Let’s face it, Stale Nostalgia simply doesn’t cut it any more. That being said, a warning is being issued that the stories within this book were produced by the author usually under the influence of crazy humor, wild-ass events, an interest in oddball history, off-the-wall perceptions that generate a wet snively nose, coffee craziness, laugh-out-loud guffaws, borderline sanity, loss of libido, and a waning aging erogenous zone. All of the above-mentioned attributes, however, are deemed fresh to the recollection of the author because they are so difficult to remember.
At the risk of being institutionalized by family who might pick up this book, and, mirabile dictu, read it (fat chance), the short stories mirror the intolerance of my attention span to produce an epic piece of unpalatable American literature, plump enough to rival the volumes of War and Peace, Moby Dick, or one of the Bible’s several hundred versions.
Any attempt at humor except for acrimony, sarcasm, spleen, pique, distemper, invective, malice, odium, umbrage, cynicism, animosity, spite, rancor or downright nastiness is simply delicious as well as incidental. If it weren’t for leaping out of bed in the middle of the night to scribble down key notes of screwball dreams before they vaporized, this book would have been void of inspiration, let alone publication.