Cannabis, crime and THE BIG WINK

My crime novel THE BIG WINK is looking more and more like a snapshot of history. On Tuesday, the City Council in Redding, CA, voted to ban medical marijuana dispensaries, effective Dec. 1.

I wrote THE BIG WINK while we were living in Redding in 2009. It was a wild time in Northern California, with everyone jumping on the medical marijuana bandwagon while the feds looked the other way. Thirty dispensaries opened in the city, and thousands of people got medical recommendations that allowed them to legally smoke pot. Everyone, it seemed, was scrambling around, trying to find a way to cash in on the Green Wave.

Perfect setting for a crime novel. Into this mix, I introduced a crew of robbers led by hardened local criminal Ray Bunch. My fictional gang knocked over half a dozen dispensaries, stealing cash and weed that could be resold on the street. But during one hold-up, a prominent banker gets shot. Suddenly, the news media, the cops and advocates on all sides of the cannabis issue are focused on Redding and the robberies.

I'm very proud of THE BIG WINK. I think it's one of my best novels, and it's garnered five-star reviews. But soon it may no longer reflect the real world. If the City Council's ban holds up against the lawsuits to come, the dispensaries will disappear and potheads (and legitimate medical users) will go back to buying off the street.

Read the news story here. And, please, read The BIG WINK. Only $2.99 on Kindle, Smashwords and other e-book platforms.

Self-help yourself to a new self

Recently spied on my Internet service provider’s home page: “Best Swimsuit for Your Horoscope.”

That, ladies and gentlemen, may be the ideal headline for our times. If only they could’ve worked in the word “rehab” somewhere, it would’ve been perfect.

What in blue blazes could horoscopes have to do with bikinis? I don’t know. I tried to go to that page, but I got one of those “Error: Page Not Found” messages, which means it was busy because everyone else on the planet was looking at that page right then.

Anyway, the content doesn’t matter (and that’s another lesson for our times). What matters is the beauty of that headline, which manages to stir several of our darkest fears in a mere five words. Genius.

In women, especially, nothing stimulates the “fight or flight” response like the word “swimsuit.” Flashbacks of dressing room disasters are enough send most folks into a whinnying panic. And, oh, the horror of “horoscope,” the thought that our actions are governed by the alignment of distant stars rather than random human stumbling. As if the stars would allow us to be this messed up if they were in charge. As if they’d concern themselves with swimsuits.

We face a blizzard of self-help tips every day. Everywhere we turn -- TV, Internet, newspaper, so-called friends, every magazine under the sun -- we’re shown ways we should improve. These articles and ads and advisements become a steady drumbeat of criticism, telling us we’re too fat, unhealthy, boring, short, shy, predictable, lowbrow, high-falutin’, clumsy, drunk, fat, shallow, rude, vain, weak, small-breasted, big-boned, curly, shemp, fat, happy, grumpy, dopey, stressed-out, sleepless, fat, crazy, lazy, hazy, prone to making lists, etc.

There’s such a flurry of self-help that disparate bits of advice are bound to collide into unlikely pairings such as “Best Swimsuit for Your Horoscope.”

Here are some more possibilities:

Best Automobile for Your Cottage-Cheese Thighs

Lose Weight the Black & Decker Way

Kicking the Rehab Habit

Your Child and the All-Cabbage Diet

Best Negligee for Halftime

The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Nuns

Grapefruits and Gunpowder: The Diet With Kick

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Thumb Disease

Exercise Your Right to Make Lefts

Nude Gardening for Seniors

Oprah’s Hardware Helpline

Best Wurst for Your Waistline

Celebrity Dating Secrets and Your Front Lawn

Two Syndromes: Irritable Bowel and China

Are Obscure Movie References Right For You?

How to Stalk Paparazzi

Best Underwear for Schoolyard Wedgies

Internet Romance Cures Eczema

Gum-Cracking for Amateur Astronomers and Their Moms

The Rehab Diet: Lose 20 Pounds While Getting Some “Me Time”

Sleepwalking Through Wal-Mart Fights Heart Disease

Do-It-Yourself Plastic Surgery

Worst Pickup Lines by “Poets” Who Wear Sunglasses Indoors and Who Should Really Go to a Tanning Booth or Something. Duh.

