Willie Lobster, Detective: PART 5 "Krazy Klown Komedy"

Koqteese had just turned Detective Lobster’s car around when a small, slightly comical looking Ford Fiesta traveling in the opposite direction erupted into a ball of flames. The crappy lime green Fiesta lifted off the ground and tumbled through the air like a child’s toy. As it spun through the air a handful of people spilled out onto the blacktop.

People in baggy trousers and enormous shoes.

“Holy shit,” Koqteese said. “I have just forgotten all about taking you back to your apartment to get your glasses!”

“Glasses!” Lobster shouted. “What are you even talking about!”

Koqteese managed to steer their car out of the fireballs bouncing trajectory.

“You know,” Lobster said. “Ford makes one helluva basketball…”

“It is bouncing pretty high,” Koqteese said in agreement.

“Oh Jesus,” Lobster said as the flaming Fiesta hurtled past his window. “That’s not a basket ball, that’s a fucking flaming car!”

Koqteese decided to pretend like she hadn’t heard him—this would be her new way of dealing with Detective Lobster’s many short-comings. This was the same method employed by Lobster’s mother and father, as well as his first two wives (Rebecca and Sayshauna Ann).

“Pull over, we gotta see if there’s anyone left to pull outta that wreck,” Lobster said, banging his hand against the dashboard dramatically as he spoke.

“Whatever,” Koqteese told him as he slowed their car down.

Detective Lobster didn’t wait for the come to a complete stop—he was so badass that he leaped out of the car when it was still rolling to a stop. He’d seen that done in the movies and had always wanted to give it a whirl. Of course, what they don’t tell or show you in the movies is the wear that this tends to put on the souls of ones shoes. Detective Lobster could suddenly feel the pavement through the bottoms of both shoes.

“It was time to get a new pair, anyway,” he said as he stomped over to the wrecked Fiesta.

Though it was smashed against a streetlight, and consumed with flames, Detective Lobster could tell that this was no ordinary sub-compact. The rear fender was shaped like the backend of a goose, and the front of the car was bent to look like an enormous bird bill. Clearly this was some kind of bird-Fiesta hybrid.

Not that it mattered. The flames danced along the green paint job, licking away the frivolity like a fat kid licking an ice cream cone on a balmy July afternoon when the air conditioner is broken and he won’t shut up about being so fucking hot so his mother gives in and gives him an ice cream cone even though he’s just developed Type II diabetes and the State is going to take him away because she’s let him grow so enormously fat that it’s become a sick kind of child abuse.

It was kind of like that.

“Hey!” Lobster screamed into the flames. “Anyone still in there!”

“H-h-haaa!” a shrieking clown laugh sounded from somewhere inside the burning wreck. “H-h-haaa! This haahahahaha, this hahahah burns…”

Then there was a series of strange honking sounds. It wasn’t like the honking of a goose (which would have kinda made sense) but rather, it was like the sound of a deflating bicycle horn.

“Oh my gawd!” Koqteese said, shoving her heaving bosom against Lobster’s back. “There’s a clown in there! He’s fryin’ like a piece of succulent cod!”

“Take it easy,” Lobster said. “I’m canceling this fish fry.”

Without thinking, which was pretty much how he always operated, Detective Lobster dove through the flaming (broken) windshield and reached down to grab a hold of the burning clown.

“Hahaha…don’t try to save me…I’m done for,” the clown coughed. “Hahahaha!”

By this time the other clowns, the ones who’d fallen out of the Fiesta as it tumbled through the air, were limping towards the burning wreck.

“Chuckle-chuckle! Garsh, we gotta save Mr. Giggle-Pants!” one of the injured clowns said as he limped to the burning car.

“Stay back!” Koqteese said. “Detective Lobster will save your friend.”

“Well I couldn’t save him,” Lobster said as he leaped out of the burning Fiesta. “Poor bastard wouldn’t stop laughing…I couldn’t get him to leave the car.”

“That was Mr. Giggle-Pants,” another of the injured clowns said. “Always laughing…right up to the end.”

In the distance there came the sound of sirens.

“The fire department can handle the rest,” Lobster said, wiping the soot from his pants. “Let’s spilt before those bananas show up and start making trouble.”

“Hey mister,” one of the clowns said. “Did you say bananas?”

“Do you know about this gang of vicious, killer banana bullies?” Koqteese said, pursing her lips in a way that reminded all of the clowns, as well as Detective Lobster, of that fat boy licking his beloved ice cream cone.

“Those rubber heads have been muscling in on our territory,” the smoking clown said. He wasn’t smoking a cigarette; his clothes were singed and giving off little trails of jet black smoke. It was really distracting.

“The bananas are doing kids parties?” Lobster said skeptically.

“No, no, we’re cocaine smugglers,” the sort-of-still-burning Clown said.

“I should have known,” Lobster said. “That explains the red noses…”

“Those bastard bananas must have slipped a bomb under our Klown Kar,” the clown explained.

Lobster frowned.

“Why did you say it like that?” he asked the clown.

“Say what like what?”

“You called your clown car your ‘klown kar,’ that’s really very stupid,” Lobster said. Detective Lobster was a very good judge of stupid. This was because of Einstein’s famous theory of “Takes One to Know One.” This rule applies to a lot of people, in a lot of instances.

“I guess I was trying to add a bit of levity,” the clown said. “To a terrible situation. You see, that ‘s what we clowns do—we add levity to a terrible situation. That terrible situation is called ‘reality.’ You see, the world is full of chaos and pain, there’s nothing I can do about that. What I can do, however, is try to make both you and your voluptuous friend smile by wearing baggy pants…and calling my car a ‘klown kar.’ Is that so wrong?”

Another of the dazed, and injured clowns nodded in agreement and said: “We also sell cocaine…to help with all that suffering and shit…honk-a-honk-a!”

Detective Lobster grunted in disgust and turned away.

“Come on Koqteese,” he said, heading back to his car. “Let’s leave these Klowns to their Krime scene.”

