Humor

Ho, Ho, Ho And All That Jazz: A Guest Post By Santa Claus

Yeah, Another Blogger140 Comments

Ho, ho, ho and all that jazz, this is Santa Claus, writing to you from the frigging North Pole. It’s colder than deep space here, so cold that my private parts probably wouldn’t thaw out if I spent a month in the Caribbean. Despite that, I’d love to relocate to warmer climes. But Mrs. Claus won’t hear of it. Ditto for the elves, those weirdos I rely on to help get the big job done at Christmastime. Beats me how anybody can stand the cold. But it takes all kinds, I guess.

Anyway, one week ago, feeling antsy, I decided to get away for a couple of days. The elves are strange as hell, so I was not at all certain they could handle Christmas-toymaking pressure on their own. But I knew that Mrs. Claus would keep things under control. What a woman she is! It’s a shame that my frozen privates almost always prevent me from providing her with the satisfaction she deserves. Not to mention that true intimacy would be much more achievable if I dropped at least 80 pounds. Yeah, there’s no denying I’m a fat f*ck.

“Where are you headed, my chubby hubbie?” my spouse asked when I told her of my need for a quick getaway.

“I’m off to Pennsylvania, USA, dearest. I’ve been out of touch with Sandy and Neil for a long while. I miss them. Too bad I won’t be with them during Chanukah. But that holiday begins only a week and a half before Christmas, and I’ll need to be back home well before that. Dearest, I think it’s great I have Jewish friends. Why, I’m so comfortable with Sandy and Neil, I sometimes flirt with the idea of converting to Judaism.”

“What? Are you out of your mind?” my wife responded. “You’re a Christian icon!”

“Just joking, dearest, just joking,” I said. Or was I? Twenty minutes later, after pecking my better half on the cheek, I climbed into my waiting sleigh and in a handful of seconds was up, up and away.

I reached my destination in record time, landing and parking, under a seriously dark sky, in Sandy and Neil’s backyard. “Don’t cause any problems, guys,” I told the reindeer. “No moaning and groaning. No crapping on the lawn. Just lie down and be quiet. We’ll be homeward bound tomorrow.”

I made my way to the front of the house and knocked on the door. Neil opened it. “Holy shit, it’s Santa! It’s been ages, my man. Ages. Come on in. How have you been? Sandy, Santa‘s here!” Sandy ran to the door, a wide smile on her face.

“I’ve been thinking about you, Santa. I’ve missed you so much!” she said.

Well, they embraced me, and I them, and then the three of us sat down and spent the next two hours chit-chatting, noshing, drinking, and having one hell of a fine time. What’s better than being with people you actually want to be with? Not much.

The conversation turned to the holiday season. “As I know you know, Santa, I’m an atheist,” Neil said. “But there’s something about Chanukah even I can get into. I’m talking about lighting menorah candles each night of the holiday and watching them glow. They’re beautiful and put me in a gentle frame of mind. I wish you could spend at least part of Chanukah with us, Santa, but I’m sure your schedule won’t allow that.”

“Right, duty awaits me at the North Pole,” I said. “But, speaking of beautiful, how about we all stroll around your neighborhood right now? Many of your neighbors really know how to decorate their houses and grounds for Christmas. We’ve looked at wonderful Christmas displays a few times before. Remember?”

“How could I forget, Santa?” Neil asked. “One of those excursions lifted you out of a funk.”

“Word!” I acknowledged. “Okay, let’s see what we shall see.”

Well, what can I say? The sights at night on the blocks near Sandy and Neil’s home mesmerized the three of us. I felt as if I were in a wonderland. And in a real sense I was. Those streets were enchanted, and only in good ways.

Before departing the next day, I asked Neil if I could contribute a story to Yeah, Another Blogger. I’d written two guest posts before. “Damn straight, Santa!” he said. “That would suit me just fine. You write a heck of a lot better than me, you know.”