The Tarot of Plumbing

Never Show “The Buddy Holly Story” as the In-flight Movie and Other Airline Secrets

Wok This Way: Cooking With Aerosmith

Wardrobe Tips From the Patients of Ward “B”

Bird-Watching for Dollars

Improve the Feng Shui of Your Office Environment With Sod

Lovemaking Secrets of Civil War Re-Enactors

The Summer Quilting Diet

Best Chia Pet for Your Limo

Packing to Leave: Divorce, U-Haul and a Chainsaw

What to Do If Your Date Emits Greenhouse Gases

Driving Tips From Dieting Celebrities Who Survived Ugly Divorces and Adopted Homeless Pets, All While Remodeling Kitchens in the Nude

And, finally, of course: Best Horoscope For Your Swimsuit. In Rehab.

Dialing for coffee

The scene: Early summer morning. One spouse is at home, surrounded by all the modern communications gear a man could want. The other spouse is out running errands, and she has a cell phone in her purse.

The husband, sweaty in his workout duds, comes in from the three-car oven where the family keeps its fancy treadmill/torture machine.

The coffee pot is nearly empty, and he goes to make another pot and, oh my Lord, there’s no coffee. How did this happen? There’s always extra coffee stashed around the house. But a quick search turns up nothing. Out of coffee. That’s all there is to it.

No problem. He’ll simply use his modern communications equipment to contact his wife, who can make a quick stop by the market on her way home. He can exist without coffee until she gets here, and he won’t have to actually get dressed.

He dials, but gets voicemail. He leaves a message: “Hi, hon. It’s me. We’re out of coffee. Can you pick some up while you’re out? Thanks.”

OK, he thinks, she left the phone in the car. No big deal. She’ll get the message. He’ll get coffee. Eventually.

But what if she doesn’t get the message? Maybe she’ll forget to check. She’ll come all the way home, and have to go right back out again. Or, worse, he’ll have to go.

Through the miracle of redial, he calls every few minutes, hoping to catch her at that magic moment when she’s actually in the supermarket. He leaves a message each time so she won’t think all the hang-ups are some sort of emergency signal that means he’s fallen off a ladder.

“Hi, hon. Hope you got my message. About the coffee. Call and let me know.”

“Me again. Just trying to catch you near the phone. About the coffee.”

“Houston, we’ve got a problem. We’re outta coffee up here. Not enough for even one pot. Please acknowledge.”

“Breaker, breaker, good buddy. We’ve got an emergency situation here. Come back. With coffee.”

“Stardate 070822. The Enterprise has … been … stricken. No … coffee. Gasp.”

“Hey, hon? This isn’t funny anymore. About the coffee? Call and let me know you got these messages. I’m down to the dregs here. I’ll put on shoes and go to the store if I have to, but since you’re already out and about and (beep)--”

“Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale. A tale of a fateful trip. They started out without coffee, and they never got a sip. They never got a sip.”

“Mayday, mayday. We’re going down. No coffee. Emergency measures taken. Drinking old decaf from last Christmas that I found in the back of the cabinet. Wish me luck. Over.”

“Houston, do you copy? It’s not working. I repeat, it’s not working. Decaf not enough to combat effects of hangover. Slipping out of consciousness. Must … lie … down.”

“Ground Control to Major Tom.”

Finally, she answers, of course, and she’s in the checkout line, coffee in hand. The miracle of modern telecommunications saves the day.

But you should see our phone bill.

Brother, can you spare some wi-fi?

If you're the sort of person who checks e-mail while you're in the shower, then this column's for you.

The nation is addicted to e-mail, perusing it around the clock and sometimes in the most inappropriate places, according to a survey by Opinion Research Corp. and America Online.

(We'll pause while you mop up the beverage that you spewed when you read that America Online, one of the nation's largest providers of Internet service, is talking about e-mail "addiction." You've still got a little something on your chin. There, that's better.)

