Online dating is like a time warp. I keep meeting the same guys over and over again; they just have different names. Here are six guys on “repeat.”
1. The Ravaged Romeo
He starts his dating profile by discussing his last failed relationship. Even if his profile’s okay, once we meet, I find he’s still pining over a lost love. And keeps talking about it, even as I back away.
I dated an Alec Baldwin lookalike with a brilliant sense of humor…except when he was lamenting about “The Blonde Who Ruined His Life.” I was ready for him to take his shirt off, but he thought I needed to hear more about the pain she’d caused him. I didn’t.
2. The (S)exihibitionist
His photos show a fabulous physique he’s willing to share, but he’s not great with words, offering sex early on “cuz it’d be kool.” But he has little to offer outside of hooking up. Even if he does use the word “sapiosexual” in this profile.
After a few emails, one guy sent me a nude photo (rear view) promising ecstasy. I texted back the blushing face emoji. When I met one of these much younger guys, we had little to say in person. It was awkward. I’m a failed cougar.
3. The Freudian Fool
He’s been in therapy for years, yet still hasn’t made any progress resolving his mother issues. He’s resentful towards his siblings. He’s uncertain how his cat feels about him.
He often doesn’t feel well, happily admitting he’s a hypochondriac. He’s uptight about sex, and has a limited diet, like a six-year-old. When I’ve dated these guys, I was charmed by their Woody Allen-ness, but couldn’t deal with their moodiness and need to over-analyze everything. I ended things; they probably told their shrinks about it.
4. The Outer Critic
Even though he doesn’t know you well, and you didn’t ask, this guy has so much advice for you. One man kept telling me I should get an apartment in Paris, adding that I wasn’t adventurous enough. I finally realized he wanted a free place to crash in Paris.
Another suggested that I was too sheltered; online dating would damage me. (He didn’t want me to date other people). Others critiqued my world views, my car and where I live. I find this unacceptable. Outer Critic usually has other serious faults. Why does he think he can fix you?
5. The Failed Artist
This guy usually has eccentric facial hair and/or peculiar, handmade clothing. If he’s a musician, he sends you many clips of his unproduced works. If he’s a writer, you’ll get numerous links to his unpublished masterpieces. He apparently thinks online dating will get him an audience.
When you meet, he’ll drone on about his work. I’ve never gone on a second date with this type since I couldn’t get a word in on the first. He can’t tell he’s boring.
6. The Aging Stoner
His profile starts with “4/20.” Photos include a stylized marijuana leaf. Early on, he’ll tell you about doing ecstasy or ‘shrooms.
I dated a cute stoner just like Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Spicoli was often out of it so I ended things. I doubt he remembers since his short-term memory was trashed years ago.
Some types overlap. Ravaged Romeo and Freudian Fool both love over-analysis. Failed Artist and Aging Stoner overlap at “failed.”
Not all guys fall into these categories. I’ve met some unique ones, including the funny, quirky guy who became my boyfriend.
— Debbie Weiss
Debbie Weiss blogs at www.thehungoverwidow.com. She’s had articles published in The Huffington Post, Good Housekeeping, Woman’s Day and Elle Decor, among others. She is writing a memoir and anti-advice manual about widowhood. She lives in the San Francisco Bay area where she was a practicing attorney for 11 years.
Dear Women of Paris,
Do you eat morphine for breakfast?
(Maybe it’s hidden in the cigarettes?)
Because your feet, legs, back and brain must be absolutely NUMB to wear those high-heeled shoes all day long.
I’ve never been much of a “heel girl.” I think I wore the same pair of high heels exactly twice during my four years of college; once for a ridiculous costume night on the town, and the second time was for a school skit. Clearly, I was serious about my fancy shoes. These high heels were from high school prom — and hot pink.
It all started with my bright idea to show off my gorgeous (and by gorgeous, yes, I do mean they are just all black and leather and there is really nothing that spectacular about them) Alberto Fermani black leather handmade high-heel boots. Ever since I bought them off a friend’s thrift store finds, I had wondered about their actual worth. When I finally Googled my way into the world of ritzy Italian leather boots, I found the current equivalent of the boots in my possession to be priced at $675.
The proper response was probably to lock them in the wall safe we don’t have, but instead I chose to wear them. All day. In Paris. Beating my feet to death.
