Dougie Wuggy Road

The man is 82, almost 83, yet acts like a child sometimes. Yes, I’m talking about Doug again. How can I not?

The town board considered renaming the road Dougie Wuggy Road. There are only seven other houses on the block. Why was I the neighbor blessed with receiving Doug’s midnight calls?

His latest? Since returning from his reunion, he’s been complaining about his sheets. They aren’t as comfortable as the ones at the hotel. The sheets at home stick to his leg, producing an uncomfortable insomnia.

“But you’re an insomniac,” I reminded him. “I can show you my phone records.”

“It’s the sheets, I tell you.”

He went on like this for days. Finally, I hopped on Amazon and researched the hell out of the best sheets fit for an insomniac. Found these bed sheets. 100% cotton sateen… luxury… blah blah blah. Expensive, but possibly well worth the cost if I could get my sleep back.

Two days later they arrived. Knocked on his door. Pushed past Doug as if I owned the place.

Ripped the old bed sheets off.

Put on the new ones. So soft. So yummy. So worthwhile testing out, but that would have been odd.

I was one million percent certain this would keep him in bed — if not for eight hours, then twelve.

The first three nights? Not one phone call. I was in the clear…

Until the fourth night. It was 1:15 a.m.

“Got a confession,” he started. “This insomnia has nothing to do with the sheets. At the reunion, I exercised. Walked. We drank tea instead of coffee.”

“So, let me get this right, Doug. You woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that at home your habits are shit and I have to suffer because of that?”

He may have hung up. Possibly I hung up. Maybe I fell asleep mid-sentence.

All I know is, the next morning I was sipping coffee, looking out the window…

And there was Doug. Speed walking down the street.

In this excerpt depicting one of the most bizarre humans I’ve ever met is an affiliate link.

Doug’s Funhouse?

Doug’s Funhouse sounds like the title for an orgy porn. Guarantee you, it’s not.

He’s away on a reunion with old friends…literally. Doug might be the youngest one in attendance.

While he’s away, Doug wants to assure his plants stay alive. Why he asked me to tend to his plants is beyond me. One plant, resembling a young money tree, took a turn for the worse. Its leaves were bright, dark green when Doug first left. Three days later, they’ve browned.

There was a time when I thought I had a green thumb. Tended to a few gardens where cucumbers exploded to the hundreds. But isn’t that what cucumbers do?

Getting back to this funhouse concept, I was tempted initially to tidy his entire home. Everything similar would go into their own separate boxes. As I counted the number of categories of things Doug owned, I would buy Walmart out with all their plastic boxes. I’d still run short and then have to take a trip to Staples. No…thank…you

Organizing another person’s crap is no fun, anyhow. So, I sat on Doug’s massage chair, blasted Lonesome Doves, and pretended to be an eighty-two-year-old kleptomaniac. The vibration of the chair was so fierce, I couldn’t hear a thing..or maybe that was just me moaning?

Moaning from the vibration…not from being a sick pervert.

There’s only so much vibrating a man can do in one day. Just as I was about to head home, I saw it. The words “Soil Tester” was poking out of a pile of mail long before Doug head out on this reunion.

I pulled it out from under the mail. Turned it on and inserted the metal spike into each plant. All sorts of signals went off. I was alerted what needed water, what needed to be placed in sunlight and what would be left as is.

This soil moisture gauge is something else. Almost magical? I’m certain that money tree will turn around in a matter of days.

Honestly, this little device might be the only reason Doug still has a jungle to come home to.

For a second, I almost stuck the gauge up my ass, to see if I needed moisture, sun or if I was all good. Good thing reason stepped in.

There are two affiliate links in this post. Do with it as you will.

Friendship Application

You might be asking, “Who is this Doug character? Is this some kind of gimmick?”

My answer: Neighbor first. True friend second.

I can’t help but ponder friendship during this lonely time.

It started in March 2023, when I got a call from my mother: my father had taken a fall that could leave him a quadriplegic. I flew out to be with my family, and would you guess who called me regularly?

Not a soul.

