On Monday, the World Health Organization announced that smoked meats like bacon and salami can kill you. It’s true. If you wield a solid salami like a giant club, you’re going to cause some damage. Here’s what I know: there is little out there that won’t kill you. Don’t believe me? Let me take you through a typical day:

1. My alarm goes off at 6:15 AM. I hit snooze, fall back into a pleasant dream involving Vin Diesel and feathers, and am rudely interrupted by my alarm going off again. 
Things that can kill me in that sentence:

• Lack of sleep can cause heart disease.
• Vin Diesel is big and muscular and could snap my neck like a twig.
• Feathers carry disease.
• Too much sleep can also cause heart disease.
  

2. I get up, shower, get dressed, grab a cup of coffee, and head off to work in my car. 
Things that can kill me in that sentence:

• Standing up too fast when getting out of bed can cause dizziness, leading to passing out, which could cause head injury and subsequently death.
• Showering in this day and age? With all the diseases and contaminants found in private wells? I’m just begging for salmonella!
• Many chemicals used in the dyeing and processing of fabrics could cause cancer. Why we’re not all running around naked is beyond me.
• Drinking coffee daily could increase one’s risk of stroke.
•  Driving is just dangerous, people. 
  

3. I arrive at work and sit at my desk all day, save for a tuna-salad lunch break with my friend and co-worker Sue. 
Things that can kill me in that sentence:

• Working too much can increase blood pressure, causing a stroke.
• Sitting all day just courts disease and death. You might as well shoot tainted heroin with Charles Manson--that’s how risky it is.
  
• Tuna contains mercury, and I think we all know mercury equals death.
  
• How well do I know Sue? She could have homicidal tendencies.
  

4. I drive home, cook dinner, pet Wednesday and Pugsley, then settle in for a night of writing, editing, and watching re-runs of The Walking Dead. 
Things that can kill me in that sentence:

•  I believe we’ve already covered the death trap known as “driving.”
• Cooking, particularly on my favorite carcinogen-releasing meat-torture device known as the George Foreman Grill, causes cancer.
• Petting cats = cat scratch fever = certain death.
• Writing and editing can cause anxiety. Anxiety leads to depression, suicidal thoughts, overmedicating, and death. (I need a safer hobby, like knife throwing.)
• Watching television leads to all-over-body cancer.
• Some idiot just killed his buddy after binge-watching The Walking Dead. Watch this show at your own risk! (Totally worth it, though.)

Here’s what I know: death is imminent no matter what, and I sure don’t want to live my life worrying about how every single thing I do could kill me. I want to enjoy the time I have. So to the World Health Organization, I say shut up and pass the bacon.

I do a lot of Halloween attractions. I’m a horror writer, after all, so I feel like I’m obligated to check out these haunted houses and spooky spectacles for you.

Here are some of my favorites:

1.     Trail of Terror, Wallingford, CT—We did the trail a few years ago with my sister-in-law and brother-in-law. The line was long, but there were zombies doing the “Thriller” dance to entertain us as we waited. The power went out (really—it wasn’t meant to be part of the experience) when we were about a third of the way through. We were trapped in the dark for the better part of an hour. The truly terrifying part was how badly I needed to pee. However, the best moment of the Trail of Terror was at the bathroom facilities afterwards. Jason’s sister Joy waited until her brother was in the porta-potty, then started banging on the port-a-john walls and screaming. I nearly wet my pants from laughing so hard. Maybe you had to be there. But I’d highly recommend doing this attraction with my sister-in-law.

2.     Eastern State Penitentiary, Philadelphia, PA—This prison is absolutely worth touring during the day, and I do suggest you do the audio tour with Steve Buscemi narrating. At night in the fall, they turn it into a fabulous haunted attraction. The actors are spooky, completely into their roles, and there are seven different sections of the prison to walk through. So much fun!

3.     Six Flags Fright Fest, nationwide (I went to Agawam, MA)—I won’t lie: I’ve had better. But you have to hand it to Six Flags: they try. During the day, they have “Monstertainment” in the form of performing vampires, ghouls, and mummies; at night, they open up the Wicked Woods and Zombie’s Revenge. It’s fun, though repetitive—Area 51 hasn’t changed much from year to year, and throwing some cobwebs on the Buzzsaw doesn’t really make it more terrifying. But the Demon District and Midnight Mansion are fun. As with everything at Six Flags, their main goal is to part you from your money: many attractions require an additional fee.

4.     My cousin Lori’s house, Columbia, CT—Okay, so this isn’t open to the public, but she and her husband Frank delight in, and I quote, “scaring the living crap out of the neighborhood kids.” She had a ghastly pumpkin-head scarecrow on the lawn one year, and at least three kids pooped themselves when it moved. Hee hee! Too bad you can’t visit her.

5.     Universal Studios Halloween Horror Nights, Orlando, FL—If you want to do Halloween right, you have to visit Universal during Horror Nights. They change over nine different attractions to make them haunted, and I’m not talking about some cheap nylon cobwebs. These people have the budget to change the whole freaking ride to make it so terrifying, you will be filling your shorts like the kids who live on my cousin Lori’s street. They think of everything, even shutting off the bulbs on the drive-in theater so the sign reads DIE-IN. Absolutely the pinnacle of Halloween fun.

So there you have it: my top picks in Halloween horror attractions. Apparently, for me, Halloween means soiling yourself repeatedly. If you can’t afford the trip to Orlando this October, I highly recommend trekking over to Philly. The prison’s awesome, the food is good, and they also do a haunted downtown tour of the city at night.

