Monday October 31 had been a very long day. The doctor was locking up, but as he turned to switch off the lights he detected a Ghoulish presence in the room. No, not me, another ghastly figure. One wearing nothing more than a torn and tattered cloak.

I myself own a $9.99 windbreaker from Walmart.

“Can I help you?” the doctor asked. “No, I’m beyond help.” replied a depressed voice from the dark.

“Surely it’s not that bad.” replied the doctor to the voice. Gradually, the entity came into view. He set his scythe in the corner and began to pace (well… float actually) back and forth across the room. His head remained bowed as his bony fingers twitched. A deeply troubled soul.

“Would you have a seat or perhaps you’d like to lay on the sofa?” The psychiatrist asked.

“Lying on the sofa will do, thank you.” the Reaper replied “You see, in my line of work it’s usually the other away around.”

“Oh I see.” said the doctor knowingly.

“Do you really?” asked the Grim Reaper.”You have no idea what a joy it is to hear you say that doctor. It’s a terrible cross I bear. I run an unlicensed escort service, where all I do is collect souls day and night.”

“I can’t imagine.” said the doctor.

“Perhaps that’s because you have a license doctor. Hee, hee, hee” quipped Death. Then Death continued…

“Another thing doctor, I have no say in the matter either, I just go where he tells me when HE tells me. Ever try waking the dead doctor?”

The doctor shook his head no.

“Well just try waking up a teenager for school sometime. Same difference.”

“What about the working conditions, are they bad?” asked the doctor.



“The worst.” replied the wraith “I have to work in all kinds of weather, and with only this ridiculous robe for protection. Because, and I’m quoting—it’s expected of me!”

“I roam cold damp cemetery’s… usually in the dark. It’s amazing I haven’t caught my death of cold already, and me with no healthcare!  The post office has nothing on me let me tell ya doctor.”

“How DO you do it?” the good doctor asked.

“Well you see, I fly… all the time. Fly all over the world. 24/7/365 days a year… no days off! Every time I step into an airport I attract the attention of the TSA. Being on time for a cadaver collection has become nearly impossible for me. So… I’ve put the TSA on borrowed time. And further more… ”

“Speaking of borrowed time Mr. Death, we’re on it right now. I’m afraid I’ll have to schedule you for another day. I’ll have my secretary set you up with another appointment. Shall we say… next Halloween?”

Need Vs Want



Have you ever noticed how we never really get what we want, only what we need? We’re always left wanting something better. It’s like our current presidential election.

Here we’ve been given a couple of candidates from our two largest party’s (as if any other party stood a chance of ever getting noticed) from which to choose a president…


You would think that in a country as big as ours, there would be a much better pool of candidates from which to choose, right?

Is it too much to ask for a candidate who looks similar to (you can fill in the blank, since beauty is in the eye of the beholder), but who also has the brains of an Albert Einstein or a Judit Polgar.

I fear we’ve become like those women in the television commercials from some years ago.

Remember? They’d receive this beautiful watch as a loving gift, and then proceed to express disappointment by saying, “Well yes it’s a great watch (NOT), but what I really wanted was a Longines.”

What? You mean the Christian Dior is not good enough for you?

Only, we’re not getting anything quite the caliber of a Christian Dior here—no, not for this election. Maybe a watch you’d find in a box of Rice Krispies, perhaps. But a Citizen Eco-Drive?

Uh… no.

You see, it’s just not good enough to NEED something anymore, when what we really WANT… is something better.

Take for example: wanting a new car. But not just any car… a brand new Maserati! (Whaddya say, honey?)

Or let’s say your wife has recently told you that your nuts and need a new brain. Hey, what a coincidence! Anyway, you contact Princeton and inquire about purchasing Einstein’s.

A new washer and dryer? Sure, but can it come with someone who’ll do my stinky laundry too—and for free! Admit it, who wouldn’t want a million dollars? But then again, a billion dollars sounds even better.

Yes, I’d like to look like a Greek god, but I guess I’ll just have to settle for looking like George Clooney, instead. (Hey, why all the laughter?)