I ventured out confidently on a free museum Sunday in January, feeling oh-so-chic in boots that someone once paid more for than my own wedding dress. I managed quite well; nobody else would have known I wanted nothing more than to walk around barefoot for the remainder of the day.
This is how I now know that Parisian women are the best liars in the world. I also now understand why all the women stare at the ground while they walk; their cramping feet must not misstep. And don’t you dare try to explain to me that you have “comfortable high heels” — NO. Not only is that an oxymoron, but it’s also another lie; just because a high heeled shoe is more comfortable than another high heeled shoe does NOT mean they are, in reality, comfortable shoes.
I began to adapt to my new needs and problems. Oh, a bench? DIBS! Do not battle a high-heeled woman for a seat. I was prepared to heel stab the elderly and/or children for those coveted resting points. I would try to stay seated as long as possible wherever I was planted, feigning a fully engrossed fascination with my notebook. And to know my boots are but a dream to the women who torture themselves with stilettos and four-plus inches of height!
A (very small) part of me feels sorry for the French ladies gingerly taking every path of least resistance all over the cobbled and uneven streets of Paris everyday. And then I remember — nobody forces them to wear those shoes, let alone buy them! It’s hard to have empathy for someone who knowingly chooses to inflict pain on themselves and their bank accounts ($675 for leather to put on your feet?!). The chic shoe issue definitely applies to what my uncle says: “The French are slaves to aesthetics.”
(Therefore, DO NOT feel sorry for me. This was MY idiot experiment. Just learn from my experience. I know I have.)
After the first hour, my feet were basically finito, but I stayed out another seven hours, balancing my way through two museums, church, dinner and dessert. Then I had to walk home from our train station. Normally eight minutes. Always uphill.
As I winced my way home, all I thought was: my feet do not feel like $675.
I don’t care how nice a pair of high heels looks on the outside. If you’re walking any actual distance, pack some slippers to wear until you arrive at whatever destination where spiked feet are an entry requirement. Flat women’s shoes were invented, like, a hundred years ago. I encourage you to try them and find out what you’ve been missing (enjoyable walks, views of beautiful high buildings and trees, comfort, endurance, happiness, joy…a good life).
And as for my darling Alberto Fermanis? No, they are not for sale. They have, however, been relegated to limited minutes and sedentary activities. For the time being, they will look and feel much nicer on the shoe rack.
— Christy Swagerty
Christy Swagerty, “Swags,” is a Californian expat volleyball player and travel writer who has lived in Belgium, France and Germany. You can check out Swags’ ebooks, Four Years in Paris and 8 Steps to Move Abroad Now, her expat adventures at www.whatupswags.com, and connect with her via @whatupswags on Twitter and Instagram.
1. National break-up-with-your-shi**y-abusive boyfriend day!
A day encouraging women to finally end that terribly masochistic relationship that brings them nothing but pain. There are lots of guys out there — some won’t destroy your life.
2. National why don’t you just clean up after yourself a bit more day?
The gym? Your own kitchen? Your room? Your work space? Just spend a few minutes cleaning it up — you’ll feel better and so will everybody else. Who knows, could be the beginning of a new habit.
3. National think-for-yourself day.
I know, I know. How can I think for myself? There are tons of television programs, pop stars, celebrities, politicians, aggressive men, colleagues and friends to tell me what and how to think about everything from diets to television shows to political ideals. On this day, you get to tune out all the white noise and just think about something all on your own. Try to spend the day coming up with an idea all your own.
4. National pretend all celebrities and pop stars don’t exist day.
Pop stars. Celebrities. Can we go 15 minutes without some inane article about them? What are they wearing? With whom are they sleeping? Where are they vacationing? What are they eating? What is the point of it all? On this day, there is a total ban on all celebrity-related news. You get to be the celebrity for once.
5. National help somebody else day.
Charity. Good will. We hear about these vague concepts, but what are they? And why should we care? This is your day to find out. Everybody in the nation must help somebody with something. Assist an elderly neighbor with cleaning or carrying things. Tutor a deprived child. Help your mom with the gardening. Just do something for somebody else. It will feel good, we promise.
6. National trigger warnings day.
Basically nobody can say anything. A little peace and quiet, for once.
7. National stay at home day.
Nobody leaves their house. It is quiet for once. There are no crowds, or traffic jams, or fights, or yelling. In other words, it’s nice.
