The End of My Faith in Humanity -or- When It's Okay to Beat a Woman

In my last post, I mentioned going to court. I promised to clarify that story in a later post. Well, here it is.

First, I want to say that I have generally tried to post either humorous stories about my family, or adventures in parenting. Although I DO have a temper at times, I am usually an easygoing kind of guy. Lately, that good humor has been tested, and found wanting.

I'm mad. Mad as fuck. My last shred of faith in humanity, the sense of fellowship for other people, for society, is pretty much dead.

So, the story: Jennings, the little town in Kansas we moved to last year, has nothing other than a tiny Post Office and library. If we need anything else, especially groceries, the closest town is a thirty minute drive away.  A little while back, our family headed over to Oberlin, although we aren't fond of the place. Our internet had conked out again (one of the downsides to living in a peaceful, out-of-the-way place), and I needed to get the kids' attendance put in for school.

We each took a computer at Oberlin's library. After a short while Felix, my oldest son, grew bored with the internet and went off to find a book to read. That left My Love and I sitting side-by-side (as usual) and Oscar catercorner to us with an empty computer beside him.

This is important.

As I stated in my last post, Oscar's legs are turned outwards due to a defect with his leg muscles. He's wearing braces now to correct that. At the time of the incident I'm relating, the braces were on order and still being made. An older gentleman, someone we didn't know, came in to the library and approached Oscar. He asked if the computer beside Oscar was taken. All three of us (for Felix was still off in the bookshelves) answered "No" at the same time, which we found funny. The old man didn't laugh.

This should have been a warning sign.

Instead of taking the empty seat, the old man instead kicked Oscar's chair leg several times and snapped "Move!" at him. No "excuse me", no "can you move your leg?". He just snarled at my son to "Move!" and kicked his chair leg.
Oscar, startled, immediately jumped up and scurried off. My Love hadn't seen the exchange, and was just asking why our son suddenly abandoned the computer, especially since he was still logged into one of his gaming websites. I, on the other hand, was standing up, outraged at how my son was being treated.

As I stood, I explained what had happened. My Love demanded the man take the unoccupied computer beside him, and offered to take over Oscar's so she could log him out of his websites. We didn't know this guy from Adam and weren't willing to give some stranger access to my son's personal information.

I sat back down, angry but placated, and My Love sat down next to the rude gentleman. It is important to point out that she brought a composition book with her, full of notes for her new book. (You've seen them before: cheap, black-and-white marble pattern; a dime a dozen.) When she settled in to her seat, she saw the composition book setting in front of the older man. Since Oscar had asked to borrow it to make notes, she figured he'd left it there.

Saying "Here, I'll move that for you," she picked up the composition book. Unfortunately, the old man had brought his own, identical-looking composition book with him. The old man yanked it out of her hand, stood up and began repeatedly punching her in the arm, screaming "You don't touch things that aren't yours!"

He had her cornered and stood well over six feet. Despite his age he was thickly-built and very strong. My Love is a scrapper, but she stands 5'2" and was pushed into a corner, facing the wrong way and unable to defend herself. I shoved the man out of the way and pulled her free. At that point, I thought he had been smacking her with the notebook, since he had it gripped in the fist used to strike my wife. In the seconds it took me to respond, he had hit her about ten times.

At this point My Love yelled that she was being attacked and told the librarian to call the police. The dumb bitch librarian just stood there with her mouth open, doing nothing. I called 911 on my cell, while the old man alternately screamed and muttered complaints and obscenities at us. He threatened and insulted my wife several times, calling her a "stupid bitch" and my son an "asshole". I told him to shut his mouth, or I would do it for him. He then complained that I assaulted him for no reason, as my wife cried and clutched her arm, which was bright red (and would later turn a deep black and blue). As tensions escalated, she drew us all outside to avoid further conflict.

The Chief of Police arrived about 10 minutes later, took our statements, then went inside. He came out a mere three minutes later and explained that the man who had assaulted my wife was "just Old Doc", a well-known citizen of the town. Old Doc was "not all there anymore" and "isn't in control of himself". I asked why he was allowed to roam free, then, for which the officer replied "That's not our job." After speaking with Old Doc, the Chief determined that he had overracted, and said he'd told him "that wasn't the proper response in the situation." He then suggested we not re-enter the library, as Old Doc was still agitated.