“Neil, you’re such a flatterer!” I replied. But he wasn’t wrong about that.

Soon, the time to say goodbye arrived. It had been over five years since I’d spoken on the phone with, let alone visited, Sandy and Neil. We promised to stay in touch regularly. And I believe we will. And, though it was still a few weeks away, they wished me a very Happy New Year. Which is what I wish for the readers of Neil’s publication. The world is in sad straits. It’s going through a dark period. But if we all let our inner lights shine brightly, maybe we can push the needle in a positive direction.

Thank you, Neil, for posting my article. And thank you, readers, for reading it!

Puzzles

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

I get about six hours of sleep daily, less than the majority of folks. This means I have 18 hours to fill, which is a lot. Overall, I do a fairly decent job with that, I guess. Some combination of the following occupies me pretty well most days: family life; household chores and duties; social life; volunteer work; reading; listening to music; watching TV; dining out; long walks; pecking away at my computer’s keyboard to produce content for the dodgy publication you’re now staring at.  And I’d be remiss not to mention scratching my balls while belting out the melodies of my favorite Gregorian chants. Yes indeed, I love doing that very much. It’s just about my only activity that isn’t on the mild side.

But wait, there’s more! After attending to personal hygiene matters and downing hot coffee, I kick off most every day by tackling one or two sudoku puzzles online, via the Brainbashers website. Man, I’m addicted to sudoku, a logic-based game involving the correct placement of numbers in a grid. I quickly became hooked when, in 2011, I researched and deciphered sudoku’s inner workings. I’ve interacted with thousands of sudoku puzzles since then.

After satisfying my sudoku jones and then eating breakfast, I retrieve the copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper that has been tossed onto our driveway by my family’s paper-delivery guy. I postpone reading any of its articles and head straight to the crossword puzzle, for sudoku is not the only puzzle genre I’m addicted to. Settled comfortably upon the living room sofa or at the dining room table, I do my best to fill in the crossword’s blank spaces accurately.

All told, I devote an average of roughly 90 minutes daily to puzzles. That’s nearly 8.5% of my waking hours, a significant figure. I’ve often wondered if I should cut back. Addictions, needless to say, can be seriously unhealthy. And so, several weeks ago, at my most recent session with my psychiatrist Dr. R. U. Forereel, I brought up the subject.

“What? You do puzzles for 10 or more hours each week? What in the world is wrong with you, Neil?” Dr. Forereel commented.

“But, sudoku and crossword puzzles relax me. And they help to keep the old brain cells in shape.”

“Old is right, Neil,” my doctor said, after glancing at my chart. “You’re soon to turn 78, I see. Neil, you’re ancient, and should be doing your utmost to live life to its fullest at this point. After all, who knows how many more tomorrows you have left? Stop squandering time on puzzles. Do something exciting instead. Take up rock climbing, for instance. Or Formula One race car driving. I could give many more suggestions. The possibilities are almost endless.”

“Dr. Forereel, are you trying to get me killed?” I asked her. “I’m not a daredevil. I’m not sure what I am, actually, but built-for-thrills sure doesn’t fit my description.”

“Neil, where oh where have I gone wrong? You’ve been my patient for years and years, and yet, despite my strongest efforts to build it up, your self-confidence remains at the meh level. Sometimes I question my efficacy as a physician.”

“Efficacy is such a wonderful word, Dr. Forereel, one I haven’t heard in ages. For that alone, I consider today’s session to be valuable. But, getting back to puzzles, have I truly been on the wrong track by giving substantial amounts of time to them?”

“Of course you have, Neil. Puzzles are frivolous. If I’d wasted time on such nonsense, I’d never have become the respected healer that I am.”

“Doctor, I’ll follow your sage advice. You’ve convinced me that I absolutely need to amp up my life. Nothing I’m involved with right now pushes the envelope.”

“That‘s the spirit, Neil. It seems I’ve underestimated you. Well, the clock on the wall tells me that today’s session has reached its end. Go get ’em, tiger!”

