Lovin' Lazarus

 I am undertaking a large project that should see the web in a few months and includes many elements from several genres that I love to write. I won't give away the whole thing away, but suffice it to say that it will be a weird west with an injection of steampunk. 

Excited?

You should be! Trust me, I am 15k into this thing and it is going to raaaaaaaaaaaawk! 

Meanwhile, to get me in the mood for it I have been watching movies galore. (You would be surprised how much Blazing Saddles has helped out for this!) I have also been reading, as well as re-reading, which meant I had the chance to take another look at Lori Titus's "Lazarus."

As a result I wrote this review. Enjoy!
 Miss Titus takes a big heaping helping of the Wild West, tosses in a side of weird then coats the whole thing in a thick layer of crusty, deep fried horror. Lazarus is a guaranteed fun read for any fan of both the western or zombie genres. The characters are great, the horror is perfect and the outcome was just right. My only complaint is that it felt rushed. I really think that given the time, Miss Titus could have turned this novella into a full out novel. It's a shame we were rushed through the characters lives and pushed straight into the action. I would have like to have gotten to know everyone a bit better, but the time we spent together was enough, I suppose. Either way, thanks Miss Titus, for spinning such a fine yarn!

Heiros Namos


Heiros Namos
Names can be a very powerful tool.
Sometimes they can also make you feel like just that, a tool.
Humans try their best, and they can be really creative, but sometimes, every once in a while, the name they choose for you is just garbage. Take Hermes for instance. Now there was one angry god when he learned what the people decided to call him. I always liked the name, but he was full of fury when he found out. After all these years I can still remember word for word what he said.
“Hermes? What kind of crap is that? It sounds like a venereal disease.”
He’s one funny guy. 
Aphrodite on the other hand has always loved her name, no pun intended. She claims it’s exotic. I once asked her why she didn’t use her Roman name more often. 
“Venus sounds vulgar. I don’t understand how a goddess can end up with a name that rhymes with a man’s special purpose.”
To this day she believes Athena was behind the Roman name. She’s still convinced there was subterfuge on the naming committee, that the Romans were bribed. Ask Athena about it and all you’ll get is a knowing smile. You know how it is with kids and their shenanigans. What I never understood was why Ouranos never got mad about his Roman name.
Now there is a god with a legitimate beef.
Of course divinity had a name before humans dreamed us into existence. An ageless name, made from stardust and centuries, folded into a soundless portrait. A name that is unpronounceable, unimaginable and unknowable. The kind of name that would break your mind you the instant you even thought about thinking about it. But you human beings require connection. You need to feel the earth under your feet even though you like to keep your heads in the clouds. From your earliest grunts to the later days when you got around to speaking words, you’ve insisted on labeling your universe. It was only natural that when you looked to the heavens for the first time you called out a million different names.
And you still do.
Zeus once told me, at a party, that he handpicked his own name. He claims he sent one of his priests a dream bearing the name on golden wing. The rest, as they say, is history. He got angry when I pointed out to him that it was dangerous to mess around with the human mind.
“What good is being a god if I can’t have a little control?” he asked.
I could only nod my head and agree. He’s not the kind of god you argue with.
When it comes to most immortals, their names suit them. Hermaphrodite, Narcissus, Echo and Arachnid all stand as excellent examples of how a name fits the owner. But to be fair the words you now use to portray most of them actually originate from their own names. Quite the conundrum, isn’t it?
Dionysus is probably the exception to the rule, but then again he was always the exception to every rule. The name Bacchus, a pseudonym for his work with the Romans, brought about the word Bacchanal, meaning of course one hell of a party. But the young god is more than just a drunk; he has so much depth to him, and so much fire. Let’s just say that he is a great guy to party with but he is one god you do not want to make angry. Not unless when you say, “Let’s get tore up!” you really mean it.
Dionysus brings new meaning to the word wasted.
What so few humans realize is that a name not only defines, it also delineates. A name can change the way you guys think about each other, and names most definitely changed the way you related to us. The names you assigned us gave us personalities, they gave us life, and importantly they humanized us. In one word divinity shattered from some unknowable cosmic power into aspects you could actually address. With that our whole relationship shifted. We became divine parents, celestial siblings and sacred lovers. You also changed somewhere along the way. You became bolder, stronger and self-sufficient. Then the inevitable happened. One day you were sending your desires skyward on the smoke of a slaughtered lamb, and the next day you realized the sun would rise with or without the rituals.
You didn’t need us anymore.
Hephaestus always had my sympathy. Poor god was strapped with a bum leg and a face that would stop a sundial. Then to top it all off you burdened him with a mouthful of a name. Where did that one come from? Even worse, ask the average human today who Hephaestus is and they’ll only give you a puzzled look. Being pushed into obscurity is a hard row to hoe, but Hephaestus always took these kinds of things well. Even in the height of his popularity he had a hard time with the name. I can still remember him trying to explain the proper pronunciation to Psyche when she first joined us.
“Ha-fess-tuss? Your name sounds like a donkey farting.”
The laughter that followed shook Olympus to the very core of the mountain. Hephaestus just smiled and shook his head; he was used to that kind of treatment. He also knew Psyche never was very bright as a human, and things didn’t improve when she moved upstairs. Then again Eros didn’t marry her for her brain, if you get my meaning.
I hear that the folks down on the Delta have some great names. Out of the ones I’m familiar with I have always been partial to the name Set. I suppose I just like names that are short and to the point. Trust me when I say Hephaestus would have traded his good leg for a name like Set.
I don’t consider myself a pantheon-ist, but I’m ashamed to say I don’t know much more about the other gods of the world. We do meet occasionally on vacations and conferences, but you will find most pantheons stick together, few cross over that fine line. Again Dionysus is the exception to the rule. Search any pantheon and there he will be, the slain and risen son of a god, bringing enlightenment to the masses. In fact he has a pretty big aspect going right now. The kid has a good gig, servicing a multitude of hungry souls.
We’re proud of him.
So some of our names are obviously better than others, and some we could have done without, but over all you did a fairly good job. The majority of us here in Greece are pleased, even with the shift to our Roman titles. We are also happy with how our names have graced everything from geography to architecture. It seems like every day someone is naming something after a god of some sort. You might not need our divine guidance any more, but somewhere deep inside you still need to connect to us. You keep saying our names, using our names, and redefining our names in the human mind and as a result we are never truly forgotten.
My own name is not important, but I thank you for it all the same.

