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Writing Samples by D.A. McCall

The following are samples of D.A. McCall's writing, television comedy series, chapter from "Clifford" a humor novel, press releases, and captioned photos.

LUNA SPEAKS  Column By D.A.McCall

 Speak Luna

     “My dog and I have many stimulating conversations.” The woman who graced the bloated television screen made this implausible claim. Until that moment she had seemed unremarkable. The hostess arched an eyebrow, “Has your dog said anything you’d like to share with my viewers?”

   “Rex recently lamented, I’m trapped in a dogs body and forced to do dog things.”

   My jaw dropped at the marvel of it all. Not only was the dog speaking but also it seemingly wasn’t happy with its lot in life. I had hoped for better this time around. Incredible, the dog had confirmed reincarnation. The dog hadn’t made any outlandish claims, such as s past association with Cleopatra. I was impressed what more proof could you want?

    “If that mutt why not you Luna? Come here Luna let’s make this happen. Good grief you stink. What have you been rolling in?”

     Holding my nose I left the room. Hopefully we can accomplish this talking thing from a distance. I leaned my head back in the doorway and thought,

     “Luna can you hear me?”

 Nothing, I was about to give up when I distinctly heard something. I hadn’t thought my name. I entered the room and whirled toward Luna, “Is that you?”

     “Of course it’s me. You don’t smell anyone else in the room do you?”

     “Funny you should mention smell.”

     “What’s that supposed to mean?”

     “I wonder. Now, that I’ve finally got your attention.

I want a bone.”

    “Wonderful, the first time you speak to me it’s to demand a bone?”

     “This is hardly the first time although it is the first time you’ve answered. Forget the bone lets go outside and play.”

     “It’s raining and playing in the rain is only fun in the movies. I’d rather stay inside and talk.”

     “I don’t want to talk, I’d rather stay inside and share a bone.”


     “I’m sure, I’ve never known you to share anything. Besides I told you you’re not getting a bone.”

     “I always assumed the reason you didn’t get me a bone was because you didn’t know I wanted one. This is all very disappointing as well as exhausting. I need to catch some zzzzzz’s.”

     “ I used to wonder, what do you suppose Luna would think about this. In my naïveté I thought you might have some thoughts on……oh I don’t know world hunger perhaps?”

     “You gotta be kidding. What would I know about that? I must say I don’t see how that can be. Everywhere I look I see food.”

     Luna is distracted by a cockroach scurrying across the kitchen floor. She noisily eats the hapless roach.

    “That’s disgusting.”

     “Hey don’t blame me. You’re the one who wanted to talk about world hunger. Last week I followed my nose to a dead raccoon. At least I think it was a raccoon. It had been there for a while so it was hard to tell. All I know for sure is that it was aged just right and was delicious. The scent was so intoxicating I got lightheaded. I gorged myself until I thought I’d explode. Then I rolled around in the carcass.

Food and perfume, what a find."

Excerpt from "Unmasking the Illusion" a satirical sci-fi novel by D.A. McCall

Abner Holstien Discovers Alien Life Form

Offers grainy photograph as proof of contention.

FEBRUARY 14, 2010

By Oggy Ozzwald


 TOPEKA KANSAS –While cruising with the top

down through the no longer aromatic midwest, there was

nothing as far as the eye could see but fields of hemp,

soy, and corn. In the distance, Abner’s lone mailbox

came into view. With trepidation I gingerly turned onto a

tiny dirt road. I followed the hand painted arrow pointing

toward oblivion. (My map suggested I was on the trail.)

A mile down the dirt road made it abundantly clear why

I was able to get a prearranged exclusive interview.

(They don’t pay me enough for these junkets, I thought,

rubbing my battered rear end.) I lurched to an unsteady

stop in front of a rustic farmhouse.

Swaying on a porch swing was a

toothless relic gumming on a straw. I

thrust my hand out by way of

introduction and said, “Oggy.” The

man in the swing leaned forward,

spit a stream of tobacco, gripped my

hand and said, “Abner.” After a

painful handshake I extracted my

damaged digits and examined the

hand for stains.