SCATTERSHOT READERS YOU DECIDE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT:

DOES DETECTIVE LOBSTER PLAY POOL WITH AN UMBRELLA?

OR

DOES DETECTIVE LOBSTER DIG A REALLY DEEP HOLE WITH A SLOTTED SPOON?

VOTE IN THE COMMENTS SECTION!!!

Willie Lobster, Detective: PART 3 "A Familiar Fruit"

Detective Willie Lobster lived in an apartment over on Maple Avenue. It was a small, rinky-dink affair with just enough room for a a mattress, wardrobe, bidet, and hot plate.

Apartment 1313.

The neighborhood was diseased, a gathering place for those waiting to die and those who'd already done it. Lobster's next-door-neighbor had died a few years back, and no one had noticed for almost the month.

The stink was that bad.

Curling wisps of stream shot out of a number of crevasses on the sidewalk--no one asked what it was exactly that was leaking out of ground. All anyone could tell was that it stank. It stank like the apartment, the building, the street, the neighborhood, the borough, the city, the county, the State, the nation, the continent, the hemisphere, the planet...the whole goddamn universe.

"Everything stinks in the miserable city," Savanna Koqteese said.

She was sitting next to Detective Lobster. They were inside his 1971 Chevy Crapi. As you can imagine, it wasn't a very good car.

"Yeah, well..." Lobster grumbled, "It ain't so bad."

"It ain't so bad?" Koqteese said in disbelief.

"That's what I said," Lobster told her. "Now you wait here, I gotta run inside and fetch something..."

The word "fetch" reminded Lobster of Daniel, his fallen Spaniel.

"Get it together, Lobster. Get it together," he murmured to himself as he climbed out of the shit-bucket seat and oozed himself out onto the steaming streets.

The climb up to his apartment was long and arduous. In the winter, when there was snow and ice on the cold concrete steps, Lobster liked to pretend he was an explorer climbing some treacherous, far-way mountain.

Like Mount Kill-a-Man-orrow.

Lobster knew something was wrong even before he'd reached his front door. The "Wipe Your Fucking Feet" mat was slightly askew. As he approached his front door, he could see that it was part of the way open.

"Better check my piece," Lobster said.

He reached down and gave his dick a squeeze.

That was what he called his pistol--Lobster called it his "dick." He called his penis his "gun." The last time he'd tried to make love to a woman...well...you can see that there was a misunderstanding. Four hours and several phone calls to Sloan Whixler, his attorney, straightened everyone out (except his "gun" which was no longer very straight).

"Well, well..." a voice said as Lobster entered his apartment. "Look what the proverbial cat dragged in!"

There were five men lurking amid Lobsters meager possessions. These (the possessions) included: pizza boxes, empty tin cans, used tissues, discarded candy wrappers, a can opener, a TV Guide from 10 years ago, several dozen cardboard tubes (from paper towels, one never knows when one might need a cardboard tube), and a carton of milk--aged to a fine blue cheddar.

"A gang! Inside my apartment!" Lobster exclaimed as he reached for his gun, but he was confused himself and reached for his...well you know...which wasn't very helpful in this situation.

"Yo, check out this perv," the leader of the lurkers said.

All the men were wearing identical rubber banana costumes. There was something familiar about them...but Lobster couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" he asked them.

"Okay, first off--we're not a "gang" we're a bunch," the leader of the lurkers said.

The rest of the bunch sniggered in approval.

"You lady friend, a Ms. Neverputt, she's a bit of a problem for us," the banana man said.

"What are you talking about?" Lobster said, wondering where his glasses were.

Lobster fumbled over to the light switch near the front door and turned on the apartments single dim-bulb.

"Like roaches," Lobster said as the bananas scrambled to avoid the light.

"Hey! Let's trash his shit 'an leave!"

"Let's bash his brains in!"

The leader of the lurkers huffed, "Nah man, we gotta rare opportunity to do a little one-on-five counseling..."

The banana thugs descended upon Detective Lobster in a loose configuration roughly resembling a crescent moon.

The Moon. It had been Daniel's favorite celestial body. He'd stay up all night a yawl at it, his furry paws occasionally swiping the air as if he could somehow...get at the moon.

"You're standing on Daniel's nest," Lobster sobbed.

It was true, one of the banana thugs was trampling on Daniel's circular puppy bed--Lobster had left it untouched in the dog's honor. Now it was soiled by the rubbed robed brute.

"Fuck you, Lobster...and your damn dog bed," the banana thug spat.

Lobster gritted his teeth and lunged in anger at the banana.

"I'll PEEL you! I'll PEEL all of you!" Lobster shouted as he transformed himself into a whirling dervish of hands, feet, teeth, and eyebrows.

Someone kicked someone else in the face, while someone smacked someone else in the knee cap.

It was all very exciting.

But in the end, Detective Lobster was no match for a gang of fruit-themed thugs.

"Hold 'em down!" the leader said, spitting blood.

The blood was from a recent oral surgery and not, as one might expect, all the excitement and scrapping.

"Oh crap, I popped a stitch. My dentist is gonna kill me!" the banana thug said. "Listen boys, wail on Detective Lobster until he knows better than to get mixed up with mysterious, provocatively-named dames."

SCATTERSHOT READERS YOU CHOOSE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT:

WHAT FRUIT SAVES DETECTIVE LOBSTER?

APPLE?

OR

PEAR?

Willie Lobster, Detective: A SCATTERSHOT Choose-Your-Own-Adventure

“Mr. Lobster,” Savanna Koqteese said as she entered the cramped office. “I’m in desperate need of your services.”

Detective Willie Lobster looked up from his Jumbo Crossword puzzle book and squinted. It wasn’t because the room was bright, but because he’d forgotten his glasses at home.

“Look Mister, I’m not taking any new clients right now,” Lobster grumbled.

“But Detective Lobster, you’re my only hope.”

