I Was There For Santa Claus When He Needed My Help

“Yo! I mean, ho! As in ho-ho-ho. Can’t you see that I’m stuck, you idiot? Give a guy a hand.”

santa_claus_png9972Indeed he was, he being Santa Claus. The one and only. To say I was surprised to find the jolly gent dangling head-downward from within my living room fireplace would have been the understatement of 2016 were it not for Donald Trump. Needless to say, the understatement of 2016 is that Trump is way bad news. Hell, he’s way bad news times fifty! But, I digress.

It was 9:00 PM on the eve of Christmas Eve when the rotund one unexpectedly appeared. I was sitting on the sofa, ruminating about this and that, as usual arriving at no satisfactory conclusions. Also as usual, the sofa cushions were profusely dotted with Cheez-It cracker crumbs. I already had put away 500 or more Its and, prior to Mr. Claus’ arrival, had no plans to stop the ingestion process.

“Santa, is this a joke? What are you doing here? Your delivery rounds don’t start for another 24 hours. And you’re in the wrong household, anyway. I mean, me and my wife are Jewish!”

I put aside the Its, reluctantly, and walked to the fireplace where, with only a bit of exertion, I helped Santa out of his predicament. Standing upright, he brushed himself off.

“Yo, brother. I know that you and your wife are Jews. And I also know your name. Neil, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extended his pudgy right hand, which I clasped warmly, and smiled at me in the friendliest of manners. Santa gave off such good vibes. I liked him a lot. Immediately.

“Santa, likewise, I’m sure. Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat? To drink?”

“A toasted sesame seed bagel with a schmear would be nice,” Santa said. “And some schnapps to wash it all down would be outstanding. You don’t happen to have those around, do you?”

“Santa, this is more than your lucky day. My household overflows with bagels. And with schnapps in its many varieties. Come on, sit down at the dining room table and I’ll fix you up.” I assembled the simple meal and watched Santa happily eat and drink.

“Ah, this is delicious,” Santa said, alternating between bites and sips. Then, when his plate and glass were empty he got down to business. “I’ve had my eyes on you for awhile, Neil, and I’m certain I made the correct choice in visiting you. You see, I like Jews very much. Just like me, they know about good food and drink, and they rock the color red. Well, maybe I’m wrong about the second half of that statement. Anyway, speaking selfishly, what’s very important to me is that they boost my spirits. And once a year, believe me, I need that boost. You think it’s easy bringing toys to billions of children each year? Sure, if you only had to do it once or twice it wouldn’t be hard.  But year after year after year? Come on . . . talk about job burnout.”

“Many years ago I was schmoozing with a Jewish friend of mine, Morty Finkelstein, about this very problem,” Santa continued. “Morty listened carefully and let me pour my heart out. Then he proved himself to be a real mensch, saying all the right things to sooth my malaise. Since then, each year I seek out a Jew to help get me back on track. You were recommended to me a few months ago by the League Of Jewish Bloggers. That’s when I started reading your blog stories. I have to tell you that they give off the weird and optimistic sorts off auras that I’m partial to. Which is why I’m confident that you’re the person I need. Neil, tomorrow is my big day. I’m feeling down and tired, and I’m asking you to turn me around. I know you can do it.”

Holy man-o-Manischewitz. Was this really happening? Was I dreaming? I pinched myself on the right forearm real hard. Yikes, that hurt like crazy! No doubt, Santa truly was in the house. “Sir, I’m at your service,” I said. “And I think I know just what to do.” I motioned to Santa to rise.

“C’mon, guy. Follow me. I’m going to give you a powerful dose of lights. Christmas lights. Beautiful ones are all over this neighborhood, and some of the best are only two blocks away from here. I’m bummed out a little, too, right now. So, let’s take a walk, Santa. The lights will do both of us a lot of good.” I grabbed Santa by the arm and off we went. Thirty seconds later we hit pay dirt.

“Look at that house, Santa. Great, no? What artwork!”

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“And look at over there!” I yelled in his ear. “I ask you, who needs lavish, over-the-top Christmas light displays? Modest lights on cute, small houses often are where it’s at.”

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I could tell that Santa was impressed, even though for a while he didn’t say anything. But then he did. “You know, Neil, when I’m flying over houses all over the world on Christmas Eve and early Christmas morning, I never get a true head-on view of the decorations. I haven’t seen Christmas lights from this perspective in ages. I’d forgotten how sweet and heartwarming they can be. Why, that house right there is magnificent.” He pointed across the street.