That's right WE were kicked out of the library for the crime of being assaulted. But, that's okay, it was just Old Doc. Chief Useless was then appalled when we said we wanted to press charges. "It's just Old Doc!" he argued. Throughout the process of taking our statements and taking pictures of my wife's arm, he tried three times to talk us out of pressing charges.

We would soon find out why.

After nearly four hours in the ER (because My Love's blood pressure was around 120/95 and refused to come down), we went home and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, about three weeks after the incident, we called the County Attorney, who assured us the information was coming in the mail. He seemed surprised to hear from us at all. It was another two weeks before one of the Oberlin police officers showed up at our door with summons to court, giving us barely a week's notice. While there, the nice officer pointed out that our tags were expired, something we'd missed in all the excitement.

Cue ominous music.

Our attendance wasn't necessary, as it was a preliminary hearing to determine if there was a case. I wanted to attend, but we were waiting for our tags in the mail, and it was becoming painfully obvious that the Oberlin police were following us.

Several times one of their cruisers could be seen circling our block in the days before and weeks after the prelim. Bear in mind that our sleepy little town hasn't even SEEN an officer on its streets in over four years, as nothing ever happens here. At one point, all four of us were in the front yard picking berries off the tree (My Love makes delicious, sugar-free desserts from them for me). A cruiser which had been circling the block for over two hours parked at the intersection and proceeded to watch us intently for 20 minutes. Twice he called over our neighbors to ask questions about us.

We called the county sheriff to complain about this and were told he was in town investigating someone else. Right...

Just before this incident, while we were shopping in Oberlin, My Love stopped by the library, after first making sure Old Doc's van wasn't there. The library has a shelf in the front entryway filled with discarded materials, books, movies, etc. Note that she did not enter the library proper. After two minutes of browsing, a librarian (not the one from the day of the incident) came out and demanded that my wife leave. She started shrieking that she was the horrible bitch responsible for suing poor Old Doc. When my wife tried to explain, the librarian answered that my asshole teenaged son wouldn't move his legs out of the way so poor Old Doc could sit down. (My son is 12, he's also 5'10" with wide shoulders; people often mistake him for 16-17 years old.) When My Love protested, the librarian said she was baned from the library and that the police would arrest her for trespassing if she didn't leave.

Incidents like this began happening all over town, including a few stray ones in our town. Apparently, Old Doc had been a respected doctor and surgeon in the area for many years. This, somehow, made it acceptable for him to assault women and verbally abuse children, because people were outraged we were pressing charges. Our intention was never to hurt the old man, but for there to be a record of this incident. Because, I highly doubt it was an isolated incident. Next time it could be an elderly woman he used an "improper response" on. Or a child. This man, who is "not all there", is allowed to drive freely despite his lowered mental faculties. We felt that there should at least be a record of what happened, perhaps an assessment of his mental state and even community service. He lives with his wife and daughter; someone should be looking out for him.

But, apparently WE are the villains in this piece. Even after the car was registered, we found ourselves being followed by the local police and ended up selling it so our vehicle wasn't easily recognized. Certain businesses in Oberlin are no longer welcome for us. Some people do not speak to us. Understand that we have never been in trouble with the law in Kansas once since moving here, and don't have criminal records at all. We're quiet people. Now we are pariahs, guilty of a terrible crime: We stood up to an abuser. We tried to take Old Doc to court.

The trial was a week ago. How did it turn out? We didn't go. After speaking with the County Attorney on the phone, (you know, the man supposedly on our side) I realized he, like the police, were on Old Doc's side. When I asked what would happen if we did not appear at the trial, he responded "That's a good idea," before telling me anything. Realizing we would be vilified, and that Oscar -who is only twelve and Autistic- would likely be harassed on the stand, we chickened out.

Old Doc gets away with it. I believe people should face justice for the things they do wrong. But, my family comes first, and I'm tired of people judging us for doing the right thing. I can't sit back and watch my sweet son, who already fears abuse from bullies and has been bullied by authority figures before, gets torn apart by some old bastard's lawyer.