“Hope? Hope?” Lobster repeated. “Nope, I’m nobody’s hope…more like a dope. I just realized you’re a dame for Christsake. You can do better.”

“But I want you!” Koqteese said. She bent over and maneuvered her shoulders together in such a way that her massive breasts smooshed together. This erotic display was lost on Lobster, who as previously mentioned had forgotten his glasses at home.

“Look, I’m not taking on any new clients,” Lobster said. “If you want I can recommend a very good fella…does mostly doggie recovery work….”

Koqteese huffed and crossed her arms.

“Mr. Lobster, I don’t need anyone to help me find my doggie!”

“Oh,” Lobster said, shrugging. “Then you ain’t doing too bad, honey.”

Detective Lobster had recently buried his pet spaniel, Daniel. Daniel the spaniel had been Lobster’s pet and life-friend. The two had chased cars and perps for nearly fifteen years. The death of Daniel was one of the reasons why Detective Lobster wasn’t taking on any new clients.

“I lost my license,” Lobster said, revealing the other reason he wasn’t eager to acquire new work.

“But Mr. Lobster, I don’t care about all that,” Koqteese huffed. “I need help—your help.”

Squinting, Lobster tried to tell if Koqteese had smeared her lipstick or if she had a ginger mustache. Lobster couldn’t abide mustaches.

Hell, any facial hair for that matter. Nasty stuff, facial hair, it was always soaking up soup and catching crumbs. If this dame had a mustache she really was barking up the wrong tree. Lobster told her as much:

“Lady,” he said “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Mister, what’s with you and all this dog talk?” Koqteese whined.

It was starting to dawn on her that perhaps she’d made a mistake in coming to Lobster’s office. Koqteese bringing up “dog” made Lobster think of Daniel which caused his eyes to well up with quivering tears.

“Aww, I’m sorry,” he said sniffing. “I got something in my eye, will you excuse me?”

Lobster started to get up and head for the office door, when someone starting knocking on it from the other side.

“I can’t believe I wasted my lunch hour coming down here,” Ms. Koqteese muttered to herself. She followed Detective Lobster over to the front door. She’d come with the intention of hiring Willie Lobster to find her brother, Pedro. Pedro was a good boy who’d just gotten mixed up in some very bad things.

His last job, for example, was selling used cars off Interstate-21.

“I just forgot to take my Claritin this morning,”’ Lobster told her as he whipped the tears from his eyes.

The person on the other side of the office’s door continued to obnoxiously hammer away at the door.

“Alright, alright,” Lobster grunted as he opened the door. “What? Whattdya want?”

Standing in the hallway was a man wearing a rubber banana costume. His tan face poked out from the costume’s round face-hole.

“You Lobster?” the banana man asked.

“Who wants to know?” Lobster said. Again, the Detective had to squint because he’d left his glasses at home.

“Me.”

“Me who?”

“The Top Banana.”

Koqteese’s mouth fell open and her eyes widened. Before the banana man could see her, she ducked behind the door.

“Look, I’ll tell ya what I just told that lady with the stash,” Lobster began. “I’m not accepting any new clients…”

Before Detective Lobster could finish, the man in the banana costume punched him right in the gut. Detective Lobster didn’t have a large gut, but he was middle aged and had very little will power when it came to pasta and savory crepes.

These things tended to add up over time.

“Oof!” Lobster groaned and doubled over.

Staring down at the banana’s feet, Lobster could see a pair of blurry Nikes. There were a few flecks of white powder on them. Lobster noticed the powder because as he gasped for air his eyes narrowed and the world momentarily jumped into focus.

“Jesus…” Lobster wheezed. “Are…you…in…a…fuckin…banana…costume?”

“Hey man, you see me judging you?” the banana man asked.

“Good…point…”

“Look, I gotta split, but before I do remember what the Top Banana says—you listening?”

Detective Lobster shook his head.

“Stay outta the Sunbelt. That’s Banana Town, ya dig?”

Lobster grunted and said, “Oh, is that all? Of course…Sunbelt…stay out…got it.”

It should be noted that Detective Lobster had no idea what the banana man was talking about. But Lobster knew, from years of experience, that one never argues with a costumed bandit. A costume tended to lower one’s social inhibitions, allowing most folk to do things they’d normally know better than to do.

“Oh shit,” the banana man said, suddenly erupting into laughter. “I fucking said ‘split.’ That shit was not intentional, I assure you. I ain’t that wack!”

“No,” Lobster said, still gasping for breath. “Of course you’re not…that wack.”

“Alright Lobster, remember—I got my eye on you.”

And with that the banana man turned and fled down into the darkened hallway. Just as the rubber-suited attacked had disappeared from view, Lobster got his wind back.

SCATTERSHOT READERS YOU CHOOSE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT:

DOES LOBSTER GRAB A TOILET PLUNGER ?

OR

DOES LOBSTER GO BUY A TACO?

VOTE IN THE COMMENTS!!!

Acquired Taste(s)

As a child, I never understood it when an adult would say something was an "acquired taste." If you tried something and didn't like it that should it...end of story. Why would I need to try something many times in order to like it?

And yet, as I've gotten older (read: fatter/grayer) I've discovered that there are many things that I know love that a long time ago I didn't like.

Olives. Olives are a good example of this. When I was a kid I wouldn't go near an olive. I don't even remember trying them and not liking them...I just didn't like them. I guess it was because the black ones, when sliced and put on a pizza, look a bit like shriveled bugs. Yuck, who wants THAT in their mouth?

Coffee. I used to think coffee was the biggest con adults played on children. Every morning my parents would wake up literally CRAVING the stuff. But what was so special about it? It tasted like dirty water. Any drink you have to "dress up" with sugar and milk can't be all that great to begin with, right? But over time (and many late-night "study" sessions) I've come to love coffee. In fact, when I'm working on one of my novels I tend to drink a pot a day. And I wonder why my teeth are so yellow...speaking of which...

