It’s February, and Valentine’s Day approaches. The day for lovers has taken hits, from a historical deconstruction of the day’s patron saint to a general trashing of relationships. Visit a bookstore: it’s likely that an aisle end cap carries a series of books decrying love; with titles like, “Roses are Pink; Your Feet Really Stink” and “The Anti-Valentine’s Day Handbook.”

It’s easy enough to understand why singles would begrudge a day for couples. Why celebrate the idea that being alone is somehow second class? But my wife’s not a fan of the day either. She thinks it’s wrong to have a day of penance for a year’s worth of neglect. And the expectations attached to the holiday can be crushing. (Her words, cribbed from one of her poems – “Like testicles in a vice.”) Long story short: I am not allowed to celebrate the day. No dinner; no flowers.

Cute, huh?

Flash back. I once gave my wife a black comforter for Valentine’s Day. (The Futon couch was black. The comforter would match the décor and provide comfort. Right? Right?) There’s a good reason for the notion that high expectations lead to disappointment.

So I promised—no poems, no breakfast in bed. I did not specifically exclude blog entries, however. I should explain that my wife doesn’t read my blog (or my novels; horror scares her). This column is a love letter to my wife that anyone might read—except her. She’ll never read a word of it.

One rule: If you’re a friend of both of us, don’t tip her off. No vague tips like, “What’s your husband up to? Gardening? Blogging?” or “If you asked your Hubby not to do anything for Valentine’s Day, would he listen?”

I am an imperfect man (Think of black comforters.)  There are good reasons to believe that I might, without divine intervention, die alone. But that’s the wonderful thing about love. It’s not about two perfect people admiring their lack of flaws. It’s about two broken units that fit together.

And how is that tight fit accomplished? Over time, through shared experience—much of it misery. You grow together. People have trouble grasping that, which is why Hollywood’s version of love ends with a kiss or the bedroom, when it ought to end in wheelchairs and walkers.

My wife is imperfect, too, though it’s hard to remind myself of that when I see her dressed in a short skirt and boots, or when she wakes me with a kiss ten minutes after the alarm sounds. Or when she calls to rant about a bad driver in language proper to a truck driver, or when she comforts our grown children over the phone in a voice that says “home.”

Are we the perfect couple? No, we’re a damned train wreck. I wish I was a better husband. And I wish she would stop cursing bad drivers. But I can’t begrudge the loss of small wishes when my greatest wish came true.

What do I see in her? She’s intelligent, funny as hell, sarcastic and a great kisser. She loves words (a plus for writers). She’s tolerant (a plus for flawed writers). Cocky. Vulnerable. Sensual.

And she’s mercurial, with lethal mood swings. She can be distant. And she’s the second worst person with money in the world. (I’m the worst.)

I met Judith 30 years ago. After our first date, I went home and told my roommate that I’d met the woman I planned to marry. Two weeks later, we were engaged. I tell that story now, knowing that it’s 1) romantic and 2) stupid. I mean, what kind of moron makes a snap judgement like that? Answer—the kind of moron who falls in love forever. Me.

It strikes me as funny (in a make-an-ugly-face-for-the-photo sort of way) to proclaim my love to everyone but the one who ought to hear it. But don’t despair. I cook her breakfast and pack her lunch. I change the cat box. I play with her hair while she’s watching television. The toilet seat stays down. When she’s in a bad mood, I let her be. And I tell her what I feel, until the eye roll or the grimace stops me.

She’s not comfortable with February words of love, but relationships are about two people, not one. And the partner with the words bursting out just had his necessary moment of sharing. Thanks for being a part of it.

The owners of my restaurant had a background that included cooking in New Orleans. My wife was from Gretna, Louisiana, and we shared a passion for anything Coon Ass. When offered the chance to learn to blacken foods (a process that involves coating meat in spice and butter, then searing it on a white-hot skillet) and other Cajun delicacies, I jumped.

Because I was (constantly) tired, deeply in love with my wife and everything about her (including her past), and because I enjoyed cooking, preparing Cajun recipes was a complex emotional experience. I studied the work of Paul Prudhomme and Justin Wilson. I cooked with lagniappe in mind – finding that special something extra that made a good recipe extraordinary. My gumbo featured alligator sausage. My gumbo had six different kinds of seafood.