The survey of 4,012 American adults in 20 major cities found that most rarely go more than a few hours without an e-mail "fix." They spend an average of an hour a day on e-mail, and rely on it for communication as much as they do the telephone.

The average user has 2.8 e-mail accounts, the pollsters found. They did not specify how many accounts were devoted strictly to porn.

Forty-one percent of respondents check their e-mail first thing in the morning, and 40 percent have logged on in the middle of the night. Twenty-six percent say they've never gone more than two to three days without checking their e-mail, and 60 percent use e-mail while on vacation.

A whopping 61 percent confessed to checking their personal e-mail while at work. About one in 10 say they've gotten in trouble for doing so.

All these responses fit the standard symptoms of addiction: Can't leave it alone, even when it steals time away from family and responsibilities. Always thinking about it, even losing sleep over it. Can't take a vacation without having it along. Willing to risk disciplinary action at work rather than miss the latest corny joke being circulated among your friends.

The survey found that most any location is fair game for e-mail addicts. Twelve percent admitted to checking their e-mail while in class (and we wonder why our education system makes that large flushing noise) and 8 percent dip into e-mail during business meetings. Six percent check their e-mail at the beach or a pool, thereby defeating the whole reason for going to the beach or a pool.

You'd think the bathroom would be sacrosanct, but no, four percent admit to checking their e-mail there. A bathroom does seem the appropriate place to sort through "spam."

Finally, 1 percent confessed to sneaking looks at their e-mail in church. I'm no theologian, but I'm pretty sure those people are going to Hell.

Deal 'em, HAL

We were having the carpets cleaned at our house, and I was sitting at my desk in my home office. No chance of doing anything productive with carpet-cleaning machinery roaring all around, so I was plunking away at computer Solitaire.

The carpet guy noticed and said, "Solitaire, huh? It's funny, with all the high-tech games out there, the one I see people playing most is good old Solitaire."

"It's my downfall," I said without looking away from the screen, too busy losing another game. "Keeps me from getting any work done."

"You're in good company," he said. "Everywhere I go, doctors and lawyers, everyone's playing Solitaire."

That brought me up short. Here's a guy who spends all day in other folks' offices and homes and, everywhere he goes, people are wasting time playing cards with their computers? Don't they have anything better to do?

I recently saw a good movie called "The Man from Elysian Fields." In the film, Andy Garcia plays an unsuccessful novelist (a role for which I felt a special empathy). During one tough period in the novelist's life, he's suffering from writer's block. How did the filmmakers illustrate this? They zoomed in close to his computer to show he was playing Solitaire instead of working.

A guilty titter arose from the audience, one that said, "Been there. Done that."

And all this time I thought I was the only one who wasted hours of every workday playing computer Solitaire and its evil cousin, Free Cell. Apparently, the problem is more widespread.

You might expect that people like me, those without regular jobs, would be especially susceptible to this addiction. We're in our home offices all day with no bosses looking over our shoulders.
But "doctors and lawyers?" Are attorneys spending their billable hours diddling their keyboards rather than seeking truth and justice and headline-grabbing tobacco settlements? Are doctors taking time away from patients to have "consultations" with their computers?

These days, most American workers have computers on their desks. Are they all squeezing in a few hands of Solitaire between clients? Is this why you can never get anyone to answer a business phone?

The United States has the most productive workforce on the planet. Could we be even more productive if we weren't wasting huge amounts of time playing cards? If everyone stopped playing Solitaire, maybe we could pull the economy out of its slump.

Then again, perhaps Solitaire is the cause of the slump. Maybe, after 9/11 and Enron and Iraq and the deluge of other bad news, American workers said to themselves, "Whew, I can't take it anymore. Maybe a few quiet games of Solitaire will lift my spirits . . . "

Next thing you know, the economy's in the toilet.

You don't have to be completely paranoid to take this even further, though it helps. Computer Solitaire could be a terrorist plot to wreck our productivity. Or, it could be Bill Gates' secret plan to take over the world economy.

That "irrational exuberance" Alan Greenspan's always going on about? That's when someone wins a game.