Over the next few days, my vision of how I might better allocate my time began to crystalize. There are so many paths, I realized, that would lead me to becoming a more-daring version of myself. Alas, I’m sorry to report that things have remained unchanged. My gas pedal is stuck. Dr. Forereel will be hugely disappointed.

What can you say? Life’s a bit of a puzzle, isn‘t it?

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.”

Dr. R. U. Forereel Reaches For The Light

Yeah, Another Blogger119 Comments

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Neil ‘I’ve got major problems’ Scheinin,” my psychiatrist Dr. R.U. Forereel said quietly, her gaze fixed on me like a big-game hunter, when I entered her office for my monthly session last week.

Her words stopped me in my tracks.

“What? Did I hear you correctly, doctor? How dare you talk to me like that!”

“Oh, calm down. Have a seat, Neil. I was just kidding around. My, you have a thin hide.”

Keeping my ears wide open lest any further barbs be projected at me, I slowly approached the patient’s chair and then eased my way onto it.

“Yikes!” I yelled, as my highly bony ass made contact with the chair’s rigid cushion. “Dr. Forereel, you need to replace this piece of crap masquerading as furniture. Its seat is as hard as a frigging rock. I’ve never been comfortable on it, and now less than ever, given my aging butt’s deteriorating condition. Maybe that’s why I’ve made minimal sustained progress over the many years you’ve been treating me.”

“Point taken, Neil. Rest assured that a chair deserving of your continued presence will greet you next month. You are, after all, one of my favorite patients. Which really isn’t saying much, though, considering the competition you’re up against.”

“Doctor, I’m shocked to hear you badmouth your other patients,” I said. “You’ve never done that before. Are you having a bad day?”

My question caused Dr. Forereel’s stern demeanor to change immediately. “Neil, I’m not sure I ever have a good day,” she said, her eyes awash with vulnerability. “And that’s been especially true for the past two weeks. You see, I feel I must end my relationship with Tom, the fine man who, because of you, entered my life last year.”

Her comment about my close friend Tom completely took me by surprise, as Tom has nothing but wonderful things to say about Dr. Forereel whenever I speak with him. He moved in with my psychiatrist only weeks after he first asked her out, and as far as he is concerned everything between them has progressed swimmingly.

“End the relationship? Why, doctor?”

“I know, on the surface it makes little sense. Tom is sweet as peach pie. He’s caring and intelligent. But he’s driving me crazy, though I, of course, have kept this hidden from him. For instance, Tom clears his throat vigorously, as if he’s starting up an outboard motor, whenever he’s about to start speaking to me — VRROOMM! I can’t stand that. And he never takes off his baseball cap, even when we’re making love. All he’ll do on those occasions is turn it backwards on his head so that the bill doesn’t poke me in the face or in my private parts. That’s considerate of him, true, but I imagine he wears the cap in bed because he likes to think of himself as a talented athlete. In truth, however, he isn’t exactly carrying heavy lumber, if you get my drift.”

“Ouch, too much information!” I responded. “Look, you can’t have everything. Surely, doctor, there has to be a way for you to focus on, and appreciate, the bigger picture. I believe it would be a major mistake for you to send Tom packing. You might never again find a man to share your life with.”

“Sadly, I cannot disagree. I’m well into my middle years, yet Tom is the first man I’ve lived with. I suppose I’m not cut out for a partnership . . . Wait! I just thought of something. The Journal Of Seemingly Lost Causes ran a fascinating article not long ago. It’s about the therapeutic techniques designed by Dr. Ican Fixit. The results from Dr. Fixit’s program, though preliminary, are extraordinary. His basic approach is to put his patients into deep hypnotic states and then scream at them, ‘You think you‘ve got problems? Believe me, they are nothing compared to mine, so wise up already!'”