And think back to that Christmas morning when we were all kids. There our gifts sat under the tree. We couldn’t wait to tear through all the wrapping paper for that one toy that we’d yearned for all year long. Only to unwrap it and find… we gotten clothes, instead.

You thought to yourself: Is this somebody’s idea of a bad joke?

And that’s just like this presidential election. Here we are stuck having to choose between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.

Dan of the Day

Are you kidding me? Please say it ain’t so?

See, what we really want (demand actually) is another choice for president. Surely there must be someone else from which to choose? Someone stable and not prone to speaking without thinking first. Someone who is honest and upright.

A politician? Ha, ha, ha! Yeah right. (dripping with sarcasm)

Come to think about it, though, maybe all those women wanting a Longines for Christmas wasn’t all that selfish a desire, after all.

Not when you put it in the context of what we’re all about to wind up with for a president come this January.

From The Echoes Of My Mind



Now while it’s true that some of you folks could care less about whether or not others like what you write about, I prefer to make room in my rather large melon for people who heap abundant praise on me for my writing. However, the inside of my cranium has been a hall of echoes of late.

Echoes of my inner voice screaming; “Maybe you should write more often you idiot?” Perhaps.

But probably not, since there are definitely those who’ve considered ending it all if I even go near a keyboard. On the other hand, there are still folks who feel that putting an end to me would be a much better alternative to that aforementioned ridiculous idea.

So you can well imagine what a wonderful surprise it was for me to wake up today and see an entire blog post dedicated to moi. This amazing blog post was done as a kind gesture for a response I made the other day on a friend of mine’s blog. Not just a few kind words mind you, but a WHOLE POST!

You know, this is the kind of recognition that could end the echoes in the hollows of my mind forever, or for an hour anyway. Still, that might be just long enough to quiet the voices in my head, thus allowing me the chance to think about what mindless twaddle I’ll write about next.

Mind you, this is only a blog post about a response I made, not about a complete post I wrote—although, some may feel my response could qualify as a full-fledged post, due to it’s rather stretched out length.



All the same, my friend Paul felt that my response was humorous enough to merit some kind of legitimate recognition, and by someone who I also happen to regard as an excellent writer—even if he does hail from a country that spawned the likes of a character named, Snidley Whiplash.

So, being as I am a member of DUMBASS (Duh Unusual Mutually—exclusive—Bozo Admiration Society of Sacramento) unlike my friend Paul (it’s just as well Paul, since its membership has no privileges), I felt I would expose all of you to some of his first class quality writing.

Seems only fair, seeing as you had to wade through all of my baloney first. You can check out his post about me over at but please, don’t let that put you off from reading any of his first class material as well.

An October Tale



“Don’t you realize that that old place is haunted?” they asked. Yes, I had heard the recent claims that every once in a while you might hear moans and groans closely followed by an occasional shriek of maniacal laughter coming from within its walls.

But being a skeptic I found that hard to believe.

Now had I been gullible—primarily a condition I find myself in on weekends due to alcohol consumption—I might have felt differently about it. But this being a weekday, I was absolutely certain I was cynically sober.

Going into the place might mean confronting a sense of anxiety and foreboding, which now spilled over my entire body. This—courtesy of my wife a compulsive house-cleaner with a penchant for sweeping up adjectives I frequently drop.

It all felt like sticky Ectoplasm, only worse than the stuff Slimer lathered all over Bill Murray in Ghostbusters.



The site—which had been abandoned for some time now—ominously oozed terror. I can’t say why (according to my attorney) unless I put it in writing.


Because nothing ever jumped out or grabbed me there, nor anyone else for that matter. At least, not to my knowledge—which is apparently limited to a second grade education.

Still, the possibility of something like that actually happening to me left me curious about how I might handle it.

I realize curiosity has killed many a cat, but not being a feline myself (unless you count the time a gypsy fortune teller put a spell on me), I had no worries. That was until, someone told me cats have nine lives, and with few exceptions… people don’t.

