Freudian Slips Irony Oscar

It is that esteemed time of year again to honor the writing on this Freudian Slips blog in a mock shameless self-promotion. The Fourth Annual Freudian Slips Irony Award occurred last night. Due to budgetary constraints and low-ticket sales, the event had to be held outdoors in a heated tent. The exact location the spikes were ground driven remains undisclosed but rumor abounds that it was on a construction site eager to sprout another Wal-Mart for the middle class.

Five hundred guests received last minute invitations. Of the forty-three brave souls that showed up for the ceremony, all fought elements of the cold huddled together under thermal blankets and heat lamps. Hired help working at minimum wage, shuttled coffee and hot chicken noodle soup to uncomfortable guests. Only one person left early. Unforgivably, it was my mother due to frostbite.

In a repeat command performance, Pax Romano emceed the show and filled the many patches of dead air with a lively microphone. He performed a song and dance number from the obscure movie soundtrack of Girl 27. Other than a seven minute opening monologue rant about the commercial colonization of a Stepford-like America, Pax’s showmanship carried the gala event. Many headliner writers attended the bling bling blah blah ceremonies hoping to earn a lifetime achievement award. But on this night, it was all about Joe Tornatore’s writing. Embarrassed by devoting more time and energy to acting than writing this past year, I reluctantly approached the podium built out of particle board. Although I appeared dressed in a suit and tie loaned by my brother-in-law, my loafers already found a puddle of mud. Again, I had cold feet. I politely waved to my smattering of friends paid to be in attendance. A roll of toilet paper got tossed from the back row, the second row of metal folding chairs. After security guards determined that a bratty child visiting the outhouse threw the toilet paper, mild applause ensued overtop a single female heckler.

After a few awkward throat clears, I acknowledged neglecting his blog at times during 2007. I read from the teleprompter the scripted guilt I carried from earning more money bit acting than book royalties. In the loosening of my noose-like yellow tie, the aspiring actor in me appeared every bit the expiring author.

I said, “I greet you here tonight with nothing but a few good blog postings amidst mediocre. I apologize for spreading myself too thin. I remain as far from an Oscar nomination as the Pulitzer Prize. This I know and regret on both fronts.”

Then with a politician’s finger point, I promised the crowd I would act less and write more for 2008. A chorus of cheers raised the roof even if that meant only lifting the tent. The sound mixer added musical undertow to the staged motivational speech. Again I called upon my acting abilities to bridge writer’s block. With the reverb of a little drummer boy’s drum roll, I announced, “…The sparse nominees for this year’s Freudian Slips Irony Award is:

The Rooster Roaster, a short story to crow about. It tells the woeful tail of my friend who made strange acquaintance with a wild rooster. The Notebook, The Numbers Game, a father tries to lovingly heirloom to his daughter not only an old notebook full of useless numbers but the obsessive compulsive behavior that fueled one wasted summer in 1971. The Biggest Dumbbell. How I slandered my beloved Philadelphia Eagles football team unwittingly to a 6’5” 3330-pound professional player on the same team. The author survived the chance ironic encounter to write about it. The Sons of Italy. An odd couple meet for the first time during a parade. The story unfolds as ironic as it is sad. This father son tandem does not know each other in the least let alone separate themselves from strangers in the streets of Philadelphia.

Waiting for a winner to be announced, the tent got so quiet crickets could be heard. I smiled for the cameras. “And the winner is….A real page turner, it all adds up, The Notebook, A Numbers Game wins The Fourth Annual Irony Oscar!” My bow caused a crevice rip in my pants. “See you next year on Freudian Slips and thanks for reading."