“Neil,” my doctor continued, “Dr. Fixit repeats this procedure every day for a month. By then, success in most cases is achieved. There’s no time for me to lose. I will contact him and enroll in his program. When I complete it, there will be a new version of me — more tolerant, less prickly. I’ll embrace and be amused by all of Tom’s peculiarities. And my psychiatric abilities undoubtedly will rise to heights even Freud could not have imagined, which means that possibly you’ll finally start showing some lasting improvement. Let’s hope so. You’ve certainly got a long, long way to go.”

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.”

The Matchmaker

Yeah, Another Blogger123 Comments

“Have a seat, Neil,” my psychiatrist Dr. R. U. Forereel said to me last week when I entered her office for my monthly session. I could tell from her tense tone of voice that she wasn’t in the best frame of mind. Nothing new about that.

“Neil, I’m not in the mood to take on additional challenges today,” she continued, as I lowered myself into the patient’s chair. “So, I hope that you don’t have even more problems than the ones we’ve uncovered over the years. Please tell me that you don’t.”

“Doctor, put your mind at rest. I probably should have cancelled this appointment, because, astonishingly, I’ve never felt better. The clouds have lifted.  I’m as chipper as a British gent. And all of this happened from out of the blue. I can’t believe it, but I’m certainly not complaining.”

“Very good, Neil, very good. Now, allow me to provide illumination. I believe that, subconsciously, you have been mulling over the numerous insights into your psyche that I’ve presented to you at our sessions. It was my hope that one day they truly would resonate with you. At last, they have, though in all honesty I always thought you were a lost cause. Hallelujah, you’re not! Which is why I’m going to submit an account of your case to It’s A Miracle! magazine, one of the American Psychiatric Association’s premier publications. I won’t reveal your name, of course, as that would be highly improper. The most important consideration, anyway, is that my name will appear, not only in the byline but throughout the article, bringing me added fame and many new clients. Thank you, in advance, Neil, for all of that.”

“The article will be of great value to the psychiatric community, Dr. Forereel. And it goes without saying that I am in your debt eternally. Or maybe for only a day or two more if my breakthrough implodes. Whatever, I thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she replied. “Let’s move on. What else shall we discuss today?”

“Seeing that I’m in good mental and emotional shape at the moment, I’d like for us to spend the remainder of the session talking about my friend Tom, instead of about me,” I said, to which my doctor nodded okay. “He’s 55 years old, smart and accomplished. Never been married. Never has had a serious romantic relationship, in fact. Doctor, my friend is keenly aware he’s been missing the boat big time. He needs a woman badly. He’s frustrated and lonely.”

At the word lonely, Dr. Forereel winced. She became silent. Her eyes dropped.

“Dr. Forereel, are you alright? Is there anything I can do?”

A few moments later she raised her eyes to meet mine. Then she spoke. Softly. “Neil, you’ve hit a raw nerve. Here I am, a respected and successful therapist. Yet, as much as I’ve wanted to find true love, I’ve never come close. There must be something about me that turns men away.”

“Well, perhaps your stern demeanor and unwelcome comments play a role in that,” I said. “But what do I know? Have you tried any of the online dating services?”

“Yes, many, and without success. I was especially disappointed when my profile on I’m A Shrink, What Are You? resulted in zero dates. Neil, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I haven’t been out with a man in four years. Oh well, I simply have to accept reality. For me, a life partner, even a temporary partner, isn’t in the cards.”

“I don’t buy it. There’s someone for everyone. Sometimes it just takes a long time to meet the right person. Doctor, what are you looking for in a man?”

“Well, I’ve always felt that too much togetherness is problematic. After all, there really isn’t all that much to talk about after a while, is there? Therefore, the fewer waking hours he and I would share, the better. Also, I would want to be with someone who is a wiz in the kitchen, as I certainly am not. I can’t think of too much beyond that. Which, I suppose, is part of the problem.”