Cigarettes. Cigarettes are fantastic. I won't lie kids--smoking kills and I don't do it anymore, but nicotine is the shit. The euphoria one gets from a puff off a fag can't be beat. And that first puff of the day? Forget about it. I've written about my history with smoking (go look it up) so I'll spare you the details about how I initially was skeptical about tobacco. Needless to say, if you do it enough you "acquire" the taste (read: develop a crippling addiction).

Beer. See a pattern here? Everything that's horrible/terrible for you seems to be an acquired taste. Maybe saying something is an "acquired taste" is just our way of saying "please let me kill myself in peace"? Anyway, beer used to taste pretty shitty to me but now I really enjoy beer (tastes just as good coming back up, too).

Ham. Growing up, my sister Amber and I were pretty much opposed to all forms of pork (with the notable exception of bacon) . Over the past few years though, my stance on bacon has softened a bit. Just this past weekend I ordered a pizza with ham and pineapple on it. And I love a good pulled pork sandwich. I'm not sure what happened exactly...one day I just said to myself "Ah hell, I'll give pork another chance." I'm still not a fan of the pork chop, however.

Diet Soda. If there's a better example of "acquired taste" I don't know what it is. Growing up I INSISTED on drinking regular soda (I have the gut to prove it). About a year ago my wife snookered me into trying a carb diet (read: eat nothing delicious). I was so desperate for soda that I let her convince me to try drinking diet soda. And guess what? After three months of no sugar, COKE Zero tasted pretty damn good. Now I can't drink the regular stuff (too sweet).

I feel like we can program our taste buds. The diet soda example is pretty good proof of this. As a child the psychology what we like or don't like is probably just as much a factor as ACTUAL taste. Like the ham I just decided to give "another shot," the things that are acquired tastes don't change. We change. An acquired taste basically when you "stop worrying and learn to love the ham. "

Hey, Remember Screensavers?

I was introduced to computers fairly early in life. They were large, beige colored boxes that for the most part held little interest for me. I mean, there's only so much use for a massive calculator when you have grass stained knees and a snot nose.

Somewhere around the end of my elementary school daze I ended up at my mother's work--home to many computers. I remember being fascinated with PegLeg, a Galaga-style space shooter, and with her STAR TREK screensaver.

Pre-the-world-is-ending-because-we're-energy-hogs, people liked to waste electricity by leaving their computers on all the time. Monitors weren't as good and screen-burn was apparently a real problem (I've only see it on ATM screens and CCTV monitors). Her Mac would instantly fire up the screensaver if you put the pointer in the far corner and didn't touch the mouse for a few moments.

Over-pixelated clown fish chugged their way through a blurry seafoam "fish tank." I was enthralled with screensavers. They were somewhere between cartoons and video games when it came to entertainment. The STAR TREK screensaver suite my mom bought had a number of really cool screensavers. There was one where the screen slowly filled up with tribbles (who multiply like rabbits). There was another one where the Enterprise drifted along the screen as the Tholian Web slowly unfurled around it--trapping the ship. I also saw a really funny Three Stooges screensaver ("ya knucklehead!").

A few years later (actually a lot later) I decided my Dell laptop needed a Matrix-like screensaver. I foolishly decided to not pay for said screensaver, but instead just find a free one online. Needless to say, I got my screensaver--and a host of trojans and other Internet nasties. Here it is, 2010 and I'm on my third computer...and you know what? I don't use screensavers.

I don't know very many people who still use them. Most people (such as myself) have their computers set up to just got black. No more clownfish. No more tribbles. No more Matrix scrawls.

Part of me misses screensavers. I'm sure there are people reading this who still use them, but for the most part, they've vanished from my world. Kinda makes me wonder what other things will vanish.

Your Favorite Song Plays Forever: PET SOUNDS

"They say I got brains, but they ain't doing me no good, I wish they could..."

I fucking hate "Kokomo."

Thanks to "Kokomo," whenever I say things like "The Beach Boys kick-ass" people think I'm joking. Or out of my fucking mind.

But back in the 1960's, before the dust had settled (and Brian Wilson completely lost his mind) The Beach Boys were in direct competition with The Beatles. History tells us that The Beatles were able to surpass The Beach Boys, and ultimately became the greatest rock band in history (arguably) but that outcome wasn't always certain. At one time, The Beach Boys had The Beatles on the run.

The year was 1965, and The Beatles had just released their first truly "grown-up" record REVOLVER. A non-touring, drug addled Brian Wilson listened to what the fab four had done and was moved. The Beatles had crafted an album whose parts added up to a (somewhat) larger whole. Rather than play by the traditional album rules where a handful of singles were anchored by "filler," REVOLVER was a full album of complex, interesting songs. Challenged by what he heard, Wilson decided to roll up his sleeves and top what the Englishmen had done.

Several months later in May of 1966, The Beach Boys released PET SOUNDS.

Although it carries the name "Beach Boys," PET SOUNDS may as well be a Brian Wilson solo record. Wilson had been toying with going solo, and the majority of the songs on PET SOUNDS were written and arranged by Wilson and his then-collaborator Tony Asher. While the rest of the band toured Japan and Hawaii, Wilson and Asher toiled in the studios.

When I say "Beach Boys" I bet you think surfing, cars, girls, and "fun, fun, fun" right? While those things are...well...fun, they don't really strike an emotional chord deep within the soul. When I'm feeling sad because the world is unfair or I'm having problems with the woman I love, I don't want to hear about some bitch's T-bird.

And when I doubt myself and the direction my life is taking, I don't want to hear "Kokomo." Actually, there's never a time when I want to hear "Kokomo."

I want to hear PET SOUNDS.

PET SOUNDS is one man taking a knife and gutting his soul. With bitchin' harmonies and an intricate, crazy-ass production. I'm not ashamed to say that I've listened to PET SOUNDS over 100 times in the past 6 months (which is when I "discovered" it by accident). I'm also perfectly willing to admit (as a BEATLE-MANIAC) that PET SOUNDS is 1000% better than SGT. PEPPER (which was the album Paul and John crafted after hearing PET SOUNDS).