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“And here’s another lovely one,” he said, as we continued a short distance down the block.

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I certainly couldn’t disagree. My suburban region, not known for its esthetic charms, becomes grand this time of year. And only at night.

I felt a powerful pinch on my right forearm, directly on the spot where I’d pinched myself only 10 minutes earlier. As if I required proof a second time that Santa was real. “Ouch, Santa! What’s the deal, dude?”

“Sorry, mate. But let’s turn back. I’m all energized once again, so I got to go. Mrs. Claus will start worrying if I don’t get back to the North Pole soon. It’s a miracle that nobody spotted me on the street, or I’d be here signing autographs till who knows when. I’ll need to borrow your cell phone, by the way. I’ll return it tomorrow night when I’m back this way. Mine broke into pieces when I was sliding down your frigging chimney. Once I’m in the air heading home tonight the missus will expect me to call her every half hour. She might want me to stop to pick up a quart of milk somewhere. Or maybe some Slim Jims,. My old lady, you never know what she’ll want.”

Santa embraced me in a thank-you hug. Minutes later I watched him nimbly scale the front of my house, its low side, and climb into his sleigh which, complete with reindeer and unnoticed by me, had been sitting atop the roof. “Bye, Santa,” I shouted. “Till next time. And keep those calls to the Pole short. International phone rates are a bitch.”

 

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My 100th Post: Donald Trump And Joyce Carol Oates Chime In

1001I was giddy with joy last week when I began designing the story that is now before your eyes. Why wouldn’t I have been? Incredibly to me, it is the 100th opus that I’ve published on this blog, though its finalized shape differs substantially from my original conception. Despite that, I am of the opinion that 100 stories is a true milestone for someone whose life has been light on milestones. Very light. The last time I did anything noteworthy was decades ago, in 1985, the year in which I set the Guinness World Record for the most Cheez-It crackers consumed in one sitting. The 8,271 Its that tumbled down my gullet on June 17 of that year remain a number yet to be topped. You can look it up.

One hundred stories. Wow, indeed, considering that when I started this blog 20 months ago I was uncertain as to its future. I began strongly, banging out articles every four or five days. And even though my pace soon slowed slightly, I held the old nose to the old grindstone and efficiently kept the stories rolling off the assembly line. So, I feel comfortable in saying that my blog isn’t going away anytime soon. Hey, I’ve discovered that I like to write. Who’d have thunk it? At last, something to hold on to!

Still, by nature less than wonderfully confident, I was in need last week of some reinforcement, some pats on the back that would keep my elevated mood elevated and provide uplifting quotes to incorporate into story #100. With that in mind, a few days ago I picked up the phone and made a series of calls to a variety of intermediaries, eventually directly reaching the persons I wanted to chat with. Persons whose votes of confidence I was hoping to win. Things didn’t end up the way I had envisioned, but WTF. I tried. And I did snare conversations with two individuals from my past whose thoughts, I’d venture to say, haven’t been included in the same story ever before. Namely, Donald Trump, “Donnie” to me, and the brilliant and incomprehensibly prolific novelist, essayist and memoirist Joyce Carol Oates.

Donnie Trump was the first of the two I was able to get on the line.

“Who’s this?” he said after I offered my greeting. “Hurry up, whoever you are. I’m busy. It’s not as easy as you’d think to unravel and unnerve a country.”

“Donnie, it’s Neil Scheinin. Remember me? We were not quite friends but were more than acquaintances during the one year we spent together at Mister Gruel’s High School For Future Winners. You were 15 and I was 14. We were on the debate team together. You were its star, natch. I was the fifth alternate. Remember?”

There was a pause. Then he spoke. “Neil, I have a vague memory of you. You’re the guy, I think, who couldn’t string two sentences together coherently. Am I right?”

“Yeah, Donnie. As always, you’re right. Here’s why I’m calling. You weren’t very nice to me all those years ago, mocking me, belittling my meager talents. That’s why I wanted to let you know that these many moons later I’ve gained success. I’ve become a blogger, a writer if you will, and I take the job seriously. I’m about to publish my 100th story soon, which to me is a momentous event, and I’d like the piece to include your comments about my achievement.”

