Buddy’s Right


I sat on Buddy’s right with the other locals at the usual watering hole last night. We stared at the TV, admired the untouchable bar maidens, and sipped Coors Light. It’s what we do. It has all come down to watching things, drinking things, and wondering how long we can delay death. Buddy got my attention.

“Hey! Let me ask you something.”

“Sure. What?”

“Did you work today?”



“Behind the bar at the casino.”

“Great. Are you working tomorrow?”

“No. I finally have a day off.”

“Nope. No you don’t. You’re going to work on that fucking book.”


“You’re not even halfway done, are you?”

“Maybe one-third.”

“One-Third? What’s the hold-up?”

“I need material, Buddy.”

“Well, look around.”

I guess it’s a form of writer’s block. I mean, I think I could force myself to write about anything, but mostly it would be redundant slop. How do I find something to write about that’s somewhat fresh and significant? Not so easy, is it?

A big part of the problem for me is watching too much morning news. The minute that orange ass-wipe starts blathering, it drains the funny from me. I just need to turn it the fuck off, but there’s no baseball during the mornings here in the west. How about listening to some music? Right. I just slapped on a classical music station and feel quite inspired — to take a nap. Station changed. EDM, motherfuckers.

*Thump. Tsst. Thump. Tsst.*

Now what?

I tap over to Facebook to see what’s happening. Abortion, war, immigrants, Game of Thrones disappointments, gay rat marriage, food, dogs, and silly math quizzes. Oh, you’re a fucking riot, Facebook.

I’m supposed to be writing relationship humor. Maybe if I were IN a relationship … wait … scratch that. It never works. My relationship lasts until she finds and internalizes my prose.

Relationships now (as I’m approaching 60) are horribly frustrating. I meet another Latina, who is breathtakingly stunning. We chat and flirt. For a few minutes there I begin to think I have a shot at this, then the angel on my shoulder reminds me she is two decades behind me. (Here’s where male friends say, “So what?” and female friends say, “Yeah. Don’t be THAT guy.”) On my luckiest day, what could I do for her other than pave her next walk of shame?

See this, Buddy? I’m writing. I’m fucking miserable — pissed at how long I’ve been sans woman — and here I am self-therapizing with self-cockblockery.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.