Darn it, if only my wife—who wears a white glove and happens to have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder)—hadn’t been so fanatical about throwing out all my little bits of paper, including the gypsy’s business card…

Then I might still be a cat!

I myself suffer from HCD (Husband Cluttering Disorder), which as any wife will tell you, is a REAL disorder. One every husband suffers from after becoming a male—usually by birth.

But, seeing as my wife had cleaned up all my clutter, I would now be unable to locate the gypsy. Thanks to my wife I was going to have to enter this terrifying place not as a cat, but… AS A HUMAN!

Stories had always surrounded the old place, but that never stopped amateur ghost hunters from trying to sneak past the bad grammar—like chopping and whacking overgrown shrubs—for a chance to get inside. Poor unfortunate souls.

I thought maybe they’d present no obstacle for me either, but I too was wrong. Instead, the stories now haunted me as well echoing throughout the cobwebs of my mind—like bats in a belfry.

Those who did venture inside—and survived to tell the tales—attempted to warn me (in spite of their better judgement) against going in again saying “Don’t go there girlfriend.”

Naturally—not being anybody’s girlfriend—I ignored them.

Once inside, I saw the writing on the wall. No really, I actually saw writing on the walls! It could have been continuous graffiti but I’m almost certain it wasn’t—because that sort of thing only happens in bathroom stalls.

No, this was more like an attempted sophisticated scribble gone bad, done by someone with neither the street smarts, or the familiarity with old Vincent Price horror movies. Where scripts were no doubt written intelligently.

Just then, I tripped over a mouse. A screen monitor sprung to light casting a giant shadow of fear over me. It wasn’t long before I realized… it was only my silhouette flickering on the stairs behind me.



That’s when it struck me; picture-after- picture on the right side of the wall. This gave me a headache and I began to think to myself…

“Could the frames have been hung on weak hooks?”

Little did I know that these framed and angry people (trapped in this Night Gallery) were lashing out (the only way they could) at the fiend who had coaxed them into this frightening place of horror.

However, it was the photo above them that gave me the biggest chills. It was of some guy with the nose of a clown!

Have you seen the news lately?

Well then you know all about it. How clowns are running amok throughout the land trying to scare people half to death—as opposed to completely to death.

Not being a cat anymore though—thanks to my wife and her neurotic habit of throwing out gypsy business cards—this meant I only had but one life to give.

And so terrified as I was (and likely you as well) I decided to move back into…


P.S. This last month was a rather busy one for us. Our oldest son just got married and one of our daughters told us we are going to be grandparents again. So I would like to apologize for my extended absence.

Which means; those of you who may have missed me before, may still get a crack at me by throwing some rotten fruit.

Hey, watch the darts buddy!

Words To Live By Are Not Always Possible

It all started back when I lost at a game of Monopoly while playing against my brothers.

If only I hadn’t bought those bogus properties. But how was I suppose to know you couldn’t collect money from hotels on Boardwalk or Park Place? Particularly when your brothers land on those properties.

And then there was that other stupid little known Monopoly rule. You know the one. It’s the one that allows siblings (WHO ARE YOUR BROTHERS) to erect hotels on trains whenever they buy railroad property.

I mean who knew?

So right then and there I decided to adopt a whole new philosophy about LIFE—I wasn’t ever going to play that game with them either. Not having enough money for railroad hotels scarred me for LIFE… let me tell ya.

From now on I was going to have new words to live by;  “Never do anything… unless it’s for money.”

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a new philosophy, seeing as the mob, corporations, and politicians had been doing it for years. But I figured, if it worked for them, then why not me, right?

At first, I even made a number of attempts at being an entrepreneur, beginning with a financial effort that backfired on my backside—literally.

One day as my mom leaned in for a kiss, I launched into my first sales pitch ever. I said, “Mom, from now on that’s gonna cost you.”

My quest to become a rich American continued anyway—albeit a bit more gingerly after that.

The next attempt at going into business for myself was not exactly my own idea. Almost an afterthought really. I started collecting empty cans and bottles. Oh… and piggy banks.

Piggy banks, you ask?