“So you’re a writer, are you, Neil? I don’t like writers. They tend to be thinkers, and I don’t like thinkers either. What I like are doers, men who bulldoze their way through life. Men who bulldoze their way through nature, for that matter. Look at me. I’m a bulldozer, and everyone admires me. I’m so popular it’s ridiculous.”

All of a sudden I felt something weird starting to happen inside my mouth. My tongue, normally held well in place, was itching to flap wildly. I couldn’t control it. I’d come seeking a few words of support from the USA’s next leader, selfishly hoping to boost my blog’s readership as a result. But what I said next was guaranteed not to elicit kind responses.

I think he'd look better as a brunette. (Photo: Melina Mara/The Washington Post/Getty Images)
I think he’d look better as a brunette. (Photo: Melina Mara/The Washington Post/Getty Images)

“Donnie,” I said, “I guess you heard that Hillary is more popular than you, didn’t you? She won the popular vote, n’est pas? By a lot. You know, two months ago you were proclaiming that the election process was rigged in her favor. Seems like just the opposite was true. I mean, if it wasn’t for our demented Electoral College system you’d be spending your time right now deciding whether or not to change the color of your hair. Instead, you’re doing your best, like you have for months, to energize the haters who keep crawling out of the woodwork because of you.”

Donnie didn’t enjoy that. “Listen up, fifth alternate. You’re a loser. Did you hear me? I said loser. Me, I’m a winner.” He stopped talking. Someone was calling to him. “Stay right where you are, loser,” Donnie said a moment later. “I’ll be right back — ‘What’d you say, Rudy? That it’ll be a snap to obstruct poor peoples’ right to vote? And a snap to cancel environmental protection regulations? Keep it coming, Rudy. You’re the man!'”

Holy crap. The phone call wasn’t going well. It was bringing me down, not up. I decided to hang up on a future president. Which is what I did.

If kudos for my solid achievement weren’t to be found with Donnie, I was certain that they would be with Professor Oates, who for many years has taught at Princeton University, merely an hour’s drive from my suburban Philadelphia home. Three hours of trying to reach her via phone calls to university staff the other day finally paid off.

My phone rang. “Hello, this is Joyce Carol Oates. What may I do for you?”

“Professor, this is Neil Scheinin. Possibly you recall me from the marvelous class you taught six years ago, Faulkner, Bellow And Fitzgerald: As Novelists, Were They Really Any Good? I always sat in the first row in the seat nearest the exit, a bag of popcorn on my lap.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Scheinin. How could I forget? You are the gentleman who audited the course and managed never to add a perceptive or entertaining comment to the classroom discussions. What, sir, are you calling about?”

“Professor, as unexpected as this might be to you, believe it or not I have taken to writing like a duck to . . . well, maybe not to water, but to something. You see, last year I started blogging, and since then I’ve written up a storm. Right now I’m excited to be working on my 100th story. One hundred, Professor! A number that amazes me. Have you any comments about this?”

Joyce Carol Oates. (Photo: Thos Robinson/Getty Images)
Joyce Carol Oates. (Photo: Thos Robinson/Getty Images)

I almost could hear Professor Oates’ mind revving. It didn’t take long for her to respond. “Neil,” she said, “what you have done amounts to little. You say you’re about to complete your 100th story? And it took you months and months to do this? Why, I could write that many in a week. Possibly in four days if need be. But forget about stories . . . Do you have any idea how many books I’ve written, most of them long and detailed books? Over a hundred, Neil. Over a hundred. Call me back whenever your blog expands in size fiftyfold. Maybe then we’ll be able to have a satisfying and meaningful discussion.”

Well, here I am then with little more to say. I thought that this story might have had a chance to go viral had Donnie and Professor been more congenial interviewees. But such is life. Thanks for reading number 100. It’ll take some time for me to bounce back to my normal self, but I assure you that when that happens I’ll get to work on 101.

 

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The No Bell Prize

Before I threw this blog into gear, in April of last year, I’d hardly ever looked at any of the who knows how many millions of blogs that flap their wings in cyberspace. Since then, though, I’ve become a blog addict and have clicked on the pages of at least a thousand. Most I’ve never revisited, for reasons only my valet Jeeves is privy to. But there are over 100 whose words and images I imbibe anywhere from occasionally to frequently. And that’s because they are good. Real good in numerous cases. If anyone had told me in April 2015 that Planet Earth houses many times more strong thinkers and boffo writers and discerning photographers than I ever imagined, I’d have responded “yeah right, and I’m going to win the Nobel Prize in Literature before this decade is out.” Well, all I can say is that I now am totally impressed, and intimidated, by the oceans of citizens who can turn a sweet phrase and/or snap a fine photo. And despite the obvious fact that a Nobel isn’t part of my future, I’m here to announce somewhat reluctantly that a No Bell is. More about that later.

