When the Ball Drops

From a distance, there is shouting and horns, tiny explosions, confetti floating down like bleached fireflies. The Christmas decorations are already superfluous.
When the ball drops is the void suddenly filled? Will good friends morph through walls, hugging and toasting each other? Do bad memories erase quickly in a haze of cocktails? Does the shell of isolation finally crack?
We need a different song to replace Old Lang Syne. Perhaps "Maybe" by the Chantels is more appropriate; it offers hope for a different future.
Ryan Seacrest is in mid-sentence when I shut the TV. This night is too, too long. I listen as the horns fade into silence.

Behind Every Man

Behind every man there is a jet stream of gravitas. By virtue of his gender, man possess weight. Women are graceful and compassionate, but the element of gravitas is lacking.
I expend little effort in taking command of a situation. It's how I open a door, enter a room, gauge its contents, carefully place myself into a chair, establishing my dominance, a damn force field of intimidation. When I clear my throat the others lean forward in anticipation.
In FRONT of every man there is challenge, conquest, power, choices that mold entire nations. Behind us is the sweet vapor of remembrance of accomplishments with all that entails--subjugation, bending others to one's will. Mesmerizing those who would impale themselves seeking transmutation of power, our power.
Yes, behind every man lies a parchment containing insights and ideas for the ages, and that sweet aroma of iron-fisted, single minded dominance.
Unless he has had cabbage for dinner, in which case, the aroma is not quite as sweet.

First Night Joe

To generate some cash, I've created First Night Joe, a series of events held at my place on New Year's Eve for those sick of shelling out big bucks charged at various venues, as well as for tea teetotalers. The fee is $10 and it runs from 8PM to 3AM. Certainly if you wish to BYOB that's fine.
The evening will consist of vibrant conversation, light refreshments, music of your choice--I have an eclectic CD collection--some dancing in my limited space and karaoke if you're up to it.
The bulk of the festivities will focus on you watching me perform various activities--mixing salad, writing, painting, reciting my poetry, doing impressions of 1940's character actors, perhaps a soft shoe. I'll also be modeling some wardrobe items I bought at Marshall's during their post Christmas blowout. I have a unique collection of my old sneakers dating back to 1975. I will reveal my mom's broccoli rabe recipe, and show six albums of family photos from when we lived in a tiny apartment in Union City and I had to share a bed with my brother who kept me up half the night.
Of course we'll all watch the ball drop together in between aerobics. I expect my friends to be in top shape. It's the least you could do for me. I'll use the admission money for therapy, as you might expect. Let's welcome in the new year together.

My Blood, My Nerves

They're testing my blood flow, measuring my nerve responses. Shackling me to a table, sticking me with pins, zapping me with electro-shocks, tightening collars around my thighs calves, ankles and big toes. There is no one to hold my hand or calm me. My mouth is dry as I anticipate each shock, each sting, each tightening. Nasal discharge pours into my throat. I can't speak without stuttering or slurring. They stare at screens, chart lines and graphs, do not make eye contact.
The soft music playing on the intercom makes me close my eyes. I try to slow my breathing, inhale deeply and hold it. If I dare twitch when I shouldn't I can only imagine the consequences. I can hear low voices to my left coming from the waiting room. Ominous voices. Perhaps they are discussing what to do with me if my scores fall below a certain point.
Ow. That one hurt, but I dare not verbalize this. I try to small talk them, but my words clothes-line like damp laundry. They are uninterested in my opinions. I am a slab of flesh, pale and vein covered. The whirring of the collars, the bands tightening; my body tenses. Why couldn't they give me a lollipop before the procedures?
I hate my podiatrist.

Crew

I need a crew. I know this term is associated with hip hop artists, but I feel the concept should be expanded. As a writer I experience isolation. There are points where my mind is Hoda and Kathy Lee, babbling fragments of ideas without structure or logic. On the other end of the spectrum, I will stare at furniture, specifically dust on furniture, waiting for one stinking idea.
If I had a crew around me, interacting, rubbing my shoulders, offering encouragement or just yapping to each other, I'd have constant stimulation, which would lead to ear popping sentences, entire paragraphs, and maybe a short story. I'd probably have to change my wardrobe (early nineties slob), drink more, wear facial jewelry and many rings, but those are minor sacrifices.
If I went out to, say, Walmart, my crew would follow me in, surround me, comment on my purchases like copy paper and fuzzy slippers. Then we'd head to Wendy's, commandeer two tables, talk loudly and forget to throw away our trash. I'm not sure what else crews do. Once this expansion is accepted, other professions could adopt the crew concept. Museum curators, park rangers, short order cooks, pole dancers, computer tech guys, game wardens, the list is endless.
One possible problem is space if my crew wants to actually live with me. I'll do the cot thing for awhile, but not as a steady diet. Bad back. And I don't have enough enough socks to cover their needs.

Garbage

What to do with all this garbage we are generating? Work out a deal with Canada?
Are people bartering their garbage with neighbors? The new coffee machines eliminate coffee grinds. Reusable bags is a step in the right direction. Creating throw rugs out of pet dander is progressive. Universities offering courses in compost heap creation is another way to go.
I have a beat up old recliner. I sit in it and paint. Instead of using turpentine, I've gotten into the nasty habit of wiping my brushes on its sides. The result is a frightening abstract painting on both sides of my recliner. I could pay the super $20 to take it to the dumpster, but I'm embarrassed to let him see it. I actually obtained a perfectly good rocking chair from said dumpster. I wish I could say I have fond memories of that recliner, but all I recall is falling asleep at a bad angle and waking up with a sore neck.
Perhaps my biggest garbage problem is getting rid of all the bad sentences I've written. Suppose a garbage man with an English degree comes across a packet while dumping barrels. Would he become furious and turn me in to the composition authorities? I heard they use truncheons.