Well they didn’t really belong to me, they belonged to my brothers. I would happen upon them after my brothers emptied them to buy sodas for themselves. Naturally, this left me with empty piggy banks, but I did manage to get their empty cans and bottles, too.

Becoming a recycling king left me thirsting for some other financial enterprise to invest in. That’s when I hit on the idea of charging to use the bathroom?

For a small fee, of course.

My family paid me handsomely, too. Why cash flowed in right under the door—as opposed to under the table. Namely because I had removed all the toilet paper in advance of they’re using the bathroom.

This led to a falling out with my brothers. In the end they didn’t sit for it and ultimately beat the crap outta me. Another business venture down the toilet.

That’s when I realized that I needed to start charging for everything.

Want me to eat all my vegetables? Better pay up! Finish my homework? I don’t work cheap. Doing chores around the house? Well I’m not just working for my health here you know! Want the pleasure of my company on a family vacation?

Celebrities aren’t the only one’s who charge for pictures and autographs!

Suddenly I was rolling in cheddar, cabbage, dough, clams—but nothing in the way of cash. You can only eat so much cheddar, cabbage, dough and clams before something’s gotta give, and so I decided I needed a real job. Hardly words to live by—but at least it paid.

And that’s when I was hit with an epiphany, which is better than a barcalounger—which really hurts!

Instead of “Words to live by” I thought; Why not find A WORD to live by.” And that’s when I decided on the word… WRITER. I figured, if it worked for John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Truman Capote then why not me, right?

Now, back to another game of Monopoly with my brothers.

CHANCE? Go to jail, go directly to jail, don’t pass Go, don’t collect $200!

“Hey guys, do the Monopoly rules allow me to collect money while I’m in jail?”


















Anozer Zession On Za Couch Wiz Za Good Doctor

“Just think, two months ago I was this almost popular blogger with over 12,000 hits. Not even Elvis would have made such a claim—not that he’d ever would have wanted to either. But, I also had fifty fellow bloggers whom I followed on a regular basis—WordPress doesn’t allow for more—dictators.

And, I myself was followed by over 450 other bloggers, none of whom were stalkers—phew, what a relief! However, I will say, that even they couldn’t explain why they followed my blog. But, that’s probably not important, right?”

“So anyway, here I am lying on your couch again, admiring the ceiling tile as if it were the Sistine Chapel—minus the work of Michelangelo, of course.

“Doc? Did you hear me? Doc?”

Must have drifted off again? Does that a lot whenever I’m here. Poor mans gotta be overworked.

Wonder if he dyes his mustache and goatee to match that salt and pepper colored hair of his? And why do therapists always seem to wear small wire rimmed glasses with thick coke bottle size lenses? I’ve got it… they’re born with a pair!

“ZAT VILL DO MY BOY!” That’s Doctor Auguste (pronounced, Ahgoost). My therapist.

Me: Oh hi doc! Thought you’d dozed off again. W a i t  Ah  m i n u t e… you just read my mind! How’d you do that?

Dr. Auguste: I zink zat I am za von who is zuppose to be asking za questions here? Zo I ask you again, vhat brings you into za office to zee me zis time?

Me: My wife. Hey doc, you were out for a long time there?

Dr. Auguste: Vell zat explains who… vate za minute. Vhat do you mean I was out for za long time? How long is za long?

Me: I don’t know.

Dr. Auguste: Now zat I can believe.

Me: About two months.

Dr, Auguste: Oh vell that’s not so… TWO MONTHS!!! Oh for goodness zakes zat is a long time! Vee really haz to do zomezing about zee’s zessions of yours.

Me: Maybe you could try that mind reading trick on me again. You know the one where you try reaching into my subconscious mind?

Dr. Auguste: No, I zeriously doubt zat zat vill verk. You zee, you don’t haz von of zoes.

Me: Oh well. But hey, that’s still a pretty cool trick you have there, doc. How’d you do it?