Abner has become an international icon since his

first encounter and subsequent ability to comprehend the

visiting life form. Initially NASA pooh-poohed the

slightly out of focus, grainy photographs (submitted by

Abner) that he insisted proved the existence of the

Aliens. Abner’s relationship with the Aliens blossomed

once he realized all they really wanted to do was clean

his place up. (The farm had been sadly neglected since

the government had come down on Abner the last time

he’d employed “illegal” aliens.)

Pig sties, old tires, the outhouse, rancid garbage, etc.

anything unwanted gets pitched into the yard by dusk,

come dawn the place is spotless and the air is clean and

sweet. The Aliens relish special requests. (This has

 resulted in some unfortunate events. For example, an

award winning rose garden was decimated on one

occasion. On the other hand the scourge of tansy weed

has been eliminated.)

I engaged my “stores all” and began the interview

with, “How on earth did you overcome your fear of the


Abner looked puzzled, “Fear!? Draughts, eighthundred-

pound grizzly bears, bureaucrats—these are the

things what scare me. At first I regarded these things as

hungry pests and what farm needs more mouths to feed?

Once I reckoned they weren’t

after the crops or livestock,

what were there to be afraid of?

Them things is plumb curious.

Even when they is right in front

of you, no matter how much

you rub your eyes they seem

blurry. They live out in the back

forty. Whatever else they is,

they’s night creatures. I get up

ever day at the crack of dawn, I hear doors slam as they

scurry away. Some nights their chewing and farting is so

intense I can’t sleep.”

I asked Abner, “Where do you suppose these things

came from?”

“Well, at first I thought, ‘God works in strange

ways.’ Later, I just assumed they’d come from Nebraska.

That’s where most things in these parts come from.”

Nebraska? I had a deadline. Clearly I wasn’t getting

much more than color from Abner. It had been a bumpy,

dusty ride for nothing. I dreaded the thought but it

appeared my research was going to take me to an Alien Zone


Abner Holstien Discovers

Alien Life Form

Part Two

By Oggy Ozzwald

NEW YORK—I was stunned to learn they

came from the dark side of the moon. Imagine

that. Come to find out, the Aliens have been

monitoring our satellite TV for decades. They

comprehend all human languages. This included

subtle dialects. “Ricky, you’ve got some ‘splainin’

to do.” The collective had long since cleaned up

the moon. (Even with the naked eye you can see

this.) Their population was in precipitous decline.

The Aliens were literally starving to extinction.

They loved humans.

“Do you suppose we could coexist?”

It was pure chance that they’d made first

contact with Abner. The Aliens made the

assumption, talk to one human and you’ve talked

to them all. This confusion stemmed mainly from

their addiction to reality TV.

After a period of adjustment humans soon

learned that all you had to do was show these

(eager to please) Aliens a picture of something

you didn’t want to see again and you didn’t. The

Aliens, almost constantly and noisily, pass gas.

Fortunately, it’s not toxic. Indeed it’s pure oxygen.

It’s hard to get used to taking a deep breath rather

than holding your nose in the presence of

uncontrollable farting. Honestly those that

measure these things claim an Alien Zone

produces more oxygen than the average rain


Gourmet magazine reports that the Aliens

react to French cooking the way humans react to a

steaming pile of . . . . You get the picture. In fact,

all food that hasn’t already been ingested holds no

interest. (It just doesn’t have the aroma or flavor

of turds.)

A widely held concern was, what in the world

would the Aliens eat if their palates became more

cultured, combined with rampant over-population

of the creatures?

Two things became apparent almost

immediately. One: The Aliens are very sensitive

and never overstay their welcomes. Two: Like

coyotes, their numbers are governed by what an

area can sustain. Communities cherish Alien

Zones. The localities that had no Alien Zones

added their names to sizeable waiting lists.

Needless to say, the Alien’s habitats are

subterranean. (Other than rocks, there just aren’t

any building materials on the moon.) Alien

burrows are evident by upright doors. (It would

seem these modest beings always wanted doors.)

The zones are littered with couches and loveseats.

The genial Aliens are avid stargazers. (Not much

else to do on the moon.) On a clear night the

Aliens sprawl on their sofas and stargaze for

hours. They ooh and aah at shooting stars, or any

heavenly phenomenon for that matter. They suck

on dirty diapers like they’re buttered popcorn.