No matter what happened at the trial, we would have lost. Had good Old Doc had to face the music for assaulting a woman a foot shorter than him, I don't doubt the police harassment would have doubled and perhaps the whole town would have been shut off from us.

I have Old Doc's name, address and telephone number. But I do nothing with them but look at them and seethe. Because I care about my family, I let a crazy old man wander free on the streets, until he loses his grip on reality again and does something maybe far worse than beat up a woman he's never met before.

This was the last straw. I've tried to hold my head high and stay strong through all this. But my faith in people has finally died on the vine. I can't trust the police, librarians, business owners, anybody. It's just my family and me. I'm 41 years old, but inside I'm an old man, growling at strangers who come to close to my family.

So: Fuck you Old Doc. I'd love to publish your name all over the internet. But, for now, I'm bigger than that. Maybe, someday, I'll be like you: a bitter, spiteful old man. Hell, I'm halfway there now.

Dodging The Bullet (At Least One of Them )

We dodged a bullet last week. Well, to be accurate, my youngest son dodged a bullet.

A little backstory: I tend to be a little lax about updating this blog. But this time I have an excuse. Things have been nuts lately. Aside from some legal troubles (which I'll discuss in my next post), our main concern has been Oscar. Particularly, his legs.

Oscar is 12 as of last month. He is also 5'10" and nearly 200lbs. He already wears bigger shoes than I do. At first, we were strangely excited by his sudden growth. Big guys run in my wife's family. Her brother is 6'3", and her great grandfather stood over 6'7" and had such broad shoulders that he had to be buried in a piano case.

Being Autistic, Oscar has some odd physical quirks. Occasional finger-flicking, humming, and other acts of self-stimulation are not uncommon. When he tells a story, he walks in circles, not looking anyone in the eye. About 19 months ago, he began walking with his left foot rotated outward. He was in Occupational Therapy at the time, and his therapist said it was likely an affectation due to his Autism. She, and his regular doctor, were none to concerned by it. Heck, with a gentle reminder he would bring it back to true.

Fast-forward a year. Oscar's foot has steadily turned further and further outward, and the right is also beginning to follow suit. He complained often of slight back and foot pain, and long walks become almost impossible. Growing concerned, we took him to a orthopedist in Hays, KS (about two hours from home). After examining him and taking x-rays of Oscar's feet and hips, the doctor gave us the news: It wasn't his feet that ere turning outward.

It was his hips.

We were devastated. The general consensus in the office was that his body had grown too fast and certain parts developed too slowly. The fear was that his hip bone was underdeveloped and unable to accommodate the leg bone (forgive the lack of technical jargon; that stuff goes right over my head). It was believed at that point that surgery, perhaps several, would be needed to correct it.

Cue parental panic.

On the orthopedic clinic's referral, we made an appointment with a pediatric orthopedic surgeon in Denver, CO (about 4 1/2 hours away). So we sat for a tense month, wondering and worrying and making plans, trying to decide how to break the news to Oscar when the time came. I lost a LOT of sleep those 31 days.

Finally, last Wednesday, we went to the Rocky Mountain Pediatric Orthopedics' office. More examination, more x-rays, more consultation. Finally, after two hours, the doctor got back to me. He explained the situation in detail, showed me the x-rays (and gave me copies to take home), and gave us the good news. Oscar did NOT need surgery. In fact, he recommended against it. Oscar's hip bones were developed normally. It was the muscles in his legs that did not grow properly. With a specially-made set of foot braces (that will also correct his falling arches, also a result of his odd "duck-walk") and regular exercise, specifically walking and swimming, his feet should turn back to true in time. He may need some physical therapy in the future.

But, for the time being, the news is all good. We're at peace, at least for the time being. At least, until we have to go to court next week. Stay tuned for details...

Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost, Too

I'm trying; I really am. I try to teach my kids right from wrong, good manners, kindness, forgiveness. To love their fellow human beings. But, I'm weak. I have my foibles, my weaknesses. One of these is, unfortunately, a bad temper.

