother Mike. Her warped rationale was since Robert was in jail, she shouldn't have to go without sex. They couldn't keep their hands off each other.  But Mara vigorously assured me that she was totally honest with her husband and that he understood. Somehow I doubted it.

Anyhoo, Mike ended up getting her pregnant. Did Mara tell Robert about it and keep the baby? No, I drove her to the hospital, on two occasions, where she conveniently got an abortion. In a rare display of generosity and gratitude, Myra paid me for gas money with two checks in the amount of five dollars each. I remember thinking to myself that maybe Mara wasn't such a bad person after all. 

Through it all, Mara kept insisting that she told Robert everything. Yeah. Right. I started to look for the turnip truck she thought I fell off the back of. Mara's life was a load of self serving lies. I'll bet the last dollar in my pocket he was never told anything. To add insult to injury, the two checks Mara wrote me bounced and not only did the bank charge me for each check, but I had to pay a five dollar apiece bounced check fee. I told the people at the bank it was Mara who wrote those bad checks and not me. They said since I cashed them that was the reason I was being charged. Mara promised to pay me back but never did.

At one point, Mara decided to join the Air Force. One day, she walked by me carrying birth control pills. Mara saw me looking at it and said with a smile, " This is in case I get raped while I'm in the Air Force." No wonder I considered her to be a tart, a tramp, a skank and a slut. In any event, Mara didn't last there very long because about a year later I bumped into her at a shopping center.  I never asked what happened because I've always held the philosophy the less I know, the better off I am.

Anyway, in the prison where Robert was doing time, the powers that be decided to rehabilitate him by sending him to a place called Narconon in New Jersey. Before going to his destination, he was allowed to spend the weekend Mara. Mike was highly pissed. He'd gotten used to having a nightly bang-a-rama with her and felt he'd been unfairly shoved out of the picture. It never crossed his mind that Mara used him for temporary sexual gratification while her husband was stuck behind bars. Now that he was out, Mike was being kicked to the curb. He treated Robert rather shabbily that weekend and the poor, ignorant sap never knew the reason why.

After about a month, Robert walked away from the place and came back to Delaware to get Mara and run away with her. It seems Robert was pissed off that he was spoken to harshly and forced to work at what he felt were menial jobs. I don't think druggie boy ever grasped the concept that Narconon was more of a boot camp than a summer camp. He and Mara spent a few weeks running and hiding from the authorities until one day, Robert turned himself in. You see, he had a bargaining chip: Robert partied with a drug ring while in prison. In exchange for parole, he would eagerly rat out all the people in the drug ring.

Somehow, Robert managed to stay out of trouble, settled down and he and Mara had two kids, a boy and a girl. Unfortunately, old drug habits die hard and he went back to robbing houses for extra drug money. Since this was his third offence the judge threw the book at him: thirty years without parole. As the saying goes: the third time's the charm. Mara, his loyal, ever loving wife promptly divorced him. Since Robert had earned a well deserved reputation as "a rat" he had to placed in a section of the prison where his former drug buddies couldn't get to him.

The last thing I heard about Myra was in the eighties. I was told she lived in lower Delaware and was affiliated with a religious group. I only knew her for a few months, but I got a pretty good whiff of her personality. She was a user and a taker with a minimal conscience when it came to her actions. Mara went into this group not to bring anything to the table or give of herself. It was to see how she could use them, what she could take from it. As far as I'm concerned, she is a fraud and an opportunist, not a real Christian.  

My Ebook: Death On Highway 13

        Announcing my ebook DEATH ON HIGHWAY 13. It's an erotic detective thriller about private investigator Gary Bennet, who ekes out a marginal living spying on cheating husbands. One day, he finds out a former classmate, Dave Lomas has died under suspicious circumstances. The two of them were mortal enemies in highschool and Bennet, in reality, could give two shits about the guy. But he soon realizes that solving this murder case would do wonders for his career as a private investigator.
It would also be a boon to his shaky self esteem.

      He was discharged from The Army under honorable conditions and cut from the Police Academy shortly before graduation;which in the eyes of his stern, disapproving father makes him the family loser. Bennet takes on the case to prove to himself, his father and others that he is not a loser and that he can start something and see it through to the end.

