“She had heard good things about him including ,“ he just did not have any luck in the love department.” She could buy that. Life was like that for some people.”  I stared at that last sentence for hours before giving up and going to bed.

I couldn’t finish the story, it was going nowhere. It had no edge and it was not amusing. It was official, my funny factor had been functified.  Someone had stolen my platform shoes with the goldfish in them. I hope they were getting fed because my funny factor was starving.

I was up before the crack of dawn as usual  to do some writing*. I stared at the story I had started a few days earlier and thought ,“where is this going? How can pull something funny out of this? My funny factor has done been functified baby.“ In the past no matter where the story was going I was always able to pull some grins out of it. I considered myself the Houdini of humor. No matter how bleak the topic looked I could pull out a funny ending. This time however, things looked grim.  The goldfish were locked in tight, there was no food in sight and a water escape looked impossible. Not giving up yet I plodded onward and continued typing.

“He was getting ready for one more shot at love. His track record up to this point was less than stellar. The problem as he saw it was that he ..”  “Auchentoshan,” I screamed nonsensically. “Where did that come from ? Well other than the sound of frustration it also is the name of a nice single malt scotch,”  I thought. It also was the sound of defeat. This story had taken the bullet train to nowhere.

I was becoming desperate. How could I get my funny factor back. “Ab Ripper X**,” I thought. I threw in a DVD and was soon grunting like an oldie. Fifteen minutes and a possible hernia later I planted myself in front of the laptop and still nothing. While the endorphins surging through my body made me feel better , my humor  was still missing and the APB I had just put out for it failed. My funny factory was still functified.

“Functified ,“ I repeated. It was a Eureka moment. I  ran to my aging sound system and threw in a few CDs. From DVD to APB to CD. The acronyms were running hot now. Cranking up the volume introduced the neighbors to the sounds of the seventies. Bootsy Collins and The Ohio Players meet the neighbors. Neighbors meet some righteous dudes wielding some wicked bass lines. My platform-less feet began tapping and soon one right after another the rest of my body parts joined in. It was official , I was in a groove now. The temptation to break dance was suppressed by the imagery of broken bones. Butt shaking would have to suffice. Dancing around the room I soon noticed a pair of shoes had appeared in one corner, platform style, complete with goldfish. It was coming together now.

I danced over to my laptop and began typing furiously. I could feel it now, a brand new story was taking shape. A scant thirty minutes later and my story had come to its conclusion. I had gotten my groove back . My funny factor was no longer functified.

The secret I thought lay in music: James Brown, Bootsy Collins, Aretha Franklin, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club , Son Volt, Johnny Cash.  It didn’t matter what the genre was but it had to have a soul. “Music with some soul,”  that is the secret. That and to stop writing love stories. They have to write themselves.

* Yes cliché but apropos and no comments from the gallery.

* *No not a promotion but if that Tony guy wants to throw some coinage my way I won’t complain.