Intimidated. Yes, that word surely applies to me. Trying to keep pace with the many who, anywhere from twice a week to daily, knock out good stories for their blogs intimidates me. I mean, it’s all I can do to compose a ditty once a week. Twice a week or more often than that? Ain’t about to happen anytime soon. I’m more likely to pack my bags for the Himalayas and scale Mount Everest or K2.

Inspiration that leads somewhere is what it boils down to, and some writers have it up the wazoo. Me, uh uh. Take one day last week, for example. I hit my blog’s “Publish” button early that morning, lofting my latest masterwork, Ponds, into the ethers. Hours later I was sweating up a storm, racking my brains for a topic I could wrap my head around and turn into another addition to the publication whose sentences you presently are glued to. The pressure was on. If something didn’t emerge pretty soon I’d be in sharp danger of being empty-handed when, the following week, the “Publish” button coolly beckoned me to depress it confidently. Becoming more desperate by the minute I yelled to myself “come here, topic, come here. Be a good boy and come here.”

And who’d have guessed it? Next thing I knew a few ideas began to dribble in. Starting to feel better I grabbed a pen and a pad and scribbled some notes.

img_1254Cape Cod were the first words I jotted down. Sure, how about another opus about The Cape? My previous two fell into that category, so why not make it a threepeat? On the other hand, I quickly decided, fuhgeddaboudit. I needed to point my blog in a direction away from The Cape, if only temporarily, before my meager readership abandoned ship entirely. “Cape Cod, my love,” I said to myself, “I’ll come back to you. Sooner rather than later. Wait for me, my dearest. Please wait.”

monkey-scratching-headIf not Cape Cod, what then? A few more words transferred from my brain cells to paper: Movies That Made Me Scratch My Head. Not a bad idea, I thought, as I’d seen two action flicks in October that I enjoyed but whose plots, par for the course for me, I couldn’t keep up with. Jack Reacher: Never Go Back, a Tom Cruise-led endeavor, and Ben Affleck’s The Accountant were the films in question. Sitting back on my living room sofa I tried to bring Reacher and Accountant to life in my mind, but had only middling success. I could barely recall the plot twists that a few weeks earlier I’d been scratching my head about. Like much of my life, they’d faded into wispy memories. What, you expect a body to take notes when he goes to the movies in the event he might want to comment pointedly on them for his blog? I’ll take it under consideration.

You get the picture. I played around with a couple of other ideas and ended up tossing them aside too. And so, here I am with an essay about not much of anything. And the “Publish” button is staring me in the face. What’s a boy to do? That button is a demanding and inscrutable entity, one best not to ignore. It’s anyone’s guess what ghastly forces might be unleashed if I do.

In conclusion, I return to the aforementioned No Bell Prize. Here’s the situation: I have it on good  authority that next week I will be invited to Stockholm, Sweden, where, should I accept the invitation, I would be presented in December with a document inscribed as follows: We at The No Bell Institute Of Blogging Mediocrity hereby state that Neil Scheinin’s blog post from November 10, 2016 is not ring-a-ding-ding. It is unworthy of any number of bells, not five, not even one. No bells being more like it, we are issuing this certificate to Mr. Scheinin.

Ouch!

Oy vey!!

Onward and Upward!!!

 

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I Won An Award! (Sort Of)

Folks, this is a post I never anticipated writing. It has nothing to do with what my blog’s about, whatever that might be. And at first I wasn’t going to write these words at all, but then I took a look at the smiling face of blogger April Greene and was charmed into proceeding.

liebsterYou see, a number of years ago someone out there in the blogging community came up with the idea that bloggers would do well to recognize and encourage and promote their peers. Can’t argue with that. And that same someone decided that a good way for this to happen would be for newish bloggers to bestow an award upon other newish bloggers. And that same someone, as far as I know, also named the award. The Liebster Award, that’s what it’s called. Why Liebster?  Who knows? The award’s origins are about as clear as the waters of the Ganges River. In other words, not. Whatever, Liebster Awards have been granted to oodles of bloggers over the years. And April Greene, an excellent writer whose blog and smiling face may be viewed by clicking right here, has nominated me for (meaning, she has awarded me) a Liebster. Thanks, April, for thinking of me.