“Doctor Forereel, you may find this hard to believe, but you and Tom might be made for each other. He’s a master chef, for crying out loud! And he works 80 or more hours a week in his restaurant. Since you work like a dog too, the two of you would spend only a handful of waking hours together. Doctor, should I ask Tom to call you? My intuition tells me that you and he will make a fine couple.”

My psychiatrist looked at me with hope in her eyes. Then she said, “Yes, Neil, please do. Oh, this has been one of the most productive sessions I’ve had with any patient. I feel renewed. As for you, fingers crossed that your mental and emotional well-being will remain at a good level. And if that turns out to be the case, which is unlikely, it won’t take away from the fact that there are knotty aspects of your personality that continue to require my attention. See you next month.”

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.”

What’s Up, Doc?

Yeah, Another Blogger133 Comments

“Why, if it isn’t my favorite patient,” said Dr. R. U. Forereel, a not unsubtle note of sarcasm in her voice, when I entered her office last week for my monthly psychiatric session. “Have a seat, Neil. Which of your numerous problems would you like to discuss today?”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I want to talk about my recent difficulties with writing,” I said as I sat myself down in the patient chair. “I’m sure you remember that I’ve been turning out articles since 2015 for my website Yeah, Another Blogger.”

Dr. Forereel made no attempt to turn her head away from me as she rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding me? Of course I know about Yeah, Another Blogger. How could I not know, considering that you mention it every damn time I see you? Okay, tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Doctor, it’s never been a snap for me to come up with story ideas and develop them into written pieces. But the last couple of weeks have been terrible. I mean, I’ve been stuck in traffic, going nowhere, paddling against the current . . . ”

Dr. Forereel cut me off. “Enough with the clichés already. I get it! You have writer’s block, right?”

“Bingo,” I said.

Dr. Forereel paused for a long moment, playing with the several chin hairs that she’d have done well to dispose of at home. Then she began to talk again.

“Neil, I’m in the process of writing my memoirs, as you know. I have you to thank for that, needless to say. I’ve plugged away at the book religiously every night after work for the last seven months, and on weekends too, with remarkable results. No writer’s block for me. Last night I completed the section about my life at age four, the age at which it became apparent to one and all, including me, that I was not a people person. That personality trait has continued to this day, by the way.”

“What?” I yelled. “After hundreds and hundreds of hours of work you’re only up to age four? At this rate you won’t finish the book for another 25 years! And if you’re not a people person, then why in the world did you pursue psychiatry?”

“Neil, the world will welcome my autobiography no matter when it is published. Of that I’m certain. And, to answer your question, a central message of the book, one that millions of people will take heart from, will be this: It’s absolutely fine to be ill-suited for one’s profession. Why waste time trying out different occupations, hoping and praying that one of them will prove to be a wonderful fit? Just grab indiscriminately at something, put your nose to the grindstone and get on with it. Whatever that it might be. Don’t you agree?”

I was dumbfounded. Which didn’t stop me from cobbling together a response. “You’ve just proven to me that you’re a remarkable theorist, doctor,” I said. “What’s more, a bad match though you might be for psychiatry, you are a wonder-worker too. Where would I, and who knows how many others, be without you? You have illuminated a few of the dark recesses of my mind over the years. Not that I feel any better as a result of that, but at least I have more to talk about with people than I used to. For that, I’m eternally in your debt.”

“So glad to be and to have been of service. You won’t mind, I hope, if I mention you by name in my memoirs?”

“Certainly not. Especially since it seems I’ll be long gone or too old to care by the time your book hits the market. You know, I must say today’s session has been unusually enlivening and enlightening, so much so that I feel the need to write up an account of what you and I have discussed this afternoon. I am totally confident that writer’s block will not be an issue. And then, with your permission, naturally, I’ll publish the story on my blog.”

“You have my blessings,” my doctor said. “After all, your previous descriptions of our encounters brought me a substantial number of new patients. They’d never have known I existed had it not been for you.”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” I replied. “And I barely can wait to get back home and put my fingers on my computer’s keyboard. Because of you, doctor, Yeah, Another Blogger will live to see another day!”