PET SOUNDS is full of self-realization ("That's Not Me"), rejection of selfishness ("I Know There's An Answer"), and the awe one feels in the presence of love...not that bullshit kind you see in movies, but the actual thing ("God Only Knows" one of the first commercial songs to feature "God" in the title).

PET SOUNDS lets me know that it's okay that I'm not perfect, and that I'm not alone when I feel loneliness and disappointment ("I Guess I Just Wasn't Made For These Times" a fantastic song about trying and failing to fit in). SGT. PEPPER is a damn fine record, but if I was despondent, it wouldn't stop me from killing myself--but PET SOUNDS would. PET SOUNDS is like that older brother who sees you're having trouble and takes you aside and says "Look, I've been there...it'll get better...probably."

Sure, there are a few "throw-away" tracks. Things that the record company insisted Wilson add to increase sales (like the cover of the West Indies traditional song "Sloop John B" and the sadly immature "Wouldn't It Be Nice"). But overall, PET SOUNDS as a whole, cohesive unit, is about one man pouring his guts out--the ugliness, the insecurity, the doubt. PET SOUNDS is love, disappointment, and modern-day confusion. I feel all these things almost every day.

The love songs of PET SOUNDS are (with the glaring exception of "Wouldn't It Be Nice") vastly more mature than anything else on the radio at the time. Songs like "You Still Believe in Me" (about recognizing a partner's loyalty and patience even when you've acted less-than-stellar) and "God Only Knows" are realistic examinations of love and relationships.

What does SGT. PEPPER offer the listener? The album has been hailed for decades as a "concept album," but I ask you--what is that concept? Is it that The Beatles are pretending to be this other/fake band and the record is supposed to "be" Sgt. Pepper and his band (and not The Beatles)? That may have been the album's conceit, but other than the first two songs (and the reprise just before the end) there is little else on the record that functions as "another band's song."

For me, SGT. PEPPER is an amazingly intricate rock record. It's the greatest band ever at the top of their game. But to call SGT. PEPPER a unified work of art is a bit much. PET SOUNDS has a few tracks that aren't quite "on program," but in general, I find it much more cohesive than The Beatles album.

And those tracks that do "stray" from the theme of loneliness and self-reflection were forced upon Wilson (ala "Sloop John B") to sell more records--and make PET SOUNDS "more commercial." But being more thematic than SGT. PEPPER isn't all that makes it better, in my opinion. While it can be said that PET SOUNDS was not 100% Brian Wilson (and his immense will), Wilson was not Paul McCartney--he didn't have John Lennon sitting beside him when he crafted his record.

With two geniuses in The Beatles (although there were three, though at the time George was still hiding in the shadow of Lennon/McCartney) SGT. PEPPER should be twice as fantastic and thought provoking as PET SOUNDS...and quite frankly, it's not.

The Beatles made more classic albums, but for a brief 37 minutes, one man trumped them. The next time you're at a place where music is sold, for crying out loud do yourself a favor and pick-up the greatest piece of pop music of all time. Pick-up PET SOUNDS.

Happy. Apples.

As the weather gets a little cooler and the leaves begin to turn colors...the Happy Apples return to the store shelves.

I love Fall. I like how cool it gets (not too hot, not too cold). I like how the bugs go away (yuk). I like the back-to-school sales.

But I LOVE Happy Apples. When the apple harvest comes in, the farmers (i.e. the good folks over at Happy Apples Inc.) dip their precious fruit into creamy caramel and kissed with peanuts (or sprinkles if you prefer).

Last week my wife and I found the Happy Apples at our local supermarket--and I was in heaven. I haven't always been a H.A. super-fan, but for the past two years I've been more hard "core" about eating them. There's something special about fruit covered with candy, which is then covered with nuts. I think if I could eat only one thing, for the rest of my life, I'd choose Happy Apples.

The first bite is always a challenge, where to begin? Should I start in a nut-free bald spot? Or should I take "the plunge" and bite into that massive cluster of peanutty-goodness? Decisions, decisions. Maybe this sort of thing isn't your thing...I can understand. But for me, there's nothing better in life.

Happy Apples are also a really good way to trick kids into eating fruit. I always eat more of the apple than I would if it weren't slathered in sugar and nuts.

What else can I say? It's the food of the Gods! Oh Happy Apples, if I weren't married already...I'd marry you (and then eat you). I'm not sure anyone can truly understand the depth of my love for this sweet autumnal treat...

Seriously though, I've decided to keep track of how many I eat this year (so far six). The apples tend to vanish from the store shelves just before Thanksgiving. I think I can eat 50, I think that's a legitimate goal.

I'm going to keep working out (this is week four working out at the gym) but I'm also going to focus on eating Happy Apples.

ALSO, DON'T FORGET TO CHECK OUT THE SCATTERSHOT PODCAST! NEW EPISODE POSTING SATURDAY AUGUST 28, 2010!!!

Dear Creepy-Ass Personal Trainer at My Gym

Dear Creepy-Ass Personal Trainer at My Gym,

Hi. Wow, this is awkward.

Okay, so I get it that you're in better shape than I am. I really, really, really get it. Your size XXS T-shirt looks fantastic (wow your nipples are big). You have a very square, tough-guy jaw. I guess, if I wasn't such a lazy bastard, and if I didn't like food so much...I'd want to be just like you.

BUT--I kinda want you to leave me the fuck alone.

I know, I know...I get a free session once a month. I realize that I'm paying for this service, but I want you to stay the hell away from me "bro." See, I got two rules: I don't trust people that are taller than me AND I don't trust people who have necks wider than their heads.

When you came up to me, while I was on the elliptical and started talking to me about my shorts...yeah, that freaked me the fuck out. I kinda wanted to punch you and then run away.

So, no. I don't want my free session this month or next month. That whole "don't call me, I'll call you" thing? Yeah. Just keep waiting for that call bro.