Don't get me wrong: I don't beat my wife and kids. I don't go to the bar on a Friday night, get loaded, and punch everything in sight. (I used to be like that, years ago; that's why I no longer drink.) But I am easily offended. Worse yet, I hold a grudge. It's a family tradition. Back when I was still close to my parents and relatives, I used to joke to friends that the Coffman clan was so vengeful, the Mafia would tell them to chill out and let things go.

My father once got bad service in a department store not far from our home. In 25 years, he never shopped there again. Mind you, businesses were few and far between, and there weren't many choices. This place had low prices and decent staff, but one bad employee and he never set foot in the place again.

I'd like to think I'm better than the old man. In most ways, I believe this to be true. I don't abuse my kids, and I'm not afraid to tell them I love them or give them a hug. Until I moved out of my parents' home, I believed men simply never touched or embraced one another, except in movies. Even today, I'm still uncomfortable if someone who isn't a member of my close circle (which currently only includes my wife and kids) touches or embraces me in any way. I know it's a character flaw, but I'm working on it.

Anywho, back to the temper thing. Several weeks ago, my wife volunteered to help out at the local VFW with some baking project the retirees had going on. I was replacing damaged ceiling tiles for a few extra $$$, as we were kind of strapped for cash at the time. My work went well and received more than a fair amount of praise, which made me feel good. It wasn't until after that I found out that my Beloved did not receive the same welcome.

The kitchen was overfull, with more hands than work. Now, anyone who knows my Brenda knows she hates being idle and loves keeping busy. Enough so that it sometimes drive me nuts. Long story short, there wasn't anything for her or the other (only under-65) person there to do. So, they ended up discussing the town's upcoming plans to open a grocery store in between the infrequent requests for help. Our new hometown is over 20 minutes away from the closest grocery store, and their prices are outrageous. It's at least an hour drive to any decently-priced groceries.

The town council is looking for someone willing to open a store and run it, with a little financial help from the residents. My wife, having years of management experience running large and small accounts and businesses, had already offered to do this. Considering that most of the ladies working the VFW kitchen that day were either members of the council or wives of them, the conversation drew a fair bit of attention. Up until this day, we had received nothing but kudos for her ideas and plans, and a fair amount of encouragement.

Unfortunately, this was not to remain the case. Towards the end of the day, two of the women made disparaging remarks at my wife's expense, one of which I heard personally.

One of the women at this little shindig happened to be the mayor, and up until this time our biggest supporter in our endeavor. The other is a close neighbor who had helped us out when times were tough, and who I repaid as quickly as possible doing work around their property they were too old to perform themselves. I won't name them, of course, but they know who they are should they come across my blog. Well, the mayor, whom I overheard, commented to another old biddie smug tightass woman this about my wife: "Well, just because she has a college degree doesn't mean she understands anything." Our neighbor later made the comment that "It must be nice to stand around and talk while everyone else is working."

Now, to rebut: First off, my wife is in MENSA and is much smarter than myself or most anyone I've met. I'm not saying this because I'm biased, but because she's fucking smart as hell. Second, I personally heard her ask repeatedly what she could do to help and being constantly rebuked if she even so much as touched anything. The few times she did assist the crabby old bats Cryptkeeper lookalikes ladies corrected her every move, no matter how trivial.

Anyway, rant over. My point is that, after finding out how she had been treated, I went ballistic. Being that the perpetrators were all elderly women, my usual response to making my wife cry (i.e. beating someone senseless) was not an option. So, I was left with impotent rage and passive-aggression. We haven't been to church since, as looking at their smug faces makes my blood boil. When one of the women from that day wave or says hello, I turn away and refuse to acknowledge them. My Love no longer trusts anyone in town, which is sad because we moved out of the city to get AWAY from this kind of bullshit. Since this series of events, several other incidents with residents of this town I once fell in love with have tested my patience and temper, two things I'm not known for.

This all goes back to being a parent. I'm trying to teach my boys love and patience, tolerance, kindness, forgiveness, the whole package. But it's difficult when you just want to scream into the faces of the hypocrites and double-dealers that seem to infest every community and infect it with their cynicism. It's a kind of "Do as I say, not as I do" kind of situation. I want my kids to do what I've tried to do: be a better man than the examples I grew up with. If they can learn not only from my words and lessons, but from my mistakes, then I will be glad. My worst fear is that they will grow up to emulate me, as I am a serious collection of faults.