8. National read a book day.
Remember those little events when you were a child to encourage reading? Well, on this day, you are required to read an entire book. There will be a test at the end.
9. National say sorry day.
Say sorry for something. Make somebody feel better and get rid of your guilt.
10. National prejudice is punishable by death day.
You can be racist all year. You can talk to your friends in a sexist way, objectifying women any time. You can say you hate minorities every other day. But on this day, you can’t. You can’t say or do anything prejudiced. You have to treat people as…humans.
— Matthew Pflaum
Matthew Pflaum is 31 and hails from Florida. He worked abroad in health and development for a number of years and now studies Africa and international development at the University of Edinburgh.
My father used to irritate the heck out of me. He was the kind of guy who’d talk to a busy signal. It didn’t matter who you were — a secretary in a doctor’s office, the mail lady, an axe murderer — should he happen to be next to you in line in the drugstore.
Now, he’d be terrified to get up in front of a crowd and give a speech. Yet, if he bumped into you on the steps of town hall (he preferred to pay his taxes in person, so he could yakkity-yak with the clerk), he’d perform like Chris Rock on the Jimmy Fallon show. He was a great kidder, my dad, a guy who spoke to anyone and everyone — whether they liked it or not. Most people liked it, though that took me a while to figure out.
For a long time, because his eyes were bad, I went with him everywhere. And, of course, when he’d start telling his stories, I’d get embarrassed, (try to) get him to stop and rush him along.
Then I began to notice people’s reactions. Everyone my dad chatted up walked away from us sporting a smile. So far from bothering people, in his own way, he had done two things: made a connection, and given away a bit of good cheer. Indeed, this was how he let folks know Al Zobel was here, a little older perhaps, a little frailer definitely, but still with enough of what he called “his marbles” to make you laugh, or give you the scoop on a two-for-one sale of Turkey Hill ice cream.
This pattern of reaching out with good cheer wasn’t developed overnight. My dad had it his whole life. But as time took away many of his other pleasures — working, driving, bowling and walking three miles a day — he held on to this one joy tenaciously, perfecting it to almost an art form. I finally got smart, one day, and put two and two together. I can’t say as I never complained again when he’d tell the same story over and over. But, thank God, I developed tolerance. And as soon as I did, I began to enjoy the whole taking-dad-shopping experience.
I even went so far as to be Dad’s “straight man,” adding to the fun by moaning about being his patient, long-suffering daughter, out for another errand with her crazy Popo. This made folks howl.
I started creating my own set of stories. At the supermarket, I’d tell folks how Dad was “just visiting” the food — not buying it; how he’d pick up an item, compare ounces and pounds and prices and labels, checked and cross-checked ingredients, hold it up to the light, then put it back on the shelf.
And when I’d ask him, “Why?” He’d say, “We don’t need it.”
Or I’d whine about having to take him from bank to bank to bank in an effort to get the best deals on certificates of deposit or one-ninth of a point more interest on an account that would make him a dollar or two. “You’d think he was managing Warren Buffet’s portfolio,” I’d quip, rolling my eyes up to heaven.
The guys at his men’s club gave Dad some fake business cards once. On them they had printed his name and the title, “Free, Unsolicited Advice Consultant.” He loved handing them out on our excursions and watching perfect strangers crack up.
It’s been 20 years since my dad succumbed to pneumonia. But I remember, even in his last days in the hospital, uncomfortable as all hell, he was still communicating with good cheer, telling stories, trying to make doctors, nurses, blood technicians, even the cleaning lady a little brighter for having come in his room.
He was an extraordinary man who lived an ordinary life. Pre-Uber, he owned a cab and drove it through the streets of New York. And while he did, he listened to people, and then he talked to them. He shied away from negativity at all costs and touched as many people as he could with joy. He celebrated life by always being of good humor.
Now my Pop never made a million dollars. And there was no Ph.D. after his name. Yet he was as much a success as if he’d been first man on the moon. That’s because he excelled at one thing that made his life and the life of all who met him better: He was expert at connecting.
— Allia Zobel Nolan
When my daughter Mary was five, she went to kindergarten. It was a big day for us all. Jenny, her sister in second grade, gave her tips about school.
“Kindergarten is really great, Mary, you’ll love it.”