You do what you must to get your scare on. I’m going to Lori’s house.

Why would anyone live in New England, you might ask? We’re all mobbed up, we have some of the highest skin cancer rates in the nation, and we have some truly painful-on-the-ears accents (Boston and Cranston, I’m looking at you. Connecticut, on the other hand, has no accent and everyone should speak like us).

One of the reasons why I live in New England—besides the fact that my family lives here which is really the only reason I stay, but since that wouldn’t make for much of a blog post, let’s assume I have other reasons—is because you never know what to expect from Mother Nature here in the upper six. Sure, we have seasons, but even those seasons are not clearly defined. Last year, fall lasted from August through December, then winter was January through April, spring was in May, and we hit summer by Memorial Day. We’re heading into fall again, and it’s been tricky trying to figure out what sort of curve balls the weather will throw at us next.

Last week, the news was full of reports about Hurricane Joaquin. (I love this name. So much fun to say! Waah-keen. Wah-kien. Like a whip cracking. But I digress.) Over the course of a week, we here in New England were told to fill our tubs with water and start our generators in preparation; then we were told to expect flooding, because we were going to get slammed with lots and lots of rain; then we were told to be grateful we don’t live in New Jersey. (Note: I am thankful every day that I don’t live in New Jersey.) Block Island cancelled their ferries for three days in anticipation of this huge weather event. Then Monday hit: a crisp, sunny day, with nary a Joaquin, hurricane or otherwise, in sight. I looked at the stagnant and slightly dingy water in my tub, my thirty cans of corned beef hash, and thought: wasn’t that fun?

There was a cold front coming in this week, and by Monday afternoon, I’d pulled out the flannel pajamas. I was looking my schedule for the rest of the week to see when I could squeeze in switching my closet over from my summer to winter wardrobe (you southerners don’t even have a clue as to what I’m talking about). I wore a scarf and winter coat to work on Tuesday, and started looking up beef stew crockpot recipes. On Wednesday, it was 72 degrees. One of the radio DJs even said the words “beach day.” I peeled off my layers and basked in the sun. But by Friday, I was digging out the winter gloves. See? Fun, right?

This weekend, we’re looking at sunshiny days, a frost that should knock all of that pretty fall foliage off the trees in one fell swoop, and perfect summer “apple-picking” weather Sunday afternoon. It’s all part of the wacky, wonderful life we’ve chosen to lead here in New England.

Seriously, if it weren’t for family, I’d be out of here in a heartbeat.

Just last week, I was chatting with author Melissa Crandall when she said something along the lines of “Don’t get too close to your idols, or the gold paint will flake off.” (She was loosely quoting someone, and I’m loosely quoting her. This is so far off from whatever the original quote was that I couldn’t even find the original online. But you get the gist.) Prophetic words were never so true. I had two of my idols disappoint me this week.

Quick, who’s your favorite comedian? You’re taking too long. If a roving reporter were to shove a microphone in my face and ask me this very question, without even having to think about it I’d answer “Bobcat Goldthwait.” I own his HBO specials from the eighties on VHS, and I’ve dragged my sister to seedy comedy bars in Connecticut to see his stand-up act live. I do love me some Bobcat. So when the movie Willow Creek showed up in my Netflix queue, and I saw that Bobcat had directed it, to quote the man himself, I pooped a little.

What could go wrong? A Bigfoot movie directed by my favorite funny guy? I sat through all seventy-seven minutes, even though it felt like four hours. It was not good. I was not amused. There wasn’t even a Bobcat cameo. I debated making Jim Gaffigan my new favorite comedian. But most of all, I was sad. My comedic hero was not perfect.

Okay. I’m an adult. I guess I can live with that. Bobcat: not perfect. This was something I should’ve realized back in 1992 when Shakes the Clown came out. I’d forgiven him for that, right? I still love you, Bobcat.

Then a new week dawned. And with that new week, the ultimate betrayal of all: Berkeley Breathed told people how to do MY job, and he told them how to do it WRONG.

It is difficult for me to muster up passion, but the things I do care about, I’m fanatical about. I’m passionate about my need for coffee in the morning. I’m passionate about good books and writing well. I’m passionate about Bloom County and proper grammar and typography. Ah! See that? See how those last two things were in the same sentence? Then Berkeley Breathed did THIS to me:

Wait—what? Two spaces after a period?

NO, Berke. No.

I do not come on my blog and tell people how to be cartoonists. I am not a cartoonist, and would never dare to offer an opinion on how to do it. I will tell you what I like in a comic strip (up until very recently, Bloom County), but I do not give advice to aspiring cartoonists.

All I ask is that Berke Breathed, who is not a copy editor, pay me the same respect. But no. Instead, Berke has taken this issue to a public forum, having my once-beloved Opus the Penguin run for presidency on the platform of two spaces after a period. So not only is Berke making my job a political thing, he’s making Opus advise people to do the grammatically incorrect thing.

My emotions ran the gamut from betrayal to rage to . . . well, mostly rage. What was Berke thinking? Was he trying to be funny? Because joking about two spaces after a period (and in case I haven’t been clear, never, ever do that) is not funny. My hero had let me down.

I wailed. I wept. I lamented my fallen idol. And then, a few days later, I saw this:

Incorrectly formatted ellipses aside, see how Cozy’s dialogue contains two spaces after a period, and Cutter John’s contains one?

That’s kind of funny.


I suppose if I can forgive Bobcat for Willow Creek, I can forgive you, Berke. But you'd better be joking.