Cat Cronies


I’m a cat person.
I know some folks are dog people, and some are fish folks, and some people are even hamster people, but me? I like cats. I like kittens and full-grown cats, tabbies and tuxedoes. I like long hair and short hair and I like the no hair too, even if they are a little creepy looking. I just like cats.
(I go back and read that and realize how weird the phrase ‘hamster people’ sounds. I think there is a story in there somewhere, but I don’t know if it’s a weird furry fetish tale, or a horror-shape shifting story about folks who turn into giant hamsters. *shudder*)
I have had a number of cats in my life, from the kittens of my youth to the brats that live with me now. Yes, I said brats. Let’s face facts, shall we? They are ALL brats. Spoiled, ruined, wastes of furry lives, lounging around growing ever more rotund and lavished with treats and fawned after as if they were the centers of the universe. If your cats do not fall into these specs than you either have exclusively outside cats (which are a bred unto themselves) or you are fooling yourself.
I have nothing against dogs. I have done dogs before.
Umm….
That didn’t come out quite right. Let me try that again.
I have kept dogs before, but I just don’t enjoy them the same way I enjoy cats. I think, for the most part, it’s the overwhelming need for constant attention that put me off dogs. A dog is like a needy friend, who has to have your steady reassurance that you like them or they get depressed.
“Do you like me?” asks Bones, the 100-pound super affectionate Rottweiler.
“Yes, I like you,” says Tonia.
“But you like me?” she asks again, while pressing her huge paws into my tender flesh.
“Yes, now get off of me.”
“But you like me, right?” she asks again as she shifts her entire one hundred pound rump into my lap.
“YES! Get the fuck off of me!”
I have kept small dogs and big dogs and when all is said and done I just don’t care for either. I have been known to say I like dogs the way I like kids … I like other peoples’ dogs. (I also interchange this with kids as the main subject. For some reason this pisses people off.)
Dogs are needy, nervous, overly affectionate bundles of slobber and hair and while they are lovely I just don’t have the time dogs need.
But cats?
Cats are aloof and carefree and just snobbish enough to make me feel special when they deign themselves to seek my attention. I think that’s the real difference between cat and dog people. Dog people like the sort of ‘on tap’ affection that canines are known for. That “here boy!” scampering across the tiles in a skittering excitement kind of love that never fails to please.
But cat folks are a weird lot.
They spend so much money and time just for that single, brief moment when their pet--the one that is being kept and kept up--finally finds the time in their busy kitten schedule of laying about and eating and more laying about to actually stop what they are doing and bump their face against yours. In that moment, in that blessed second of contact, a cat owner achieves a type of nirvana. You know that all is well, that all is good. That yes, your cat loves you. (Just in case you were wondering.) And then the cat wanders off and with a flick of the tail they tell you to carry on, as you were soldier. I am done with you until I can find another five seconds to make you feel important.
Yup, I’m a cat person.