Whenever the Aliens set up a new zone

(ideally over an old landfill—a landfill affords the

unique opportunity to extract the old as well as the

new) no one disturbs the Aliens because they are

the solution to mankind’s most vexing problem.

I’ve never really seen the Aliens (just shadows and

movement). Fortunately, the research didn’t

require any actual contact.

Abner Holstien Discovers

Alien Life Form

Part Three

By Oggy Ozzwald

NEW YORK—This article was not

authorized by the way. No official of any stripe

wants to sign off on anything that might disrupt

the excitable Alien’s well-being. It’s one of the

quickest tickets to Siberia.

Big Al shut down NASA. “Do I have a


NASA had become associated with more

public embarrassments than triumphs. (The real

thing just didn’t measure up to special effects.)

Alarmingly, many veteran astronauts had begun

to display antisocial behavior. “NASA has to

be stopped before someone gets hurt.”

Failure to discover life in space (after

decades of searching), when it was no farther

than the moon, had even their staunchest allies

shaking their heads in dismay.

Ironically, the Aliens’ arrival was facilitated

by a transporter system developed by NASA.

“I always knew there was some use for these


The clinching factor may have been when a

twelve year old boy posted a message on

“MySpace” that said, “There’s something

going on, on the moon.” He’d used a telescope

he got at Wal-Mart with babysitting money.

There had been money left for candy. NASA’s

condescension may have signaled its death

knell. “Clearly the boy has had too much


Calling NASA an indefensible boondoggle,

Big Al said, “By all means explore space, just

don’t do it on the backs of the public.”






Some years ago (in a bar) I observed a fellow patron (likely destined for goddess status before the night was over) she was reading aloud (from a book) to a small group of rapt fellow customers. They were all uproariously laughing. “That book should be mine.”


If people raise their heads long enough from their electronic devices “Clifford” just might become that book. I know that’s aiming kinda low but pubs aren’t the only venue ideal for “Clifford” An audio version of “Clifford” would be a boon to those people stuck in gridlock on their daily commute’


It’s been said that “Clifford” would make a great movie. Admittedly I’m the one who said that but that doesn’t make it any less true.


I’ve included chapters 12, 14, 15, 16  in support of this contention.


In light of the short attention spans (so prevalent these days) I suspect “Clifford” is the ideal length for a humorous book.


I wish there was something I could say that would make you say (I’m looking forward to reading the entire manuscript) perhaps if it wasn’t Monday……


In any case I wish to thank you (in advance) for considering my query.

PROMO for Clifford by D.A. McCall


With Clifford my intent was to pen the funniest book ever written. I’d read multiple books that purported to be laugh riots and didn’t crack a smile.


Oh yeah, this is realistically achievable. Although, I’m wondering if many of these books really are funny but my inept reading ability caused me to miss the joke.


Perhaps I wasn’t putting the proper emphasis on a word. Some lines might be real hysterical if read properly?


(A puzzled look- followed by) NA

I’m often asked (well not that often) how can some old geezer like you relate to a rudderless teenage boy? It would be a lie to say I have a good memory. I think what’s on full display is my arrested development.


TELEVISION SCRIPT For Patrishaas’s Workshop by D.A. McCall    #3 of 13

Episode 3   The Malevolent Binoculars

Intro 1:00    22:00 total time

­Scene1   3EP


Bustling about – setting up “picture for the blind”

Full screen shot of Picture for the blind


Welcome to Patrishaa’s workshop.

Devoted fans of the show may have noticed that Patrishaa

has seemingly abandoned her commission for the mural

for Chicago’s School of the Blind. At least this was the complaint

from someone from the school. Although clearly the complaint

was not lodged by one of the students. In any case Patrishaa

is sympathetic to their concerns and has decided

to devote this episode toward the completion of the project.

To bring Braille (if you will) aspects to the project

Patrishaa is employing paper mache.


Scene 2   3EP


Beware of so called artist’s who paint with rollers and three inch brushes. Remember you’re not painting a barn.

In art there are no short cuts. What’s the rush?