2012 Here I Come

I'm turning over a new leaf. New priorities, new approach.
Next year I'm attacking my nose and ear hair with a high powered trimmer. I will have my bathtub re-glazed and my tiles power cleaned, in case I have visitors, which never seems to happen. I will be more positive, more assertive, create distinct boundaries around my space and loudly inform people if they have invaded my territory.If the food is not cooked to my specifications I will send it back with a stern glare.
I will impart little information about myself. Let folks speculate who the real Joe is.My mystique will have length and breath. When I stride into a room there will be dense murmuring.
I will ask for free refills whenever possible. I will see at least one movie with subtitles. I will sue one person. I will learn to ski, play backgammon, to mold clay into something recognizable, to rumba without a partner if necessary, to change my transmission fluid, to stifle coughs in a crowded theater. I will focus on reading people's faces to determine if they are trustworthy enough to enter into my inner circle, and make no mistake, I will have an inner circle. Finally, I will have a lot more fun without resorting to battery operated devices.

Broken Dish

Billy, that was great grandma's dish you just broke. It's been in our family for decades. What were you doing in that cabinet? GG served beef stew in that dish. Our family had no money when we came from the old country. We had beef stew seven days a week. That woman sacrificed day and night.
Her brother Augustus got very ill and there was no money to give him a proper burial. There were rumors, but I prefer to think he was buried somewhere.
GG's recipe was a well guarded secret. When the family finally got jobs and began making some money, they were able to celebrate a normal Thanksgiving with a big turkey. Sadly, right about that time your great Aunt Tracey passed on. There are sick people out there, Billy, monsters who spread their disgusting rumors, just like what happened after Augustus died.
GG was a great woman who did whatever she had to to keep the family intact. Perhaps the stuffing had a unique taste, but that only proves what a terrific cook she was. Now let me see if I can glue this dish back together. And please stop staring at me like that.

Eggnog

As a diabetic, I'm not supposed to have eggnog. Too much sugar. But how do you make it through the holidays without at least one glass? The problem is stopping at one. I know they've come up with eggnog ice cream and probably eggnog coffee. I'm hoping for eggnog toothpaste, gravy, soup, stuffing, stew, deodorant, moisturizer, body lotion, pizza topping, tile spray, whipped cream--you get the idea.
Another item probably not good for you that you can't stop eating is Wasabi almonds. I'm not sure if Wasabi is a country or something researchers created. They're hot and salty and cause great thirst, but once you've had them you never go back to smoked almonds.
Unsalted saltines are light as marshmallows, easily devoured by the dozen. It feels like you're crunching air, unlike peanut butter crackers, which are never actually digested. They just set up a table and play cards in your small intestine for years.
There are certain people on TV like Chelsea Handler you know you shouldn't be watching because they supply no intellectual nutrition, but you're too weak to stop. The hope is someday she'll snap and flash the audience. I just pray I'm not sipping eggnog when it happens. Spillage of that elixir would be a tragedy.

My Lesson

I've given up trying to read women. I will never grasp their subtext. Even the intellectuals give you little hint of what's really going on with them. But the quiet ones who refuse to volunteer anything, who just sit there staring at nothing, are impossible to analyze.
Sometimes you're foolish enough to believe you have a bead on their mood or attitude. Then you send a perfectly benign email (I don't text) and wait for a response that will never come. Then you backtrack and go over every word you said in every conversation dating back three years wondering what f aux pas you've committed. Women who laugh easily and make you think they are comfortable in your presence, then snub you out of the blue are creatures put here by a sadistic deity. At least if there was an argument, a reason for their behavior can be established.
Maybe these women suffer from a low level form of autism that hasn't been named yet. Or lack Vitamin D. Detached, indifferent, aloof, whatever the label, after awhile you wonder if it's worth it. Maybe sticking with older, gregarious types who never shut up is the way to go. No mystery there. But a continuing effort to understand and accommodate these ladies is taking too much time away from my stomach crunches. I've learned my lesson. This time I mean it.

Ellen

Why don't I like Ellen anymore? I used to, really. I got sucked into the energy, especially at the opening with all those women screaming. Her monologues were so so, but then she did her little shimmy dance up the aisle and her movements rippled through the audience, lending it a revivalist atmosphere.
I liked her haircut and toothy smile, her look of barely concealed bafflement when her guests said something strange. Always Ellen would bail them out with a one-liner. Yes, there were stupid contests, some involving celebrities making fools of themselves. And those phone calls to strangers were edgy in their unpredictability.
I suppose my attitude began to change when I sensed the screaming was out of control. I mean, after awhile those women would become apoplectic if Ellen coughed. It was like they were in on the joke and I wasn't. At some point enthusiasm becomes mindless and repetitive.
What really drove me away, however, was the plethora of gifts given to those in the studio. Every single show these mostly white, well off ladies were given something. It could be anything from a DVD to a gift card to Saks. On the surface, this is unbridled generosity. Underneath, is a tsunami of consumerism and materialism at a time when millions are starving, homeless, out of work. Christmas season was the worst display of sheer greed. The decibels increase as gift after gift is bestowed upon the anointed kneeling before their Goddess. A complete turnoff and that wouldn't change if it were men receiving this largess.
Harmless, you say. Stop being anal, you say. Well, all I know is at 4pm I am no longer in front of the TV. Instead, I'm sticking March of Dimes icons on my holiday cards. Or at least I plan to if I can just get the damn neighbors to cease caroling in front of my door. Screeching maniacs.