This was before Doug. Before I was blessed with a stubborn, relentless, yet caring neighbor-turned-friend.

I used to believe that when tragedy strikes, the people in your life step up. I was wrong.

Dealing with my father’s near-full-body paralysis and my family’s emotional chaos, I didn’t have time to analyze who texted.

But I did notice who ghosted. Who disappeared. Who blocked me.

Let me be clear:

I’ve never been a perfect friend.

I love fiercely, but because of my Scorpionic nature, some confused that love with something sexual.

Have I crossed lines? Yes.

Said things I regret? Yes.

Lost my temper in moments of overwhelm? Absolutely.

And I’m sorry. Truly.

But none of my friends before Doug ever showed up with love, with boundaries, with real presence.

No one said, “Here’s how we fix this.”

No one said, “I care enough to confront this.”

Then came Doug.

I met him just before my father passed. And Doug and my father couldn’t be more different.

My father’s favorite position was sitting. Doug can barely tolerate sitting unless it’s in that vibrating spaceship of a massage chair.

My dad wheezed after half a city block. Doug yells at thunderstorms because they interfere with his daily twenty-mile hikes.

Maybe it’s generational. Most of my former friends are under 50 — some in their 30s. But men like Doug (82) or my dad (78)? They’re loyal.

They show up.

When my father died, it was Doug who called every day.

Doug who cooked me meals.

Doug who invited me over to watch a painfully boring Western, just to make sure I wasn’t alone.

Shoutout to one other friend — she spent time, energy, and money to attend my dad’s funeral. Regular contact dropped off after that, and there’s no hard feelings. She’s navigating a full life.

And that’s what made me realize, it’s not about political beliefs. It’s about showing up when it matters.

As for me, I could give two shits if you voted for a racist or a goddamn hobbit boot.

That said, I’ve walked away from people too. Not for who they voted for, but because they couldn’t meet me in my emotional truth. Judgment without curiosity? I don’t do that anymore.

If I love you, I love you.

Everyone else?

You disappeared. You dipped. You stopped showing up.

That’s the truth.

And what has all of this taught me?

How to be a better friend.

How to show up, even when it’s awkward.

How to have hard conversations instead of ghosting people you once said you loved.

God knows how long Doug has left.

But for now, he teaches me what true friendship looks like in the most consistent form I’ve ever known.

So yes — I’m accepting new friendship applications.

Virtual, in-person, wherever the hell I am.

Let’s be real with each other. If I offend you, say something.

I’ll be more hurt if you vanish than if you speak your truth.

And yes, despite how raw this post was…

There’s still an affiliate link in here.

Because story is layered.

So is grief.

And apparently… so is capitalism.

Minimalist At War

If I were an architect, all homes would resemble a high school gymnasium. In my home, I’d remove the basketball hoops and the bleachers. Covering the windows would be a black-curtain that would close at 9:00 pm and then gently open as the sun rises.

There would be four pieces of furniture: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and desk. Everything would be made of wood to match the floor.

Homes in the Hudson Valley are not designed this way. They are rickety. A magnet for horders. They scream “Look at me! I’m unique”.

I pondered all this while vaccuming my bedroom carpeting. If you ever used one, or been around anyone has, you know those machines can be loud. They scare the shit out of domesticated animals.

Once finished I heard my phone vibrating. I’ll give you three guesses who it was…

The postman? No!

Architectual digest offering me a gig? Guess again.

Hulu wondering when I’ll resubscribe? You’re terrible at this game.

Doug! Good old Doug, huffing like he just summited Mount Everest. “Been trying to call you. Please get over here now. The Amazon guy needs help.”

The Amazon guy needs help! Oh my God! Stop everything. I raced over there like it was Doug’s last breath…yeah, right?

Once I finally got there, the Amazon guy, a young, relatively muscular man panted while resting his right arm against a box the size of an average walk-in closet. “This thing’s a monster,” he said.

“What it?” I asked.

“Massage chair,” Doug replied on the other side of the box.

