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Reaping what one sows

Posted: January 2, 2018 12:55 p.m.
Updated: December 26, 2017 1:00 a.m.

There’s this funny thing about writers, musicians, artists -- folks of that ilk. We all have what I like to call “Sally Field Syndrome.” That is, we all are dying to know if you really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really like us.

Failing that, we need to know that you are reading/listening/watching/whatever it is we need you to do to validate our chosen art form.

And failing that -- especially those of us down here in the Chitlin’ Circuit -- we want to know that some of you occasionally are doing whatever it is we need you to do to validate our chosen art form.

A good friend of mine, a fellow writer and musician, suffers from an especially pernicious strain of SFS -- that is, he readily admits that he requires lots and lots of feedback -- but he refuses to believe it unless it is all negative.

As far as what I do here, I have been told over the years that I am a great bathroom read. I suppose that’s validation enough for me -- after all, one man’s constitutional is another’s syndication. And yet, I still wonder if people, you know, actually read this column. 

Well, I found out that they do. And they are very near and dear to me. That is to say, they are right here, in this office, which means I can’t say anything bad about them or I’m liable to get more of what I got this morning.

Apparently, my little confession in last week’s column about my pronounced fear and loathing of dolls struck a nerve, or rather, a funny bone. 

When I came to work the next morning, I noticed a couple of my lovely and talented co-workers hanging around outside the business office, which is next to my office, ostensibly working on some project that required them to be right outside my door. The lovely ladies wished me a cheery, almost giddy good morning, something I should have found suspicious right off the bat -- no one is that cheery at that time of the morning, even if they are possessed by the ghost of Doris Day.

At any rate, I somnambulated to my door, muttered my usual salutations and proceeded to unlock my office and turn on the lights. I went to hang my jacket on one of my chairs -- and that’s when my heart proceeded to launch into massive A-fibrillation and my knees went into business for themselves.

Sitting in that chair, all neatly coiffed and dressed -- and obviously possessed of evil intent -- were five or six dolls. At least, I think there were five or six of them -- it’s hard to count that high when you’re running in place while at the same time levitating in mid-air and shrieking like the little girl who undoubtedly owns the dolls.

After everyone enjoyed a good chuckle and I had taken a few minutes to settle my A-fibbing heart, I went over to my desk to turn on my computer. My desk chair, one of those swivel jobs, had, for some reason, turned around with its high back facing me.

That reason turned out to be yet another doll, this one with long brown hair and a gaping, toothless, evil half-smile. At least, I think the doll was smiling; it’s hard to tell when you’re running in place while at the same time levitating in mid-air and shrieking like the little girl who undoubtedly owns the doll.

After that, I didn’t need any more coffee, although a change of shorts wouldn’t have been out of the question.

I sure don’t need to see any more d-d-d-dolls again. 

Ever.

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