Mary looked at Jenny. Should she trust her? Had her sister always told her the truth? Not always.
I bought Mary a new dress, socks and shoes, and a cute little jacket. She loved dresses so I could see she was excited — about the dress, anyway.
But Mary had had a recurring problem since she was three. She had bumps in her socks.
Today, there’s enough advice on what’s called sensory over-responsiveness, an anxiety condition in children, to bury a parent, but there was nothing when Mary was five. Many children had trouble with bumps in their socks, but parents understood little about them.
At first Jenny and I told Mary to get over the bumps. Not a good idea. Tears and stomping of feet. We would take the shoes off, smooth the socks, put the shoes back on — several times. We finally had to escort Mary out the door, whining and protesting. Apparently, once at school, she was either too shy or too occupied with survival to complain. I don’t recall hearing from the teachers about it. But each morning we went through the same thing. Again, not much help was available. Truth is, when you are going through these things, you don’t even know what to name it.
Mary’s father had left before she was born, and I was dealing with raising two children alone. We had little money, and I was an emotional wreck. Jenny and Mary were too young to understand their father leaving so we were in a situation, which I am sure, did not help our mental states.
The school psychologist, Mrs. Brown, called me in for a meeting about Mary.
“Ms. Curren, your daughter feels highly responsible for you.” I was embarrassed to hear that but, at the same time didn’t even know what that meant.
She called Mary into her office and I asked Mary, “Honey, do you feel responsible for me?”
“Oh yes, Mommy.” she said. I blanched. Mrs. Brown then sent Mary back to class so we could talk.
“Feeling responsibility for a parent can create anxiety in a child as young as Mary,” the counselor said.
“What should I do then?” I asked.
“You might share less of your pain with the kids.”
Uh-oh, I thought, I do that, don’t I?
“Find another adult to share your anxieties with. Talk to your children and give them assurance you will take care of them and not leave them.”
She went on. “It’s tough to be an abandoned parent and try to be adult when you just feel like pulling the covers over your head. I lived it myself so I know.”
I recall thinking at the time that I was not at all sure I could take care of me, let alone my children. The divorce had ripped my confidence from me. But I did my best from then on. I began to share my anxieties with a trustworthy counselor and sometimes with the bathroom mirror. And Mary began to get better.
“Mommy, I don’t think we can catch those bumps,” Mary said finally. “I think they have little demons in them.”
“Well,” I said, “We will keep after them anyway. Maybe we can call ghost busters.”
“Yeah!” she said.
Only as I did some research for this story did I discover that many children have bumps in their socks. And their parents have just as much difficulty solving the problem as we did. Luckily, there are many more alternatives for parents and children today — such as therapy and socks with no bumps. Back when Mary was five, parents just got up in the morning and dealt with it. Luckily, as Mary did, many children grew out of the preoccupation with clothing issues.
Last year, I visited Mary and her husband in New York City where they live and work. I noticed on their feet were soft and smooth socks, a kind of madly current athletic sock. They seemed to be blessedly bump-free. As I watched them glide about the house in these socks, I asked, “Hey, where can I find some of those? I’m having a heck of time lately with bumps in my socks.”
— Kaye Curren
A retired event planner, Kaye Curren has returned to writing after 30 years of raising two husbands, two children, two teenage stepchildren, three horses, umpteen dogs and cats, and several non-speaking parakeets. She used to write computer manuals but now writes humor essays and memoir. Find her musings at her website and blog at www.writethatthang.com.
You shoo the bug with one swift swipe,
then spy another, what’s that type —
a carpenter ant, a termite, a bee?
The Winged Ant: it’s morphed all three.
This primeval creature bares its teeth
on your coveted floor of herringbone teak.
Once it spreads its wing-spanned frock
your subterranean world is rocked.
This show is not a solo act,
mighty offspring have got his back,
armies of aunts and uncles berserk,
that’s not dysfunction, it’s how ants work.
They outsmart Generation X and Y,
the hippies, yuppies, family guy,
like-minded carpenters foraging wood,
colonial loyalty for the greater good.
They build their commune on drops of dew,
a raisin, rice grain; their needs are few.
You must respect the ground ants seize,
they have no time for plasma TVs,
necessities trump a frivolous fate,
sons and daughters carry fifty times their weight.