Crush

I guess you reach a point where you don't get crushes anymore. Maybe it's aging or too much information about a person. Having a crush is synonymous with youth. I had a crush on my high school English teacher, an Audrey Hepburn type, very sophisticated. She married before I graduated, but then got divorced. In my dreams I thought I had a shot as a college student. I imagined waltzing in off the street wearing my Rutgers sweatshirt, escorting her out for coffee right after her last class. I remember she asked for a word to fit a definition she gave and for some reason I piped up with 'subservient'. She was stunned. After that I think she viewed me as being secretly much smarter than I had shown before.
I continued to have crushes on women I barely knew from afar. Celebrities? Barbara Hershey, Tuesday Weld, Sue Lyon, Michelle Phillips, Valerie Bertinelli, Ingrid Bergman, who was middle aged, but she was still Ingrid. Grace Kelly was too intimidating. The young Sally Field with that pert little nose. Others, many others.
Of course, one can't speak of these things with friends. Private crushes are so fragile.
These days I'm embarrassed to admit I sort of have a crush on Lauren Graham.Maybe I just loved her character in Gilmore Girls. I haven't been watching her new show Parenthood, so I guess I'm shallow. I wish there were someone living around me that I see frequently, like in the laundry room, who I might develop a crush on. But would I pursue it? Maybe the aroma of fabric softener would stimulate my sensuality and propel me forward. Or maybe not.
.

Tapped

Do you know how many times my car has been tapped by people getting into or out of a parking space? How about dozens. How many times have I confronted them? Zero. If there is no damage why start something that can escalate into a mess?
The other day I was backing up to pull out of a space when I tapped the car behind me. The driver had just gotten out and was standing next to it waiting to cross. I was waiting to pull out. He did not immediately rush over and say anything. About 40 seconds passed and just as I was about to leave, he walks over and says you know you tapped my car. It was his verb and it was accurate. Then he said that's a $150000 machine and I knew right then what I was dealing with. He was poorly shaven, holding half a cigarette, wearing a fatigue shirt. This was not a hedge fund manager. I shrugged and said sorry.
Then the Tom Berringer wannabe launched into a 30 second verbal assault, using longshoreman's language, half turning, gesturing. I let him wind down and watched the jerk cross the street, seething. Him, not me. There was a good chance if I had gotten out of the car there would have been escalation, maybe punches thrown. My lawyer ordered me to walk away from confrontations. With my luck, the crossing guard would have backed him and I'd have been charged with assault. No, that crap doesn't bother me anymore.
I expect little from people and am seldom disappointed. The guy probably had a miserable job, a rotten social life, a history of losses in every arena. He was just itching to spread his foul stench of misery and I would have none of it. I feel nothing for people like that. Let the humanists embrace compassion. I hit the gas and got out of there. I never did check what model car he drove. I'm guessing 150 thou was a bit of an exaggeration.

Closing

It's happening and I hate it. Another B&N closing. It is painful watching a book store close in segments. First they drop prices and plaster the windows with ugly signs. Then, one by one, sections are roped off. Books are consolidated. Empty spaces invade once happily stuffed shelves. Employees skulk around trying to force a smile.
The area in the front lobby, which contained two tables holding last chance books, is now empty. Sloppiness abounds. No one can gather up the energy to replace books left open or magazines scattered around tables.
The floor hasn't been swept. Imagine the bathrooms.
Suddenly whole battalions of customers appear to ravage bargains. Where were these people when the store's future was in the balance?
To be fair, I was part of the problem. I grabbed a book or periodical, headed to the cafe, ordered my drink and maybe a cookie, then spent two hours of free reading without purchasing the material. I hang my head in shame. I did get a Nook, which mitigates part of my guilt, but not enough. I am going to miss this place, as well as the record store next to it, also closing. What good is being retired if you can't go and hang out someplace?
The Starbucks nearby is okay in a pinch, but there are too many old guys sitting outside in warm weather speaking in some Eastern European language I can't understand. I just hope the empty space isn't filled by another Bed, Bath & Beyond. Yeah, beyond boring.

Moves Like Orson

I've always imagined moving like the old Orson Welles. The massive, ponderous, mastodon Welles, pacing himself, filling space with his dignified girth.
I would love to pause over a chair, trying to discern whether it was strong enough to hold me. The man exuded gravitas. Walking across a room, his significance forces itself upon you. I can hear deep grunts and heavy breathing with each step. When someone that size sighs it is as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. There is certainly solidity there, but little grace.
Now Jackie Gleason was a graceful man. He could execute a polished soft shoe, arms extended, wrists bent, eyelids cooley drooping, brows arched, moving like a slab of butter across a pond. Oh no, Jackie never grunted.
I often wonder what would happen if either man got a wedgie. Would EMS people have the tools to pry apart their cheeks? Would taxpayers have to foot the bill? Would folks in the immediate area have to be evacuated? I'm going to practice moving more deliberately and deepening my grunts. I'll do anything for respect.

