"I believe my subject is bewilderment. But I could be wrong." Donald E. Westlake 1933-2008Yesterday, while doing time in the seasonally long checkout line at the supermarket, Christmas muzak forced itself in my ears: It’s the MOST wonderFUL TIME of the YEAR….  Ha. More like, over-rated. No, over-advertised.  

What’s a synonym for advertise?  Hypnotize. Via TV, radio, facebook, google, twitter, tablets, phones, you name it, vendors use it to do it. From Black Friday through New Year’s Eve, everywhere you go, eddying masses of shopping-bag-encrusted people with glazed eyes at half-mast get in the way. Especially in parking lots. Oh joy.

From behind me in the queue, a woman’s voice broke up these festive thoughts, “Did you get the croutons?”

A second female voice answered, “Capons? I thought we were going with turkey. Do they even carry capons here? Awfully fancy.”

The first voice said, impatiently, “Croutons!”

The second, “Coupons?”

The soundtrack changed to Rudolph, The Red Nosed Reindeer had a very shiny nose, and if you ever saw it and I was at the OJ Bar & Grill, standing at the bar with Dortmunder, my favorite thief, waiting for Rollo, the meaty, blue-jawed bartender to notice us. Meanwhile, the regulars at the bar talked amongst themselves. Oh joy!

Overhearing the regulars at the OJ is the best of all possible interludes in this best of all possible worlds: a Dortmunder caper by Donald Westlake. (Also in this, the real world.)

As you know, Westlake is my favorite author.  The reasons are many, and here’s another. In every stream of action there are lulls, during which people around us talk, and who listens? Westlake. Master alchemist, he takes this dross and makes comedic gold.

At some point in every Dortmunder caper— Oh, when? The anticipation!— the gang meets in the back room of the OJ. Which means passing by the bar where the regulars take sloshy slugs at life’s pressing conundrums. And miss.

Let's listen. We gotta wait for Rollo anyway.

When Dortmunder walked into the O.J. Bar & Grill on Amsterdam Avenue at four minutes before six that evening, Rollo, the bulky, balding bartender, was painting MERY XM on the extremely dusty mirror over the back bar, using some kind of white foam from a spray can, possibly shaving cream, while the regulars, clustered at one end of the bar, were discussing the names of Santa’s reindeer. “I know it starts,” the first regular said, “’Now, Flasher, now Lancer, now—‘”

“Now, now, wait a second,” the second regular said.  “One of those is wrong.”

“Let me see you in two weeks,” I said to the patient as we left my office, happy the session was over for two reasons. I was running twenty minutes behind. And, my bladder was full.

I glanced at the day’s schedule. Maybe I had a cancellation and could catch up a little. No such luck. Somebody new, and... What an odd name. Mild stage fright skittered low in my belly. He could be a Forest Gump, a Hannibal Lector, or just a pill, you never knew. 

Entering the waiting room en route to the loo, I stopped short at the psychedelic vision popping up from a chair. “Dr. D? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pillbo Baggins.”

He was the oddest little man I had ever seen in a long career marked by odd scenes. 

Rotund and hairy, he wore an aquamarine, three-piece suit, mustard shirt, garish floral tie, with a bowler on top.

His dark beard ran up his cheeks leaving only bright black eyes and nose exposed. He wore no shoes. His feet and toes were covered with dark hair to the nails. Those were long and dark. 

He was remarkably short. I am only 5’2”. The bowl of his bowler barely reached my sternum.

Taking all this in at a glance, I nodded and shook the hand he offered me. He tipped the hat with the other hand in a courtly manner, saying in a plumy, English sort of accent, “I am most pleased to meet you, Doctor.”  

“Likewise.” A warm, popcorn aroma wafted off him. His furry hand was squishy, with long dark nails.

We stood there a beat or two longer. He continued holding my hand. I raised my eyebrows. Another beat, and he let go. We locked eyes.  Let the games begin. 

Have you noticed that after Death pays a visit, you find yourself entangled in irresistible, life-affirming acts? Such as, say, throwing yourself in an undeniably intimate manner at your loved one. Taking home a stray iguana after it makes goo-goo eyes at you. Chortling instead of groaning over bad puns. Me too. 

This amusing piece by my brainiac friend Roger, a.k.a. A Very Funny Guy (AVFG) is just what the doctor ordered, and this patient needed. Want to chuckle? Read on. No worries if you're not a math head. Trust me, you'll get the really bad puns and double entendres. If you're paying attention. he he he

The Numbers of Mathematicians Have Been Increasing

A Guest Post By Roger Lambert

According to the Mathematical Association of America  (MAA), the numbers of mathematicians have been increasing exponentially. While such growth may be surprising to the layperson, perceiving the difficulty of most mathematicians to carry on a normal conversation, let alone meet and woo fertile mates, the unexpected result is nevertheless being defended as highly significant by the Association. 

“We may not know why the numbers of mathematicians are multiplying,” said Professor Pascal LeFermat, the current president of the MAA, speaking from behind