Nothing against Amazon but you’d think they’d send at least two men to deliver such a thing. Between me and the Amazon guy it took us fifteen minutes to get the massage chair inside. No breaks taken.

Inside this monster box, we quickly discovered the chair was in pieces. Required assembly. There was no way I was gonna let an eight-two year old man do this all on his own.

The instructions were straightforward enough. About an hour later it was ready for use.

The massage chair looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Put an eight-two year old man in there vibrating so fast you can hardly see his face, you’d think it would de-age him.

Watching someone on a massage chair looses its appeal after twelve seconds. I nearly left but Doug insisted I give it a go.

While on the chair I amended the list of items that would go in my future-gymnasium style home: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and a desk. All made of wood to match the floor.

Then, sitting of to the side, made of leather (maybe), meteorite (without a doubut), would be this massive massage chair. It would be vibrating non-stop as I would never want to get off it.

I sell my minimalist soul to the affiliate link embeded above somewhere.

The Oysters Attack? Doubt it!

Thursday at 3:30 a.m., my phone rang. Apparently, I’d forgotten to turn it off. Thought it was the alarm, but no—it was Doug.

“Get over,” he insisted, then hung up.

I nearly called him back with a “Fuck off, who are you to call me in the middle of the night?” but then remembered: Doug’s eighty-two. Something in his voice—panic mixed with acidity—alerted me that he was in desperate need.

I threw on my sweats, a torn pair of sneakers, and three minutes later stood at his front door. It was left slightly ajar. Through the crack, I called for him.

“In here,” he mumbled.

Never in all my visits had Doug’s house looked orderly. There was always some pile of crap here or a box that needed to be sifted through over there.

That night, I caught something from him—it seemed he’d invited an organizer over earlier in the day. I almost asked if he was selling the place, but once I found him hunched over the toilet, conversation was limited.

He wore a raincoat and was probably naked underneath, but I didn’t dare ask.

“They served these oysters at the opera and now I can’t get up,” Doug moaned.

He wouldn’t answer a thing about the opera—where it was, who he went with, how he got back, or why he was wearing such a fancy coat while hunched over the toilet.

“Tell me I’m gonna be alright,” was all he said to my inquiries.

I didn’t care to lie, so I said, “My hope? You’ll be fine.” Then I suggested a trip to the ER might be to his advantage.

“No, no,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Doug stood up, thanked me for coming, and escorted me out.

Here I am, a few days later, shuffling through my house like my knees had been glued shut. I want to cry but worry the aching that’ll come with any trembling. How I managed to compose this entry without reaching for a pain killer is beyond me.

If you dare to see the coat Doug wore, there’s an affiliate link in this post. Click it? Okay. Don’t click it? Also okay.

A Long Fierce Winter

This winter was brutal. Way too much snow for my liking. Not the kind of weather for birdwatching or counting blades of grass one by one.

It was a season for multiple mugs of hot cocoa or chai lattes. Since I’m not much of a Bible (or Torah, more appropriately) kind of guy, I finally took the plunge into Brandon Sanderson’s Stormlight Archive. I’m nearing the end of The Way of Kings and completely hypnotized by it.

Something about the book—and the cold—got me thinking of Doug. Was he warm? How was he getting his meals? Was the hike up the hill to the High Falls Food Co-op too slippery?

Then, finally, a break in the weather. Yesterday, I thawed out my feet, shoved them into boots, and walked to Doug’s. When he didn’t answer twenty seconds after my knock, I pounded harder. I nearly knocked the paint off the door.

The floorboards creaked—proof of life. He flung the door open and barked, “What?” like I’d come to sell him moldy Girl Scout cookies.

“You’re alive,” I said.

“Were you hoping I wasn’t?” he shot back, then waved me in.

We—well, I—attempted to hold a conversation. But something was blaring in the background. “Background” might not be the right word. My voice was in the background. The narrator of Lonesome Dove echoed through the entire house. No wonder Doug hadn’t heard me knocking.