Home of a Truly Great PoBoy

Recently, I visited the French Quarter. That trip to New Orleans was a sort of pilgrimage. My wife had reached a crossroads of sorts, and a look back to her past was in order. Little did she know that I was looking back as well, using food as a conduit for my ruminations. Sampling the food became a quest.

I was disappointed to find that the menus of some New Orleans’ restaurants had become homogenized and mainstreamed. I ordered Blackened Catfish in one bistro, and discovered that an iron skillet was no longer necessary – you just sprinkle some spice on the fish and grill it (sacrilege!). I had a bland gumbo that might have come from a number 10 can. And I had the worst Muffaletta sandwich ever made – microwaved cold cuts on a grocery store bun.

Luckily, the disappointments of Bourbon Street were balanced with some lucky surprises. Music Legends Park is a small courtyard restaurant serving PoBoys – a simple sandwich featuring meat on a hoagie. I had fried catfish. The bread was perfect; an astounding combination of soft bread and crisp crust. The catfish was hot and spicy. I had Zap potato chips on the side – chips manufactured in more flavor variations than you can count; greasy and great.

The Lucky Dog street vendors sold the best sausage-on-a-bun this side of a ballpark. The Gumbo Shop on St. Peter had great service (thank you, Cassie!) and genuine blackened catfish (thank God!).

Eating is that most social of activities, evoking nostalgia and strong emotions. I was relieved that the Crescent City hadn’t lost the local flavor that made it a home away from home, long before I made my latest quest. Dark roux, red beans and skillet-blackened meats live in Nola. Who dat?

Nor am I defending radical Islam. Jones planned to burn the books in protest of the September 11^th attacks. I haven’t forgotten what happened that day, nor have I restructured my opposition to violence against innocents in order to accommodate political self-loathing. But the Quran is a Holy book to millions, and Terry Jones would have willingly committed a sacrilege to believers of Islam.

Terry Jones reminds me just how loathsome book burning is. Not that I don’t understand the urge. I’m reminded of a time when I almost burned a book myself.

While attending Colorado State University, I read “The Turner Diaries,” a novel set in the near future, depicting a cataclysmic race war between whites and just about everyone else. The book was written by William Luther Pierce, former leader of a white nationalist organization. I’m guessing that most of you haven’t read the book. One example of filth will suffice: white women known to have relationships with black men were hung by the neck from lampposts and left to rot—fair compensation for “race betrayal.”

Having heard about the book (which was credited with inspiring Timothy McVeigh to blow up the Federal Building in Oklahoma City), I was curious. My professor saw value in the project. But by the time I was done reading, though, I was ill. I think the book did damage to my soul. I wanted the damned thing out of my house.

In a state of extreme revulsion, I considered burning the book. That urge lasted a moment or two. Instead, I wrapped it in brown paper and duct tape and shoved it into the back of the community trash dumpster. (I didn’t want children to accidentally find the thing and read it.)

Maybe it ended up in an incinerator somewhere. More likely, it ended up buried under dirty diapers and vegetable scraps—a fitting end.

Book burning is ceremonial censorship. For some ideologues, that might be appropriate behavior. But it’s not appropriate behavior for Americans. I have no respect for Pierce’s ideas, but have a great reverence for the notion that everyone’s ideas can be shared and compared equally and found insightful or wanting on an individual basis. (And plenty of people find Pierce’s vomit to be insightful. Check out his Amazon reviews.)

Books are a tangible testament to our love of truth and ideas. Not all books live up to that dream. But the decision about a book’s value is an individual one. When someone burns a book, they’re burning your free-market right to decide. That’s the sacrilege.

“The Turner Diaries” is a classic test case for freedom of speech. If we can tolerate the presence of that book in the marketplace, we can forever vouchsafe the right of great books to be purchased and read, from the Quran and the Bible to Bill James’ Historical Baseball Abstract. Ironically, Pastor Jones has a lot to learn about blasphemy.

The author’s Amazon page describes Fresh Meat; “a huge cast of characters must stay alive while battling their own insanity, warring cults, nazis, and mindless zombies.” The non-linear narrative allows the author to hop from one lurid scene to the next, developing characters through situations and action rather than reflection. Fleck demonstrates one of Leonard James’ ten rules for writing: “Leave out the parts that readers tend to skip.”