Those chores aren’t going anywhere.

If you don’t have time to create art, buy it,

and never forget Art Is Fun.

Oh, I was watching the psychic network the other day when…


It grieves me to interrupt what is sure to be a fascinating digression.

 It’s just that you have a phone call. The caller effuses to giver her name.

She claims to be from “Sweepstakes headquarters” Whatever that is?

According to the caller ID it’s your mother.


Put her on speaker-phone and lets try turning down the treble this time.

Hello Mother.

 (Shot of hand turning down the treble knob)


Patrishaa? How’d you know it was me?


Mother, you know I’m psychic.


Since when? I’ve misplaced my glasses,

perhaps you can tell me where they are?


 That’s easy you’re wearing them.


So I am. Can you see me?


Of course I can but, you didn’t call me because you couldn’t find your glasses mother. What do you want?

(ON screen LT) (Without her glasses Patrisha’as mother

has to grope her way across a familiar littered room)


What’s Happened to tour voice?

Are you allright Patrishaa?


I’m fine mother. Stop changing the subject, what do you want?


I miss you. I know you’re busy.

What is it you’re busy with, I’ve forgotten.


 You know what I’m doing mother. I’m taping my TV show.


 You have a TV show? Since when?


Mother, you know I do. It can’t be a coincidence

that you always call during taping.


My Patrishaa on TV. What’s the show about dear?


(Sarcastically) as often as not it’s about you.


Oh that…..Well it’s not a real TV show now is it?


What was that?

 I’ll have to call you back, good-bye mother.



Scene 3  3EP


(Flips eye patch/ holding curtain open with elbow/talking on phone clipped to pocket/w/binoculars)

What’s he doing with that shovel?

This clinches it call 911

(pause more looking)


This is Patrishaa. I can’t be sure but,

my neighbor may be killing someone…What?….

(pause, listens)  Well…no. I didn’t actually see him do anything but,

I’m pretty sure

(raises voice)  Operator, I’m Patrishaa  This is not a crank call..hello,hello.

I can’t believe it? She hung up on me.


Scene 4 3EP S4


 What was I thinking? I got mother and Velveeta to go undercover.

My plan was to disguise them as magazine sales people

and dispatch them to my neighbors house the hope was

 they’d get some incriminating evidence.

How hard could that be? Naturally they didn’t pull it off.

I guess the plan was just too complicated.

Mother was distraught, she claimed she was close to selling a subscription to Vanity Fair before everything went sideways

        You were undercover mother, you weren’t really selling magazines.

Now she isn’t speaking to Velveeta. Blames her for provoking Mr. Brown

into pulling a gun and ordering them to leave.

If we weren’t there to sell magazines,

Snoring/curlers in wig/Kleenex/dishes w/forks/vitamin bottles/coffee maker./brown water/eye patch on while sleeping/

TS maybe of P reading to add as a transparency over sleeping P other things to add as transparency over sleeping


Mother you know what you were doing there…never mind.

(P. drifts off to sleep – 7:00A.M. LT

The events taking place next door capture P’s  complete attention.

A dump truck with a load of sand pulls up)

Beep-Beep sound here for truck backing up STPRO  


(Either narration or in real time)

Well there’s the smoking gun. A sand box for his kid, I’m sure.

Like anyone would build that little creep a sandbox.

It’s a good thing I’ve been reading Agatha Christie

or I may not have noticed what this guy was up to.

I mean it’s rather obvious he’s an assassin.

 Scene 5   3EP

 ( P. is back working on the mural, there’s knocking at the door. P. ignores it. The knocking becomes more insistent)


There may be someone at the door



Who is it?


(The Delivery Guy) 

(from the other side of the door)

 It’s me Orlando.

I have a package for you.



How do I know it’s really you?


 You know it’s me Miss Patrishaa.

Have you been getting some bogus Orlando’s?

Please open the door, you have to sign for a package.

Besides I have something important to ask you.



Very well I’ll be right there.

(gets box/  looks through peep hole –

satisfied with what she sees, begins unlocking multiple locks,

 finally opens the door, just a crack)

 Just set the box down on the porch and loan me a pen.

