Incognito Facade in Wackadoodle Man Cave Forget acrophobia, claustrophobia and agoraphobia. The medical community can’t cough up a phobia for my main malady. So, I’ll coin the term myself — fame-aphobia. Yes siree Bob, I fear fame. It started when I became a teenage idol. No nostalgia for me, thanxx. When I recall my overwhelming celebrity as a teenager, I practically shiver. Sigh. It all began when high school teachers and fellow students urged me, the uninhibited class zany, to participate in Friday morning convocation programs. Without a nerve in my body, I felt like a star performing humorous monologues in front of 1,500 screaming teenagers. I had ‘em rolling in the aisles. Then came the dreaded noon hour. It seemed like the whole world knew me. Kids would clutter around my table in the cafeteria. It felt great to be favored, but ’twas a holy horror for my privacy penchant. Ya see, I’m an extravert but with a decidedly super macho, lone wolf si...
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Fitful Lights Flicker in Memory Bank By Steve Eskew A politician and wannabe wit recently blurted out: “I have short-term memory issues, I have long-term memory issues and I also have short-term memory issues.” Generally, memory becomes enhanced or diminished arbitrarily by its selective nature. Analytical babble aside, the miracle of memory, like all blessings from Above, is not a given––it’s on loan. Memory’s a blatant control freak, a mistress of confusion, a blessing and a curse. Let’s face it––scattered pictures boldly and abruptly withdraw the good, the bad and the ugly from our memory bank. Like any other shy narcissist, I take enormous pride in the precision I display as I merrily travel memory lane. Okay, okay, I can’t really claim to have a truly photographic memory, but oh shucks, I’m pretty darn good. I amaze one and all––especially me––with the vast array of dates indelibly seared into my memory’s boundless boundaries. Am I blushing? Never to bra...
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Tuesday March 4, 2025 Untwisting Clutter-Minded Madness By Steve Eskew Panic! Panic! Panic! Where’s my phone? Where’s the TV remote? Where the devil did I hide my inflatable woman? Has anyone seen my hearing aid? Where’s Waldo? With my feet firmly planted in mid-air, my insufferable routine of misplacing items never fails to flop me into slapstick rage. And please don’t blame these silly fits of fury on “senior moments.” In my 20s, I used to grunt and grapple with myself a dozen times before breakfast: “Where did you put it, you dizzy ninny? It’s indispensable!” (as indispensable as the only draft of my thesis could be). However, years before I turned 19, I swear I had been the crowned geek of structure and control, a pompous mathlete who never misplaced so much as a digit. Credit that discipline to obsessive-compulsive disorder. Ah, but age 19 promptly launched the onslaught of a more chaotic disorder — bipolar, aka the scatterbrain menace. Pri...
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Fame, Fortune and Fudging Myself Contrary to popular myth, I’m neither gay nor a Hells Angel. But I sheepishly suspect that the first thing that crosses anyone’s mind when they first meet me is “Wow! Now there’s a Hells Angel, if ever I saw one.” Truth be told, some of my metrosexual biker buddies actually do ride bicycles, and those longer in the tooth mount senior tricycles. But, indeedy I do have a few authentic Hells Angels in my circle of friends. Hanging loose with the rough and ready became a necessity eons ago when I worked on an article about the fallacies of Hells Angels. I lounged around biker bars for the same reason I graced gay bars, you know? Research, research, research. Call me crazy but those are the two groups of men with whom I feel the most comfortable. The bikers admire my professed literary expertise and what sometimes passes for wit. Dissimilarly, the gays, most of whom are way wittier than I’ll ever be, admire my unmitigated virility. Sneer ...