“I’ve been told on numerous occasions that my stories are very fast-paced,” Fleck says, “and I’m inclined to agree.” He lists horror icons H.P. Lovecraft and Richard Matheson as influences, along with Hunter Thompson.

Fleck published as the result of a contest. “I won the chance to self-publish with CreatSpace,” he explains. The POD (publish on demand) company, owned by Amazon, offers writers a non-traditional route to publication. Rather than submit work to commercial presses, some authors opt to self-publish. (Note: My novel, “Dead Beyond the Fence,” is a self-published book.)

Fleck found some drawbacks to the do-it-yourself plan. “I’m the first to admit I was impatient, and went for the first deal instead of the best deal. Nothing against self-publishing, but unless you can market yourself really well, it’s harder to make a living from it.”

Fleck is emphatic about the marketing end of the publishing business. “Don’t count on your Facebook friends to buy your book. If you’re selling a Zombie book, go to zombie walks, maybe even the premiere of a zombie movie. Create a blog if you have to. Flood the forums of every site that will allow you. Make a big fuss, so people will buy your book just to see what all the hubbub is about.”

His advice to would-be authors is simple: “Write. Write all the time, even if you don’t feel like it.”

Later this year, Fleck will be releasing a revised version of “Fresh Meat,” complete with a new ending, an epilogue, and some additional short stories and poems. “It’s called Fresh Meat: Still Bleeding,” he explains. “Kind of a Fresh Meat 2.0.” As for the future, the author is likely to stick with the horror genre. “Horror is going to be around forever, that’s guarantee.”

Interested? You can buy Bryan Fleck’s novel on Amazon at:

     http://www.amazon.com/Fresh-Meat-Bryan-W-Fleck/dp/1449577458/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1282702252&sr=1-3

Body fat (the aforementioned adipose tissue) actually serves a cushioning function for certain organs. Think of it as bubble-wrap for the body. At the same time, fat acts as a buffer against certain diseases. When toxins reach an unsafe level in the bloodstream, fat absorbs them and dilutes the toxin level. Later, the body metabolizes the fat and removes the offending substances through urination or excretion.

In fact, the human body fares poorly in the absence of fats.

With that in mind, I wanted to share a lifetime’s worth of experience in protecting my body from fat deprivation. (This information is anecdotal, and has not been verified by medical research.)

Let’s start with a worst-case scenario. You’re a woman, wearing size 4 clothing. You work out, you enjoy salad and yogurt and fresh vegetables. You’re perfectly happy being a freak. Unknown to you, the Reaper’s scythe is sweeping your way. What can you do to save your life?

I’ve had a lot of luck with pizza. Cheese is pretty heavy in fatty acids. Italian sausage helps. And all that bread dough is going to end up protecting your hipbones if you eat enough.

Fried chicken can be a miracle food in the fight against fat deprivation. My wife, a true southern girl, makes the most amazing fried chicken outside of the Popeye’s chain. You may have to look around to find something equivalent in your area. Try this test: If you place a chicken leg on some paper toweling, and the towel shrivels like a grape turning raisin, you have the real thing.

Condiments are suspect. Ketchup is mostly vegetable (as the Reagan administration reminded us in the 80s) and salsa has almost no fat at all (outrage!) One notable exception to the condiment conundrum is butter. Butter on anything makes that anything better—with one exception. Butter on butter doesn’t make it better. It makes it the same.

A few final observations:

• Meat is good. Meat on a stick is better.
• If your grocer carries skim milk, ask him if he kept the “skimmings.”
• Don’t worry if your local restaurant advertises, “no trans fats.” A lot of them are using the original non-trans fat product—lard.
• Be careful of too much exercise. It burns the fat you’ve carefully ingested.
• Hot Dogs. (Enough said.)

Though Brown has published numerous titles, you may not have heard of him. That’s not surprising. Though horror’s roots are literary, founded by the likes of Poe and Machen, commercial publishers don’t seem to think much of the genre. Not that horror is in any danger of disappearing – the genre lives on the Internet, kept alive by fan sites and the small press. That’s where you’ll find Eric Brown, known to some as the “King of the Zombies.” The book I want to tell you about is not a zombie story, however.