A Circular Story

Yeah, Another Blogger148 Comments

One day, back when humans lived in caves and suburban housing developments were unimaginable, two brothers — Moan and Groan — began dragging, with ropes, a crude, enormous wooden box. Their destination, several miles away, was the adjacent caves in which they resided with their wives and children. One cave per family. The box, I hasten to add, was occupied by a wooly mammoth, which was no longer among the living. That was because Moan and Groan had punctured the crap out of it with their spears.

“Groan, this motherf*cker is heavier than hell,” Moan moaned in his native tongue, which I, a linguistic scholar specializing in commonly-thought-to-be lost languages, have translated into English for the benefit of anyone reading this article. “There’s got to be a better way to move large objects, don’t you think?”

“Moan, there is no better way. So, shut up and keep pulling,” replied Groan, groaning from exertion.

Six hours later, totally exhausted, Moan and Groan arrived home.

“We’re back,” they announced weakly at the caves’ entrances. At this, Tip and Top, the respective mates of Moan and Groan, rushed from the caves to greet the returnees. The ladies clapped their hands enthusiastically at the sight of the gigantic animal destined to feed the two families for months.

“Thank you, boys,” Tip said. “By the way, Top and I have been putting our heads together recently. We know how strenuous it is for you to bring your prey back home. Hard work indeed! But we’ve figured out something that will make the jobs much easier.”

Moan and Groan, looking at each other quizzically, were all ears. “Tell us,” they said.

Well, suffice it to say that Tip and Top had developed the wheel. And not only the wheel, but the axle too.  Wheels and axles, with large boxes atop them, would make the transport of wooly mammoths, and of a million other things, a relative breeze, explained Tip and Top. And, of course, they were right. Though it must be noted that axles, as important as they are, don’t mean shit when wheels aren’t in the picture. Yup, the wheel has proven to be one of humankind’s greatest inventions. It’s right up there with the Big Mac and Viagra. I believe we all should set aside time each day to give thanks to Tip and Top, as their genius made life easier and initiated a major awakening of human brain power.

Now, I bring all of this up because wheels have been pretty crucial for my blog. I mean, I’ve published ten editions of Art On Wheels, for crying out loud. It’s a series about my hunts for well-decorated trucks and other vehicles, and includes photographs of my captures. You better believe I had fun creating those stories. And I certainly have no plans to terminate the project (click here for the most recent entry).

Orleans, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA
Edinburgh, Scotland, United Kingdom

However, while examining my phone’s overflowing photo library the other day, I realized that it contains a selection of wheels-related pix that have nothing to do with Art On Wheels. Some of them, I noticed, had made their way innocently into Yeah, Another Blogger stories over the years anyway, for one reason or another. Most hadn’t, though. A softie at heart, I began to melt when I heard the unpublished ones explaining to me, between sniffles, that they felt lonely and neglected. They insisted that they wanted to be lofted into cyberspace, hoping to experience the warmth that might come from more eyes than mine gazing upon them.

Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA
Manhattan, New York City, New York, USA

“I truly understand,” I said to the photos, my eyes tearing up. “But I can’t place all of you on Yeah, Another Blogger. That would be overkill. So, I want each of you guys to examine one another closely and then vote for your ten favorite pix, excluding your own. The top-five vote-getters will be displayed in my next story.”

Willow Grove, Pennsylvania, USA

Naturally, there was some grumbling, since none of the pictures wanted to be left out. But in the end the vote took place. And I am happy to decorate this article with the winners.

In conclusion, all I can say is that, as with many things, we take the wheel for granted. Most likely we’d still be living in frigging caves had it not been invented. Thus, before I forget, I now bow down to Tip and Top. Okay, that’s accomplished. In a few minutes, then, I’m going to head to my car, because I need to run a few errands. Wheels, here I come!