Back in high school, I got advice from my creative writing teacher, Patsy Steimer: “Write what you know.” I have always been grateful for that advice, though it would have been better if she had told me: “Wait until you are 56, and then write what you know.” At 15, I didn’t know a damn thing.

With age, you get patience. I cook up my stories at a leisurely pace. I start by gathering whatever I can find around the house: a verb, metaphor, the occasional prepositional phrase. I place them in a sauce pan, bring to a slow boil and then simmer for 10 minutes. Once stiff (that can happen to joints at my age), I remove them from the burner and pour over waffles. Edit lightly. Salt to taste.

Seriously (but not very), I try to write stories I’d like to read. I write for an audience of one. If you share my tastes (Vonnegut, Thurber, Twain), and if I ever hit my mark, you may enjoy them, too.

No introduction is complete without credits. I’d like to credit my wife JoAnn and my friend Greg, both of whom graciously let me steal their ideas for my own nefarious purposes.

I’d also like to thank the aforementioned Patsy Steimer, along with every employer who trapped me in a soul-crushing dead-end job, every girl who destroyed my morale by ripping my still-beating heart straight from my chest, and every inconsiderate reckless driver who cut me off and forced me careening into a guardrail—generously providing me with a wealth of experience to draw from.

Speaking of drawing, I have included crude sketches with each of my stories. This is a tribute to my idol James Thurber, who couldn’t draw much better than I can’t.

And so, dear reader, although this book was written for me, not you, I hope you enjoy reading the stories, or are at least not too disturbed by them. I’d prefer you be disturbed just the right amount.

Ray Katz
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
February 2015