Staci Doesn’t Read My Blog, Which Is Why I Can Say All Of The Following

I lose four or five pairs of sunglasses a year.

I leave them in cafes, restaurants, cars, gyms and any other place where I can take them off my head.

So when I buy them, I buy cheap ones.  The $19 ones you get on drugstore racks.

But two weeks ago, I found a great pair for $100.  I knew my wife Staci wouldn’t be thrilled, so I called her.  She told me not to buy them because I would lose them.  I told her I really wanted them and that I wouldn’t lose them.

I lost them that day.

Don’t know where.  Don’t know how.

I just know I didn’t have the heart to tell Staci.  And I couldn’t come home with a $19 pair, because she would know the difference.

So I spent $100 and bought a replacement.

It was an expensive thing to do, but I was desperate.

And before you, the reader, start judging me for my wastefulness, consider this one additional thing that happened to me yesterday:

I lost the replacement pair.

I am now down $200 and have no sunglasses to show for it.  And I know when the credit card bill comes, Staci is going to see it.  And when she sees I spent $200 on two pairs of sunglasses, both of which are gone, she is going to go through the roof.

I’m thinking of losing a lot of weight and painting dark circles under my eyes in the hope that she’ll think I’m just a heroin addict.  Either that or bring home a prostitute.

At least that way I’ll have something tangible to show for the money I spent.

I’m open to suggestions.

The Sound of My Fury Toward Overrated Authors Who Confuse Me

I bought three William Faulkner books and forced myself to read them all.

One of them had a family trying to move their dead mom all over town.  One of them had somebody looking for the father of her kid.  And one of them was called The Sound and the Fury.

If you ever want to be so confused that your brain starts to ooze out your ears, read The Sound and the Fury.  I defy you to make one bit of sense out of that monstrosity.  Each chapter is written from the perspective of a different character, one of whom is mentally retarded (or, in the parlance of today, an “individual with an intellectual disability.”)

You could pour words out of a bucket and end up with a more comprehensible book than that.

So thanks to William Faulkner, I am now done reading fiction.  Now I have moved on to watching movies by famous directors.

One of those directors whose films I am now watching is Howard Hawks.  One of his movies is The Big Sleep with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.

Yesterday I watched The Big Sleep.  I followed the plot for about ten minutes.  Then the thing exploded into the most ridiculously complicated storyline I have ever seen, involving twenty-five different characters, all of whom are lying and killing and lying about the killing.

By the end, I didn’t care who killed whom.  I just wanted them all to die so that the film would end.  Mercifully, after what seemed like the better part of three days, it did.

So at the end of the movie, I checked the credits.  And I saw this:

“Screenplay by William Faulkner”


I am now going to find every literary critic who ever called Faulkner a great writer and punch them in the head.  Then I’m going to find every movie critic who ever praised The Big Sleep and punch them in the head.

And if all that fails to dissipate my anger, I’m going to Oxford, Mississippi where I will unbury William Faulkner and punch him in the head.

Then I’ll confess to my criminal spree in a book I’ll call Stephan’s Sound and the Fury.  But no one will be able to arrest me, despite what I put in the book.

Because no one will understand it.

Because I’ll write the entire thing from the perspective of  “an individual with an intellectual disability.”

Take that, William Faulkner.

On the Importance of Being Yourself

When I was a kid, everyone told me that the most important thing in life was to be myself.

So yesterday, I rode an elevator facing the back wall.

Nobody spoke to me.  The people at my sides stared at me.  And I missed my floor.

When the elevator returned to the ground floor, a building security guy was waiting for me.  I presume someone on the elevator called him.

He asked me if I knew what floor I wanted.  I told him I did, but that I missed it because I was trying to be myself.

He got onto the elevator and escorted me to my floor.

When I got out of the elevator, I waved.  He did not.

So kids, be yourself.

But prepare for a police escort.