Because what could be more irrational than devoting large blocks of time to a game that's so hard to win? No matter how much you practice (and, believe me, I've tested this theory), Solitaire remains very difficult. Lots of luck involved. Make one wrong move and -- pfft! -- it's time to start over.

And you will start a new game. You might plan to just dip in, play one little game, and get out again before anyone notices that you're wasting company time. But you're an American; you want to win. Next thing you know, the only people left in the office are you and the janitors.

How can we stop this evil influence? By swearing off Solitaire. We can become more productive workers and stop wasting our lives.

Follow my lead, America. No more Solitaire. Find a better way to use your workday.

I, personally, intend to spend more time playing Tetris.

Mighty mouse addiction

Among the many new, high-tech words included in recent editions of the New Oxford Dictionary of English is a listing for "mouse potato."

While this sounds like an exotic dish (perhaps one they enjoy in England), this term actually refers to someone who spends too much time sitting zoned in front of a computer, akin to the TV addicts known as "couch potatoes" or "sofa spuds." (Which also sounds like something they'd eat in England.)

It's easy to make light of mouse potatoes, but the levity disguises a serious social ill.

Recent studies show that mouse potatoes -- even if they do not consume British food -- generally are an unhealthy lot, spending too much time sedentary and alone. They suffer from carpal tunnel syndrome and poor posture and overlooked hygiene. They tend to be "quiet types, who always keep to themselves," and we all know what that means.

So today, for the safety of yourself and others, let's take an in-depth look at "Mouse Potato Syndrome" or MPS. This diagnosis is so new that many health experts have yet to recognize it, and the general public hasn't been properly informed of the symptoms. You, yourself, may currently be a mouse potato and not even know it.

If you think you might suffer from MPS, answer these questions:

--Do you spend more than 14 hours a day sitting at a computer? On Sundays?

--Do you suffer from sore wrists, headaches, neck pain, numbness, irregularity, back pain, sciatica, insomnia, nausea, trivia or ennui?

--Do you know, off the top of your head, your current winning percentage at "Free Cell?"

--Do you resent sleeping because it cuts into your time online?

--Do your "virtual" friends outnumber your "actual" friends? Do you have "imaginary" friends? What are their names?

--Are there crumbs in your computer keyboard? Enough, taken together, to shape into a coffee cake?

--Do you have trouble remembering your spouse's name?

If you answer "yes" to any of these questions, then you might be a mouse potato. Take precautionary measures. Get up, right now, and go outside. Even it's raining or pitch dark. Just go. Fresh air is the only known palliative for Mouse Potato Syndrome. Yes, it's a temporary remedy, but there's no limit on the doses you can take. The more, the better.

Sadly, many Americans know MPS all too well because of the toll it takes on their families. MPS, like any addiction, results in domestic turmoil and alienation of affection. Spouses report they lose all contact with their mouse potato husbands or wives, who are trapped in a "virtual" world of instant stock quotes, pirated music and hourly reports on the love life of Britney Spears. And untold families have felt the shock of losing a child to "Myst."

Many people who aren't computer-addicted become infected by living in the same house as a mouse potato. They're seduced by talk of chatrooms and e-Bay and free downloads. They start to experiment with the Web. Before you know it, the whole family is twitching and sniffling and bickering over who gets the DSL connection next.

Often, the spouses of MPS victims become "enablers," protecting their mouse potatoes from the outside world, "covering" for them, providing for their care and feeding. For some, living with an infestation of mouse potatoes can be cheaper than eradicating it, particularly in cases involving pre-nuptial agreements.

If you're living with a mouse potato, you don't have to suffer in silence. You can stand up. You can force your mouse potato to return blinking to the real world, even if it means taking drastic steps such as cutting electric power to the house.

Remember, you're not alone. If someone you know suffers from Mouse Potato Syndrome, seek help from family, friends, neighbors and medical professionals. (It may take two or three full-grown adults to pry a truly addicted mouse potato away from his computer and drag him outdoors.)

And if you think you may be a mouse potato, know that the condition doesn't have to be permanent. All it takes is will power. You can take back your life.

Just go outside. It helps if you can bring along a laptop.