That Damn Tree

I went to Rockefeller Center to see the skaters, not that damn tree. I have nothing against big decorated trees. It's the people coming from miles away that drive me nuts, families with tiny cameras pointed straight up as they lean back wearing a beautific smile like this is about as good as it gets.
Charlize Theron is as good as it gets. This is madness. I couldn't get anywhere near the viewing section to see the skaters. I was crushed against Kansas and North Dakota and South Carolina and foreigners from land locked countries. Many lugged Volvo sized shopping bags, pushed streamlined strollers, swung elbows, dipped shoulders and bulled ahead. Someday a Rockette will be crushed in the maelstrom and we as a society will have to answer for it.
Know this--that tree is never is big as it seems on TV, unless Justin Beiber is standing next to it. In fact, that rink is quite small compared to Wollman or even Bryant Park, which has better music and a calliope. Since it's free, one will see more of a variety of native New Yorkers, actual people of color. You won't see some little girl from a rich family getting a lesson in the center of the rink like at Rockefeller, doing awkward spins in her $300 skating dress.
I shouldn't be bitter. This is the holiday season and even though I can't skate I can work out on the elliptical without losing my balance. That's something to hang my hat on. Where the hell did I put my hat?

Paragraph Strike

I just got word there is a paragraph strike. Their union rep released a vague statement mentioning unhappiness about working conditions. This is all I need. A couple of years ago there was a wildcat comma strike and I was frantic. Commas are the underpinnings of my writing. I depend on them for pace and clarity. I floundered for weeks until it was settled. I agreed to use only ten commas per three hundred words so they could have more personal time. I can't imagine what commas do with their personal time, but I suppose they could say the same about me. Normally this is where I'd take a paragraph break, but right now that is not possible because of the circumstances described above. Frankly, I don't feel guilty about this state of affairs. I've never been one to abuse paragraph choices. All of us are familiar with those writers who throw together a couple of sentences, abandon that thought and start a new paragraph. This is slight of hand intellectualism, a sad attempt to convince the reader they have more ideas and insights than you do. God, I want to create a new graph right here so bad. But I don't cross picket lines, except that one time when asterisks went out. I think asterisks are ridiculous and superfluous, especially when you can use a star symbol. I just hope when this mess is settled I still remember how to indent.

My little Dramas

I don't like the way you're looking at me. Did you just say something? Leave my name out of it. I know what I heard and I heard my name mentioned.
Don't squeeze me, alright, I need my space. You know I have boundaries. I sense you're trespassing. Why did you grab for that apple, that particular apple? I told you I clearly had my eye on that piece of fruit. It's called imposing your will on me.
You had all those empty seats. Why did you plant yourself right next to me? Are you bringing that stuff up again? That is old news. I see judgment in your expression. Don't tell me I didn't come to a complete stop. Who's driving here? I know exactly where the place is. And this time I do the ordering. You usurp my independence and take control, knowing I hate lentil soup.
You said it was your idea. I was the one who thought of it and I trusted you. You sucked up all the adoration from our group while I was looked upon as the slacker.
I gave you three choices where to put your tongue. Do not push for four. Shut the damn light. Because it's on your side of the bed. Dear.

Murmuring

I find myself murmuring to myself. It started out as a whisper and escalated. Understand, I'm not talking out loud, but my lips are moving. Usually I am carrying out some task while I'm murmuring. Somehow it doesn't seem as quirky if I'm doing something. If I were just standing there carrying on this personal monologue people would notice and move away. Understand, this is not a conversation or any kind of dialogue with an invisible entity. It's me and me alone.
What subjects are covered? Mostly reminders what I must do next, because, you see, my day consists of hundreds of tiny projects, which, if completed successfully, boost my confidence. Example: (soft voice) Okay, now I open the car door and stick out my legs and emerge. Lock door. Put keys in pocket. Put away glasses. Walk to Staples. Make sure I have my wallet. Don't run over the little kid running right at me with no sense of direction.
In this way, I am twittering to myself, providing instantaneous updates about my goals, like purchasing large paper clips in great quantities. It's called controlling one's environment. Seldom has anyone noticed or heard these soft words. I stop immediately if I sense someone looking at me strangely.
Should I unconsciously raise my voice and begin talking out loud, I would probably seek help, an intervention of some sort. Maybe chew a giant wad of tobacco so no sounds emerge. Okay, here I am in the paper clip section...

In My Trunk

It's all about balance and proportion when organizing a trunk. My car trunk contains the usual--flashlight, seat cushion, spare, anti-freeze, tool kit,Cameron Diaz inflatable doll for those long trips.
     My other trunk is in my basement and contains a wealth of history. I keep rejection letters from editors and women right next to my banded collection of therapist receipts. My one athletic trophy for hop scotch is centered, next to a recording of my Henry Kissinger impression from the seventies. Autographed copies of Jewel's and the Octomom's collections of poetry are in the corner.
Family photos predominate, including Uncle Dom's unfortunate attempt to hang glide and baby Ernestine spitting up on Cousin Sophie.
Over 1400 marbles, won during various competitions, are in a sealed box. Fleece clothing lines the bottom of my trunk. When I'm depressed I empty the entire contents and relive all the poignant experiences these objects represent, including the failed recipes for fish. Somehow things seem brighter when I rub fleece all over my shirtless body. If only I hadn't traded my old baseball cards for investment advice from John Corzine.