Dream Girl

I'm gonna cheat today, in the blogorama smackdown, and post a story. It's a flash fiction piece I have always had trouble selling because it is a little on the uncomfortable side.

So here we are, with Martin Dexter, and his Dream Girl. Enjoy!

*******
Dream Girl

Martin Dexter thought had a good life.
He had a fine wife, who loved him only in the way that twenty long years of fruitful marriage can foster in a couple. He had a well-behaved son, grown and gone, healthy as horse and as strong as an ox. He had a job he liked, and a few hobbies he loved. He had a home, two cars and a small trailer on the beach in Florida that, although Maggie had to talk him into buying it at first, he had to admit he was growing to like.
And he had his dream girl.
He loved his wife, Maggie, intensely, deeply, and madly. And she loved him, sometimes dutifully, sometime wildly, but always honestly. They fought every once in a while, after which he would take her to bed and apologize the only way he knew how. And they would lie in the sweat of the afterglow and promise not to fight ever again. Only love, Maggie would say, only love from here on out. But Martin knew she wouldn’t stick to it. She wasn’t capable of it, but that was okay.
That’s what a dream girl was for.
“Have you got your wallet?” Maggie would ask.
“Yes, love,” he would answer.
“Have you taken your medicine today?”
“Yes, love.”
“Don’t forget to get an oil change. And new tires.”
“Yes love.”
And their life was like that and he was happy. Mostly.
But, every once in a while, his mind would drift to his dream girl. She never asked him if he would take care of the car. Or if he had taken his medicine, as if he didn’t know he needed to. She never asked him anything. She was quiet. And that was good. She was perfectly quiet, and perfect just like that.
But they, the family, always expected things from him.
“Dad,” Robert would say, “I need one hundred dollars for books.” Robert was in college. College was expensive, but Martin understood the need of it.
“Yes, son,” he would say. “The money’s on its way.”
“Thanks dad. Can you spare another hundred for some shoes?”
“Sure son. Just keep those grades up.”
But his dream girl never asked for anything. She just took whatever he offered her, no questions, no expectations, and no disappointments. She would look right at him with that faint trace of a smile and nod, maybe, if he timed his touch just right.
“Do you love me Martin?” his Maggie would ask. She asked this a lot. Over the years he grew more and more tired of her doubt.
“You know I do,” he would answer.
“I don’t think you do.”
He never knew if this was a joking time, or a serious time. Wives were funny like that. Wives were nothing like dream girls.
“I do,” he would assure her, “you know I do. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Maggie would say.
His dream girl never weighed him down with love. Or hate. Or any emotion at all. She just welcomed his touch, totally, even if it a bit coldly. But warmth, he knew, was reserved for wives. Sometimes the dream girl’s faint smile would hint at the warmth she had left behind, before she became his dream girl. It was her secret. It was part of her charm. It’s what made her his dream girl, instead of just a mistress or a lover. Or a wife.
Life would get hectic. Reports needed to be finished, so they could be filed. Phone calls had to be made. Bills had to be paid. The company picnic, bridge night, Maggie’s parents visiting. Life could be hectic.
“Did you get those orders shipped?” his boss would ask.
“Yes, sir,” he would answer; knowing his boss already knew the answer. His boss just liked to hear Martin say it aloud. It was what he called validation. Martin hated validation. Sometimes he hated his boss too. And his life.
“Well, just remember to fill out every form properly. You didn’t initial next to your signature on the last three order forms.”
“Yes sir.”
“It’s okay Martin. Just don’t let it happen again.”
“Yes sir.”
And it was times like this when he needed to visit his dream girl, most of all. Even more than the doubting Maggie times or the needy son times. And he would slip away from his normal life, and he would go to her, in that deep dark place where she slept. And he would hold her, sometimes. And he would take her, sometimes. But only when Maggie was away, and Robert was at school. Because occasionally the smell would drift up from the basement, no matter how much care he had taken.
“I don’t know what keeps you so busy in that basement,” Maggie would say.
“Just a hobby, my love,” he would say. And it wouldn’t be a lie.
“Well, your hobby is attracting mice. Again.”
“Sorry dear.”
“I think one of them has died under the floorboards or between the walls. I can smell it. Can’t you smell it?”
“Yes dear. You’re right of course. I’ll get rid of it tomorrow.”
And he would.
Then, when it was time for bridge night, he would stay home with a headache instead of joining the game. Later he would go out, to the darkest parts of the city, to the dankest streets, and there he would find her; standing on the corner, with that faint trace of a smile hinting at her past. And he would open his car door and she would get in. And she would talk about money for the first and last time. He would pull the car around the back of the house, and he would show her his basement where a drink was waiting just for her, already mixed. And after that it was only a matter of time and skill before she would truly be home again.
Then she would be his dream girl.
**********