Sincerely,

Jason

Smoking

Growing up, I never imagined that I'd be a smoker. Both my parents smoked when I was younger, and I hated it. Smoking was glamorous like it is in the movies--it was messy and smelly. The idea of being addicted to something (other than Pepsi) was also very repugnant to me.

The thought of "trying" it out never occurred to me, until one night while I was at work. Now, this was back in my security guard days (of course, everything terrible is from this period in my life). I had to relieve the guard who was working in the guard booth, who was a notorious smoker.

Actually, come to think of it, all of the guys smoked.

UH-OH! Peer pressure!

When I got to the booth, I caught my fellow guard sleeping. Well, to tell you the truth, I scared the shit out of him. He jumped about ten feet in the air when I knocked on the door. It was pretty funny because he was about 65 years old. He tried to play it off like he wasn't sleeping (the cardinal sin of guarding) so I played along and said nothing. In in his haste to get back inside (because it was cold and because he was embarrassed I caught him sleeping) he forgot some of his things.

One of the things he forgot was his newspaper. The other was a single cigar.

I found it an hour later while I was reading the papers (i.e. the funnies). It was wrapped in plastic, but it still smelled fantastic. When I'd worked at Walgreen's I'd loved the tobacco aisle where we kept all the cigars and pipe tobacco. The smells were all so colorful and delicious. Of course, I knew if I put a flame to the cigar it would go from smelling like exotic spices to odor of cat turds.

Still, the smell was intoxicating. I put the cigar in my pocket and forgot all about it--until I got home. Since I worked the graveyard shift, everyone in my family was gone or going when I got home. An hour after everyone had left I crept upstairs to my parent's room and scrounged up a lighter from my father's sock drawer (yes, that's where he used to keep spare lighters).

I went out onto the back porch and unwrapped the cigar, feeling like an outlaw. Tossing the wrapping aside, I put one end in my mouth and lit the other end (this was a cheap cigar, no need to cut the end off). To my surprise, the smoke didn't smell all that bad. I took a few puffs then stomped the thing out.

Smoking was overrated, I thought.

A few nights later I got in a fight with my folks (which was common in those days) and on my way to work I decided to buy a pack of smokes. It was kind of a "I'll show them! I'll slowly develop lung cancer!" As immature as that sounds, it's probably the best reason to start smoking. I puffed on a cigarette on the way to work and again on my lunch break. For some reason I just didn't get why people smoked. I mean it wasn't really all that great, just smelly and expensive.

I decided to try one more on the way home. With one hand on the wheel, I lit a cigarette (a Camel by the way) and stuck it to my lips. I was about to take a puff when I hit one of Kansas City's world-famous potholes. The sudden jolt interrupted my puff and I inhaled (for the first time) by accident.

Suddenly, my head my swimming and I knew why people smoked! I'd been doing it wrong! It took me a few attempts to replicated my inhale, but once I figured it out I became a smoking fiend.

Eventually I made a few attempts to quit, but it wasn't until I got married that I was able to quit for good.

Amazon.com: KINDLE, now only $0.75

E-readers are the future (or so I'm told). As a writer, I'm a little bummed at the idea of owning digital files as opposed to a physical book that I can put up on my shelf. On the other hand, modern books are made pretty cheaply and don't last "forever" like older books.

So maybe digital files are the way to go. I don't know.

What I do know is, Amazon.com's Kindle is the leading e-book reader on the market. The only other reader I can think of (besides the iPAD, which does so much more I don't think of it as an e-reader) is the Nook (Barnes & Noble's in-house e-reader).

The Kindle seems to be doing for e-books what Apple's iPOD did for MP3's. And much like Apple's fantastically successful music player, the Kindle keeps getting updates/upgrades. It seems like every time I log into Amazon.com I'm informed of some new-and-improved version of the Kindle (which I can PRE-ORDER NOW!).

As annoying as that is (why should I buy something that will be better in a few months?) what's even MORE annoying are the near daily emails I get regarding the PRICE of the Kindle. I wake up, take a shower, and then I go into my office and check my email. Usually I have about three to five emails every morning. One is from Groupon (a daily online coupon/deal-of-the-day), one from Careerbuilder.com (from my unemployed days), one is from 1-800-flowers (because I like to send flowers), and finally I have between one to two emails from Amazon.com.

Now, I realize that I could unsubscribe from all of these daily emails/spam. But I'm lazy. And I like getting mail (sorry, I'm lame). The Amazon.com and the Groupon emails have the potential to actually be useful to me, so I wouldn't want to opt out of either of them of anyway.

BUT, the Amazon.com emails are annoying because it seems like once a week I'm told that the Kindle has dropped in price.

"Amazon.com: KINDLE now only $139!"

It seems that the price of this thing is constantly dropping, to quote Mr. Dogg, like "it's hot." I imagine a day will come where I'll wake up and see that the Kindle has dropped in price so much, that'll it'll be free (and on it's way to my house!).

I remember there was some controversy surrounding the release of the last iPhone when the price dropped dramatically just after the product's launch. I'm sure there's a very good, sound economical reason for lowering the price of high-end consumer electronics shortly after the product comes out...but I don't get it.

"Amazon.com: KINDLE now only $0.00 (we took the initiative and just mailed you one, Jason...you're welcome)!!!"

Word Addiction: A Brief History of My One True Love

Even if she wasn’t a huge reader herself, my mother knew the importance of making me fall in love with books. At an early age I was given a handful of little plastic-bound tomes to sift through so that I might learn the building blocks of what would eventually become my first real addiction. Had the doctors allowed such a thing, she might have brought some into the delivery room and put them in my tiny, placenta-covered hands to jumpstart the process. But, as was her fashion, she stuck to the rules and waited until we got home.