Regarding invasions, it’s prudent to hone
the usage and damage that’s done to your home,
the years it took to build a foundation,
the four-year, full-funded, high education
that leads your charges toward unemployed quandary,
fraternity tattoos and take-home laundry,
loyalty that runs as far as the car
or at least the gasoline credit card.
Meanwhile you ponder the ramification
of leaving your pests for a weekend vacation,
invasions require extermination,
so what’s the solution: evacuation?
The spoils have gone to the victor askew
as your floorboards are tunneled away in the dew
by savvier parents who work through the night
to emerge for mating — a grand, nuptial flight.
Face it, tough-love’s not your parenting style,
your fate is to live and let live your ant pile.
— Heather Newman
Heather Newman is a member of the South Mountain Poets and has studied with Lisa Bellamy at The Writer’s Studio. Her work has been published in Two Hawks Quarterly and E-Chook.
One of my bucket list items for our European jaunt was to purchase French perfume. I know this may seem like a trite aspiration much like, oh, I don’t know, seeing the Eiffel Tour in Paris, but trite is often where I dwell comfortably.
Therefore, I was dead set on visiting a parfumerie. If I wasn’t able to have a perfume exactly crafted for me, I was darned well going to pick myself out something pretty smelling that was perfect just for me and the other 30,000 female tourists who would also choose that scent in one day.
My husband was a good sport, even accompanying me into the store as I screeched, “If not now, when?!” as I dragged him into that adorably appointed, sweet-smelling shop for all I was worth. Coincidentally this is exactly how he ended up in Paris in the first place. (The general screeching and dragging.)
For a woman who looks as though she’s taking a “how to get over your olfactory fears” course every time I enter a Bath & Body Works store stateside, it was truly amazing how much unfettered fun I had.
In the City of Love I was in my fragrance element, I tell you, feeling my aroma mojo, and spraying for all I was worth. It looked as though we were shopping at Napalm Village I had such a ginormous cloud of spray hanging in the air of that tiny parfumerie.
Every fragrance I sampled was more lusciously scented than the one before it. I was Puck in Midsummer Night’s Dream, gallivanting about gleefully, only in my production there was an atomizer prop, which is a new twist.
The shop owner humored me by ignoring me. My husband humored me by smiling and thinking of something else — anything else, a technique he has honed over the decades for maximal marital happiness.
I was willing to pay any amount for one of these eau de colognes, interestingly enough more than I was worth, but of course that’s a philosophical question for another day, e.g., one’s worth. What is worth? What is worthwhile? Why do I hear the clock on the wall ticking louder as I think these thoughts?
(You can see why it was I barely scraped by with a “C” in my college philosophy class as I had so many of my own essential questions I couldn’t even entertain the notion of addressing those my prof proffered. Plus, I had a penchant for parsing out the question itself. Ergo: I’m now an English teacher.)
Each time I picked up a tiny French-sized perfume — everything is smaller there, the women, the clothing sizes, the streets, the food portions — I said, “oui” and “wee” to each and every one of those darling little vials, but then the time came to choose one. “For the love of God, any one.” (This was what my husband finally said and I believe it is what the shop keeper was thinking, but in Frenchier language.)
As I made my way over to the clerk, I proudly and almost correctly pronounced the name of the perfume I wished to buy. What I thought was a look of pride from her that my accent was so good, upon closer examination was actually a look of amusement. She smiled not unkindly and said one of the two million and thirty-seven French words I do not know. It sounded like “leet.”
I looked at her and she looked at me. I smiled. She smiled back. Neither of us knew what to do next. Perhaps I could move us to the next level: Point of sale. I tried a combination throat clear and giggle, not quite pulling off whatever I thought that would do.
I repeated what I thought I heard. “Leet,” I chanted as I made the international index finger squirting motion known the world over for spraying perfume. She nodded vigorously. “Yes. Bed spray.” Oh, now there were two words I knew, though I had never used them together.
“Bed spray,” I stated. She again nodded. I walked back over to where the air had just begun to clear just as surely as my own thoughts were clearing.
It dawned on me that what the mademoiselle had been trying to tell me was I had been dousing myself with French air freshener. Bed spray. Eau de pulvérisation en lit.
I was soaked in French Glade.