    But unbeknownst to Bennet, the murders of Dave Lomas, Skunk and Boneman, the leaders of amotorcycle gang The Skulls of Highway 13, find out Bennet is investigating the case and warn him with a brutal beating to intimidate him into backing off of  his investigation. Bennet stubbornly stays on the case, determined to solve the murder of Dave Lomas no matter what the cost. The more dangerous the case becomes the harder he pursues it. Even if it results in his death..

  DEATH ON HIGHWAY 13 is a novel containing  action, romance, violence, drama and humor. Because my book contains sexual situations, nudity and language, DEATH ON HIGHWAY 13 is for adults. It is now available at Barnes and Noble, Apple Books, Tolino, Playster, Amazon Kindle, Kobo, Scribd, 24 Symbols,Overdrive, and Bibliotheca.

Check it out!

The Animal Crackers Box Gets A Makeover Courtesy Of PETA.

When I attended Catholic Parochial School as a wee lad, our class would  perform our annual Christmas Show for Monsignor Sweeny. While us kids sang and danced our little hearts out, the good Monsignor,being a rather elderly man, would promptly fall asleep. Instead of being offended, I and my my fellow classmates felt that because he was so old, the poor fellow really needed a nap. I mean, it wasn't like he was an important Broadway producer bored into a state of narcolepsy by dreadful, amateur performers. Now that would have been ego crushing. Especially to a group of  impressionable eleven year old kids.

Afterwards, when he awoke, Monsignor Sweeny always gave each of us a box of Animal Crackers. I would take my bountiful box of animal shaped treats home with me after school to enjoy along with a cold glass of milk. The artwork on the box conjured memories of going to the circus and seeing the various animals presented to the public. The sights of exotic animals, the smell of hay. Ah, childhood memories!

But now, PETA, those self appointed,self anointed Guardians of The Animal Kingdom , have seen fit to tear away at my childhood memories. They complained ,en mass, to Nabisco that they were offended by the art cover on the box of animals in cages and demanded,( that's right, demanded) the cookie company change the picture on the box to animals roaming free in the wild.

Say what? You mean to tell me that with all of the problems going on in the world at the moment, PETA, that band of intolerant animal huggers, people who surely must have other more important things to do with their time, got themselves all amped up by a drawing depicting animals in cages to the point where they beefed, bitched and vehemently protested that Nabisco change the offending art cover? The worst part is that Nabisco caved in and acquiesced to this band of Bozo's over the top, ridiculous demands.

I've never been a fan of PETA. It's bad enough the rest of us have to listen to these self-righteous whack jobs tell us not to eat animals and not to wear fur made from animals. It's equally aggravating when I read where several of their members protested a group of fishermen by throwing rocks in the water to scare away the fish.  You see, I don't like to be told what to do. By anyone! PETA's in-your-face, bullying tactics have no affect on me or my life. They should live their lives as they please and leave the rest of us the hell alone.

You wanna be a Vegan, knock yourself out. You wanna wear clothes made out of polyester and other man made materials, that's okay by me. You wanna feel some sort of self-validation by making the world safe for the animals, then party hearty.  Me? I'll continue eating steak, fish and chicken. I'll proudly wear my leather coat and my fur fedora hat. And if that smug bullying group of animal huggers has a problem with that, they can fold it three ways and stick it where the sun don't shine.

I used to have a Facebook friend named Bobbi Jo  who is a staunch animal rights activist. She is a proud, card carrying Vegan and belongs to several animal rights groups. I made  joke one time about having meat for dinner. Mind you, it was a joke. Instead of letting me know that I had offended her, Bobbi Jo abruptly unfriended me. If she had, like a real friend, said my remark had offended her, I would have immediately apologized. This is called " Having a dialog". I consider her to be cowardly and I don't like or respect cowards.

To be honest, I was under the impression the this woman loved animals a hell of a lot more than she did people. Once on her time line, Bobbi Jo stated that anybody who made what she considered an anti-animal remark would be immediately unfriended. To paraphrase her remark," Animals are our future." Um, okay Bobbi Jo. So much for tolerance.

During the time  when we were getting along like two peas in a pod, Bobbi Jo  once confided in me that she and her husband were separated and possibly headed for divorce court. Why she chose to divulge such personal information to me was a mystery. In any event, with an attitude like hers, no wonder her marriage was in the shitter. No spouse,or human being for that matter, wants to take a back seat. Especially to a member of the animal kingdom.

Attention Corey Feldman: Your Fifteen Minutes Are Up.

It's truly sad to see a former teen idol desperately clutching at the fame he once reveled in as it slips through his grasp. Such is the case of Corey Feldman. In the 1980's he and friend, and fellow actor, Corey Haim were the proverbial "it couple" as they co-starred in a succession of highly profitable movies aimed at the teenage audience. Unfortunately for both Corey's, along with the intoxication of fame and adulation came the tragedy of drug addition, growing into adulthood and going from staring in high profile theatrical releases to individually slogging away in direct to video fodder. While Feldman eventually conquered his demons, Haim was never quite able to reassemble the pieces of his life and died of pneumonia in 2010, financially destitute.

And while Feldman at one point was, in his words "a working actor", he had musical aspirations. In his younger years, he hung around Michael Jackson, eventually attempting to emulate the late " King of Pop" by dressing like him and adopting Jackson's performing style. He comes across as a tenth rate imitator; the kind you would see at your local bar's " Open Mike Night".

 Feldman as of late, with no acting roles on the horizon, has been touring with a band of female musicians under the name Cory's Angels. Feldman has released five albums since 1992. His latest musical endeavor, Angelic 2 The Core was financed by donations from his fans. He was aiming to amass the sum of $105,000 to record the album with, but had to make do with a measly $14,982.00. Poor baby. The track " Go 4 It" debuted on The Today Show and was promptly put on YouTube to be jeered and reviled by those who were fortunate, or rather, unfortunate to see it. Reportedly, the album took two years to record. After hearing several of the albums tracks, available on You Tube, I can honestly say it's two years of wasted time and money; the songs are dreadful, the production overblown and bombastic.

And get a gander of Feldman's live performances on the Internet. Watch the video where he almost trips over cables while performing at a stadium to an audience of fifteen people and try not to laugh. Then there's the ridiculous video of  Cory The Hunk taking off his shirt and strutting around the stage to the supposed oohs and aahs of his female admirers. And last but certainly not least, is the video where one of his "Angels" warbles an off key version of Stand By Me(Feldman co-starred in the film) while he clumsily plays the drums as a clip from the film is shown on a screen. The video mercifully ends just as Feldman begins drumming and singing a piss poor rendition of The Beatles " Why Don't We Do It In The Road." The performance was both sloppy and extremely self-indulgent.

In recent years, Feldman, in yet another desperate plea for attention, had been spouting off at the mouth about a supposed pedophile ring in Hollywood that molested him when he was a preteen. He alleges that at a place called Alphy's Soda Pop Club, where young actors and actresses could get together drink soda pop, dance and schmooze. Feldman's alleges that there were sinister men dressed in dark suits hanging around who lured young boys and girls in private rooms to have sex with them. Scott Schwartz, a child actor who acted in  films such as "A Christmas Story" and "The Toy" knew Feldman during this time and recalls no such incidents happening at the Soda Pop Club. Feldman has gone on record referring to Schwartz as " A small man. A short man." in retaliation for Schwartz's refusal to drink the Cory Kool Aid.

This alleged pedophile ring, according to Feldman is comprised of  men in the upper echelon of Hollywood executives and has continued to exist to this very day. So Feldman, who has gone on record to proclaim that he is doing God's work, first wrote an autobiography titled  "Coreyography" and then got the bright idea to turn it into a feature film. Feldman went on You Tube and began to ask people to invest money for his film. He initially wanted to raise ten million dollars because in his words this film was to  be an important endeavor, check out the video for yourself. Feldman was going to hire only the best people for his pet project. Plus he intended to distribute the film himself.

 Unfortunately, he was only able to amass from 5,899 investors the munificent sum of  $273,151.00. That's not a whole lot of money to make a theatrical film with. At that price, he surely won't be able to hire the industry's best people for his vanity fest. If the film is ever made, and at this point I highly doubt it, Feldman will have to settle for second or even third rate talent instead. The one nagging question that remains is: why not just report this pedophile ring to the police, as Feldman says he has. What would making a movie based on his autobiography accomplish?  Simply put, he would be in front of the public once again basking in the limelight and once again relevant to the public at large while patting himself on the back for doing God's work.

Feldman announced that the film would be finished by June of this year. Well, boys and girls, here we are in mid August and there's been no mention of his film. No more self serving You Tube videos. No nothing. Instead he's been in hiding ever since his claims of being attacked with a knife by someone hired by the all powerful  Hollywood pedophile ring in an attempt silence his allegations against them. According to him, even his Angels have quit the band in fear of their lives. Um, no. The tour bus driver as well as one of the Angels have made statements stating that they quit due to not being paid and terrible working conditions. If truth be told, these industry power players, if they exist, probably don't stay up late at night worrying about Feldman's devastating expose' and the ruinous affect it'll have on their careers in Hollywood. There are no clandestine cabals in darkened chambers where these men confer to decide on what to do concerning that trouble maker Corey Feldman, either.

 No, the blunt fact is: nobody cares about Corey Feldman. He's a former child star whose career has run it's course and now has to face the reality that he's a middle aged man who is no longer relevant to the public at large, no matter how loudly he cries wolf. People just aren't listening. He's no longer a "who's who", but a "who cares?" Time to pack it in, Corey Feldman. Your fifteen minutes of fame are officially over.  But cheer up, Corey.  Perhaps one day you'll attain immortality by being the answer to a Trivial Pursuit question.

Hallows Point 10th Year Anniversary : A Film That Remains In Limbo.

In 2007, armed with a dream, as well as a fistful of money, intrepid film maker Jeffrey Lynn Ward stepped up to the plate once more to take another swing at cinematic immortality. Never mind that his previous film, Black Reign, filmed in 1993 and released in 2007 still sits on the shelf never to see the light of day. However, Ward's never-say-die attitude persuaded him to finagle a few investors to cough up the cash to make his next contribution to the horror genre: Hallows Point.

One of the investors, Bill George strapped on the proverbial drum, relentlessly beating it on various websites proclaiming the film to be the next horror classic. Well, to this day, Hallows Point has never been released by any video company; so it must not be all that and a bag of chips.

So, not only did the films investors not make as much as a measly, thin dime on their investment, they more than likely couldn't use the film's failure as a tax write off either. Poor bastards. I bet they cried red ink while swearing  up and down to never invest in another film ever again, thanks to the financial belly flop of Hallows Point. Way to go, Jeffrey.

However, this begs one question: Why didn't  Ward try to sell it MTI Home Video? They're located in Florida(Wards home state) and are known as a video company that'll buy anything. I know first hand because I used to receive free screeners to review for Digital Journal. Boy, did I see quite a few stinkers. The mind boggles.

Anyhoo, I have magnanimously decided that Jeffrey Lynn Ward should not fade into obscurity, but to be immortalized as a film maker whose two films : Black Reign and Hallows Point remain unreleased to the public at large. Never to be seen, never to make money back for the investors. However, if you're ever in Florida, drop by Jeffrey's house and ask if he'll show you both of his films. I'll bet he'll be so tickled to death that he may even fix you some snacks to show his appreciation. So without further ado, I present a limerick in honor of Hallows Point's 10th year as an unseen, never to be released movie:

                           

                            There once was a film called Hallows Point
                            Jeffrey Lynn Ward and Bill George thought
                                           Would rock the joint
                               They asked distributors to try it
                                  But no one would buy it
                                                 I ask
                              Then what the hal was the point?

A JOE'S EYE VIEW: Prom Night 1973 - An Evening to Forget

A JOE'S EYE VIEW: Prom Night 1973 - An Evening to Forget

My Christmas Message.