Brown’s newest work is a short novel called “Bigfoot War.” I’m going to give you a short summary of the plot, and you’ll understand why I started off talking about comic books.

Jeff Taylor has been haunted since childhood by the memory of a Sasquatch attack that wiped out his family. Now, after two tours of duty in Iraq, Taylor is determined to find the beast and kill it. What he doesn’t know is that there’s an entire tribe of the beasts living in the forests outside of Babble Creek, North Carolina. And the tribe won’t tolerate the loss of one of their own.

The title gives a pretty good indication of what follows, as the beasts descend on the small town. A large cast of characters (my favorite was Becca, the town’s sheriff) becomes a small cast of characters very quickly. Brown doesn’t fool around. The final battle is full of the author’s signature mayhem.

One interesting aspect of the story is the authenticity of the setting. In the author’s introduction, he reveals that the story is personal, informed by his rural, small-town upbringing. Brown’s effortless sense of nostalgia elevates the tale.

But it’s the comic book sensibility, coupled with the restoration of an honored genre monster that makes the book notable. Since “Harry and the Hendersons” (1987), the Sasquatch has been a sympathetic figure, robbed of its wonder and menace. Leave it to Eric S. Brown to tear down the new convention, leaving a bloody wreck in his wake.

Horror and comic fans, rejoice. Bigfoot is back, and he brought friends.

(Interested? Click here to order from Amazon.)

The “someone to love” part is the trickier one for most people. Any father will understand me when I say that my four children are my life’s breath. And I have friends that comfort and confound, the yin and yang of emotional discourse.

But that’s not what Mr. Harvey had in mind. I believe he was talking about a soul mate.

I met my wife Judith nearly 29 years ago. We worked together at a fast food restaurant. Because she had the good sense to give notice, I had to ask for her phone number or let her slip away without getting to know her. (I still have the napkin with her smudged number written in pencil.)

Our first date was amazing. We went to a nice restaurant in Denver. She asked me to tell her about myself, something I was not comfortable doing. But with her, I opened up, my words and stories spilling out in an uncontrolled fury. She did much the same. (Years later, she confided that she’d worried about having talked too much. I worried about the same thing. We were both right.)

Then I kissed her. Have you ever had the perfect kiss? I have.

When the date was over, I told my roommate that I’d met the woman I’d marry. He shook his head and went back to his television show.

Fast forward to last week. My wife and I decided to grab a bite in Old Town around dinnertime. The restaurant we chose was crowded, so we took a corner table in the basement dining room and started talking. (We have children and we have our own lives. We’re both very political, though we often disagree. There’s plenty to talk about.) The waiter was charming, and the atmosphere was nice.

A few drinks and a sandwich later, I felt my legs start to cramp up a little. “Let’s go walk around a little.” We stopped at the restrooms on the way out. I finished first and waited. When she joined me, she had a shocked look on her face. “Do you know what time it is?”

It was 10:30 p.m. – we’d been talking for four hours. Neither one of us thought it was past eight-thirty.

I have a lock, you see, on the last part of Mr. Harvey’s formula. This Saturday is our wedding anniversary. You want to know about happiness? I’ve had nearly 29 years with the woman of my dreams. Perfect, like that kiss? Hell no. Some of it’s been a train wreck. But I know I’ve been blessed.

Not everyone believes in love. Some people get hurt, or never connect, and end up doubting. So I thought it was worthwhile, on this occasion, to testify.

The nature of his defense of slavery is worth reviewing. In his first major work, Sociology For the South, or, The Failure of Free Society, Fitzhugh attacked free markets as repressive, arguing that slavery was a superior system, not only for blacks, but for whites as well, noting, “Slavery is a form, and the very best form, of socialism.”

In his second book, Cannibals All, or, Slaves Without Masters, he explained, “The unrestricted exploitation of so-called free society is more oppressive to the laborer than domestic slavery.”

In case you’re missing the point:

• “The Negro slaves of the South are the happiest, and in some sense, the freest people in the world.”
• “A Southern farm is the beau ideal of Communism; it is a joint concern, in which the slave … is far happier, because … he is always sure of support…”
• “But our Southern slavery has become a benign and protective institution, and our Negroes are confessedly better off than any free laboring population in the world.”
• “How can we contend that white slavery is wrong, whilst all the great body of free laborers are starving; and slaves, white or black, throughout the world, are enjoying comfort?”
• “Nineteen out of every twenty individuals have…a natural and inalienable right to be slaves.”