— Diane Dean-Epps
Subsequent to a diverse and rewarding career in television broadcasting, Diane Dean-Epps wended her way to a Master of Arts in English, earning several publishing credits in the process, including her master’s thesis highlighting the work of author Langston Hughes entitled, Changing the Exchange. Dean-Epps lives and works in northern California, where she is currently at work on her latest book, in addition to amassing a catalog of pithy, funny and rousingly humorous essays. She has published several books — Maternal Meanderings, Last Call, Kill-TV and I’ll Always Be There for You…Unless I’m Somewhere Else?! — and her numerous writings have appeared in a variety of periodicals, including MORE magazine (online), NPR’s This I Believe, The San Francisco Chronicle, Sacramento magazine, Sacramento Business Journal, Bigger Law Firm magazine and The Union newspaper.
Today’s Ridiculous Banking Question is: What’s the faster way to lose your house: don’t pay the mortgage or don’t pay a traffic ticket?
If you don’t know the answer, you are probably living in your car.
That’s the lesson my wife, Sue, and I learned during a home refinancing odyssey that took three attempts in as many years and was almost ruined by, of all things, a red-light camera.
The first attempt failed because my credit score was considered more important than my pulse, which before the housing bubble burst was pretty much all you needed to qualify for a loan.
The second attempt failed because Sue and I committed the unpardonable sin of actually paying both our mortgage and our line of credit on time each month. We would have been better off if we had fallen hopelessly behind and blown the money in Atlantic City.
Praying the third time would be the charm, I went back to the bank and spoke with Kim Delman, a senior mortgage loan officer who is so nice, so smart and so good that she ought to run the Federal Reserve System.
Kim, who worked diligently with us in our first two attempts, was determined to see us succeed this time.
In trying to combine our mortgage, which was at another bank, and our line of credit, which was at Kim’s bank, I went through the Process From Hell: countless phone calls in which I had to listen carefully because the menu options had changed (restaurants change their menu options less often than the average company); give the last four digits of my Social Security number and my date of birth, just to prove I’m a geezer; and come up with yet another seemingly irrelevant thing the underwriter wanted, which surprisingly did not include my high school transcript or my underwear receipts.
Then came the clincher: After we shelled out $455 for an appraisal, which valued our house at $315,000, Kim informed us that we were in danger of being rejected yet again, this time for a three-year-old unpaid traffic ticket worth a grand total of $75.
“There’s a lien on your house,” Kim said.
“Nothing’s leaning on my house,” I replied. “Not even a ladder, because I’m afraid of heights.”
“You have to get this cleared up,” Kim warned, “or the bank won’t let you close.”
I was put in touch with Leticia Glenn-Jones, a very pleasant home services specialist (“a fancy title for processor,” she explained), who said the underwriter did, indeed, want this black mark off my criminal record.
“Let me get this straight: $75 is worth more than $315,000,” I said. “Is this the new math?”
“I’m afraid so,” Leticia said sympathetically.
It turned out that a red-light camera caught Sue going through, yes, a red light. She received a notice in the mail in 2013 but forgot about it until the underwriter kindly noted that if we didn’t pay up, we couldn’t close. Sue sent a check for $75, plus late fees, which brought the total to $105 and, at long last, allowed us to refinance.
“It happens more often than you think,” Kim said afterward. “It’s those red-light cameras. Since they were installed, there have been tons of cases like this.”
In 21 years at the bank, she has seen just about everything.
“You and Sue may have set the record for the longest time it took to refinance,” said Kim, adding that her most unusual customer was a guy who applied for a mortgage in 1995 and, under assets, listed a cow.
“He said it was worth $500,” Kim said.
“Was he trying to milk the bank for money?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Kim. “But believe it or not, he qualified.”
“I guess he didn’t have any traffic tickets,” I said.
I thanked Kim for all her hard work and promised that Sue and I would keep up on our payments.
“From now on,” I said, “we’ll pay the mortgage online. After all, we don’t want to drive to the bank and risk losing our house by getting another ticket.”
— Jerry Zezima
Jerry Zezima, who served on the faculty at the 2010 EBWW, writes a humor column for the Stamford Advocate that is nationally syndicated through the Tribune News Service and regularly appears in the Huffington Post. He’s written three books, Grandfather Knows Best, Leave it to Boomer and The Empty Nest Chronicles. He has won six humor-writing awards from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists and was named EBWW’s Humor Writer of the Month twice. He is currently president of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.