Wouldn’t you know it, though? This whole Liebster thing is a form of a chain letter, so it’s kind of a pain. More than kind of, actually. Yet, at this point I’m pretty happily playing along because, as April Greene mentioned on her website, Liebster Awards are all about spreading the love. OK, I’m ready! Let’s go!

As part of the chain I am expected to nominate other bloggers for the Liebster. I shall do so, but I totally understand if my nominees decide to bag it and break the chain, which is what my initial reaction was. In any case, let me mention that I look periodically at many relatively new blogs, of which loads are worthy of recognition. I wrote the names of those worthies on pieces of paper, placed the pieces in a big bowl and randomly pulled out three. They are my nominees. There are plenty of real good articles to read in those three blogs, as you will discover by clicking on the following links:

Runaway American Dream          Speaking Of Life         Bookmark

Naturally, the Liebster Awards come with various rules that seem to have evolved over the years without firm consensus as to what are the rules. For the sake of making things somewhat easier and less time-consuming, I’m going to modify the rules once again by reducing the number of hoops a Liebster nominee need jump through.

Most versions of Liebster’s regulations ask nominees to answer 11 questions posed to them by their nominators, and to nominate 11 bloggers for the Liebster. To that I say: “Huh? Who’s got all day to do this stuff?” And thusly if any or all of my nominees decide to accept the Liebster from me, and by so doing decide to keep the ol’ chain in motion, they need answer only three questions. And I suggest that they propel the Liebster mechanism by nominating no more than three bloggers.

And now for a Q & A session. Complying with her duties as a Liebster nominator, April Greene asked 11 questions of me, per the instructions she received from her nominator. Here are her Qs with my As attached:

  1. What’s the coolest award you’ve ever gotten? (You can say the Liebster Award if you want.) —  Hey, I’ve been awardless till now, so Liebster it is.
  2. When did you last ride a public bus? — I only take limos.
  3. Have you ever slipped when getting out of the shower and felt older than you actually are? — No comment.
  4. Which of your childhood friends are you saddest to have lost touch with, and what do you think they’re doing now? — My teddy bear. He’s exploring Antarctica these days.
  5. Honestly: Do you really consider it the three-second rule? Have you ever extended it to more seconds? If so, how many? — Thousands upon thousands.
  6. Why do you think all those houseplants have died under your care? — How did you know?
  7. Please describe the time you sung most humiliatingly in public. — It would take too long.
  8. Best popcorn topping. Go. — I like the classics (ketchup and mustard).
  9. Would you rather dream of a spider infestation or a snake infestation? Why? — Yuck!
  10. What is your least favorite color? Explain. — Only my psychiatrist is privy to this.
  11. Should 7-Eleven have discontinued their Sour Patch Watermelon Slurpee flavor? Why or why not? — No. The masses will revolt.

Moving right along, I now am obliged to ask questions of my nominees. I’m not feeling smart-alecky anymore, so the questions will be legit.

  1. What television series, if any, are you currently watching?
  2. What are your favorite fruits?
  3. What are your hobbies?

Finally, as guidelines for my nominees I’m supposed to list the Liebster Award’s general rules and regs. Here goes:

Once you accept a nomination, you are asked to complete the following steps:
– Create a post in your blog displaying the Liebster Award logo
– In that post, thank and link to the blogger who nominated you
– In that post, answer the questions assigned by the blogger who nominated you
– In that post, nominate new favorite bloggers for the Liebster Award
– In that post, come up with a list of questions for your nominees
– In that post, provide rules/instructions for your nominees in re accepting the award
– Notify the nominees
– Post your Liebster blog post link in the comments of your nominator’s Liebster post

If anyone out there has read all of this, my condolences.

Normal programming will resume with my next article.

In Search Of A Story Idea

Funny thing about this blog. When I started it last April I didn’t know what shape it would take or what it might come to mean to me. Shape-wise, somewhat to my surprise, the blog seems to conform pretty well to the template I described in the “About” page. Meaning, I’ve written about this and I’ve written about that, and the articles in toto appear to give a pretty good picture of who I am. Not that I actually know particularly well who I am. Figuring that out would take hours and hours on a psychiatrist’s or other therapist’s chair or couch. “Hey, Sandy!” (note to readers: I’m calling to my wife). “It’s time I found out who I am. Please get me an appointment with a topnotch and nearby mental health professional. Thanks.”