My Doctor's Son

My doctor's son is now my doctor. He's much taller than his father and seems energetic, not at all jaded, which is natural since he's only been in the office about a year. He listens to me without being bored. Or maybe he's bored, but disguises it well. His father listened to me too, but spent too much time answering the phone. The problem could be with me. I'm basically a boring patient. I report the same problem every visit--too much eating at night leading to high sugar numbers in the morning.  Lately I've been getting this pain in my right buttock, which is separate from the discomfort in my hip. I don't think it's my posture.
Am I boring you?
Anyway, I have a family photo of my doctor's brood from years ago and his son is maybe ten. He's smiling and looking really small and preteen. Now this little fellow has my life in his hands. His mother works right in the office and his aunt handles billing. Sometimes they have a family conference right in front of me, arguing in Indonesian about something I know has nothing to do with me, unless the son is angry at his dad for transferring such a dull patient to him. Maybe they're pissed at me for breaking their toilet last visit. It's a long story I've probably already told because, not only am I boring, but my memory's going.

Nap

I really want to take a nap right now. I love napping. It's the best thing about being retired. Even if I'm only half asleep, just lying there and daydreaming with TV and radio off, not caring about anything other than switching sides periodically, is at least as productive as meditation. Napping after hitting the gym is Nirvana because you don't feel guilty about sacking out. If you toss in checking emails, opening snail mail, sweeping, writing something brilliant and vigorously flossing before you nap, there is no chance you will feel bad about yourself.
One thing you quickly absorb in retirement is not to think about all those who are out there working. Blank them right out. You did it for thirty plus years and no one sobbed for you. The down side is, of course, you are much closer to death than them. But what is death but one eternal nap?
The dangerous thing about this activity is over napping and missing something important, which is what happened to me on Thanksgiving. But I've learned from that incident. I have to attend a wake later and I am determined to time this nap perfectly so I can be there. So I will wrap this up and get to work napping and stay on schedule. While zonked out I will also be digesting my lunch. Once again, without fanfare, I multitask.

Rain

Rain means I get to stay home and watch reruns of House and Gilmore Girls and old movies on TMC. Rain means I don't answer the phone or door, shut the blinds and don't shave. Continuous precipitation on a Wednesday excuses me from going to the poetry open mike and listen to uneven work by overconfident writers who never pay attention when I get up to read.
Rain means I can paint and read and write insightful blogs, while possibly completing that short story I'm stuck on. It means I can snack incessantly because I promise I will walk it off the following day. I can reexamine my theater pieces, revel in their humor and overall brilliance. I save gas by not moving my car. I let my imagination roam, create jokes, practice my impressions of old TV stars from moderately successful ensemble shows like WKRP in Cincinnati. I take a deep breath and clean out that ancient fruit in my fridge.
I can do hundreds of sit ups and make out bills and write letters I will never send. I can sing R&B favorites, maybe try out some dance moves. I can take my time with bowel movements.
No stress, no pressure, no angst, and, mostly, no expectations on rainy days.
Maybe I'll strip and examine myself in the mirror. Lord knows, I owe myself a reward.

Cabbage and Cauliflower

I have been neglecting cabbage and cauliflower. I consider myself a savvy eater, but those two veggies have always eluded me. Cabbage gives me gas, especially with mustard slathered over it. I think I've had cauliflower less than ten times in my life. I saw on TV how good it is for you. The expert said you can eat it raw. Eating raw cauliflower on a Friday night alone in your apartment means you may as well turn on the gas, shut the windows and lie down.
I recently began consuming black beans. This passes for excitement in my life. You can't have enough fiber and beans are cheap. Oddly the Goya aisle is more expensive than the American bean aisle. I refuse to use the word legumes. It is a high end name for beans. Debbie Gibson will never be Deborah, veranda must not replace terrace, marsupial never supersede monkey, spittoon will never be replaced by vertical saliva container.
How big of a bite should one take of the cauliflower? Do you spray it with anything first? Why aren't there more blogs about gassy foods? Enough. I have Christmas cards to write.

The Lurker

The kid, about 14, is lurking outside my condo. I pulled in and parked in front of my garage located right across from my place. He saw me and now he is waiting, yes, he is going to wait me out because I see he's holding some sort of folder and he wants me to sign up for something that is going to cost me money like support our visual aid department which is a victim of budget cuts and we desperately need a contribution, anything, a dolllar, a quarter.
I will out wait the little bugger by sitting in my car a few feet away, reading a novel from my Nook and I don't care if I have to sit there for an hour, I will outlast the ferret booger nose, except after five minutes I have to pee and the damn kid is still there, I can see him in my rear view. I sense he knows I'm suffering and will have to emerge. He dares not come to the window because he feels my disdain. There is a whole line of condos waiting to be disturbed. Why is he not moving? I simply cannot afford to buy anything extraneous; I have a budget.
I don't recognize him because I pay no attention to kids anywhere. In fact I move away from them as fast as I can. He could be from another town. I swear if he doesn't get going I'm going to give him the finger and I know he can see it because he keeps looking my way expectantly. Let the bastard lurk. I'll pee in my thermos. I have a back up container in my cabinet. No way I'm letting this kid win, even if it's Easter Seals. Okay, maybe I'll make an exception there.

Shots

Give them the shots, all of them. Keep inoculating kids with every damn anti-whatever in your arsenal. This nonsense about basic shots causing autism has been disproved once and for all. You can't have unprotected kids getting polio or mumps or whooping cough and then passing it on. We have wiped out these horrible diseases because of the brilliant work of Dr. Salk and others.
Sooner or later these men and women will cure hiccups, lazy eye, anal fistulas, halitosis, corns, hernias, stammering and ingrown toenails. These are the real heroes of our time. I HAD chicken pox and it was hell. Same with mumps. Superstition and old wives tales cannot hold back medical science. There will come a time, with the right financing, that excessively wide foreheads and recessive chins will be a thing of the past. There is nothing more humiliating than having someone ask if they can rent ad space on your forehead or mistake your chin for a small onion.
If your kid is afraid of needles lie to him. Tell him each needle will enable him to consume more soft ice cream with sprinkles. However, if your pediatrician dresses up as a clown while filling the syringe, get your kid out of there as fast as possible. There are limits to tough love.