(a clip board and pen is handed to P. through the cracked door put clipboard on something high behind the door)


Like, when are you gonna go out with me Miss Patrishaa?


(Talking through cracked door)

 I haven’t got time for that foolishness.

 Listen, have you ever made a delivery to that creep next door?

(P. now asks the question in a whispery tone)


That dude scares Orlando.

 Like, if I had to make a delivery there everyday

I’d have to give this gig up. I didn’t like, leave the old country

because I wanted to meet the next Ted Bundy.


Gee thanks, you’ve reassured me.

 Good-bye Orlando.

  Scene 6   3EP

(camera across the room from Patrishaa. She is on the couch with back to camera looking intently out the window with binoculars. The camera slowly pans in and hears Patrishaa mumbling)


Naturally mom and Velveeta couldn’t pull it off.

I guess the plan was too complicated……

(camera cuts to work bench and slowly goes over unfinished toilet seats – slowly eventually the announcer wraps up the show)

( A distracted P. returns to the mural project)


Realizing the tremendous tactile experience

Patrishaa is denying the blind students

she tore herself away from the window

and resumed working on the mural.

Announcer (WRAP)

Unfortunately the fastest half hour on TV has expired.

 Patrishaa the world’s greatest artist has once again graced us

with her unique creative process.

In a particularly regrettable turn of events little artistic progress was made.

Tune in next week for another chapter in this fabulous series,

and don’t forget Art is Fun.

 3 EP –


There were almost certainly nefarious goings on at the neighbors house. Unfortunately no irrefutable evidence was ever found

 to support Patrishaa’s myriad allegations.

On a happy note the child Patrishaa was convinced had been murdered


was spotted looking out the window of the moving van.

Clearly not apprised of the full story,

the tyke was sticking out his tongue at Patrishaa.


 Novel  Chapter  1  “Clifford”  by D.A. McCall

Chapter 1

 Grandma Realizes Her Dream And Becomes A Lawn Gnome

“Clifford, I hate to disturb you son, but, it’s 2 p.m. darlin,’ I know daylight savings time has you all mixed up, but you know how angry your father gets when he comes home from work and you’re still in bed... Sweetie?”

Clifford stirred and mumbled incoherently. His eyelids fluttered and slowly opened slightly, a small quantity of painful light entered his eyes.

“I’ve been up for hours, mother.”

Clifford shielded his eyes and sat up in bed. He was bathed in sweat and shuddered involuntarily. This state of affairs was a remnant of the hellish nightmare his mother had mercifully interrupted. In the dream, his father, in the guise of a doctor, was pursuing him with a chainsaw. The insane glint in his father’s eye was even more pronounced than usual, as he gleefully kept repeating something about a lobotomy.

“Stop! It won’t hurt much. It’s for your own good.”

Clifford folded back the top sheet. (Cardboard should be so stiff.) Circumstances had been such that the bedding had gone unchanged since junior high. At this late date, an industrial gas mask and tongs would be essential equipment for anyone contemplating a clean up of this toxic site. Clifford often expressed his utter disdain for “rampant bathing.” He contended it carried with it the inflexible heel mark of the bourgeois. In support of this thesis, Clifford asserted compulsive bathing removed naturally occurring oils and skin conditioners. An aromatic Clifford was the unfortunate side effect of this studied philosophy.

“Don’t stand so close. Everything has a downside.”

Another consequence of this lifestyle was that Clifford’s bed was an environmental nightmare. Personal hygiene notwithstanding, there were nocturnal emissions, and others that weren’t, aplenty. The situation was exacerbated by the long-standing ban of his mother from the room. The bedroom had been off limits to her since a cleaning binge had resulted in his collection of “erotic art” being thrown away.

The singsong monotone of Clifford’s mother continued unabated.

The hollow core door was an ineffective barrier to this audio onslaught.

“Mercy son, what time did you get home last night anyway?” There was a brief pause as she cocked her head in anticipation of a response that was not forthcoming. She thought she detected a moan.

“What was that?”

“Baby, it’s not your fault you require so much sleep. The doctor said it was a rare type of birth defect passed on by the mother.

Naturally, it’s all my fault. I’m sorry, it’s just that if you went to bed a little earlier perhaps ... Clifford? Do you hear me?”

