There’s always something to howl about.

Funny, ha ha

I grab myself by the ear and drag my own sorry ass to the ‘place’ where I’m supposed to be writing something significant on a daily basis–a small, shady library room in the front of our 1890s Victorian house in Chicago. I look around and consider my resources: Mission style writing desk and leather straight back chair; Laptop, printer, copier; A collection of books by the greatest writers who have ever lived (and died); Google, Dictionary.com, iPhone; Sleeping dog, indifferent cat, supportive third wife; Eight years of The New Yorker stacked on every available dusty surface; Picture window; Bucolic setting; Liberal arts degree from a Pennsylvania state college.

Lamps, photographs, framed art. Unlimited coffee less than 20 feet away…

Viscerally speaking, I have only one excuse–nothing is funny to me these days. I’m just not feeling it. I stare at the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest every week and no juice. Nada. Zilcho. I hate Seinfeld anymore. Larry David, too. What a schmuck.

“Have you written anything today?” she asks from the other room. The television room across the hall where fallen stars dance and more desperate housewives than mine (I would hope) plot their own nefarious outcomes.

“Yes. The electric bill,” I say. “I wrote a check for the electric bill.” Ha ha funny.

“What about the mortgage?” On a different subject now. Diversion from the creative to the financial. Not very funny. (What she really means is ‘have you sold any real estate lately?’)

Good question. What about the mortgage? We’re being triple escrowed by our lender because the Cook County Tax Assessor’s office incorrectly recorded our deed while in a land far, far away called Reality, the whole banking industry is in a wind sheared tailspin. I look at the Due Notice.

“Too many digits,” I say, really wanting to run it through the shredder. “I’ll do that tomorrow before I work on my book. We have until the 15th.” Like something magical is going to happen between now and the ides of procrastination. An economic recovery package perhaps. Not even Ha ha. Barely LOL.

“How is the book coming?” she asks. Rachael Ray is giggling in the background, taking her side. Relentless. (What she really means is ‘what are you doing all day long in those same wrinkled clothes you put on everyday?’)

What book? Oh, you mean that book I promised you, myself and the universe I’d write in that perfect library in the perfect house we bought 18 months before the whole real estate business took a dump in Chicago? Back when I found humor in everything and business was so furious that I had to replace my phone every 8 months due to wear and tear? That book?

“Fine. Great. Moving right along. Characters developing. Plot unwinding. You know…regular book writing stuff. The usual”

“I bought you some razors from Costco,” she says. What she really means is…

They say, ‘What one has not done by age 30, one is not likely to ever do. And what one has done by age 30, one will likely continue to do forever.’ For me, at age 52, this means the chances of actually completing and publishing a noteworthy piece of literature with a big house like Random or Simon & Schuster are slim while the chances of me having to continue to sell real estate for a living into the distant future are great. I calculate the chances of retaining my sense of humor by retirement age and conclude the odds fall somewhere in the 50/50 range. I pull up my bank statements again and re-calculate my retirement age to be somewhere around age 96, using the Rule of 72. Now that’s pretty funny.

“Great. I meant to ask you to pick up a couple hundred extra razor blades. I only have 50 or so left from three years ago. Did you get me the 15 pairs of socks I wrote down on the list?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I pour another cup of coffee and Google my own name. Again. Still not famous. Rich either, unless you count all the things I should be grateful for–not the least of which is finding something funny to write about at least once a month and a forum like this in which to say it.