The Write Stuff

March 1999
The Write Stuff
By Bob Coskrey

An event of unparalleled significance occurred here at “East Cooper Monthly” recently. We had a mistake-free edition? No. The staff accepted one of Bill Macchio’s ideas? Hardly. The mayor of Goose Creek called to say he would soon be presenting me with a key to the city? Never. No one called to complain about one of my articles? No, but close.

Someone, not even related to known by me, actually made a positive comment about my writing, and even more important, they had the nerve to put it in writing. Never in my 16 months of churning out miles of borderline scintillating articles for “East Cooper,” have we received a single letter to the editor that could have been interpreted at being complimentary of my occasionally misguided but always diligent efforts.

However, all this changed when Bill excitedly handed me a stack of circus registration forms, which some of our readers had returned in anticipation of winning free tickets. His comment to me was:

“Look through these, you might find them interesting.”

The forms also contained a survey asking the reader to answer questions about our magazine. As I flipped through them, I noticed nothing unusual, just the regular laudatory comments about the calendar, the dining section, and Howard Elgison, until suddenly, there it was, my name, as the answer to a question other than “Which of our contributing writers is most deserving of capital punishment?” On the contrary, the question was, “Which did you like best about ‘East Cooper Monthly’?”

This person had actually stated that he liked my articles better than anything else in the magazine. However, before I had time to spend even one George Hamilton second under the rejuvenating rays of reader adulation, my eyes strayed to two other questions:

1. Have you read East Cooper Monthly before? To which the respondent answered: “No.”
2. If so, how frequently? To which he answered somewhat cryptically: “Frequently.”

So this bona fide, rara avis Bob Coskrey fan has never read our publication before, and what’s more, he never read it frequently, which I guess means that whenever the fickle fate of coincidence placed him within reach of a pile (Maybe stack sounds better; the City Paper comes in piles) of our magazines, he reluctantly picked one up, then holding it at arm’s length, while turning his face in the opposite direction, as if dangling a 3 day old severed head, he would shriek passionately.

“I will never, ever read one of these, do you hear me? Never, by God, no matter what you do to me or my family!”

But obviously, he did finally read one this particular time, during which his eyes, as luck would have it, fell upon one of my articles, and he liked it. He liked it, he really liked it!

But, as with most people who admit to something they feel that the rest of society may not agree with, he was reluctant to share his feelings with anyone else. Writing a letter to the editor praising my work would be like branding his forehead with the “Scarlet Letters,” C.F. (Coskrey Fan), and he would subsequently be subject to the ridicule of more discriminating readers, not to mention being banned from the cities of Goose Creek and North Charleston (which actually is not necessarily a bad thing).

So this brave but tortured man did the next best thing, electing to express his singular opinion somewhat indirectly and anonymously through a survey response. His name would not be emblazoned on our editorial page under the heading, “Courageous but foolhardy reader risks reputation, life, family, and livelihood by admitting admiration for unpopular writer.”

I do, nevertheless, have the man’s name, address, and telephone number, which, of course, gives me tremendous power, but why would I want to divulge my only fan’s identity, knowing the devastating results this would have for him? Well, perhaps, if it were necessary, I could use this information to coerce him into being the president/only member of my fan club, a secret fan club, naturally.

It is my feeling that there must be other readers out there with equally deficient taste and literary judgment, who may be willing o join this club as long as anonymity can be guaranteed.

First, we need a name for this clandestine group, so I am suggesting “Devotees of Likely to be Terminated Scribes” or DOLTS, for short. They will have to meet in secret locations under the sanctuary of darkness. I will make occasional appearances, sans honoraria, and will attempt to have writers of my ilk and destiny appear at time, too, such as Larry Flynt and Salman Rushdie.

So I will be calling my “confessed” admirer soon, with a veiled hint of “outing” to jump start him into setting up the fan club. If my hunch is right, the meeting places will progress rapidly from phone booths to parked cars in no time at all. In the meantime, those interested in joining, just write: DOLTS c/o East Cooper Monthly.

And remember our motto: Many may suspect you’re a DOLT, but only I and your fellow members will know.

Geezers and Wheezers

As I continue my inexorable advance into the twilight realm of Senior World, I find I am becoming less and less tolerant of my fellow codgers. And it is the male of our musty-smelling species that really seems to get my goat, so to speak. Specifically, some of us seem to make a lot of unnecessary, and frequently disgusting, noises.