By the time I was in kindergarten, I knew the alphabet, and thus was bored to death as my teacher, Mrs. Young, showed videotapes of little cartoon consonants and vowels acting as though they were people. Instead of watching to figure out how a group of sans-serif individuals could befriend one another to make simple words, I resorted to looking out windows and staring at walls, wishing that I were at home.

That next year, during a parent-teacher conference, my teacher refused to believe that I could read a storybook deemed beyond what a first-grader was able to do. My parents disagreed, and so in a battle of wills, it was agreed upon that I would be forced to read the book in class. Aloud. In front of everyone. All in all, the book was pretty easy. It had to do with a star or a baby lion or something along those lines. Nothing beyond Charlotte’s Web or anything by Judith Viorst or even a James Patterson novel, for that matter. Still, I got up in front of my class and got about five pages in, a little more than halfway through the book, when my teacher told me that that was enough. “That’s all we have time for today,” she said, sending me back to my seat.

Throughout the rest of my grade school years I took an insane pleasure from copying down words and learning to spell, and on our visits to the school library my friends would find me salivating like a dog waiting on the promise of a treat. Every few months when my teachers would hand out the leaflets for a new Scholastic Book Fair, I would treasure it, worrying the edges with my fingers and taking in each title’s little synopsis with what amounted, back then, to ecstasy.

It wasn’t until middle school that I began to learn the joys of writing myself. Before then, my knowledge of composition had been limited to basic school reports, which were cookie-cut and had all the flexibility of a back brace. My first attempts at writing for fun were transcriptions of video games I’d played, scribbled in pencil in my school notebooks. Then came fantasies about spaceships from television shows like Star Trek scouring the galaxy for adventure. No one saw these. Not even my mother, who tried peering over my shoulder to see what I was up to, sitting at my desk, my back to my bedroom door, hunched over with one hand hidden and working furiously at something. Looking back, I suppose the concern she displayed might have been at the mistaken notion that I, at twelve years old, had prematurely discovered the fun that is masturbation.

From my space-bound adventures, I transitioned into more humorous fare. Namely, a collection of stories that concerned my friend and classmate Tiffany, who would make me laugh with her made-up recollections about living in a Mexican hut with a feline named HeyCat. The stories came out in a frenzy of excitement that was ushered in when I showed the first one to my language arts teacher, Mrs. Althoff, who would sit at her desk and read them, laughing occasionally against the hush of the classroom. The sound of her laughing was like a drug, and so I set out like a junkie looking for my fix.

At this time, books too became more adventurous, as I reached beyond the children’s fare of Judy Blume and Louis Sachar and into the deeper waters of Lowis Lowry and Rodman Philbrick, both of whom demonstrated a fascinating ability to achieve in me an emotional reaction. I read my first Stephen King novel my last year of eighth grade.

Throughout the rest of middle school and into high school, writing became more than just a hobby. I felt as though I had been called to write, and I took the mantle of doing so with all the seriousness and gravitas capable of a slightly overweight teenage boy into writing stories about talking Mexican cats and intergalactic spaceships. Stories stretched and reached for things which they had never attempted before. Characters grew larger as explosions diminished; humor took a backseat to my crazy, wild-eyed attempts at lassoing the same emotional power that I could see authors wielding in their works.

College brought on courses in creative writing, which introduced me to people who had the same desires as me. It felt refreshing to be in a room full of people who I imagined got the same thrill out of crating a well-worded sentence as me, even if in reality few of them actually enjoyed writing as much as they enjoyed having one less elective course to add to next semester’s schedule.

When I came into a class called Practical Criticism — a course dedicated to the routine dissection of stories, as if they were frogs — I first met Jason Wendleton, the coauthor of this blog. By the end of the semester we had struck up a friendship, one that I’m 98.6 percent certain remains to this day. Part of the draw was the mutual attraction to the limitless possibilities of writing. The magic of creation. The power of good prose. And, of course, our strong aversion to looking for real jobs.

After college was finished for Jason and myself — he with his genuine UM-St. Louis English degree and me with my still-in-progress dual major in Laziness and Procrastination — we started talking about our mutual desire to start putting our works out into the world. Seeing as neither of us had any major publications aside from some of Jason’s columns for The Current, the college newspaper, and a short story I’m managed to weasel into the UM-St. Louis LitMag, we decided to start a blog: this very one.

It is hard to believe how quickly time can pass. As most people do, I think the process gets quicker each year. It was approximately 365 days ago that Jason and I founded this little blog, this scattershot collection of random trinkets and pieces of work that remind us (or remind me, anyway) of why it is that writing draws us in like it does. It takes me beyond the ordinary, and it fills in the little gaps in life with things that I would never hope to accomplish. Through writing, both my own and others’, I have seen this world and more, lived years in other people’s lives.

My crazes for caffeine, candy, and fast food have all come and gone with relative ease, but the one thing that always draws me back, even when I try my hardest to ignore it, is the written word. When I sit down to write, I am reminded of the sheer power of imagination, and the everyday magic of creation. That, and it gives me the hope that, one day, I won’t have to have a real job.

Happy birthday, Scattershot.

Happy Birthday SCATTERSHOT, You Bitch...

Believe it or not, but this blog hasn't been as much work as I thought it would be. One post a week, every week for a year sounds like it might be a lot but its been quite manageable.

Of course there have been a lot of goofy ass pictures.

On this historic occasion, the one year anniversary of SCATTERSHOT, I want to first off congratulate my co-author Mike. Not only has Mike delivered each and every week (for a whole year!) but some of those posts were actually pretty good!

I kid. I kid.

Thought provoking? Hilarious? Insightful?

Check. Check. And Check.

I couldn't ask for a better co-author. Look, Mike's as busy as I am okay? He's got a lot of toenails to clip and salsa to make (with his feet) so the fact that he's hung in there for a whole year is really to be commended. I knew that we could PHYSICALLY do the blog, but I wasn't sure if we could do it MENTALLY.

Does that make sense?