You know, I'm starting to lose my Christmas spirit. It's been happening to me bit by bit over the last few years. And while I should be awash with the joyfulness of the Yuletide season, instead I 've become rather jaded by the sight of inflatable Santa's huffing and puffing on lawns all over my area. During the day,before these plastic, holiday decorations are inflated to their full glory, they resemble colored garbage bags strewn across the homeowners yard. It gives the neighborhood a sort of "white trash" quality. And that's not a good thing.

Another reason for my lack of enthusiasm for Christmas is the retail industry, that greedy,profit mongering money machine. It used to be that Christmas advertising began the day after Thanksgiving; a tradition that remained steadfast for many a decade. Now, the retailers begin their assault on the American wallet(or pocketbook if you're female) following Halloween. Some entrepreneurs have gone as far as pushing Christmas ads back to late September! Is it any wonder many of us are feeling a serious drop in the Holiday spirit? The retail industry has sucked the magic and the warmth right out of Christmas. Tis the season to spend money. Spend a wad of cash. Fa La La La.

Maybe it's just me, but I've come to the conclusion that a lot of people out there equate Christmas with getting a shit load of gifts. And while giving and receiving presents is a part of the holiday tradition, Christmas is also a time of visiting friends and relatives, talking and laughing, making toasts and enjoying each others company. Oh,and let's not forget the array of food shared by everyone at the holiday table. I've got to tell you, put all of these components together and Christmas day doesn't get much better than this.

One of my best Christmas memories as a child was when my Godparents and their children would come over on Christmas day. Actually, I have four Godparents, Donald and Jody Schneckenberger,  Donald's younger brother Kenny and his wife June.  It's kind of a long story, so suffice to say I'll tell you the whole shebang at another time. A day or two later, we would visit Kenny and June at their house, then around New Years Eve we'd hang out at Donald and Jody's. Now that was a really festive time! This went on for a number of years until my parents got divorced. That was the year no one showed up to our house on Christmas Day. It was the worst Christmas I ever had. Although I received some nice presents from my Mom and Dad, my Godparents presence,a vital part of Christmas for me, was missing. It was if my family and myself had suddenly developed the bubonic plague.

I heard later on that they felt uncomfortable about my parents divorce, so they thought it best not to come over. But still, I could not shake the feeling that something had been taken away from me. When I got my licence, I did go over during the Yuletide holidays to visit my Godparents,but it was never the same.

On the other hand, when it comes to thinking of Christmas strictly as a day when presents of all shapes and sizes are due them, my ex-wife's nieces Sara and Annie take the prize. On this supposedly festive, religious day; avarice reared it's ugly head as these two girls judged their gifts by how big the box was and how expensive the present appeared to be. Most of the time Sara and Annie complained unendingly since these presents did not please their high falutin' tastes, which turned a supposedly pleasant day into a bitch and gripe fest.

When my ex-wife Bari and I later discussed their ungrateful behavior, she'd dismiss the entire incident saying with an indulgent chuckle," Oh, Sara and Annie are just being typical little girls." I always considered them to be a couple of miserable, malcontented brats who needed to be told that Christmas gifts were not their birthright and that they should be appreciative of the presents bestowed upon them.

A few years later,when Sara was sixteen, everyone in the family pitched in to buy Miss Prissy an expensive white leather coat. Did Sara appreciate the gift? Hell no! She complained that the coat wasn't stylish enough.  Bari shrugged off Sara's behavior as "Simply being a  typical teenager."  Bari was the indulgent sort of Aunt whom I half suspected if her precious nieces poured gasoline on a homeless person and then set them on fire, she'd think they were just being mischievous little girls. In her eyes Sara and Annie could do no wrong.

Another thing that has always bugged me is when people, who during the course of the year don't say as much as hello to you or are rude and dismissive, suddenly become all smiles and congeniality during the Christmas Season. Then, after New Years Day, they revert back to their sullen, unfriendly selves. Why can't they be friendly and joyful the whole year long and not for only a couple of weeks? Just a thought.

What I'm saying is: Christmas is a time of celebration. It's a time of people coming together. A time of forgiveness,  A time of merriment and happiness. Let's all try to remember that and one day perhaps we'll effectively remove the soulless, commercial aspect from this Holiday of peace and love. That would truly make the world a better place.