Dr. Auguste: Vell I didn’t tell “Vienna’s Got Talent” how I did it, zo I zeriously doubt I’ll be telling you how I doz it, eizer. Never za less, zare must be zome reason vie your vife brought you in to zee me? Zink. Vhat reason could she have for vaunting you to zit back on za couch again?

Me: Well, all I know is, for the last two months she’s complained all I ever do is write in my blog. Oh… and read posts from my little friends.

Dr. Auguste: You haz za little friends, too? Zo you zuffer from za leprechauns halluzanations as vell? Zat vood be bad.

Me: No silly. That’s what my wife calls my blogging buddies.

Dr. Auguste: Oh zank goodness. For za minute zare, I zought maybe you really were out of za mind. Zo zen vhat happenz?

Me: Well, she said she couldn’t take it anymore and asked me to take a break from blogging.

Dr. Auguste: And zo you did, right?

Me: Yep, I even staked out a spot on our sofa where during the last two months I drank lots of beer and ate a ton of fast food. Probably expanded my waistline two full sizes!

Dr. Auguste: Yez, zomsing to be proud of for sure.

Me: You know, she’s even complained about me walking around the house in my underwear with only a robe on. My robe barely fits.

Dr. Auguste: I zee, very zexy.

Me: Really?

Dr. August: No. But continue.

Me: Okay. Maybe it’s because I’ve tried to grow an unkempt beard. You think?

Dr. Auguste: Trying? No, yooz already zuczeeded zare. No, I’d zay zare mus be anozer reason vhy she brought you to zee me.

Me: Hey, (SNAP!) I’ve got it!

Dr. Auguste: I only hopes zits not contagious. Vhat?

Me: I think she misses my blog!

Dr August: Are you nuts? Zats just clazy! Nobody mizzes your blog! You mus trust me on zis.

Me: No, no, no she really does miss my blog. She even said so.

Dr. Auguste: She even zaid zo? I zink maybe it’s time she came in and zat on za couch as vell!

Me: But its true doc. Just last week she changed her mind about me taking a break from my blog, and went so far as to beg me to start writing in it again.

Dr. Auguste: Zat is incledable!

Me: Yes. But having not written in my blog in nearly two months I couldn’t think of a single thing to write about.

Dr. Auguste: Ah ha! Zo you are zuffering from za empty-headed zing again! I knew it!

Me: I guess so. But what can I do about it, doc?

Dr. Auguste: Vell, how za about you vite about za very virst zing zat comes into za head.

Me: Oh I’ve already tried that.

Dr. Auguste: And?

Me: And the fly just flew in one of my ears and out the other.

Dr Auguste: And zat left you wiz za buzz?

Me: Yep. But still no idea what to write about.

Dr. Auguste: Vell vee can’t haz zat now, can vee?

Me: Can we!

Dr. Auguste: No. Ozervize, vee haz you in here all za time. No, I zink you haz to start za viting process vite avay.

Me: But how doc, I haven’t a clue what to write about?

Dr. Auguste: Here, I zuggest you try taking za notes from zis zession. Go now, go, go anz vite your next post wiz my compliments!

Me: But doc…

Dr, Auguste: No, no, I inzist. Bezides, I zink za time is up for zis zession. Please check viz my zecratary, Helga. She vill give you anozer appointment… might even be by za next year! Zo, buh-bye until za next year!


I’m Moving Up The Literary Ladder

So maybe I do demand your undivided attention… even while you’re asleep. Yes, you might want to erect a statue to me… for no apparent reason. And no, I won’t discourage you from bowing down to me when you hear my latest plan for moving up the literary ladder.

Why do I have such ridiculously high expectations from all of you? Because I’ve decided to be a big name writer.

You’re probably thinking to yourself; Paul, you, a big name writer?

How could you ever hope to compete with the likes of Carlo Alessandro Agostino of Milwaukee, who writes about his obsession with the Wienerschnitzel down the street? Or Helga Smitzer Schulz of Rome, who  writes volumes about her Italian heritage?

And how could you ever be mentioned in the same company of a Melvin Elimelech Swimmell of Japan, who writes Greek mystery novels in Yiddish?

Well I couldn’t.