Pulled Over

Driving past someone who's been pulled over by a cop has to elicit more than a little feeling of curiosity, as well as relief. Glad it's not me. You catch a glimpse of the poor driver's expression and it varies. Anger, confusion, nervousness, impatience, panic, vulnerability. Some frantically search for the right ID. Others look straight ahead, not wanting to meet the eyes of others going about their business.
I once saw a young man foolishly jump out of his vehicle, take a few steps toward the police car before harshly being told to get back into the car. Once you're stopped, the cop will sit there forever, checking to see if it's a stolen vehicle. You know your day is probably ruined, even if he decides to limit things to a lecture.
I had a PBA card, which I never used. If I knew I was in the wrong I'd just take my punishment. But one time a polite young cop said I went through a light and I know it was amber. But I didn't argue because you never know what kind of mood these guys are in. They run plates just for the sake of having something to do and maybe they just might catch someone. My registration was expired last summer and I never got a renewal notice to remind me. So I got pulled over, they took my car and keys and I had to take a bus home.
No one wants to see those flashing lights in the rear view mirror. But when it happens to someone else you do tend to feel superior.

Footsteps

She's moving around up there. I can hear everything. Sometimes it's quick steps as though she's scurrying. Then the ponderous ones like she's pacing. The times when she seems to be moving furniture around are most intriguing. Can't she make up her mind? I wonder if she's learning to dance up there alone. When it's completely quiet, I'm on edge, waiting for the next fusillade of footsteps.
The suspense is getting to me. She's not doing this on purpose. Seems like a nice woman. Comes home late at night. Maybe she's a waitress or nurse. She orders a lot of stuff, but it stays in our mutual hallway for weeks before she brings them upstairs. I think maybe I'm the one who ordered these boxes, but her name is on the address label.
I should not be paying attention to any of this, but every time I resolve to mind my own business the bell rings at midnight. It's the pizza guy delivering for her, but ringing my bell by mistake. Who orders pizza at midnight?
There she goes again, scurrying across the floor. What if she has a hidden child up there or an illegal alien, barricaded in a closet? Between the pizza guy and me, we could probably break down her door and rescue whoever. Something to contemplate. I could use a slice right now.

Safe

I'm watching the debate on how much arsenic is in apple and grape juice and Dr. Oz says we have to do everything we can to make the world safe for our children.
My feeling is let kids fend for themselves. We spend so much time and effort insuring a safe environment for tots we have no time to pursue our own interests, like hiking and gourmet cooking and start up businesses. As a result we, the adults, are secretly miserable and resentful. We feed and house these kids, buy them gifts, give them advice, look the other way when they screw up. Now we're supposed to safety proof everything, which includes spending hours reading up on all these reports informing us of dangerous foods and drinks and toys and playgrounds and Internet sites. When do we get to have sex? Or watch football? Enough with this sacrificing.
Anyone with eyes can see the problem is the opposite-kids need to start making things safer for adults. Roller skates, skate boards, scooters, bikes, wayward baseballs, Frisbees, children suddenly changing direction and careening into elders, BB guns, Silly Putty, projectile vomiting, loud shouting, whistling, honking, crazy driving, vile language, clumsy, overweight teens falling on the rest of us--this is the real problem.
Let them drink all the damn arsenic they want. Experience danger like I did as a kid. Just stay away with those mini bikes. Make the world safe for me, hooligans.

Lost License

It occurred to me that since I couldn't find my driver's license I couldn't drive. This may be a blessing in disguise. I could use some exercise and it would be a chance to meet the neighbors. I arbitrarily chose a route this balmy November Saturday. I first came to a middle aged woman working in her front garden. I asked what kind of flowers she was planting. She stood up and in a confrontational tone blurted, "Everything in this garden is legal. There are no Third World flowers here, nothing contraband, nothing harmful, no deadly pesticides, and I don't sell them without a license. Any more questions, Columbo?"
I swallowed, shook my head, and quickly resumed my walk, coming upon a man washing his car. Great day for it, I remarked.
He stared at me and growled, "What do you mean by that?"
Nothing, I answered. Just making a casual remark.
"Let me tell you something about casual remarks, fella. WWI was started by a casual remark by that idiot Archduke Ferdinand. Before you could blink, he gets his head shot off and two dozen countries are warring. I am an American, so I keep my car in pristine condition, rain or shine. It's called being a responsible adult."
I nodded uncertainly. This walk was not turning out the way I expected.
Two teens, a boy and girl, approached me. My first impulse was to veer to the side, but then I thought, hey, I'm the one paying taxes here. Why should I cede the right of way?
So I kept walking right up to them, unflinching. Sure enough they parted and let me right through. I was feeling pretty good about things when the cop pulled up and asked for ID. I chuckled and said, "Do I need a permit to walk my neighborhood, officer?"
He didn't smile. Evidently I did. I guess I missed too many council meetings. As he wrote me a ticket, "Harassment While Walking", I seriously considered reporting the flower lady for excessive redistribution of soil. Vigilance works both ways.

