Peevie Steevie By Steve Eskew Recently, my therapist nearly nodded off while I was explaining the complexities involved with my various pet peeves. I was indeed peeved with her disinterest and asked in an acid tone: “Would you like some toothpicks to prop your eyes open until the session is over?” “What I would like ,” she said, “is for you to answer the question without pontificating: Tell me in one sentence––what’s the origin of your preposterous pet peeve obsession? I groaned. “Okay. Two words: toy hog.” “I beg your pardon?” “Simply put, I was nine months old and my older brother habitually grabbed every toy I ever played with. I eventually reacted by pulling out a handful of his hair. ‘Nuff said?” The therapist glowered at me pityingly and submitted that such a magic memory borders on delusion, that someone else must have told me about the incident and I’ve simply imagined my maniacal fury. My latest pet peeve? Know-it-all therapists. As a mild-mannered reporter, working
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No Christmas Skits This Year––Just Brotherly Blunders By Steve Eskew Grrrr! On our very first day at New York’s Golden Oldies Senior Center, my shamefully rivalrous brother Reggie mortified me in a game of charades. And I had so wanted to impress these trendy seniors––mostly “Swifties.” Reggie had written down one of humankind’s most asinine phrases for me to usher in my pantomime debut. Reggie gloated with glee when he saw my face fall as I read my mime phrase: “Ice Cream Has No Bones.” “Curses!,” said I in an undertone, then went on to make the audience laugh heartily at my humiliating attempt to mime that phrase. As zealous/jealous siblings , we’ve always delighted in getting each other’s goat in public. Never mean-spirited. But, unscathed by age, we’re more merciless than ever. Thankfully the other seniors seem to relish witnessing the amicable wisecracks of us bantering brothers. Good thing they dig us cool cats. I’ll definitely need that captive audience to be chipper this
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THURSDAY SEPTEMBER 7, 2023 Walking the Valk Alone By Steve Eskew Jogging? No thanks — de feet need no more agony. Mountain climbing? Impossible! I’ll stick to obsessive walking, thereby making me akin to many other certified eccentric New Yorkers. Case in point, the late Swedish actress Greta Garbo. Garbo graced the movie screens throughout the 1920s and '30s, but she was also famous for her excessive, solitary walking excursions. When Garbo retired, she intensely resented NYC reporters for disrupting her private constitutionals: “I vant to be alone vhen I valk the streets of Manhattan. Go avay!” I can relate — in spades. I also vant to be alone when I walk. I’ve never wanted a walking partner glued to my hip on my 80-blocks-a-day jaunt through the city of eight million people. While moving alone among the multitudes, I’ve always felt like a sort of walking paradox. And ‘tis my hallmark to wear a headband during my walks. Makes me feel foxy. In my 60s, I regarded myself the ep
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Pulling Your Own Leg ’Tis brave of me to say it but, like Erma Bombeck, I often wondered what I was doing in the pits. Surely but surely, I didn’t deserve to suffer the slings and arrows of such outrageous fortunes. As I muddle through my exemplary life, I’m proud as punch that I’ve never drunk alcohol, smoked cigarettes or indulged in recreational drugs. Even more commendable––I’ve been celibate for decades. Scouts honor! My only vice? I tell lies. At ease, at ease, it’s not what you think. But, come now, don’t we all suffer occasional bouts of liarrhea? The truth lies within the lie of the beholder––or something like that. Take two of my heroes, Martha Stewart and Bill Clinton. Were they punished because of their initial infractions? No way, cliché. They fell from grace because they denied being naughty. I’m a different kind of liar––I lie only to myself. Mostly. Granted, as I grow older, my nose grows longer, but I’m actually a noble warrior, I tell ya. Among other fake virtues,