Eskewpades

  Flu Do Something to You By Steve Eskew Am I warped? Yes, thank God, yes I am. Snicker if you fancy, but my obsessive/compulsive quirks and my vast array of infamous phobias have rescued Eskew countless times. As for defense mechanisms? They be my bitches.   Being an insufferable egotist ya see, I introspect a lot. Granted, I’m a coward, but I’m a courageous coward. For example, I boldly surrender my body to be vaccinated. ’Tis my only masochistic streak.   Loaded with phobias, I’m completely devoid of one common dread–– trypanophobia, or fear of needles and vaccinations. Call me a sicko but I hate feeling sick, so I was truly eager for my first coronavirus vaccine last winter. And glory be, when my testicles failed to swell up and I didn’t become impotent, I opted for the second shot. Waiting for my COVID-19 booster shot floods my noggin with sweet anticipation. Meanwhile, my arm still aches with great pleasure from my recent flu shot. Inoculate me, inoculate me. Who th...

HAM AND EGOS  By Steve Eskew Allow me to be the first to wish you all a very Merry Christmas. In July? Yup July, and believe me, celebrating five months early makes unmitigated sense in today’s senior centers. Tick-tock, tick-tock. A big bah-humbug to the pandemic for last December. Stranding Santa at the North Pole plunged those of us in our second childhood into the opposite of jolly.   Worse: zooming awkward Christmas greetings on our computers ignited innumerable squabbles. We curmudgeons demanded compensation from the universe for our lost holiday. We stewed. We steamed. We brainstormed. Then I recalled one summer when our kids were at that magic age when they still had visions of sugarplums dancing in their naughty noggins. Surprise! Grandmama threw the rugrats a special shindig. Christened “Christmas in July,” the party thrilled one and all.   My retelling this memory to my hot-to-trot senior colleagues jingled some bells in our belfries. “December be damned. Let’s...

  Off with Masks? On with Pants? By Steve Eskew ’Tis time to mingle among each other again. Time to grab our pants. Time to step away from our computers and dance on out the door––if our pants still fit.   Self-isolation? Talk about a blessing and a curse. Last year, my brother Skip’s far larger but much younger live-in girlfriend, Hortetta,   decided that the pandemic would be an excellent opportunity for them to isolate––from each other. Permanently. Though head over heels in love with his money, Hortetta had become horrified by the very thought of constant companionship with Skip himself. She feared that trapping herself with his company 24/7 would surely force her to kill him. A win-lose result since she was not in his will. As a guy who’s also been head over heels in love with Skip’s money for decades, I can bigly dig her greedy attraction. And, after decades of sibling friction, I can equally fathom her fantasy of killing him.   Ah, just kiddin’ Bro. Skip’s idi...

  From Funny Bones to Phony Bones By Steve Eskew Albeit once upon a time he could barely stand the sight of me, my ex-father-in-law materialized into one of my all-time best buds. I’ve always called him Big Bruno; his nickname for me has always been “Funny Bones.” Our unlikely bonding resulted from the sudden abject poverty that befell us both when we became divorcees within three days of each other. (I’ll save the slapsticky details for subsequent columns.) Following Bruno’s divorce from my ex-wife’s syrupy sweet mother, plus my own divorce from Bruno’s enchantingly delightful daughter, the two of us found ourselves deliriously downsizing in the same noxious neighborhood.   Fate had flopped us into this, this twilight zone of an environment by the same person — this, this malicious, man-eating female judge. Obviously, a bonafide misandrist, she reigned as infamous for shouting a pathetic parting shot to all her male victims — “Get out of my courtroom, you — you phony!”  ...

The Zany Snow God By Steve Eskew Among my many transgressions, I harbor a load of love/hate relationships. My most infuriating ambivalence involves the zany snow god.   At ease, at ease. I know there’s only one God. No sacrilege intended with my references to the snow god — just mindless, merry myth. For the love of “Fifty Shades of Oy Vey,” I’m no pagan; I’m simply a devout Christian, cursed with a wicked sense of humor. Thank Christ for my early introduction to metaphors. It all began when my inestimable kindergarten teacher told the class that Jack Frost was heading our way to paint the town white. Terrified, I commenced mewling for me mum. Then the sweet Irish teech broke it down in terms I could grasp: “Snow? Oh!” Soon thereafter, I fell in love with the fun of the white wonder, but hated the numbness of me hannies and feets, due to a three-mile march to school. Three miles, I swear. Would an unreliable narrator lie to you? When adulthood struck me, my car often struck other c...