Finding the audiobook’s source was a challenge, buried under his usual piles of junk. A whole chapter might have gone by before I spotted it. I pressed pause, but to Doug, I might as well have detonated a nuclear bomb.

“What are you doing?” he hollered. “I was listening to that.”

“I’m here, Doug. Thought we could chat.”

“I’m not in the mood to chat today,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow. Or next weekend. I should be finished with the book by then.”

The sky was overcast, and the thermometer read 62º, but I was shivering. My teeth clanked together, and for a second, I worried Doug had passed something contagious to me.

It turned out that it was just his grumpiness. Which, in turn, fueled a strong urge to destroy. Nearly ten overstuffed wheelbarrows of firewood later, I guess I’m ready for next winter. Ugh.

Doug Marlow

Yay! I made it through the pandemic.

Cleary, so did you.

Guess who else made it? Doug Marlow.

You probably have no idea who the hell that is. I didn’t either until last summer.

Doug is 82 years old, lives a mile down the road, and has his own personal billboard campaign.

Scattered across his yard were signs that read “My yard is bigger than my house! You believe that?”

One afternoon, I stopped by while he was pruning the weeds from his sidewalk. He was hunched over in torn denim shorts, wearing something aquamarine that looked like a cross between a bra and a parasol.

“Couldn’t help but notice your signs.” I said. “All hundred of them.”

Doug perked up like I was offering a moth collection worth six billion dollars.

“If your house was bigger than your yard, it would spill out on to the street,” I told him.

“God darn!” Doug whistled. “Cars would ram into it, wouldn’t they?”

“Sure would.”

He invited me in for some red velvet cheesecake, which he claimed to have made from scratch on his pristine marble countertop.

As we devoured two slices each, his TV tried (and failed) to broadcast some game show–mostly, it just fizzled out in static.

I know nothing about fixing TVs. So, I suggested he shoot a bullet through the screen and call it a day.

That got us both laughing.

And that’s how my friendship with Doug Marlow started.

Cheating On My Novel

I’m currently going through a mild version of writer’s block. “How,” you might ask, “are you going through writer’s block yet composing your first blog post in almost a year?” Reread the first sentence and you’ll see the word mild in there.

It’s only when working on the novel that this mild writer’s block shows up. I’m nearing the novel’s completion yet find myself staring at the blinking cursor. Everything’s been mapped out. I know exactly what comes next. The issue is the wording. I’m scared it’s total shit and that the novel’s future readers will get antsy. Bury the book out of embarrassment. “Can’t see what I’ve been reading these past few weeks. Nope haven’t been reading anything. Eric Sazer? Who the hell’s that?”

On the outset of writing this flash nonfiction essay I saw it serving two parts: as a procrastination tool and a place for me to vent. Watching these words form upon the page, I’m having a bit of fun. If my novel was my wife, this blog is my mistress. This blog and I rented an old Mercedes convertible and together we’re riding through the countryside on Memorial Day weekend. Back at home, the novel’s wiping away all the piss I accidentally dribbled on the bathroom floor.

I love you, novel, but fuck you. You’re driving me nuts. I’m gonna go wild with my blog. I’ll print pages of you out, novel, and use that to wipe my ass. Leave the shit-stained pages in the middle of the woods. Let the squirrels and mice nibble away at the bullshit words printed on the page.

Okay, now I feel like an asshole. What kind of future book salesman am I? One day, it’ll be available at a bookstore near you. On that day when your eyes land upon the spine, will you splurge and invite this novel into your life? Or will you envision the novel causing an epidemic in your home, where immediately upon purchasing it, every book on your shelf would suddenly turn into a massive pile of manure?

I hope that doesn’t happen. As a matter of fact, I will return the Mercedes convertible, kiss my mistress farewell and return home. I’ll lift the novel off the bathroom floor, bathe it. Make passionate love to the novel. Clean my own urine dribbles off the bathroom floor. Then on the day this novel is available for purchase, I’ll make sure it comes with a roll of paper towels, rubber gloves and organic house cleaner. Just in case.

Ya never know, right?

