GLENSIDE, PA-

My old roommate first pointed it out to me about seven years ago.

“Look!” he said, jabbing a finger at the TV screen. “There she is- WHEEL ASS!”

He took a tug from his Busch pounder and slammed it on the coffee table.

“See…the one on the left. WHEEL ASS!”

“Wheel ass?” I repeated. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know? Listen. Every Wheel of Fortune episode has one hot girl…or sort of hot girl on it. EVERY EPISODE! One hot contestant. It’s like written in the show’s contract or something.”

“Noooo,” I said. “No way! What about episodes with just three old ladies?”

“Never happens.”

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GLENSIDE, PA-

If you’ve never been to one of New Jersey’s fine beaches, I suggest throwing on any Springsteen album from the mid-80’s while reading this, and you’ll more or less get the vibe.

A few weeks ago I rented a house with my wife and two daughters in the gritty shore town of Wildwood, New Jersey.

Family vacation.

Americana.

We spent most mornings on the beach, and most evenings “walking the boards.” Wildwood’s boardwalk, the longest in New Jersey, is a mishmash of roller coasters, carnival barkers, bad tattoos, salt-water taffy, games of chance, loud tee-shirts, and hermit crabs.

And it turns out my two-year-old daughter NEEDS a hermit crab.

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

I once wrote a letter to the late author Kurt Vonnegut. This was during college, and as I remember it, the letter was a long, rambling, Jack Kerouac rip-off, full of gusto and undergraduate angst.

Basically, it was embarrassing.

Vonnegut never wrote me back.

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

My Grandmom is waiting for me in the guestroom of the assisted living home, in an auxiliary room just off the main hallway that affords us privacy from her roommate, whom for the past hour has been making strange, guttural noises.

At 88, my Grandmom is lucid. And surprisingly spry. A fact that has earned her the nickname, Hell on Wheels…

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

I suspect this website, The Nervous Breakdown, would not exist, were it not for Kurt Vonnegut.

The first time I read Vonnegut I immediately wanted to write and read funny stories.

I imagine some of you felt the same way.

Vonnegut was our Pied Piper.

He collected us at different ages, in different towns, and led us to where we are today.

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

It’s a typical night in Doylestown, an artsy, affluent suburb of Philadelphia. Antique shops, coffee houses and art galleries speckle main street, as soccer moms in oversized Hummers make their way towards this evening’s PTA meeting. A group of suburban skate punks meander in the bank parking lot, halfheartedly attempting kick-flips and ollies.

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

When I attended St. Hilary’s grade school during the 1980’s, our physical education program was a laughable affair, cobbled together on a shoestring budget.

Due to such limitations, we never played “traditional” games or sports, but rather focused on homespun activities.

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

When I mention to people that I’m an English teacher, I usually encounter two very different responses.

The first one goes something like this:

“Uh-oh, I better watch my grammar.”

To which I feign a slight chuckle.

The second one sounds more like this:

“Get your hand off my leg!”

This blog is dedicated to the first group of people. (more…)

PHILADELPHIA, PA-

Hogan’s Heroes was the most fucked-up TV show ever.

Think about it.

This was a sitcom set inside a Nazi concentration camp.

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GLENSIDE, PA-

Right before the holidays my computer died.

R.I.P.

The guy from CompUSA said my computer had a “fried motherboard.”

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

Let’s face it:

God can be a dick sometimes.

There’s no two ways about it.

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

By far, the most overused marketing buzzword of the day is “extreme.”

Within the past week advertisers have asked me to:

use Right Guard’s Extreme deodorant,

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

It’s a game my wife and I play during long car rides.

It’s a history game.

We play it and take turns driving and eat Combos.

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

Every Wednesday night Elcy’s coffee shop in Glenside hosts an open mic night.

I want to go there and sing and play the guitar.

But here’s the deal: Every Wednesday night I crap-out.

I make up an excuse not to go.

Call it embarrassment.

Or performance anxiety.

Whatever.

The thing is, for the past three years, I’ve been unable to muster up the chops to perform in public.

Some of the excuses I tell myself include:

“I’ll wait till next week when I get new strings.”

Or

“I’ll wait till next week when I finish writing the chords to this song.”

Or

“It may rain.”

Lately, I’ve come to this realization about the coffee shop concert:

It’s not gonna happen.

Ever.

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

You know what really pisses me off?

Stores that have puns for names.

Dog grooming joints are notorious for this. Drive past any stretch of suburban blandscape and you’re bombarded by sickeningly sweet monikers like:

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