As for what the blog means to me . . . well, it has become a big part of my life. Here I am, almost 12 months forward from the blog’s launch date, and I’m getting a tasty kick from writing. More than 60 times I’ve been inspired to put fingers to keyboard and knock out a story. I haven’t done so much thinking or typing since my school days, back when the dinosaurs were on the verge of extinction. Didn’t know I had it in me.

There is a problem though. To wit, I’m good at struggling to find subjects that interest me enough to write about them. And that are simple enough so that pea-brained me can understand them. Sometimes the well feels awfully dry, causing me to start worrying more than a bit. “What the heck am I going to write about next?” is a question commonly floating in my head. When day after day go by without a pleasing answer, man, the perspiration beads start pooling.

And that’s the situation I find myself in right now. I’ve had a few particles of ideas for stories, but none has swelled to a size that I can grab and knead. Better scribes than I would have turned out excellent articles from those fragments, which is one of many reasons why those writers are better.

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For instance, the other day I was at my volunteer job in a medical office building not far from my suburban Philadelphia home. The building is full of doctors’ offices that are reached via a web of corridors. I man the information desk at this facility one morning each week and have been doing so for six years. I was standing beside the desk. My mind was wandering. Perspiration covered my forehead. “What the heck am I going to write about next?” I wondered. And then something caught my eye. It was a watercolor painting, a large appealing abstract in blue and cream. It was mounted on a wall eight feet in front of me. It had been on this wall for who knows how long. I had seen it every time I’d been at my volunteer job. But I hadn’t  really seen it. I mean, it’s one of those items that you don’t want to become too aware of. If I started fixating on its existence, I’d be glancing over at it throughout my shift. It would become like a song that gets stuck in your head. Such as El Paso, the Marty Robbins tune from 1959 that I’ve been trying unsuccessfully to expel for decades. When Sandy and I were at dinner with our great pals Susie and Mike a few weeks ago, Mike started singing El Paso to me. He’s cruel that way. “Out in the West Texas town of El Paso/I fell in love with a Mexican girl/Night-time would find me in Rosa’s cantina/Music would play and Felina would whirl.” “Stop, Mike, stop!” I cried. And he did. But here I am a few weeks later with those entrancing lyrics and that sweet waltz-time melody still skipping around in my brain neurons. Mucho gracias, Mike. Mucho gracias.

Ah yes, the watercolor painting staring at me from eight feet away. A bell dimly chimed inside my cranium when the notion occurred to me that the watercolor might in some elusive manner lead the way to a story for my blog. Perhaps there were other art works hanging in the corridors of the medical facility. And if so, that would be my story. Namely, one about lovely objects that often surround us yet remain unnoticed and unappreciated.

Is this art?
Is this art?
Is this art?
Is this art?

Off I went to explore the three floors-worth of crisscrossing hallways. I’d walked these avenues many times over the years, but looking for art had never been part of my quests. Alas, I came up empty. The blue and cream watercolor was an orphan, the only framed object in the various halls. Not so fast, though. A myriad of things were attached to the corridors’ walls or hanging from their ceilings. Fire alarms, fire extinguishers, water fountains, exit signs, digital thermostats and other utilitarian stuff. Who’s to say that they didn’t qualify as art? If they did, then my volunteer job took place within a veritable museum.

“Yeah, now that’s a story for my blog,” I told myself. After all, in 1917 Marcel Duchamp bought a mass-produced urinal, signed it with a fictitious name and submitted it to a prestigious arts exhibition. And in the 1960s Andy Warhol created large-scale facsimiles of Brillo boxes. Duchamp and Warhol were revolutionary modernists, questioning the nature of art, asking what in fact qualifies as art. If they had held my volunteer job, mightn’t they have concluded that indeed they were working in a museum?

Thus I walked the hallways once again, reexamining the stuff on the walls and ceilings and taking their pictures with my iPhone. And as I did I knew that this story idea led nowhere. Oy frigging vey! Try as I might I didn’t feel any aesthetic or conceptual attraction towards the fire alarms or any of the rest. “You know, as art these things suck big time,” I said to myself.

Soon an idea worth writing about will come to me. I’m confident of that. Sort of. Till then, I’m outta here. Where’s the exit? . . . Oh, here it is. Bye.

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