For instance, there is a retired journalist, who has about a two minute spot on the local NPR station in the morning, who persistently breathes heavily through his nose when he talks, making an extremely aggravating wheezing sound. I’m not sure if it’s when he’s inhaling or exhaling—though the cessation of either function would be a certain cure—and luckily, it doesn’t sound like a deep-seated respiratory condition, which of course would make my comments seem a little insensitive. Quite frankly, if I were asked to give a sort of Bill Frist-in-absentia-diagnosis, I would say he has a severe case of Nostrilus Hisutus Extremus. And what’s more astounding is what, unless he has a hearing impairment, he must certainly be aware of this problem. I mean, if I can pick it up over my radio, how could he not detect the commotion six inches from his ears? I am left to assume that he either just doesn’t care or he feels this adds a note of distinction to his persona. Regardless of his motive, I have been having some strong feelings about writing him a letter of admonishment and pointing out the need to invest in a pair of nose-hair clippers, or more practically, a Ronco Intra-Nares Weed-Whacker. This individual even has another personal peccadillo, though it’s not necessarily of a geriatric nature, which I also find aggravating to the point of homicidal ideation. Specifically, I am referring to the habit of pronouncing words that end in the “s” sound as if they ended in “sh.” In other words, “dollars” sound like “dollarsh” and “potato chips” and “flowers” sound like “potato chipsh” and “flowersh,” respectively. See Haley Barbour and President George W. Bush for perfect examples of these defects.

I can recall encountering the heavy-breathing affliction at about the age of 6 when I used to visit a male playmate whose grandfather had recently come here from Greece, and who, of course, still had a very thick accent. This elderly man, whom my friend referred to as “Popouli” (which I later learned was a generic Greek sobriquet for grandfather) would always walk into the kitchen where my friend Johnny and I often sat swilling Ouzo by the jelly glassfuls (just kidding; usually we were eating some sort of delicious snack Ya Ya, his grandmother, had prepared for us). Popouli was always wearing a tank-top t-shirt, and reeked of garlic, a smell I would much later learn to love. But what really impressed me was his heave nose-breathing, enhanced even more by a thick moustache. I even complained to my mother some time after that Johnny’s grandfather “was always breathing and couldn’t something be done about it.” Eventually, something was. Natural causes, of course.

My next encounter with old geezers making unwelcome noises occurred recently when my wife Barbara and I were eating in a local restaurant and our meal was interrupted by someone loudly clearing his throat, quickly followed by a glass-l snorting sound of porcine quality. We looked in the clamor’s direction and spotted a few tables away, two men, probably in their seventies, just in time to view the next eruption, as one of them trumpeted another even longer snort, provoking a long death-stare and muffled “will you shut up” from my wife and a silent question from me: “Could they be serving duck phlegm soup tonight? This is a French restaurant and I know how they hate to throw anything away.” These two dueling Mucousoids continued their raucous hacking and snorting, even after their meal when they chose to stick around and expound on local politics, oblivious to Barbara’s “Evil-Eye” which I later noticed had actually burned a small hole in their table cloth. All we could do was focus on our lunch while vainly attempting to dissipate the non-stop, vile noise-induced mental images. Finally, the gruesome twosome departed, and my idea to trip at least one of them up as they shuffled by was foiled by the lurking presence of our server.

I realize that I can simply choose not to listen to wheezing geezers on the radio, but unfortunately I have no control over their awful antics in eating establishments. However, I do have an idea: I plan to attend the next public hearing of DHEC and recommend that they create a special phlegm division to regulate this substance in public places such as restaurants, theaters, stores, sports complexes, etc. It would work like this: A citizen calls the DHEC Phlegm Division when a situation such as Barbara’s and mine occurs. A hazmat-suited, possibly jack-booted Phlegm Patrol officer arrives, attaches the ancient hacker/snorter suspect to phelgmometer and, should the danger level be indicated, tells him, “Sir, I am authorized to inform you that you are in violation of state mucous code #42367. You have two choices: 1) We hook you up to the lung pump and drain you of your phlegm buildup. Incidentally, I must warn you there is a possibility that your head and/or chest may cave in. 2) You vacate the premises immediately. After the word gets around, I think most of the offenders will gladly go for choice #2.