“Of course I hear you mother, the birth defect didn’t leave me deaf. Not that it matters, but I’ve been combing the want ads in the newspaper for a job. I had no idea I was supposed to check in with you first, mother.”

“Oh Clifford, I wish you had, that’s yesterday’s paper.” Clifford’s eyes darted around the room, “What paper?”

A reanimated Clifford retrieved two socks (not a pair mind you) from the littered floor and pulled them on. Clifford dressed with a sense of urgency. Even if it did mean getting rousted from bed “in the middle of the night,” it was imperative that another confrontation with his father be avoided. Nothing else occurred in Clifford’s brief life that spurred him to think so far ahead.

The wake up call from Clifford’s mother had been a salvation of sorts. Her shrill intrusion into Clifford’s sleep had spared him from his father’s, both real and imagined, wrath. Clifford was grateful to her for the real part, but the old boy just had to stop showing up in his dreams. Last week had been brutal. Clifford was instantly awake and alert having mistaken the lilting voice of his mother for a smoke detector. The truth was Clifford’s mother had liberated him from the ceaseless toil of an unearthly assembly line that stretched to infinity.

“What’s the pay?” a hopeful Clifford asked.

“It’s a production job. The more you do the more you get,” the grinning incubus soothed.

“What did that mean? Did that dude have pointed teeth?”

Clifford had no idea how he’d done it, but the old man surely had something to do with this nightmare.

“I mean really, even in a dream I wouldn’t apply for a job like this. Why wasn’t this job out sourced to China? If not for sadistic fathers, what self-respecting kid would ever get a job?”

Clifford’s sporadic periods of employment had a direct link to the spread of tattoos. At the moment, Clifford was preoccupied with the whereabouts of his pants. Clifford scanned the panorama of debris that shrouded the floor. Temporary silence from his mother prompted an irrational thought, “Maybe it was time to lift the ban?” Sanity returned when Clifford spotted the pants standing where he’d left them the previous morning. Clifford donned the fossilized jeans. A T- shirt with the logo of his favorite band completed the ensemble.

Actually, the T-shirt appeared to be the upper torso of a well-endowed female. The band logo was in the form of a tattoo near the navel. Only aficionados were in on the joke. Some smiled and flashed Clifford a

thumbs up. The sad truth was Clifford had never had any contact with actual breasts. Once the shirt was in place, Clifford smoothed the wrinkles and resumed breathing through his nose.

Some unscheduled activity caught Clifford’s attention. A mouse was rooting through a mountain of food packaging.

“Ha-ha sucker, I licked those wrappers clean!” It was a point of pride that Clifford never wasted food.

“How sorry can you get?” Clifford’s father stressed, “Take all the food you want, but eat all you take. It’s sinful to waste hard earned victuals.”

Clifford unstuck his foot from the floor and left his room to the mouse. Clifford’s mother recoiled from the malodorous fumes Clifford emancipated on entering the hallway.

“Good morning, mother.”

Clifford’s mother squinted and held her nose as her head bobbed up and down in a vain attempt to peer into the vacated room. To her dismay, Clifford pulled the door shut and padlocked it. Clifford jostled his mother for position en route to the kitchen.

“The only time I see that T-shirt, son, is when you’re wearing it. I never see it in the wash.”

“It’s fine mother, just because pop gave you that washing machine for your wedding anniversary, it doesn’t mean you have to use it every day.”

Clifford snatched up the newspaper from the kitchen table and headed for the door.

“Don’t take the paper, son. Your father got constipated the last time he couldn’t find it.”

“Oh, brother.”

As Clifford returned the paper, he glimpsed movement outside the kitchen window. The motion that attracted Clifford was grandma gently swaying in the wind-driven porch swing.

“When are we going to bury grandma?”

“Ask your father, son.”

Clifford eased out the front door. His knees buckled when an over- powering stench engulfed him.

“Good God, even for her, grandma smells bad today.”

Clifford pinched his nose and ignoring the steps leaped off the porch.

At a time when “Grammie” was precariously clinging to life she grabbed Clifford’s arm, with surprising firmness. “Promise you won’t let them pull the plug on me boy, you don’t have to be very alive to be me.