Pop Up

I'm trying to access this movie The Lover on You Tube, but whenever I click on an excerpt a pop up ad for auto prices comes up. Stupidly, instead of ignoring it I click on it and it soon becomes evident I can't get rid of the damn thing. Not even clicking on cancel or the X.
I also thought I saved a book review I wrote into my documents, but when I went to send it as an email attachment it wasn't there. But I had backed it up on my flash drive. Before I could check on that I had to get rid of this pop up ad, which was preventing me from going to my email.
So I didn't panic. Okay, I panicked and brought it to Staples because I like their uniforms better than the Geek Squad. All these tech guys are the same. They look off to the side while you explain the problem, occasionally grunting. Anyway, when he turned it on, the ad was gone. I think I killed it when I shut down my laptop. But just in case, I let them keep it to do their $9.99 tune up. Next day when I picked it up, I still wasn't sure my document was saved. The guy, about 14 years old, showed me that it was right on the flash drive. I thanked him and left. Except when I got home I realized I didn't know how to get it from the flash drive to the documents. After several abortive tries, I finally figured it out. But then a warning popped up that my anti-virus protection had been disabled. I tried turning that on, but it wouldn't work. Once again I panicked, rushed back to Staples, where the same guy reinstalled the security system and told me I should run a virus check every single week because there were some nasty ones out there.
Everything is back to normal, except, well, I never got to see excerpts from that movie, which featured nudity and maybe it serves me right. I sure wish I had one of those Staples shirts.

Patterns

You handcuff me to the bed. Then comes the tickling feathers. Followed by the sugar free rice pudding over my stomach. Then the Michael Bolton CD played loud. Finally the K-Mart hair brush with the stiff bristles.
You release me and we have green tea on the veranda, watching the sun go down.
We've fallen into a predictable pattern, my dear, something those in our class avoid like the plague. We need a new direction.
I suggest a Korean masseuse and a full body massage. Then we put on white face and perform improvised Japanese Butah dance in darkened rooms. Continuing with the Asian theme, we don g-strings and engage in a series of sumo collisions. We cool down with yoga, listening to dirty sections of The New Testament. We call your mother and put her on speaker phone as we perform a version of a particularly difficult Circe de Soleil segment involving straddle and thrust moves.
Hot chocolate should substitute for the tea.
However, watching the sun set remains intact because that is OUR thing, my dear. That will never change. 

Balloon Fatigue

Stop the madness. I'm eight years old and I've been dragged here by my parents for the past six years and I can't take it anymore. Who made the rule kids have to like huge hot air balloons? I am so tired of looking awed. My neck hurts from staring up. I have to pee, I'm hungry, smelly people surround me. Truthfully, unless dad puts me on his shoulders, I can't see 90% of this damn parade.
My five year old brother loves this crap. I want to smack some sense into him. Doesn't he realize this is all about marketing? Everybody marching is pushing their brand. Hell, my third grade class is establishing a brand for our bake sale. It wouldn't be so agonizing if the balloons weren't so lame. Some of them barely get off the ground anyway. Then it's the same characters every year. Spiderman, Snoopy, Sponge Bob, Buzz Lightyear, who hasn't made a decent film in a decade, Kermit the Frog, whose last five movies bombed, Clumsy Smurf, and worst of all, this monstrosity created by Tim Burton simply called B. It has giant pancake white eyes with stitching and a crooked mouth. Looks like a demented baseball. The jet pack monkey will give kids nightmares.
Santa is a joke. He looks Norwegian. Mrs. Claus looks Italian. The elves are hot young women. What has any of this got to do with the holiday spirit?
Then of course we will head for some packed restaurant for dry turkey and watery mashed potatoes and God's punishment to man, Brussels sprouts. I will never do this to my kids. Neil Diamond on a float. Why don't they dig up Bing Crosby, who I understand made one good Christmas movie before croaking.

Wandering

This has to stop. I see them all over and it frightens me. It used to be unnerving, but this disease's growth has inspired outright fear. I'm referring to the wanderers, people who just...wander around aimlessly. You see this all day, but especially in the afternoon. I stress, these people are not exercising. I know power walking when I see it; I do it myself and I'm good at it. This is not power walking.
No, this is people leaving their house and simply picking a direction and heading off with no apparent purpose. Sometimes they take their children and no one screams abuse. These are also not tourists, who, as annoying as they are, still have a purpose and a plan, ie. walk slow, look at everything and point. Sometimes the wanderers will take their car, park it a few miles away, get out in some sort of haze and wander off for hours. They don't interact directly, but usually have their cell out texting presumably to friends wandering in some other area. If they happen to meet, they may sit a moment and chat. But invariably off they go in separate directions with no plan or goal or ambitions.
I place the entire blame for our country's economic decline on these traitors. How much productive work is lost as these rationalizing sabotage professionals clog up parks and streets? Our gross economic output would triple. How many diseases would be cured if they turned their focus to something worthwhile? I don't want to hear about living in the moment, smelling the roses, making the most of each day. Do you think if horticulturists spent all their time daydreaming and walking in circles, they would BE any roses?
Me? I'm supposed to wander around. I'm a writer and noticing everything is my job. So I'm not actually wandering. I'm extracting potential ideas from the mundane. And I know exactly where I'm going and where I've been. I'm a man with a plan and that plan is to follow others until I sense a trend. Then I compose an essay like this and help change society. I sense your mind wandering. 