But then again, maybe you had some smaller named writers in mind, like Agatha Christie, Mark Twain, or John Updike.

Could it be you all were thinking of me becoming some big name moneymaking novelists like James Patterson, J. K. Rowling, or John Grisham?

Not that I wouldn’t love being in the company of their money. Yet, what is it that will set me apart from all of those renowned writers, you ask ?

It’s because I write something every single day. Unfortunately I only press the publish button for any one of these post of mine, about every two weeks.

But I’d bet Jane Austin can’t say that!

So take that, you big name authors who only publish books every other year or so. And you call yourself writers?

I’ll show you a real writer.

What about my writing down my son’s name on his lunch bags every single day—including Saturdays and Sundays. And what about those grocery lists I do for my wife—including items my wife happens to forget—like beer and chips.

Also what about those love notes I tenderly scribble down for my wife, lovingly left under her pillow, filled with copious amounts of bad grammar and poor punctuation, just so she can correct my mistakes.

Then there’s those nasty letters that I anonymously pen to the power company, whereby I complain about how they spelled my last name wrong, and yet they still want me to pay!

They must have me confused with some other disgruntled writer of a customer.

However, I realize many of these so-called big name authors might counter with the claim, that they get paid to write and therefore, ahem, should be referred to as… professional writers.

Bet they think they’ve got me over a barrel with that one.

Well I’m happy to report that I do get paid to write. Yes. that’s right, you heard me correctly… I do get paid to write.

You see, I’ve learned that if you write and ask people for money they just give it to you. I think they call this extortion, blackmail, or something like that. But then who cares… as long as long as they pay, right?

Anyway, give me enough time and I bet I could turn this kind of writing gig into a real profession.

Oh I think you’re going to be seeing me hit the big time real soon now!

If You Want My Opinion

Have you ever noticed how people these days seem to have an opinion on everything? If you have then you’re one of the lucky ones, because most people tend to have more than one opinion.

So, how did multiple opinions actually start?

Well—and this is just my opinion—it all seems to date back to when the first patients went to go see a doctor for an opinion on their health, only to find themselves unhappy with their doctors diagnosis. That’s when they were told to go get a second opinion.

That led to a third, a fourth, and finally… a fifth—which they promptly consumed in one gulp.

After that, one opinion led to another, and another, and another PERSON… receiving multiple opinions. This, courtesy of people running amok, which I think is short for the mukluks all the opinionated were wearing on their feet while spreading opinions throughout the land.

And if this all sounds convoluted to you—well that’s your opinion. But that’s a good thing too, because now at least you have an opinion.

If—on the other hand—you have a high opinion of yourself, how are you able to hold that high opinion of yourself? I mean, seeing as you’re holding it on one hand, but not the opposite hand? And wouldn’t that mean you’re a terribly unbalanced individual?

Just a thought.

On the off chance you hold a low opinion of yourself… are you Mini-Me? Just curious, because I’ll stoop to get your autograph. hqg-52

“Well if you want my opinion…” Now there’s a statement!

Would you really want a second hand opinion? And another thing; why would anyway just give their opinion away? Could it be that it’s totally worthless?

Which leads me to ask. Have you ever thought what your opinion, or opinions might be worth on the open market, and could you get rich by sharing them?

I was once told by someone, that he wouldn’t give me two cents for my opinion. I thought about it for a moment and then replied,

“Okay, what if I were to make that ten cents for a dozen? That way you get 12 of my opinions for only a dime. You save two cents!”

I figured if money was going to be an issue here, maybe I’d better make a deal.

Also, I seriously doubted he’d give me his opinion for free, as he’d already said he wouldn’t give me two cents for mine. That made me wonder how much it was gonna cost me to hear his?

Naturally, I thought it good business sense to bundle a group of mine together at a bargain basement price, before he made me an offer on his I couldn’t refuse.

You know, this post has got me thinking.

Maybe I’ve become far too opinionated for my own good.



Is It Still Friday The 13th?

What a day I’ve been having. I’ve been diligently working on fixing a special project of mine, but not my “Clutterland” amusement park idea.