SONG LYRICS   by    D.A. McCall

Perfect Match


We like to make love  -  on that we agree


But it’s the morning for you  - And the evening for me


Oh but – we are a perfect match   2x



I find the setting sun –  a wonder to behold


You watch it come up  –  or so I’m told


I know – we are perfect match   2x



Break:  da da da    doe   doe    dee dee dee    dee    dee



Mountains are fantastic – once again we agree


But it’s the valley for you  - and the pinnacle for me


Oh yeah – we are a perfect match   2x



I received your letter to day – stating you’ve taken your things


I found it so strange – you’d forgotten your ring


Oh but  - we were a perfect match         I knew – we were a perfect match


Oh yeah – we were a perfect match     oh but – we were a perfect match




C    Cmaj7           D    Dmaj 7              G     w/f g notes







TAMMY NEWBILL  360-601-8036  *  * 307 SW 20th AVE. Battle Ground WA. 98604

Tammy Newbill - Founder of Savior Socks; a nonprofit.

The mission is to provide clean and dry socks to those in need.


Savior Socks “Million Sock March” starts in Battle Ground Washington



Battle Ground WA. In a discussion about the plight of the homeless, (a situation that seems insoluble) Tammy Newbill was apprised of a need rarely addressed. Clean dry socks. “Ah hah, I can do something about this.”  Soon there after Tammy started a new nonprofit she named “Savior Socks.” The mission is to provide clean and dry socks to those in need.


Tammy began her non-profit in Nov. of 2016.  She has organized four local fund raising events over the past year collecting donations and distributing over 6000 pairs of socks to date. Tammy has set a new goal a  “Million Sock March”.


Hurricanes Harvey, Irma and Maria along with other catastrophes over the past few months have magnified the need for clean dry socks. Imagine; Battle Ground Washington, the little town that started a huge loving crusade to bring comfort to so many. Various Battle Ground businesses are realizing that collecting socks and donations for the “Million Sock March” is an excellent way for them to do their part.


The next “Dance Your Socks Off “ Savior Socks bash is the “Million Sock March” launch.

Saturday Nov. 4, 2017 at Bethel Lutheran Church 12919 N.E. 159th Street Brush Prairie WA.

Doors open at 6:30 festivities begin at 7PM until 10PM.


Dance and swing to the fun music of  “Inversion” starring Paki and Ramona Perkins two of Vancouver’s premier musicians. Also that evening “Old Rock ‘n” Roll Queen” will perform a rockin’ unforgettable set of original songs midway through the evening.

Lively music you will enjoy dancing to.


Fabulous goods are being donated for the Big Raffle and Tammy’s (now famous) Silent Auction. A raffle ticket will be given for every pair of socks donated that evening.


Get involved in the joy of helping Tammy distribute clean dry socks to those in need.

A simple pair of socks is a gift anyone can give.


“Dance Your Socks Off” is an opportunity to meet Tammy Newbill and others in our area supporting Savior Socks with an extremely noble cause the “Million Sock March”. 


Come one come all bring a pair of socks.


“We are all helping love grow one step at a time and you are invited…Let’s dance.” 

                                                                                                                             Tammy Newbill





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Contact: Heidie McCall                                                 FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Tel. 360-693-7085





VANCOUVER WA. Patrishaa’s Workshop is a satirical look at the world of art as depicted on television.


The program is the brainchild of Doug and Heidie McCall founders of the Factory West Studio established in 1985.


To date thirteen twenty-two minute episodes plus, multiple shorts have been completed. All have been produced in 1920x1080 high definition.


Patrishaa is agoraphobic; as a result there is not even a remote possibility of a change of venues. The entire series takes place in Patrishaa’s studio or her living room.


“Patrishaa’s Workshop is essentially a one woman show,” says Heidie.

At a time when cost management is of paramount concern (on prime time television) Patrishaa’s non-life threatening affliction is a plus of incalculable proportions.


The chief goal of Patrishaa’s Workshop is to spark next day water-cooler conversation. There has been a conscious effort to avoid product placement

“You don’t deface the Mona Lisa”.



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