Spousal Spouting



(Y'all are going to have to indulge me on this entry. It's obsequious, sycophantic, and fawning. It’s all about my adorable husband and the very amusing things he says.)

"It may have said crescent rolls on the can, but there's nothing but triangles in here." ~ Tony Brown

Yes, my husband actually said this as he unrolled a can of croissants and laid them out, side by side, in full triangle glory, with every intention of baking said triangles just as they were.
(For those of you that don’t know, canned croissants come in a sheet of triangles that you have to roll up to make the crescent shapes.)
This is what I live with. This is what I have put up with for year upon year upon year. This is what makes up my life. And I love it!
Mr. Brown says the best things. I have been married to him for almost 15 years and I never tire of the crazy things he comes up with. Sometimes his wisdom is simple, sometimes oceanic in depth. But always, always, always it rings true. In this blog post I will share with you a few of these gems of wisdom.

“Everything is better when fried in butter.”

Now this is hard to contradict. Butter, I mean real butter and not that crap they pass off as spread, is sooooooo tasty. Butter in the pan smells like heaven. And things fried in butter… OMG. Butter will be the death of me. And my chubby hubby.

“I have never regretted having a cart, but I have often regretted NOT having a cart.”
This is in reference to shopping carts. Every time, and I mean every time we go to a store, whether we are buying groceries or just a pack of gum, he has to get a cart. He’s one of those asshats that pushes a cart up and down those very narrow aisles in the dollar store. Yeah, that guy. But he has a point. There have been many a time I wished I had grabbed a cart on the way in, yet I have never gotten to the end of my shopping experience and thought, “Oh what a waste of energy to have pushed this thing around the whole time I was here.” So, again the man is wise.

“Things which are not apparently connected are often connected in ways that aren’t immediately apparent.”
Do I need to explain how awesome this is?

“A threesome is a nice idea, but in execution it can lead to dangerous things … like potential injuries … and math.”
If you know anything about my spouse, this is the funniest thing you will ever hear come out of his mouth.

Okay so that’s all I can think of right now. I’ll try to add more later as I remember them.

And of course as he says them.


Later taters!