IT’S ALL MY FAULT:

A Holiday Letter

By Duane Scott Cerny

To old friends, new friends, passing acquaintances, and those I’m desperately avoiding …

Though you’d think I’d be eager to hear about your family’s exploits over this past year, I’m certain I’d rather have a month of botched colonoscopies.

That said, I’m even more certain you’d like to hear about all the wonderful things that have happened in 2023 to my family, associates, and those similarly afflicted with the insincerity of my friendship.

Now let’s get you up to speed without taking any …

This year Aunt Betsy and Uncle Sam celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary by taking separate vacations with nonbinary others. They’ve never been happier not speaking to one another. In fact, their new paramours are discussing starting a podcast about having an aging partner. Originally, it was to be called May-December Romances but now it’s Month to Month.

At last, my nephew Percival earned his degree in taxidermy from the University of Samoa. I was concerned about him attending an internet university but was quite pleased when he mailed me some of his work. It was delicious.

Clarabelle, my niece from the dairy-producing side of the family, remains an unmarried single spinster until we can think of other words to call her. She enjoys selling handwoven merkins created from the fur of her own nine cats. Next year she hopes her booth at the flea market is moved inside, as damp merkins tend to sell rather slowly.

Cousin Donald has had an exemplary year touring courtrooms around the country and making short, incomprehensible speeches in any randomly available hallway. His most loyal fans appear to be nearby drinking fountains with poor water pressure, oddly his ongoing nemesis. Still, he’s enjoying great popularity with those who’ve chosen alternative realities: like consciousness.

Uncle Joe has been traveling as well, all around the world, in fact, as it is apparently on fire most of the time. His son Hunter lost his damaged laptop but miraculously it appeared in a fever dream on Fox News, and their friends at Best Buy were able to reconstruct three nudie pics and a draft of his memoir, Following in My Father’s Stumbling Footsteps.

My accountant, Allen, completed a mandatory five-month stay at a minimum-security spa for 15 silly tax fraud matters. Fortunately, all he lost were his watch, his towel and his reputation. “Next time,” he laughs, “it’s maximum-security or I’m not going!”

My good friend Sarah took this year to move back home and assist her elderly parents in their 24/7 needs. Unaware of the impending caregiver burnout, Sarah now volunteers at Dr. Kevorkian’s help line … which coincidentally is the same phone number for Ron DeSantis fundraising.

My best friend, Peter “get rich slowly” Principle, is pioneering a new venture: a B&B that has no beds and serves no breakfast. He was going to call it “&” but felt the ampersand was overpromising, as is its nature. His listing was removed from Airbnb because of the bedding disagreement. Peter considered relocating the entire idea to a mattress store but then he realized no matter what he created, some guest would complain about missing a muffin or a coffee maker. He’s certain Steve Jobs never had such troubles.

2023 was challenging for us all. The COVID years, now but a recent distant memory, still linger in the discarded masks you see on the street and the coughing not directed into elbows. People everywhere ask: “Is it over?” Often, though, they’re not referring to COVID but to anything related to Taylor Swift.

To all my creative friends, I’d like to say that your book, record and film efforts have been embraced by the media. I’d like to say that, but it didn’t happen. Actors didn’t get parts, authors didn’t get published, dancers were told to stop dancing, especially at crowded NYC subway stations. A few poets got lucky, though it was mostly on internet hookup sites: Ode.com was way sexier than we realized.

As for myself, what can I say? The year 2023 has been wonderful for me here at The Village View. Every month, I’ve been permitted to complain about most everything I find annoying, and yet nary a word from the editor. Maybe they are in complete agreement with my positions, or they are unaware I am still writing for this fine paper. Either way, tell them nothing!

See you in 2024. Hopefully my second wind won’t be from something I ate.

Duane Scott Cerny is an American poet, alternative music artist, humorist and vintage dealer, and the author of the best-selling memoirs Vintage Confidential and Selling Dead People’s Things. He resides in Chicago, the West Village, and on uncomfortable seating between. Contact: ThanklessGreetings@yahoo.com