Dr. Benjamin and some colleagues refer an unruly roster of patients to test Stanwix’s unethical theories on sex and middle age.  Each patient drives Stanwix further into a scotch and Xanax habit and careening toward a breakdown. 

Embroiled in psychological warfare with his colleagues, a failed marriage and a mid-life crisis of his own, Dr. Stanwix’s hopes of winning the wager evaporate along with his sanity.  However, as his downward spiral turns to free-fall, his therapy begins to strangely backfire in his favor.  Can Dr. Stanwix beat Dr. Benjamin at her own game or will he trip over his own ego, again, and lose everything? 

The Common-Sense Sex Guide to Mid-Life: One-Page Synopsis 

The publication of Dr. Michael Stanwix’s latest book, The Common-Sense Sex Guide to Mid-Life, raises more than the eyebrows of the New York Psychiatric Community.  It prompts a less than ethical wager between Dr. Stanwix and his feminist nemesis, Dr. Clara Benjamin, who is determined to run Stanwix and his elbow-patched patriarchy out of the psychiatry business for good.   

Dr. Benjamin and her colleagues, Doctors Charles Morgan and Roger Bloomfield, test Dr. Stanwix’s unorthodox theories about sex and middle age by referring an unruly roster of sexually dysfunctional patients to his care.  Stanwix’s divan plays host to the penis-possessed Herb Berkowitz, the adulterous Donovans, the bald and belligerent David Snider, the Digesto-Sexual Nancy Valente, the fruit-fondling Antonio Ferlinghetti, the phallically-challenged Rick Jensen and the seductive Sheiler the Sexual Healer Smythe.  Each patient drives Stanwix deeper into a scotch and Xanax habit and careening toward a nervous breakdown. 

In order to keep tabs on Dr. Stanwix and their referrals, Dr. Benjamin and the others arrange monthly check-ins to see what sort of progress, if any, their colleague is making.  Once able to lucidly claim success with some of their cases, Dr. Stanwix can now only offer tongue-tied half-truths about his failing therapy. 

Dr. Stanwix’s misguided advice leads two of his patients to drop off his roster in order to start an affair.  Stanwix also allows Rick Jensen’s mother in law, Gladys, to commandeer his sessions.  Worse, she organizes Jensen’s genital redemption as if she were planning a TupperWare party.  The rest of Stanwix’s patients have all but hijacked his therapy, leaving him to doodle or daydream during their sessions. The irate whining of David Snider drives Stanwix to grab Snider by the lapels and shake him violently.  Stanwix has a different physical issue with Sheila the Sexual Healer Smythe, who won’t stop coming on to the Doctor long enough to be psychoanalyzed. 

Embroiled in psychological warfare with his colleagues, struggling with his patients, a failed marriage and a mid-life crisis of his own, Dr. Michael Stanwix’s hopes of winning the wager slowly evaporate along with his sanity.  However, as his downward spiral turns to free-fall, his therapy begins to strangely backfire in his favor.  Though never as theorized or planned, each of his patients overcomes their issues by not following Dr. Stanwix’s advice, in precisely the right way.  

Dr. Stanwix’s unethical treatments land him in front of the Ethics Committee, fending off allegations made by Dr. Benjamin and the others.  With the help of friend and colleague, Dr. Tom Jenkins, Stanwix tries to save his psychiatric behind.  The only problem: to save himself, Dr. Stanwix must break faith with every theory he has ever espoused or stood for.  Ashamed of betraying his patients and therapeutic creed, Stanwix leaves his not-so-noble profession before the Ethics Committee can yank his license. But not before Sheila the Sexual Healer Smythe, the true hero of this story, has the chance to give Stanwix and the other stuffed-shirt psychiatrists a tongue-lashing during the ethics hearing. 

Though Michael Stanwix loses everything, he finally ends up with just enough.  He realizes that his overly clinical views of sex and people are siphoning off what little joy there is to get out of life.  Yet Stanwix and his elbow-patched patriarchy certainly don’t get the last laugh or redemption in this comedy about sex, drugs, psychiatry and so much more.  

Back then there were no three-counts or time-outs, there was just a good crack in the ass to realign a child’s priorities. Adults still ruled the world back then and they made that clear whenever they could. They even had their own language. Though steeped in the blue-collared belief that our way of life would last forever, the town was dying and the ground was shifting beneath us. Some of the odd characters in this story never quite regained their equilibrium.

Dodging the parental abuse, school bullies and the safety hazards of a largely unregulated childhood posed its challenges. There were no seatbelts, cell phones or guardrails to life back then. Adults openly smoked and drank and paid as little attention to their children as possible. On the street, kids had to fend for themselves. And some of them didn’t hesitate to beat the living shit out of you for looking at them funny. And if they weren’t successful in beating you to a pulp, the Catholic nuns were sure to mete out a healthy dose of physical and psychological abuse. The places we played were often toxic industrial playgrounds, with jagged, rusty metal pieces jutting up all over the place. Even our school playground would surely be certified a safety hazard in this day and age.

But we survived, most of us anyway. I am one of the survivors, and I have a childhood full of stories to prove it. As I blur the lines between fact and fiction in the hazy recollections of my formative years, some of you may recognize yourselves among these pages. If you do, you have a special place in my heart, even though I might not have depicted you in the most flattering terms. If you are embarrassed in any way, please know I’ve shined that unflattering spotlight on myself more than any other in this memoir. And if that doesn’t do, I’ve created a witness protection program for my characters. All names and places have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent and to protect my own ass in case one of you comes after me.