By Scott Sullivan
Editor
When I need advice, I know where to look: the newspaper. No, not this one. Sure, we have columnists who tell us what to do, where to go and so on. I mean papers that carry syndicated columnists, like Ann Landers and Abby were. One I know today carries three.
“Dear Abby” (aka Jane Phillips, daughter of the original Abigail Van Buren, aka Pauline “PoPo” Phillips, dead for six years now) is still around. Abby/Jane’s bio says she is one of the few laypersons ever granted a prestigious Life Consultant membership in GAP (Group for Advancement of Psychiatry).
This week she advises “Sour Sister in Illinois” to stop sending her sibling $200 monthly till she dumps her drunk boyfriend, who doesn’t work. (We don’t hear his side, but when does that stop an advice columnist?). It’s his turn to pony up, the GAP Life Consultant says.
Next alphabetically comes “Ask Amy,” aka Amy Dickinson), a best-selling author, NPR contributor and mother of five from Freeville, N.Y., pop. 454. “Ask me anything,” Amy invites on Facebook.
This week she tells “Lost in Idaho” her husband’s gratuitous lying is cowardly, ingrained and will lead to worse things. To fix this, both should read “Fight Right: How Successful Couples Turn Conflict into Connection” by Washington state psychology Ph.D.s John and Julie Gottman.
Still unanswered:
1) Why do “self-help” books involve others telling you what to do?
2) Does Amy get paid commissions?
Last comes “Ask Annie” (Lane), a Manhattan lawyer and yoga teacher whose biggest inspiration, says her bio, was Ann Landers. Ann (aka Esther “Eppie” Lederer, who for years competed with her twin sister “Popo” writing advice, said kill the “Ann Landers” brand when I’m dead, which happened in 2002. So, since 2016 we’ve had “Ask Annie.”
This week she advises “Bummer Friend” to level with a one-legged woman she finds boorish and bossy every time she invites pegleg to a party.
“She might not be aware,” Annie counsels, “of how her actions are being perceived and might like a chance to explain herself.” Good luck with that. If that doesn’t work, stop inviting her.
I could use advice too, as relationships are hard for me. “Pick your nose and your brain won’t collapse,” I shared with a date when I took her to Pullman Tavern. “But it may cause Alzheimer’s.”
“Huh?” she said.
“Really! Australian researchers say it introduces germs to your nasal cavity that trigger your brain to produce beta-amyloid in defense, which in turn can lead to dementia.”
“Look,” she leveled. “My Sour Sister says she’ll cut me off if you don’t stop doing nothing but sleep and drink with me. PoPo’s daughter told her tell me to tell you stop picking your nose and go get a job.”
“I write a column,” I said.
“A real job.”
“I told my wife,” I confessed, “I was going out to look for one.”
“You have a wife?”
“I forget things sometimes. Joe Biden does too.”
“You lied!” She pulled off her pegleg and started beating me. Zeke the Bartender intervened.
“Want a job?” he offered.
“Serving booze?” I asked. “Sure! God serves he who …”
“Not you, her,” Zeke said.
Now my date had her own job, she didn’t need Sour Sister’s money. Once again, problem solved — for her, at least. Not me.
When I told my wife I’d done a good deed for a friend in need, she asked who.
“Sour Sister’s sister.”
“Madame Ahab? You’re seeing her again?”
My horoscope said I should be more sensitive to others’ needs today, so seeing my beloved seemed disgruntled, I changed the subject. “Hey,” I asked, “where did my golf towels go?”
“To Heloise,” my wife said. “Her latest hint is attach them to your paper towel rack. A.B. of Long Branch, N.J., says she’s seen paper towel use drop an astounding 80 percent in the last six months since doing so.”
“I’m astounded,” I ventured, “it’s not 100 percent. No more paper towels, who’s going to use them?
“Here’s something she didn’t advise,” my wife said, pulling the driver out of my golf bag.
“Wouldn’t the 3-wood work better?” I advised.
She swung it.
“Ow!” I said in lower-case. Just a flesh wound. “You’re over par, taking that many strokes,” I advised. “Keep your left arm straight. Now, eye on the skull …”
Whoosh …
“OW!”
I came to content my counsel had now brought healing to two women. Alas, contents of my own cranium were still oozing. Cerebellum, cerebrum, hypothalamus …
“Hey, where’s my frontal lobe?” I asked Nurse Ratched.
“Check the paper,” she answered. “Everything’s in there.”