I’ll leave with one last quote from the instructive Mr. Fitzhugh: “Liberty is an evil which government is intended to correct.” Do with this as you please.

Before becoming a textbook editor, I worked in the restaurant industry for nearly 30 years. There are misconceptions about the health department’s role, which is perceived as adversarial by many, both inside and outside the industry. And for the last decade, health department funding in here Larimar County, Colorado has been a topic of debate.

Here’s the truth: the restaurant industry has a vested interest in public safety, and the relationship between restaurants environmental services is cooperative, not adversarial.

It might be useful to examine how restaurants and health services work with each other. The relationship is mutually supportive, involving information exchange, targeted improvements and training enhancements.

Did you know that restaurants have the option of scheduling half of their inspections? All they have to do is call. I used scheduled inspections to acquire an expert opinion about how my restaurant was doing. The inspector’s observations helped me to improve our training programs and keep in touch with new statistical research.

For example, a decade ago, it was thought that most food borne illness came from temperature issues – heating and cooling food to serve or store. Recent information indicates that handling and cross-contamination are more critical. A new understanding of food borne illness means training and operating procedures must change. Without an ongoing flow of information, no such changes occur.

Some inspections are surprise inspections, and I suppose that if a restaurant didn’t have an interest in serving safe product, these inspections might appear to be adversarial. But restaurants that don’t care about their guest’s safety deserve to go out of business.

Suppose you owned a restaurant and your competitor down the street made their customers sick. Would that help or hurt you? Despite what you may glean from current political discourse, success is not mutually exclusive. If a restaurant harms its customers, everyone suffers, with trickle-down consequences for nearby restaurants. If, on the other hand, popular restaurants are revealed to be safe and clean, worthy of patronage, then the idea of dining out wins – with benefits for the other restaurants.

Larimar County’s program is an information partnership that works, and you’re not hearing that from someone who wants to expand government power. You’re not hearing it from a politician, grown fat on advocacy. You’re hearing it from an old cook.

On March 13^th, the popular Denver bar sponsored Summer Jackson’s March of the Zombies II, an Indy clothing fashion show. The event was a unique mix of multi-media, including hardcore music, zombie art and literature, and fashion design, worn by some of the most beautiful models to ever shamble the catwalk.

Summer Jackson—model, clothing designer and entrepreneur—envisioned the multi-media horror extravaganza to celebrate her husband Willy’s birthday. (Willy, also a clothing designer, is a zombie enthusiast.)

So why not have a fun event that promotes small local business while celebrating the dark side of the arts, from zombie body painting to cutting-edge fashion, all played to the sound of hardcore bands? The crowd certainly complied, arriving in costume, a wound-to-wound mass of dancing corpses that must have tested the limits of the fire code.

Dead models are cool.

And did I mention the models? Dusted in colors of the grave, decorated with latex burns and blisters, these girls were absolutely gorgeous. One sported a flesh zipper that opened to more flesh beneath; a bit of inspired special effects makeup, courtesy of Denver’s Aaron Spriggs.

There were guy models as well. One wore a long-sleeved shirt that reminded me of Freddy Krueger in the alleyway, telescoping arms extended in the original Nightmare on Elm Street. Another, staggering with the practiced shamble of a Romero zombie, suddenly broke into dance, backed by the DJ/Drummer combo of MF KAAOS.

I was there, of course, selling copies of “Dead Beyond the Fence.” I probably would have been a model if I hadn’t been busy with the book…

The fashions were tense and wonderful, nothing that you’d find in a chain store. And that was point, really. Designs by Summer Jackson LLC, Jackson Ink, Broken, BLK MTL/A.D.D., Whorebath Clothing, and Studio Yoshida are Indy art, with a nod to fantasy and horror. This is genre clothing.

Deadly serious.

The crowd was completely in sync with the event. One ghostly woman wore a noir zombie outfit, right out of a forties detective movie. Another sported a dangling eye socket. Others wore elaborate voodoo face paint.

March of the Zombies II was the second annual zombie fashion show, and Jackson vows to continue the tradition. Given the enthusiastic audience response, show can only continue to grow.