So far, my boys seem to understand that their dad is not perfect, not Superman, and maybe not the best example of leading a good life. Were I a better man, I would be more forgiving, less aggressive, a little bit less reactionary. My hope is that I can relay the ability to recognize my own faults and my desire to overcome them to my boys in a way that allows them to apply such a philosophy to themselves.

Also, I would love for them to realize that some people are just assholes, regardless of age, race, religion, creed or color.

Shameless Self-Promotion, Part 2

So, My Love's book has been on sale through Amazon's Kindle Store since November 20. Sales are going great, but we're still waiting for a review. Good or bad, just say something, people! Get the word out to potential readers, that's all we ask.


Perhaps those who have read "Diana's Dreams" are still in shock*, unable to function due to fear and having their worldview shattered. That's okay. I understand. I spent three days in a coma after reading it, and that was the first draft! Just relax; you'll get though this. Take a deep breath and repeat to yourself: "It's just a book, it's just a book..."


On a side note, fellow writer and Blogger Matt Ballard, author of Diary of a Nerd King, is giving away a free Kindle Fire or iPod Touch on his website. Check it out, buy his book, and buy Brenda's book on Kindle, "Diana's Dreams". You'll be glad you did, once your vision returns to normal and the palpitations stop*.







*symptoms may vary due to age, health history, and exposure to Lovecraft. If reading this book results in an erection lasting more than four hours, consult your doctor. A psychiatrist that is, you sick bastard.

Oh, The Horror!

So, you might not have heard that My Love is now a PUBLISHED AUTHOR! Her first full-length novel Diana's Dreams has been available through Kindle's website since November 20. So far, sales have been good, but word needs to get out. Nobody has left a review yet. I've been appointed to Brenda's marketing department, and am trying to get the word out.

Now, her adult horror novel is available through the Kindle Owner's Lending Library. This means that Kindle owners can now borrow books for free, and the author receives a royalty. Granted, this is far less than what she would earn from a sale, but it gets the book out there, hopefully garnering some praise (or even hate, at this point any press is good press).

So, what are you waiting for? I love the book, not just because the author gives me sexytime, but because it's a damned good read. Scary, touching, suspenseful, this book will keep you up at night. Give it a try. The more books we sell, the happier My Love will be.

And that means more sexytime for me!

Zombies: A Love Story

I love zombies.

Well, not literally. Figuratively. I don't have a zombie blow-up doll or anything.But zombie movies, games, t-shirts, songs about zombies? Yeah, I'm all over that. Again, NOT literally.

I currently have three shirts featuring zombies, play two games about them, own seven movies based around the zombie apocalypse (no, not the crappy Resident Evil ones, or the "Return of the Living Dead" ripoffs), watch The Walking Dead religiously, and so on.

Of course, this raises the question: Why? What is it about zombies that so fascinates me that I would immerse myself in the culture? And no, I'm not jumping on any bandwagon. At the risk of sounding hipster-ish, I was into zombies long before they became culturally relevant. When I first caught Night of the Living Dead on late-night TV I was 17, and I was hooked. I'm 41 now; do the math (I don't want to).

Again, why? I'm not normally into gruesome stuff. I don't have a weak stomach. I can watch a gory horror movie, or a medical procedure being performed. Hell, My Love watches those true crime stories like Forensic Files and fictional ones such as CSI, and I watch right along with her. But I'm not a gore fanatic. I avoid crap like the Saw movies and Hostel. I'm not into torture porn for a cheap thrill.

There's something else about the zombie genre that appeals to me. It took me years to realize what it is: I'm afraid of it.

Most people, I think, enjoy horror movies because they represent something they fear. Whether it be vampires, werewolves, zombies, alien invaders, ghosts, or what have you, people like to face up to those irrational terrors. I'm not sure exactly why this is; I'm no psychologist. It's a need of some sort. That's good enough for me. Other movie monsters don't give me that thrill/chill like zombies.