Writing is my one great love (after Leah of course). I liken it to mowing the lawn. I don't like mowing the lawn, but I LOVE getting to relax after I've gone out and worked in the heat. Nothing tastes better than that first cold drink. Nothing feels better than that icy shower. Writing, for me, is like that. The act of writing is hard--it's a struggle that if I had my druthers, I'd just go ahead and skip. But without writing, I couldn't taste that cool, delicious victory. I wouldn't be able to savor that inner warmth that comes from completing a post (or a novel, which by the way, not to toot my own horn, but I finished my third a few weeks ago).

Loyal Wendleton-ites will no doubt know the story behind SCATTERSHOT. How I had another blog, where I bitched about so much personal shit that I ended up pissing off a bunch of people. This blog only pisses off the Westboro people, and honestly...what doesn't piss them off???

What does the future hold for SCATTERSHOT? Probably another year of semi-intelligent personal narratives and slightly humorous cartoons. I've always wanted to do a podcast and two weekends ago I brought it up with Mike (over really greasy hamburgers). He seemed excited by the idea, but it could have just been gas. I'm too stupid to figure it out...but if someone wants to call Mike and tell him how to set up a podcast I WILL BE THERE with my viking hat on!!!

Anyway, I would have quit a long time ago, were it not for Mike's perseverance. I actually thought about pulling a press conference "I am IRON MAN!" and announce in this post that I was done. But I can't quit, can I?

I love it too much.

Happy Birthday SCATTERSHOT. You bitch.

SCATTERSHOT Blog VS. The Westboro Baptist Church

Back in March, I first actually saw the nutcases from the Westboro Baptist Church live and in person. My wife and I were attending An Evening With Kevin Smith out in Kansas City. Unfortunately for Smith (and us) K.C. Missouri is much too close to Kansas, which is where these vermin hail from.

There were quite a few of them, as I recall, holding their "God Hates America" and "God Hates Fags" signs. They were protesting Smith because of his film DOGMA I guess.

See, that's the first problem I have with these people at the Westboro Baptist Church--their message is so random. It's almost like a child, or someone with a child-like mind, put their whole message together.

For example, they've recently added a sign to their protests that feature a drawing of the Gulf of Mexico with a giant oil blot on it that reads "Gods Wrath" or "Thank God for His Wrath." I don't recall exactly what it says, but the point is this: the BP oil spill is God's way of punishing us.

Yikes. And what is "He" punishing us for? Well the gays of course. Don't you see? Doesn't that make complete sense?

Yeah, I don't get it either. I don't get the whole "Thank God for dead soldiers" either. So, our boys in the military are dead...and it's all because we're not locking people for being gay? I mean, last I checked, this country isn't exactly the most open-minded/progressive when it comes to sexual orientation.

OH MAN!!! Imagine the oil spill we'd get if DID legalize gay marriage! I bet God would make it RAIN oil. Hmm...maybe we should do it just to solve this pesky energy crisis. But I digress...

So I'm a closet Lady Gaga fan. Even though I freely admit to liking a wide variety of music, Gaga (when she first came out) was a bit of a guilty pleasure for me. Now that she continues to put out interesting music and music videos (not to mention have wacky-ass fashion sense) I can be a bit more open about my feels for Gaga. She's not a one-hit-wonder but more of a cultural force of nature.

Lady Gaga, however, made one fatal mistake--she doesn't hate the gays. So Fred Phelps and his hate mongers decided to stage a protest at her July 17 St. Louis show. Because I didn't have a job for so long, we couldn't go to the show...but my wife found out about a counter-protest that sounded interesting.

I've never been one to shy away from confrontation, so of course I wanted to go. One thing that really bums me out about the Westboro nuts (or any nuts really) is that they ARE A VERY VOCAL MINORITY. I truly believe that most people are inherently good, and are repulsed by their "God hates Fags" rhetoric. Which is why a counter-protest is actually very important: it lets everyone know (for sure) that there are more decent people in the world.

I contacted my co-author, Mike, who agreed to join us outside the Scotttrade Center to protest the protesters. Early in the afternoon, Mike and I went to Walgreens where his "freedom debit card" purchased four pieces of "free speech poster board." Two neon green. Two neon pink. Then we went over to one of Leah's social work friend's house to make our sign. I initially wanted to just let Leah make my sign...but then I thought about and decided to do the right thing and put my creative mind to good use.

I needed a gimmick, something that would startle people into reading my sign, but at the same time parody the religious idiocy the Phelps crew use to justify their hate. I knew I was wearing my Viking hat to the protest, because Leah said I could (and she never lets me wear it in public). And thus, after a few minutes of thinking...and protest sign was born:

We drove downtown and found the streets choked with people. A Cardinals game and just let out (which the Phelps people also protested, apparently). By the time we got to the arena, we were sure both protests would be well under way. Gaga's fans (dubbed "little monsters") were out in droves.

But where were the Phelps protesters? We actually walked all the way around the arena before finding them. There were, just as I thought, more counter-protesters than Phelps-people. Now here is what pisses me off--leading up to the show there were many stories written online in the local media about the "Planned Westboro Protest." The media are more than happy to give these fuckers a platform to stand on. What is NEVER reported is how few of these people actually show up (unless the event is nearer to Kansas). There were only SIX people holding signs across the street, behind a little police barricade.

Leah's sign was simpler and more to the point.

What was also cool--Mike and I ran into our old friend Colin who was running one of what turned out to be two counter-protests:

Two protests? And only six people on the other side? It was pathetic. It was basically no contest, Westboro was out gunned (there were around 100 on our side). My sign got the reaction I wanted (a few head shakes, many requests for pictures) which made me happy, but the fact that so few people actually showed up to protest a pop-singer made me happier.

Can you even see them?

This man's sign beat mine in the "WTF?" category. But I still won for best headgear.

Here's a video that you HAVE to watch covering the event. We all made "the cut" as it were...and so did my little SCATTERSHOT advertisement (special thanks to Mike for finding this one online):

I was also filmed from afar (with Mike) in this random clip Leah found on YouTube: