Edgar Reewright

I Don’t Want To Publish Any Crap

Yeah, Another Blogger203 Comments

A few days ago, feeling unsure about myself and about the future of Yeah, Another Blogger, I grabbed my phone and called an individual who, I figured, might be able to help me put things in perspective. Help me find my way, if you will. Not that he’d ever been all too beneficial in those regards before. But, desperate as I was, I gave it a shot.

“What’s up, Neil?” asked my editor Edgar Reewright, picking up after the first ring. “Please don’t tell me there are major problems with the next manuscript you’re going to send me. Hell, what am I talking about? There always are major problems with your manuscripts.”

“Edgar, give me a break. And stop complaining. Yes, there is a major problem. But not with an upcoming story. That’s because there is no upcoming story. Edgar, I’ve just about run out of gas. I can barely think of anything to write about. And when I do come up with an idea, it seems pretty much the same as things I’ve written about dozens of times before. I don’t want to publish any crap, so I might as well take off my spikes and leave the playing field.”

There was silence on the other end. But not for long. “I can’t believe my ears, Neil,” Edgar said. “What is wrong with you? From day one, you’ve been churning out crap like a champ for Yeah, Another Blogger. I mean, crap is your middle name. Okay, you’re in a slump. But you’ll break out of it. All you need to do is look to Joyce Carol Oates for inspiration. She’s 87 years old, the same age as me, by the way, and still writing books like there’s no tomorrow. She’s penned so many books, everybody has lost count, but it’s way, way over 100. Her latest one, a novel, hit the marketplace in June. And it’s 672 pages long!”

“Yeah, Edgar, she’s incredible. And a genius. She never runs out of ideas.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Neil. Story ideas by the untold thousands are bobbing in the air, just waiting to be snatched. Sure, Joyce is at the top of the ladder, writing-talent-wise, while you’re a bottom dweller. But you shouldn’t feel like you’re stuck in cement.  Suck it up, Neil, and get back to work. And maybe, just maybe, your perseverance will garner you an award one day. Everyone wants recognition, am I right?”

“That goes without saying, Edgar. But that’s already happened to me. Don’t you remember? Two years ago I received a Pulitzer Prize in the If You’re Bored Out Of Your Mind, Reading This Person’s Writings Won’t Snap You Out Of It category. That was one of the most memorable occasions of my life.”

“My bad, Neil! How could I have forgotten? See? You’ve already sort of made it, and other awards possibly await you. But only if you stay in the game. Neil, throwing in the towel after all these years would be a big mistake, one you’d eventually regret. What’s more, you need to think about me. And about my wife Loretta. We depend on the enormous salary you pay me. Because of you, we’ve been able to live the highlife. I’ve never asked you this, Neil, but how did you come into so much dough?”

“Well, Edgar, I’m now going to allude to something that only my wife knows about. If you recall an unsolved armored-truck heist 35 years ago in Philadelphia — it was a major story — I believe you’ll be able to put two and two together.”

“That was you? Man, you are something else! Needless to say, my lips are sealed.”

“They better be, you dig? Anyway, I’m glad we’ve talked today. I feel re-energized. I’m ready to start writing. Once I come up with a decent story idea, that is. Thanks for your help, Edgar. I really appreciate it.  Over and out for now!”

Old As Shit

Yeah, Another Blogger142 Comments

I picked up after the first ring when my editor Edgar Reewright phoned me last week, because I figured he was anxious to discuss the essay for Yeah, Another Blogger that I’d emailed him the day before.

“Hello, Edgar,” I said. “How goes it? What do you think of the article? Will it need much editing?”

“Neil, have any of your pieces ever not needed loads of editing?  I mean, it’s all I can do to make your writings even somewhat presentable. I haven’t looked at your latest opus yet, though. I’ll get to it fairly soon. But I didn’t call to talk business.”

“Okay. What’s up?”

“I haven’t been in the strongest frame of mind lately,” Edgar said, sighing loudly, “so I’m hoping that maybe you can help me put things in perspective. I’ve been thinking about mortality a lot, you see, and it’s getting me down. I became a senior citizen ages ago, but until recently I didn’t consider myself an old man. All of that changed when I celebrated my 86th birthday with my wife Loretta last month. Towards the end of the meal, Loretta went into the kitchen and came out a few minutes later with a big birthday cake. There were 87 candles, one of them for good luck, burning brightly on it. The number of candles absolutely stunned me. They took up so much space, you barely could see the top of the cake. I’m old as shit, Neil, and I don’t like it.”

“Yes, Edgar, you are old as shit. But, overall, you’re fine and dandy nonetheless. Oh, except for the medicinal help your mighty sword requires in order to perform halfway decently with Loretta, of course. And the adult diapers you wouldn’t dare leave the house without wearing. And your incurable bad breath that rivals the odors at a garbage dump. Have I forgotten anything?”

“No, you haven’t. And how I wish you weren’t privy to such information. Even though we’ve never met in person, it’s entirely my fault that you know about these things, since I have trouble keeping my trap shut whenever we speak on the phone.”

“Very true. However, your tendency to divulge sensitive and embarrassing matters does make you a bit loveable. You’d be intolerable, otherwise. Anyway, I’m now going to try and cheer you up.”

“Thank you, Neil. I appreciate it.”

“Let’s start with some humor. Edgar, did you hear about Thomas I. Toldyaso, the aged astrophysicist who kicked the bucket last week?”

“No. What about him?”

“Everyone expected him to pass away with barely a whimper,” I said. “Instead, he went out with a big bang!”

“Not bad, Neil, not bad. That joke makes me wonder about my exit from this mortal coil. Will a horrible disease do me in? Will anyone actually care that I’m gone? I tell you, I feel the end isn’t too far off. The Grim Reaper has me in his sights. What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?”

“Relax, Edgar! You’re strong as a bull. Even if The Grim Reaper taps you on the shoulder any time soon, I have no doubt you’ll grab him by the cowl and throw him back whence he came.”

“Whence? Are you kidding me, Neil? Only you would ever use the word whence. I better never see it in one of your blog stories. They’re awkward and lifeless enough as it is.”

Edgar paused for a moment, possibly deep in thought. Then he continued. “So, you think I’m strong as a bull, do you?”

“Absolutely, Edgar. I’m certain you have 10 more solid years in you. And 15 is more like it, most likely. Why, your energy and focus leave me in the dust, even though I’m a decade younger than you. Don’t be down in the dumps, Edgar. Just keep on keepin’ on!”

Once again Edgar took a moment to consider what I’d said. When he spoke, he was back in the saddle.

“Neil, all of a sudden I am feeling so much better. I wasn’t at all sure that you’d be of any help whatsoever when I decided to call you a little while ago. But I made the right choice. Thank you so much! The skies have brightened. I see a lengthy, excellent future in front of me. I now will get back to work, tackling the undoubtedly sorry-ass article you sent to me yesterday. Oh well, such is the life of an editor. Have a good day!”

“Goodbye, Edgar. It’s been a pleasure. Sort of.”

Edgar Reewright Tries His Hand At Kid Lit

Yeah, Another Blogger140 Comments

It has been a while since I’ve mentioned Edgar Reewright, my longtime editor, on these pages. The last occasion was nine months ago, when he and his wife Loretta were deciding whether or not to accept Elon Musk’s offer to join Elon’s SpaceX senior citizens lunar program. Well, in the end they would have signed up. But before that could happen, Elon, in late June 2023, pulled the plug on the incipient project, whose initial lunar landing by seniors had been scheduled for 2026.

“Neil, Musk eats it!” Edgar told me on the phone last July. “You know what his main reason was for cancelling? Adult diapers! Shit, can you believe it? These were his exact words when he called to give me the news: ‘I’m most sorry to inform you, Edgar, that I’m deep-sixing the senior citizens lunar program. You see, every oldster already in the program is dependent on adult diapers. And you and your wife, on your applications, indicated that they are essential for you too. The SpaceX rockets would have to double in size to accommodate the numerous boxes required for this sanitary product. Not to mention the problem of what to do with soiled diapers. We couldn’t just open a hatch and toss those bad boys into outer space, after all. Well, maybe we could, but if we did and the word got out, the negative publicity would devastate my businesses. Edgar, I’ve got to go. Not to the bathroom, but back to work. Goodbye.'”

“Bummer, my man, for sure,” I said to Edgar. “I know that you and Loretta would have loved to kick up your heels on the Moon. And I damn well might have applied to the program too. Oh well, such is life.”

Leave it to Edgar, though. He didn’t dwell on the SpaceX disappointment. As always, he moved forward with gusto. Case in point: When I spoke with him on the phone a few days ago, he told me he’d just completed writing a book for preschoolers.

“Neil, I’d never written a book of any kind before. But I needed a creative challenge, seeing that editing the pap you turn out for Yeah, Another Blogger isn’t exactly a soul-satisfying experience.”

I bit my tongue, responding instead with kind words.

“Why, Edgar, that’s wonderful. You’re a worldly person, rich with experiences and memories. I have no doubt your book will connect with developing minds flawlessly. What is the book about?”

“I’m glad you asked. Unlike your blog pieces, which exemplify the word wooden, my book is a hold-onto-your-hat tale about a set of young twins, a brother and sister. One day they decide to play hooky from school. I’d like to read the opening sentences to you. Okay?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

Jill and Bill are seven-year-old twins. They live with their parents in a small town in Colorado near the Rocky Mountains. They hate school. “School is for suckers,” they like to say. Their parents always are worried, since Jill and Bill say it so often.

“Hey, Bill, let’s skip school today,” Jill suggests early one Monday morning. “Heck, nobody in our class likes us, so they won’t miss us. And our teacher probably will be glad we didn’t show up, considering all the problems we cause.”

“Gee, Jill, that’s a great idea. After Mom drops us off at school we’ll sneak around to the back of the building and head to the mountains. I’m sick of Mom and Dad, so I want to stay away from home for at least a week. We’ll start forest fires and do lots of other fun things. Are you with me?”

“You bet. Let’s get ready,” says Jill.

“What do you think?” Edgar asked. “Want to hear more?”

“Spare me, Edgar. Holy crap, are you out of your f*cking mind?  What you’ve written is incredibly inappropriate and warped. No preschooler should be exposed to anything like this. You’ll never find a publisher. And if you self-publish, avalanches of condemnation will rain upon you. Edgar, I’m seeing you in a new light. A dark light. I’m not sure I want you to be my editor anymore.”

Edgar held back comment for many seconds. Instead, he gulped. Multiple times. Finally, he spoke.

“Uh, are you sure about all of that? I never had children, which puts me at a disadvantage when determining what might be a good read for little kids.”

“Trust my judgment, Edgar. If this is the kind of subject matter you feel the need to tackle, then do a major rewrite, with young adults as your intended audience.”

“Alright, I’ll take your advice. Or maybe I’ll just throw in the towel. In any event, am I still your editor?”

“Yeah, you are. I’d be lost without you. Plus, occasionally you give me something to write about. There’s a lot to be said for that.”

“Thank you, Neil, thank you. You’re the best. Well, not the best. Not by any means. But you truly are sort of okay.”

If Edgar And Loretta Go, Then I’ll Go Too

Yeah, Another Blogger144 Comments

I shuddered a bit when my cell phone rang last Wednesday and I saw who was calling, because I wasn’t in the mood to talk with Edgar Reewright. But when your editor is trying to reach you, you answer.

“Neil, Edgar here,” he said bluntly, as was characteristic of him. “I just started editing the story you’re planning to publish early next week. Here’s my advice: Don‘t! How many times do I have to tell you that you’re overdoing it with the walking-around-while-looking-at-things articles? The ones about nicely-decorated vehicles — the Art On Wheels series — are okay, but this latest creation of yours absolutely eats it. Nobody will want to read about your wanderings through Philadelphia in search of one-way traffic signs that are pointing in the wrong direction. Especially since you didn’t find any. Listen to me . . .  James Patterson wouldn’t be able to write decently about this subject. Ditto for Joyce Carol Oates. And they are a hundred times more talented than you! You need to trash this loser. To reiterate: Don’t publish it!”

I was stunned. Almost speechless. At last, after gulping at least ten times, I managed to talk.

“Oh my, my, my, I see what you mean, Edgar,” I said, my voice dripping with dejection. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Instead of backwards one-way signs, I guess I should have been looking for something with more appeal, such as squirrels line-dancing while balancing acorns on their noses. What am I going to do? I have nothing else to write about right now. For the last two or three years I’ve published a story every two weeks, but I won’t meet the next scheduled publication date. My readers will not be pleased by my dereliction of duty.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Edgar asked. “For crying out loud, not one soul will notice or care. Look at it as a mini-vacation. Besides, I’m certain that inspiration, if that term even applies to you, will strike again pretty soon.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Edgar. All of a sudden I’m feeling a little better. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

A long pause took me by surprise.

“Edgar, are you there?”

The pause continued.

Finally, Edgar spoke. Softly. “I’m here, Neil. I have news that I’ve been trying to figure out how to break to you. I’m sorry to say this, but I might not be your editor for much longer.”

“What? It can’t be! Say it isn’t so!”

“Now, this isn’t definite,” Edgar replied. “I’ll let you know for certain soon. But here’s the thing: I’m not getting any younger. I’m 85, after all, though I don’t look a day over 80. Anyway, my wife Loretta and I want to shake up our lives. That’s why we wrote to Elon Musk in April, asking about his SpaceX senior-citizens lunar program. ‘Hell yeah, old farts have just as much right to visit the Moon as anyone else,’ Elon wrote back. ‘SpaceX’s first lunar landing for oldtimers is scheduled for 2026. Start getting in very serious shape, folks. In a few years you’ll be boogieing like there’s no tomorrow in one or two of the Moon’s craters.’ Elon wants us, and we have to give him our decision by the end of the month, Neil.”

“What can I say?” Edgar continued. “Loretta and I probably will begin intensive workout sessions within the next couple of weeks. If we do, I won’t have enough time and energy to edit your stories.”

“Edgar, please don’t leave me,” I managed to say between sniffles. “Ours has been a wonderful partnership. Yeah, Another Blogger would be a total wreck were it not for your candor, superb judgment and eagle eye. Edgar, I need you.”

I wasn’t the only one sniffling. “I know, Neil, I know,” Edgar said with more human emotion than I thought he was capable of. “Hey, wait a minute! I have a great idea. You’re older than dirt, like me, aren’t you?”

“I’m 75, Edgar.”

“Yup, you’re way closer to the end than to the beginning. And there’s no doubt you could use some real excitement before the Grim Reaper arrives. So, if Loretta and I sign up with SpaceX, would you want to join us? I’m positive that Elon would be delighted to have you on board. Maybe Sandy would be interested too.”

“Hang on a second, Edgar,” I said. Then I shouted to my wife.

“Sandy, I might be going to the Moon in 2026 with Edgar Reewright and his wife. Want to be part of the group?”

“Neil, to say you’re out of your frigging mind is an understatement. The Moon?  Count me out!”

“But how about me? Can I go?”

“Sure. Why not? At least it will give you something interesting to write about for a change. I mean, that story you haven’t published yet — the one about trying to find one-way signs pointing in the wrong direction — is a real stinker. Am I right or am I right?”

To quote Rodney Dangerfield: “I tell you, I don’t get no respect.”

My Best-Seller-To-Be

Yeah, Another Blogger139 Comments

The other day, all excited, I phoned my editor Edgar Reewright and told him about the book idea that had floated into my mind, from out of nowhere, that morning.

“Very nice, Neil, very nice. You’ve got quite the imagination,” he said in a flat tone when I was done. Then he excused himself, explaining that he had to tell his wife something. He asked me to hang on, neglecting to put me on hold. “Yo, Loretta!” I heard him yell. “You know that blogger whose crap I edit?”

Loretta was elsewhere in the house, obviously, but I was able to make out her response. “Right, his name is Noel or Niles or something like that, isn’t it?”

“You’re close. It’s Neil,” Edgar replied. “And he’s on the phone. He called because he plans to write a book, and he wants me to edit it. He’s never written a book before. All he does is turn out pointless essays for his blog. But if he does write this thing, it’ll be so bad it’ll make his essays look good.”

A few seconds later, Edgar spoke again. “I’m back, Neil. Where were we? I’m all ears.”

“All ears, huh? Well, it seems like you’re overlooking your big, loud f*cking mouth! I mean, you weren’t exactly whispering to Loretta just now, Edgar. Only the deaf wouldn’t have heard what you said. My man, you’ve got a lot of nerve talking about me like that. I’ll have you know that I’m a valued writer. WordPress, for instance, holds me in high regard. They contacted me a few days ago to let me know that my blog came in first in their If You Look Deeply, There’s A Slight Chance You’ll Find Something Of Worth And Interest Here competition for 2022. First place, Edgar! I’m very proud.”

“As well you should be, Neil. Listen, what can I say? Your book idea sounds like a loser to me, but maybe I’m wrong. Explain it to me once more, this time in a little more detail.”

“Okay, Edgar. It’s about a homely guy, Roy Oy, who’s going nowhere in life. He’s in his 50s, living with his elderly parents in the house he grew up in and stuck in a dead-end job as the fact-checker for Who’d Have Thunk It? magazine. He hasn’t been on a date in over 20 years and, needless to say, never has had a girlfriend. He spends his off-hours clipping coupons and watching YouTube videos about how to get in touch with space aliens.”

“I’m listening, Neil. Reluctantly,” Edgar said.

“Well, early one morning he’s awakened by a tap on the shoulder. Standing beside him is a strange creature. It’s four feet tall and slender, its bright skin colors pulsating like the aurora borealis and its head spinning around and around so as to take in just about everything all at once.”

“The visitor says, ‘Your incessant YouTube-viewing has paid off, for here I am. I initially planned to abduct you and take you back to my home planet. But I can tell that you’re really pathetic, so I’m not going to bother doing that. However, because I’m very magnanimous I will grant you one wish before I’m on my way. What may I do for you, Mr. Oy?’ ”

“Roy loses no time in answering. He tells the space alien that he wants the world to become a paradise, a place where everybody is loving, kind and generous, and where peace and prosperity reign. The alien says ‘okay, it’s done’ and then leaves via the window it had raised a minute earlier in order to enter the bedroom.”

“So, that’s it, Edgar. Just like that, Planet Earth becomes magnificent. Troubles are over. Everyone gets along. End of story.”

“Yup, I get it, Neil. But I don’t like it. Where’s the tension? Where’s the drama? Hell, nobody wants to read some half-baked, half-assed Pollyannaish tale. Count me out. Go ahead and write the book if you like, but I decline to edit it.”

“As you wish, Edgar. But you’re making a big mistake. Millions and millions of people love books with happy endings. My book, I have no doubt, will climb to the top of the charts and stay there for weeks and weeks. I’m going to become rich, Edgar, and I’d have given you a healthy cut of the profits. Your loss.”

At that moment I swear I could see dollar signs flashing in front of Edgar’s eyes.

“You know, Neil,” he said, “my judgment has been off for a long while. That’s what chronic constipation can do to you. I haven’t taken a dump in weeks, for crying out loud, even though I eat prunes like they’re going out of style and take stool softeners right and left. So, on second thought, count me in!”

“Thanks, Edgar. I’m going to pay you in prunes.”

Call Me “Mister Helpful”

Yeah, Another Blogger139 Comments

My most recent monthly session with my psychiatrist was a most unusual one, because Dr. R. U. Forereel opened up to me rather than the other way around.

“Have a seat, Neil,” Dr. Forereel said quietly when I entered her office, a small room whose every aspect is as stylish and welcoming as can be. I obeyed, placing my bony ass on the comfortable patient’s chair. It faced its clone, occupied by the good doctor, from a distance of five feet.

“Neil,” she continued, an unmistakable tone of dejection in her voice, “I’m in the midst of an existential crisis, one so powerful I can’t escape its clutches. I want to be totally upfront with you right now. Here’s the bottom line: My condition is interfering with my ability to do my job. Which is why I suspect that you won’t make much progress at today’s session. Not that you’ve progressed very far at all during the many years you’ve been seeing me.”

“That’s not true, Dr. Forereel,” I replied. “You’ve enabled me to understand more accurately and fully who I am. Your insights have helped me come to grips with the fact that, basically, I’m just the most average of Joes, making my way haphazardly and erratically through this earthly realm. Why, without you I’d still be reaching for the stars, getting disappointed right and left when things didn’t work out. As a result, doctor, you’ve turned me into a fairly happy individual. I am in your debt!”

“That’s so kind of you to say, Neil. I wish I could share your opinion of my talents, but I’m afraid that my existential crisis won’t allow me to feel joy.”

“There, you’ve said it again. What the hell is an existential crisis, doctor?”

“Well, my problems are deep-rooted, Neil. You see, I’m ill-fitted to be a psychiatrist. Far too often I’m unsympathetic and, undoubtedly, prickly. If I were of the male gender, it wouldn’t be incorrect to describe me not only as prickly but as a prick too. In any case, my soul is roiling and troubled. Neil, I question the whys and wherefores of my existence.” She paused. “I hope I’ve answered your question adequately,” she then said.

“Yes, doctor, you have. Oy frigging vey! You’re in bad shape. But I’ll try to help, even though help isn’t exactly my middle name. The last time I provided assistance to anyone was 60 years ago, when, despite her vehement protests, I carried a little old lady across a small puddle in the middle of the road. I ended up in juvenile court for that attempt at doing a good deed. Lesson learned!”

“Well, in that case I won’t say that I’m in good hands, Neil. But I am interested in what actions you might be proposing.”

“Doctor, I have a website called Yeah, Another Blogger. That’s where I’ve published the various articles I’ve written over the last seven years. You know about this, I believe.”

“Of course I do! You bring up this boring topic every damn time I see you.”

“My bad, doctor. But here’s what I’m getting at: My advice to you is to take up writing, just as I did. You should aim to go farther than me, however. In other words, you should write a book, a memoir of the journey that led you to become the wonderful psychiatrist that you are. If you do, I guarantee you’ll recognize and take comfort from the fact that you’ve guided countless people to better mental and emotional health.”

Dr. Forereel sat silently for many a second, mulling over my comments. Finally, and most energetically, she spoke.

“Neil, this is a genius idea! Yes, yes, yes! I will tell my story, and the world will listen and learn. And, just as important, I will learn too. Thank you so much. I’ll begin writing when I arrive home tonight. I’m sure I’ll need an editor, though. Is there anyone you might recommend?”

“Edgar Reewright is your man, doctor,” I replied without hesitation. “He has edited my pieces right from the start. Maybe we should call him and feel him out.”

Doctor Forereel nodded enthusiastically, so I dialed Edgar’s number and put the phone on speaker.

“What the hell do you want, Neil?” Edgar shouted. “I’m in the middle of looking over the story you sent to me yesterday. Per usual, it blows.”

“Listen up, Edgar,” I said, ignoring his insult. “I’m with my psychiatrist, Dr. R. U. Forereel. She plans to write a memoir and wants to know if you’d edit the book for her.”

“Isn’t she the doctor whose office decor was voted best in the nation by the American Psychiatric Association this year?” Edgar asked.

At that, Dr. Forereel jumped right in. “Hello, Edgar! Dr. Forereel here. I’m impressed that you’re aware of the prestigious award I won from the APA. I’d be honored if you’d edit my book. I have so much to say and to reveal. Millions of people will take heart from my inspirational tale. Oh my, I’m feeling confident and purposeful once again. Please be my editor, Edgar!”

Edgar, undoubtedly envisioning a handsome commission, wasted no time in agreeing to the proposal. He chitchatted with Dr. Forereel for a while and then ended the call, promising to contact her soon to work out all the details. A few minutes later, my session having reached its conclusion, I rose from the patient’s chair.

“You are a lifesaver, a gift from above,” said Dr. Forereel as she ushered me to the door. “Thank you, Neil, thank you! To show my gratitude, your next five years of therapy, starting today, will be cost-free.”

“Doctor, I hope that I won’t need anything close to five more years of therapy. I’m doing so well, after all.”

“That’s what you think,” my doctor said. “But, alas, you’re wrong. Very, very wrong. I promise that I’ll continue doing my utmost to try and help you see things more clearly.”

Shit!

My Lips Are Sealed!

Yeah, Another Blogger114 Comments

Like all good citizens, I believe in heaping praise on those who deserve it. That’s why I’m giving a real big shout-out right now to my perceptive editor, the one and only Edgar Reewright. When it comes to the writing game, I’d be lost without him. Edgar watches out for me and tries to keep me on course. Thank you, Edgar!

Edgar demonstrated his concern very recently. Last week, in fact, when I sent him, via email, a book review I’d just written that I was convinced would be a worthy addition to Yeah, Another Blogger. Twenty seconds later he called me.

“Neil, you’re out of your f*cking mind!” he said before I could say hello. “You can’t publish this piece. A few glances at it showed me that you’d be making a huge mistake if you did. You know why? It’s because you’re taking on a subject that’s totally uncharacteristic of and inappropriate for your publication.”

“Listen,” he continued, “you have a cultured, discerning audience. None of your readers would want to read your review of Nomore Limpdikk’s book Getting Hard The Aztec Way. Sure, this might be Limpdikk’s masterwork, like I think you remarked in the review, and undoubtedly it is a valuable addition to the scientific literature about erectile dysfunction. But you should stick with your flimsy pieces about the walks you take, the music you listen to, blah, blah, blah. Your readers seem to enjoy that sort of stuff, so give them what they’re used to, for crying out loud! Why is erectile dysfunction on your mind, anyway? Do you have a problem?”

“Who, me? Edgar, I’m as powerful as a bull, I’ll have you know. Or maybe not, but none of that is any of your damn business! On the other hand, you should be aware that your business is all over town. I’ve heard it through more than one grapevine that your bedroom performances, are, shall we say, lacking.”

There was a long pause before Edgar responded. He broke the silence by calling to his wife, Loretta, asking her to come upstairs and join him in his home office. I heard her footsteps growing nearer.

“Yes, dear?” she asked.

“Sweetie pie,” Edgar said to her, “I have it on good authority that the situation involving my once-mighty sword has become the talk of the town. Who have you been blabbing to? Your mother? Your loose-lipped girlfriends? Loretta, I can’t believe that you’d do this to me.”

“What are you saying, Edgar?” Loretta answered. “I never talk to anyone about our sex life. You know as well as I do, though, that you can’t keep your mouth shut when you have your goofy friends over to play pinochle. So, one of those guys must have spread the word. Maybe more than one of them.” Receding footsteps then told me that she was leaving the room.

“Edgar, are you there?” I asked ten seconds later.

“I’m here. I’m here,” he said. “But I don’t know what to do. Neil, I think I need your help.”

“Edgar, help is my middle name. It’s a good thing that I read Getting Hard The Aztec Way, because it contains information that will solve your problem. Nomore Limpdikk is a brilliant man, a researcher non pareil. If you’d done more than glance at my review, you would understand that. How is it that nobody over the last 500 years, before Nomore investigated the subject, knew that performance-challenged male Aztecs ate the leaves of the bonerium cactus in order to remedy their sexual deficiencies? The leaves contain chemicals that take effect almost instantly, and the results are startlingly good. Why, Nomore Limpdikk proves that today’s ED pills, such as Viagra, are pitiful compared to the wondrous bonerium.”

“Neil, I’m flabbergasted. And I’m relieved to learn that better days for myself are a real possibility. I’ve tried Viagra, you see, but I’m the one-in-a-million male that it has absolutely no effect upon. Bonerium cactus leaves are what I need! Where do I get them?”

“Edgar, they are hard to come by, because nobody is cultivating them commercially. Not yet. But they can be found here and there in the Mexican deserts that the Aztecs once occupied, Nomore says. And, as luck would have it, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. Well, you get the picture. Within a week a shipment of the magic leaves will arrive at your doorstep.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Neil. This is the greatest favor that anyone has done for me since my third ex-wife, as part of our divorce settlement, agreed to let me keep our collection of pet rocks. I’m going to repay you by waiving my editor’s fee for the next two years. Thank you again. And please promise me two things. First, that you won’t publish an article about erectile dysfunction.”

“I promise,” I said.

“Good. And second, that you won’t mention our conversation to anybody.”

“Edgar, my lips are sealed!”

A Sunflower Story

Yeah, Another Blogger150 Comments

“What the hell is wrong with you, Neil?” my unsubtle editor Edgar Reewright shouted into the phone a couple of weeks ago. He had called moments earlier with a special request — he wanted me to compose a story about sunflowers — and I had balked at the idea. “I mean, what do you have against sunflowers? Just about everybody likes sunflowers, right? Right. Furthermore, if they were good enough for Vincent van Gogh, who, unlike yourself, was a genius, then they damn well are good enough for you.”

“Neil,” Edgar continued, “have I ever asked anything of you before? Other than demanding high payments to compensate me for the extraordinary pains I take to make your writings intelligible, the answer is no. I haven’t been myself the last few weeks, so a bright, cheerful piece about the sunniest of flowers probably will boost my spirits. Write it!”

“Listen, Edgar,” I said. “I’ve got nothing against sunflowers. On the contrary, I love them. I mean, they’re just adorable. Big and grinning, and their gangly stalks are so improbable. They’re like dogs that want nothing more than to please you, that know they’re goofy and would have it no other way.”

“So, what’s the problem, Neil?”

“Well, it’s just that I’ve written quite a few nature-related articles the last several years. I don’t want to overdo it, you know.”

“Overdo it? Neil, you can’t go wrong with nature. And I highly doubt if you have anything better to write about right now, anyway.”

“Oh yeah? Listen, Edgar, I’m planning to do a piece on the wonders of napping. I’ll explore its ins and outs: how I position my head just so on the living room sofa before nodding off, for instance. And how I awake 10 or 15 minutes later with glazed eyes, uncertain where the hell I am. Edgar, I’m one hundred percent certain that the readers of that article will be enthralled. My exciting revelations will have them panting for more.”

A few seconds passed. And then Edgar had this to say: “A short while ago I asked, ‘what the hell is wrong with you, Neil?’ And I was right on the money, because a better question hasn’t been posed anywhere in the world today! Napping? You’ve got to be kidding me! Listen up, haven’t I always strived to help you create agreeable product?”

“Yes, that’s very true, Edgar. I don’t know how you do it, but you whip my reportage into decent shape.”

“Thank you, Neil. Even though I’ll never figure you out, I have to admit that anybody who unashamedly uses a clunky word like reportage in conversation can’t be all bad. Okay then, I strongly recommend that you drop the napping idea and move on to sunflowers. Are we on the same page?”

We were.

Thus, during three walks in the latter half of July, in my neighborhood and in nearby towns, I kept an eagle eye out for sunflowers, and found about 15 homes on whose grounds they were displayed. Having strolled past hundreds of houses, though, I was a bit surprised by the low percentage that carried this form of joyful flora. But little matter. Every sunflower that I saw smiled at me. They truly were glad to see me, and the feeling was mutual.

But you know what? Despite the time I spent with real-life sunflowers, I have to admit that I much prefer a particular Vincent van Gogh sunflower painting over them. Vincent painted sunflowers a dozen times, and one of those oils hangs within the Philadelphia Museum Of Art, where I have passed hundreds of hours. (I’ve lived in Philadelphia or its suburbs for most of my adult life.) It very well might be the most popular art work in the museum. It certainly is one of mine.

Vase With Twelve Sunflowers, by Vincent van Gogh (image credit belongs to Philadelphia Museum Of Art and to vggallery.com

Vincent had the abilities to find the hearts and souls of his subjects, to bring his subjects alive in both traditional and unexpected ways. And he did exactly that when he painted the canvas in question in 1889. It is glorious and imbued with vigor. It has deep stories to tell. Sunflowers never have looked so good.

(My editor has been getting on my frigging nerves big-time. So, you know what? F*ck him! I won’t allow Edgar to edit this article. I’m going to press the Publish button right now. Please don’t be shy about adding your comments. Mucho gracias.)

Art On Wheels, Part Seven: And The Winner Is . . .

Yeah, Another Blogger129 Comments

My editor, Edgar Reewright, couldn’t restrain himself when I told him last week that my next opus would be another entry in the Art On Wheels series.

“Neil, you’re straining my patience, not to mention your readers’ patience, with your ridiculous Art On Wheels stories!” Edgar shouted into his phone. “Good lord, one episode would have been enough, and yet number seven is in the works. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you think of something else to write about right now instead of trucks and vans that catch your attention? Sorry, fella, but I’m not going to edit this one. You’re on your own with it.”

Edgar paused for a couple of seconds before continuing. “Listen, Neil, I have to end this conversation. I’m about to head out to an appointment with my psychotherapist who, unbelievably and thankfully, is also a proctologist. He’s trying to help me understand why I deal with writers who turn out so much shit, such as you.” Without another word, he hung up.

Eh, screw Edgar! He’s a philistine. As far as I’m concerned there’s nothing wrong with spending some time now and then in search of snazzily-adorned motor vehicles. It gets me out of the house. It helps me pay attention to what’s going on around me. And it pleases my artsy-fartsy side. I’d rather look at works of art in museums, true. But I’m decently content to gaze at those that rest above axles and wheels.

I used to try to track down in a single day or two all of the good-looking vehicles that I would need for a story. And, by dumb luck or who knows what, I met the goal several times. But I missed the goal for episodes five and six (click here to read number six). And was even farther from it this time around, as I needed four days in January and February 2021 to encounter enough attractive vehicles for this story. What’s more, there were a few more days during those months when, on the prowl, I didn’t find any examples of vehicular art that met my standards or were capturable.

Now, capturable is a key point. Generally I locate my victims in the parking areas of supermarkets, strip malls and other businesses. And occasionally I run across them on residential streets. Usually they are making deliveries or service calls, so getting close to them and taking their portraits at those times is a relative snap.

However, sometimes things don’t work out. On more than one recent occasion, for example, I spotted fine specimens in parking lots that I was walking or driving around in, but they were pulling out and too far away for me to photograph. And, needless to say, I often see beauties on the road while I’m on the road. No way, though, that this ol’ boy is going to try and grab their pictures when he’s behind the wheel. If I were dumb enough to give that a go, I’d pretty much guarantee myself an ambulance ride to the nearest hospital emergency room or, even worse, a journey in a hearse!

I like the designs on all of the vehicles that illustrate this essay, some more than others. Big-Lil Heads is cooler than cool. Have green, orange, white and black ever looked better together than they do on that bus? And the Target truck’s design, so goofily minimalistic, is irresistible to me. I’ve never owned a dog, but if the Target dog should become available for adoption, I’ll be first in line to fill out the required papers.

Still, as much as those two ring my chimes, neither is my favorite. I have to give the nod to the W.B. Mason vehicle. The Mason design is, to me, perfection. Bright, solid and beautifully balanced, it is impossible to ignore and easy to love. W. B. Mason, as is noted on the truck, was founded in 1898. Based in Brockton, Massachusetts for its entire life, the company distributes office and janitorial supplies, and numerous other products, throughout the USA. Whenever I see a Mason truck I find myself attracted to it like a magnet. But I normally spot them when they are in motion, not when I can have a good long look at them. February 24, 2021, then, was my lucky day, because on that date a W. B. Mason truck was sitting quietly in the parking lot that surrounds the Wawa food market in my suburban Philadelphia town.

Yes, the W. B. Mason truck is number one in my book, followed, respectively, by the Big-Lil Heads and Target vehicles. I’d be happy to learn which of the artworks on this page you think are the best. Thanks for reading, girls and boys. Goodbye till next time!

Me? In The Biden Administration? We Shall See!

Yeah, Another Blogger144 Comments
Will I be working for this gentleman?
(Photo copyright by Andrew Harnik, Associated Press)

I didn’t answer my cell phone when it rang yesterday, because the call was from a number not in my contacts list. But the caller left a voicemail message that any sensible person would respond to without haste. “Neil,” the message began, “this is Nick Oftime, an assistant director of President-elect Biden’s transition team. I got your phone number from your editor, Edgar Reewright. Please get back to me. I believe that you might be a good fit for a position in the Biden administration.”

Huh? Me? In Washington, DC? Man, I called Nick back faster than Usain Bolt got out of his starting blocks in the 2016 Olympics.

“Nick, this is Neil,” I said when Nick answered. “The President-elect wants little ol’ me to serve in DC? Why, this is a dream come true. I’m stunned. I’m excessively flattered. I accept the offer!”

“Neil, calm down. You don’t even know what the job is. What’s more, you’re not the only person we’re looking at. That’s why I said ‘you might be a good fit.’ Might, Neil. Might.”

“Okay,” I replied, “I understand. So, you know Edgar Reewright?”

“Yes. He’s my editor too, you see. He edited a book of mine that came out three years ago, one that I thought for sure would be a smash hit but bombed instead. It’s called Donald And His Teddy Bears: A President’s Obsession. It’s 100% factual, Neil. Though not many people know this, Trump has been collecting teddy bears since he was four years old. He owns hundreds of them, and every single one is in his White House bedroom. They take up so much space, he barely has any room for clothes, let alone Melania. That’s why he wears the same blue suit every damn day.”

“Nick, that sounds like a book that should have sold a million copies. What does Edgar have to say about that?”

“Oh, he always tells me to write another book, that the second one undoubtedly would do much better than the first. That’s what I was speaking about with him a few days ago. My plans are to delve into one of Trump’s other obsessions: his megalomania-fueled need to have powerful bowel movements four or more times every day. I’ll title the book Trump Takes A Dump (Many Dumps, Actually). This will reveal a side of Donald that he’s been hiding for years and years. But I have to put the President-elect above my writing career, so I’ll work on the book only in the occasional moments of spare time that come my way.”

“Nick, it can’t miss! I predict that your next effort will shoot to the top of every best seller list. Why, gastroenterologists alone will send sales through the roof. What’s Edgar’s opinion?”

“It’s hard to say. He didn’t seem overly enthusiastic, to tell you the truth. And that’s when he brought up your name. He said that, like mine, your ideas and writings are — and I’m going to quote him —  ‘pure drivel.’ Well, my ears picked up. ‘Give me Neil’s phone number, Edgar,’ I demanded. ‘He might be just the person I’m looking for.’ Edgar obliged.”

“And I’m glad that he did. Nick, I’m on pins and needles to hear about the job you’re considering me for.”

“Let me run it by you. Mr. Biden and his team are thinking about making you the public presence for the little guy. And not just any little guy, but the type that’s going nowhere, that’s got no particular talent of any sort to speak of, and that nonetheless keeps their nose to the grindstone while remaining in pretty good spirits. You seem to meet those qualifications, Neil, and I say so because I spent half of yesterday reading dozens of stories on your blog. Edgar was right, you know. They are, for the most part, pure drivel. But that doesn’t stop you from turning them out at a halfway decent rate, does it? That’s very admirable. Still, you’re not a shoo-in to be hired. If it’s okay with you, I’ll be calling some of your friends and relatives to try and learn if you meet our requirements in every respect.”

Naturally, I gave my consent.

“Neil,” Nick continued, “you’d help to boost the morale of many Americans if we decide to choose you for this job, because they would learn that the much-better-than average Joe who soon will occupy the White House is thinking about all Americans, that he is committed to making the USA a welcoming place for every one of its citizens, including inconsequential ones such as you. The person we tap will go out on speaking tours and will be all over the media. It’s the chance of a lifetime. How about it, Neil? Might the job interest you?”

“Would I have my own office, Nick? I’d have to have my own office.”

“Yes, of course you would. There’s a secret supply room in the White House basement. Trump stores his cache of toilet paper in there. Thousands of rolls, I’ve been told. I assume that he’ll be taking them with him when he leaves office. In any case, we’d turn that room into a fairly comfortable work place.”

Nick paused. Then he said, “Neil, I have to go. Not to the bathroom, but to the President-elect’s strategy room. There are a few things that he and the team want to discuss with me there. Plus, there are two other individuals I plan to interview today over the phone for the job. One of them is a presumed writer too. Her stuff is even worse than yours. Goodbye, Neil. We will speak again.”

That, then, is where the matter stands for now. Maybe my nation’s capital is in my future. Maybe not. As they say, we shall see.