It's deeper than that, though (bear with me here). The nightmares I've had regarding the walking dead don't revolve around being chased by them. It's always a fear of becoming one of them. That, I feel, is what makes the zombie such a gruesome and formidable enemy in the horror genre. Sure, in most tales, a vampire or werewolf's bite can make you one of them, but not always. Besides, being a vampire means still being you, essentially, and a werewolf only need fear the moon three nights a month.

Zombies are forever.

To me, the fear of losing one's self, one's humanity, is what makes the idea so appalling. Zombies were once ordinary people, like you or me, who now shamble about, rotting, filthy, devouring their own kind, mindless. And there it is: mindless. The thought of losing who I am, my identity, individuality, personality, memories, hopes, dreams, loves, LIFE, frightens the hell out of me.

Some zombie purists (what the hell does that even mean?) complain that movies such as 28 Days Later (one of my favorites) are not really 'zombie' movies. "No," they sniff, "they are Infected, not zombies!" Well lah-de-freakin'-dah! To me, the Borg from Star Trek are a classic example of the zombie mythos. Infected, Borg, zombie... it all boils down to stripping one's humanity away. And that scares the hell out of me.

I'm about to go off on a tangent here. Just hang in there. It relates, trust me.

I don't use drugs, nor do I drink alcohol. No, I'm not going to start preaching here. To each his own. Now I've never smoked pot or taken anything stronger than a prescription painkiller, and that was only in extreme conditions. Normally, I'd rather bear up under the pain if I can. As for alcohol, I beat that particular demon years ago. I've been sober for over 20 years, and the world is a better place for it. What I learned from my drinking days was this: That's not me. I lose my temper when drunk, want to fight anyone and everyone (and everything, including walls, cabinet doors, mannequins, etc.).

I lose control when I'm drunk. Motor control, emotional control, mental control, all gone. And that loss of control scares the hell out of me. I can't imagine getting high, especially on a powerful amphetamine or hallucinogen, and not being me. Not that I'm any treat sober. But, I'm a control freak, at least when it comes to my own life. Relinquishing that control to something or someone else is unconscionable to me.

By the same token, I fear diseases of the mind. Alzheimer's, dementia, Bovine spongiform encephalopathy (mad cow disease), all of them steal your memories. I avoid stories about Alzheimer's because the concept frightens me. Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost sympathy for victims of these terrible diseases. I can read the stories of cancer victims and feel empathy and compassion. But I can't face the possibility of my mind being robbed from me. I know that makes me weak.


Hence, the fear of zombies. The fear of a simple scratch on the arm stealing away who I am and leaving a mindless beast in it's place. Compared to that, becoming a vampire or werewolf sounds almost pristine in comparison. Unless it's one of those sparkly vampires or shirtless man-child werewolves. In that case, I'm terrified of losing my masculinity, not humanity.

Nanowrimo no mo'

So, I found out about Nanowrimo, or National Novel Writing Month, last year near the end of November, far too late to participate. I'm not sure where I got my information, but was under the impression it was a contest of sorts, with reviews and prizes.

Guess I should have investigated further...

I'm over 2000 words into my novel, a new story idea that had been banging around in my head for a few years, when My Love asked about Nanowrimo. So, I started looking up what the contests and prizes were, and what publishing houses participated. The site is murder to navigate; we actually had to use Google to find the information page. And I was dumbstruck.

The only "prize" offered is a virtual badge if you hit 50,000 words. No publishers or other readers review your work, no offers are made for publication.

I know it's my fault for misunderstanding, but we're sorely disappointed. I don't need motivation to write. (I do, however, need motivation to finish a project before starting another. Seriously, I have 14 unfinished stories on one USB drive.) So, now my Word Count sits at around 2000. I'm done participating. My Love has a finished novel (and yes, I'm jealous) recently submitted to Penguin publishing. They rejected it, kindly, so we've self-published on Kindle.

Seriously, Nanowrimo, what's the motivation? I already love writing; it's my favorite hobby. Setting aside what I was already writing to contribute to Nanowrimo turned out to be a big waste of time.. time I could have spent on one of my half-finished stories. Plus, there's no real guarantee someone won't steal your idea, or even your work, once you submit your story.

Sorry, Nanowrimo fans, I'm sitting this one out. So will the story I started writing. Maybe if you offered an incentive beyond "motivating me", then I might continue.