According to my wife, that projects done. Something about our house already having become “Clutterland” and that I had a lot to do with it? Funny… I don’t recall building the park yet—or even starting it!

Frankly, I think she’s gone back to sniffing glue and hallucinating again, but that’s a story for another time.

Yet, all the same I figured if my “Clutterland” amusement park idea was indeed truly finished, then I had time to explore my other big idea. That of making… a time machine. At the moment a project I’m urgently trying to fix.

Now I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re thinking, “Paul, couldn’t you have gone and invented something less ridiculous than a time machine?” I did! I created this blog and that’s only slightly less ridiculous, wouldn’t you say?

Anyway, you’ll never guess what the biggest problem is in making a time machine? Finding the time to make it. Fortunately, I own a watch and what’s a time machine without a way to tell time, right?

So with the key ingredient for making a time machine already on hand (so to speak), I found the rest of the pieces just fell into place.

I won’t bore you with the details except to say, that with only 24 hours in a day to work on a project—and my working 8 of those for people with absolutely no interest in making a time machine that left me with only 16 hours to eat, sleep, and do my business…

And my wife informed me that she didn’t want me doing my business anywhere… but in the bathroom. Well that made perfect sense.

However, building a time machine has left me precious little time for anything else—particularly overdue projects my wife expected me to do. And what’s more; I’ve been wrestling with where I might go once this time machine was finished.

My wife had a suggestion where I might go, but that meant building a heat shield for the trip.

Her suggestion was not for a real popular destination anyway… too much fire and brimstone down there. Besides, I hear the place is full of undesirables with one fellow who likes to carry a pitchfork.

So I said, “To hell with the idea!” and she said, “Precisely!” You know, I sometimes think she can be really vague?

Anyway, in preparation for this, my very first trip, I watched every time traveler movie and TV show I could get my hands on. And during this preparation I made a startling discovery.

Did you know time travelers usually set their time machines to go back to disastrous events? Well they do.

I guess the idea being; if they set the time machine if they get there before the disastrous event happens, they might alter the outcome.

If only I could do that right now.

You see, long story short; I came in and the bathroom door jammed shut, and the bathroom window is way too small for me to escape through. Now I’m trapped in here.

And my time machine isn’t working.

Every time I set the digital coordinates for yesterday or earlier, it always comes up… Friday the 13th! Don’t suppose my wife could have accidentally preset the date and removed the key?

In any event—I’m not getting out of here anytime soon—and I think there’s a real nasty possibility of my running out of toilet paper.

Lights Out As “The Attic’s” Virtual Reality Convention Comes to An End

I hated that this was the last day of our virtual reality bloggers convention, but what a party!

The shows, the buffets, the getting kicked out of Caesars Palace for not paying.

Where else can you go to get this kind of entertainment without going to Las Vegas? How about a weird, wild, and wacky site called “The Attic?

Take Thursday night for example: we all went over to the Rio to see Penn & Teller. Poor Suze, she was so excited to be here, being that it was her first time visiting one of my conventions.

Didn’t have the heart to tell her—it was everyone’s first time visiting one of my conventions.

Then, she went and got invited up on stage by Penn & Teller, to help out in doing their new vanishing act—no doubt the highlight of her trip.

Had to be disappointing for her when she found she was stepping out of that refrigerator back into her own kitchen. Her trip to Las Vegas, kaput, and her attendance at the convention—sadly over! Oh those crazy guys, is there nothing they won’t do for a laugh?

But at least Suze didn’t have to buy a plane ticket back home.

I was also thrilled that everyone else had a chance to pose for pictures with Penn & Teller in the lobby after the show. Tony Sheila and Barb all wanting to hang out with Elle after the show.

That couldn’t have had anything to do with, Elle, being Teller’s assistant during the goldfish bowl trick (gifts were exchanged, promises made, autographs given), could it? Nah!

I even let Teller and my youngest son pose for a picture with me. They were so thrilled! Why you couldn’t even wipe the smiles from their faces. WP_20140812_053

Later, we ran into Mike Sue and Susannah as they were signing autographs at Starbucks.