The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part Two

Just like in the dreams when the dreamer struggles to open his eyes, such was the case with Anton. It wasn’t fear that prevented him from seeing what was on the other side of his lids, rather a thick layer of gunk coating his left eye.

While scraping the gunk off, he glanced over at a candle lit table using his perfectly working right eye. There sat Ursula seated in a tan sequin dress. Naughty thoughts filled his mind. If his head wasn’t pounding, he would have leaped off the sofa and tore the woman’s dress off.

His clean left eye revealed more at the candle lit table. Opposite Ursula was the fit man in the towel. He, however, had removed the towel at some point and slipped into business attire. The two held champagne glasses in the air and appeared frozen in suspense.

“Hello,” Anton groaned.

They did not budge.

“Ursula,” he said with greater diction.

Stillness.

“Yuri,” Anton shouted, gazing at the shut door of his brother’s bedroom.

Ursula and the fit man lowered their glasses. They winked at one another. Suddenly, the fit man bolted out of his chair and raced over to Anton.

“So glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Beside a throbbing head and a bit confused, fine. Where’s my brother?”

The fit man exploded with laughter. “You hear that, Ursula?”

“He’s a funny one,” she said, chuckling.

“Your brother, you say?” The fit man asked in jest.

Anton nodded.

“I don’t know.” The fit man looked around the room. “Ursula, have you seen this man’s brother anywhere?”

“Very good question. It seems, Anton, your brother has been a bit hard to find lately.”

“What do you mean?” Anton swung his legs off the sofa, nearly kicking the fit man to the floor. “Where has he been?”

“The only way to find out,” the fit man said, repositioning himself on the sofa, “is to go on a treasure hunt.”

“A treasure hunt!” Ursula guffawed. “Where do you think we’d find him? Under a rock?”

“If not there then inside the cupboard.”

“Come on, you two.” Anton pleaded. “I haven’t seen my brother in a year. I’m very worried about him.

The fit man shifted in his seat.

Ursula cleared her throat and then stood, making her way to the sofa.

Both Ursula and the fit man rubbed Anton’s back.

“Perhaps I knocked you over too hard,” Ursula said.

“Do you require medical assistance?” The fit man asked.

“Medical assistance? No. Why would I need medical assistance?” Anton felt them moving closer. He squeezed his knees together so his legs wouldn’t rub against theirs.

“You did bleed,” Ursula aid.

“You bled heavily, Anton. If mom were here, she’d take you to the emergency room, no questions asked.”

“You’re right if my mom was here, she would have checked me into a hospital a long time ago.”

“Oh God,” Ursula removed her hand from Anton’s back and placed it over her mouth.

“Anton, Mom did check you into a hospital a long time ago. A mental hospital. St. Ives.”

“St. Ives.” Anton frowned. “That’s a prison not a hospital.”

“Right. Hold on one second.” The fit man stood and then motioned for Ursula to join him in a far corner of the room. There he whispered, “I’m getting a weird feeling about this one.”

“Yea. Same here,” Ursula said, flashing a quick grin at Anton.

“You think this one is dangerous?”

“I wouldn’t say dangerous,” she studied Anton who was hunched over on his knees staring at Yuri’s bedroom door. “More clingy.”

“Like he’d never leave?”

“Yea,” Ursula gagged. “Yuck!”

“Yuck indeed. Tell you what,” the fit man said. “How about I take him around the block to find his ‘brother’ and then later, you and I can have a ton of fun?”

“Please hurry up, then,” she moved in for a kiss. It was too quick. She wanted more. As he moved to attend to Anton, Ursula grabbed the fit man’s shoulders and whispered in his ears,”I love you, Yuri.”

Fucking Auto-Correct

The number of times I edited The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part One is absurd! All because of auto-correct. Makes me and my characters appear illiterate.

In the case of any unusual wording for future posts, blame damned auto-correct. I kindly request that you please reach out to me (if you’re in my physical presence) or send a polite email to eric@ericsazer.com to inform me of this unusual error. It’ll be fixed in a heartbeat.

Happy days or nights or something in between!