Doesn’t everyone?

I got to sign an autograph, too. Used my rubber name stamp on Priceless Joy’s autograph book. Seeing as I didn’t ask for permission to do so, I hope she doesn’t discover it until she gets home.

Later, we ran into Jay Moviejoltz Vinnie and Movierob at the elevator in the hotel lobby, as they were discussing movies they hadn’t seen.

I told them I hadn’t seen Ishtar, and they all laughed and said, “Who has?”

Once upstairs I went next door to wake Beverly before going to bed. I had Beverly check our room for ghost. You can never be too careful.

Then there was yesterday. While mingling on the convention floor, I almost felt like a REAL avatar. Almost.

Until I ran into blogging buddy, Scott and his two boys, Buster and Big Man. After that, I didn’t feel much like a REAL avatar anymore.

REAL avatars don’t feel pain. Have you ever noticed how they’re always getting blown up, cut in half, or shot, and still they get right back up as if nothing ever happened.

Well not me and my avatar.

That slice of watermelon got me right between the eyes. I suppose it could have been worse, though.

It could have been a whole watermelon!

It wasn’t malicious and no melee broke out. Buster, Big Man, Scott and his wife were blameless. But I’m an idiot. Totally clueless as to there even being a watermelon toss at my own convention. I apparently forgot to tell myself about it, and so I walked right into it.


Paul (my Canadian identical twin who looks nothing like me) helped me to my feet—which because of the force of the blow, I got separated from—and he immediately sprinkled salt on me.

I thought it was for luck, but Paul told me it helps make the watermelon taste better. After all, he did bring the beer, pizza, and a moose. So who was I to disagree? Paulo, you’re the best!

By the way, the pizza and beer tasted great. However, the moose took issue with becoming our dinner, so we shipped it back to the Toronto to roam the city. Wild and free, as it should be.

It was also great, trying (breathlessly) to catch up with Van, who as it so happens, never slows down. She was on her way over to greet Donna and Anxious Mom probably to reminisce over some of my older posts.

Hey, I can dream can’t I?

And looking across the convention hall I spied Aquileana, who has a beautiful sight on Greek Mythology and who was holding court with a number of other good folks.

Maja from Jojo and Ally Bean all having a great time.

So I headed over in their direction when out of nowhere, Blair came up and offered me a cup of punch saying “Paul, you’ve gotta taste this stuff!”

I took a sip… and pow! I went down like a ton of bricks.

Staggering to my feet, I was greeted by my friends, John, and Caz, they had been discussing the merits of comics and thought I’d be perfect for being in one.

“Can’t hold your liquor, huh?” They asked.

“I can hold my liquor fine it’s the punch I’m having trouble with. What in the world is in this stuff?” I asked.

That’s when they suggested I check out the punch bowl.

I found more than a few of you lying around there surrounding The Lonely Author who was getting a Birdseye view of the ceiling at Caesars Palace.

Which I found rather odd, since we were all celebrating in the Bellagio.

But there too, lying on the floor, was Erika,  and Maniparna,  along with Masguatsen,

Being me, I naturally asked a silly question…

“Having a good time ladies?” At first, I was met with puzzled looks. Then they turned to one another and smiled—while still laying flat on their backs—and raised their glasses in a toast to me… followed by lots of giggling.

I’d call that a big yes.

Then I got trampled by Peggy from, Jan, Elaine, Juls, and Sandi, as they raced by for that punch bowl.

Leaving me to wonder if I hadn’t started an AA meeting instead of a bloggers convention.

Still, what a hoot! After virtually shaking hands with as many of you as I possibly could (this time), I tripped over the cord to my virtual reality machine, and unplugged the entire convention!

Probably for the better.

Our youngest daughter’s blog has helped to remind me that, not only has my blog become an oversight in the last month, but so have all of yours.

That means, I’ve neglected visiting your blogs, for far too long.

But not for much longer, as the In My Cluttered Attic road tour is about to begin.

So see you soon folks.