Small Business Saturday

I want to support Small Business Saturday on November 26. American Express gives you a $25 credit on your statement if you shop at one of the small businesses listed on Facebook in your zip code. The problem for me is there are no tap dancing schools nearby. I am perfectly willing to splurge the $25 on a small tap dancing school, but I won't travel 50 miles out of my way.
Another small business possibility is compost heap construction, but try finding an establishment that centers on that skill.
For that matter, a haiku cafe would be a perfect example of a cubbyhole battling the monster chain store poetry houses. You'll pay more for coffee and pastries, but the upside is getting to sit right up close to the poets.
There's a used shoe and slipper shop that's been fighting for survival, and God knows, I could use slippers, but not $25 worth.
 Another tiny boutique sells only pipe stems. The owner is charming, but I know only one person who smokes a pipe and she's quite satisfied with her stem. Garter Belts Unlimited, even with our help, is probably going under. Frank and Ethel's Insurance can't fight Mutual of Omaha. Mouthful, the colorful burrito joint, is gasping for air.
Such entrepreneurial courage should be rewarded with our support. But I fear it may be too little, too late. There should be a place for discount plastic surgery in our system.

Feeble Attempt

I threw out an old TV stand in my garage, piled with books, replacing it with a lightweight, stylish bookcase. This was part of my feeble attempt to downsize. I also replaced the battery in my smoke alarm and reorganized my candy drawer, separating my sour balls, lollipops and sugar free gum by size and expiration date.
Then came the tough part. Deciding which of my acquaintances had to go. I know lots of people, too many. I'm not even that sociable. I just keep running into people and somehow we click. Maybe I'm a good listener. But  the breadth of my social web had become unwieldy. I couldn't get milk at the corner without running into someone who HAD to talk to me.
It took several hours, but I built up a head of steam and my downsizing grew and developed into a ruthless excising of extraneous chatterers. First out were those with duplicate characteristics. I don't need two friends who laugh at their own jokes. Then I went after the obsessives, the clinging vines, the hangers on. I need space to breath. Finally, I jettisoned those blood suckers who puncture my ego with vicious zingers, especially about my ears.
Of course I sent out emails. I couldn't deal with their shock and disappointment when they found out they were expelled from my galaxy. I discovered I wasn't so feeble after all. Now I have plenty of time to think about important matters. This is me thinking.

Last B&N

I found one in the corner, huddling behind an empty bookshelf. You have to leave, I said. He shook his head. I don't want to go. I need my bookstore. I need my coffee. You can get coffee anywhere, I said. They'll be other book stores. LIAR, he yelled. You know there are no other ones. This was the last. He grasped onto the shelf. I had to use the pepper spray. I am a soon to be unemployed store clerk; I never imagined myself  disabling a fellow book lover.
Howls filled the shell of a store. Everything had been sold off except the fixtures. We tried everything to entice the few hard core customers to leave, even offering them our leftover brownies and cookies free. There are just some very stubborn folks out there. This was their life; hours spent reading and clicking away. We knew a lot of them by name. But business is business.
Let me stay overnight, he pleaded, rubbing his eyes. I purposely aimed away from the eyes. I tried once again to reason with the young man. Think of it this way-you now have time to go to clubs and meet women. He broke down into sobs. I don't want to go to clubs and meet women. Women scare me. I want to read books. Books are safe. I don't sweat when I read. I am in control. I can touch my books and not get in trouble.
Eventually several of us coaxed him out around midnight. He was the last one. I watched him staggering to his car, confused and distraught. The business of America is business, I called out. He gave me the finger and drove off. Right then, I could use a poem.

Exhausted

I can't take it anymore. I can't keep up. Used to be there was one Christmas tree lighting--Rockefeller Center. A big tree, a skating rink, entertainers, lots of tourists, lights pricking the night sky, stunned children.
Wasn't that enough? No, we had to take a good thing and ruin it. Now, every damn park in Manhattan has its own lighting. Even the South Street Seaport has a tree lighting. It has spread to surrounding areas, townships with their own ceremony. Soon each block will have one.
I'm tired of smiling and looking beatific. Tired of oohing and aahing. Maybe if I had kids it would be different. But I see kids at these things who look just as exhausted. It's exactly like what happened with fireworks at July 4. Every stinking town has a fireworks display now.
The smaller the park, the less famous the celebrities at these lighting events. The cast of the recently canceled remake of Charley's Angels was circulating at one event, collecting signatures for a petition to keep the show going. Shameful. And the trees are less than impressive.
Something else that is troublesome is the extension of Black Friday into Thanksgiving itself. Employees have to rush through dinner and report to work later that night, barely able to digest stuffing. I can imagine harried clerks, angry at this blasphemy, vomiting in the aisles at midnight. Why don't these stores offer a full Thanksgiving dinner for a flat fee of $30 and the chance to attack sales before others? Have guests and employees mingle. Set up a piano bar. Michael Feinstein at Target. That's something we all can give thanks for.

Smoke Alarm

The smoke alarm in the hall is beeping, which means the battery is dead. Technically, this is something the super should take care of, but I am a man who likes to grasp responsibility by the horns. I got out my step ladder, climbed up and quickly disarmed the thing by removing the battery. Alas, I had no 9 volt to replace it . I pride myself on having backup everything, especially batteries, and this was inexcusable.
I went to Lowe's for batteries because I have a Lowe's card and hadn't used it in a while. It should have been a simple transaction. But I was weak, so weak. I began walking the aisles, never a good thing. Sure enough, I impulsively grabbed a book shelf made of light, easily constructed material. This was wrong on so many levels. I had been determined to save space by giving books away and I knew as soon as I entered my garage, the accumulated tomes would see the four tier shelf and assume they were granted a stay of deportation.
I hate being placed in these God like situations. As an intellectual, it violates my very core beliefs to use that bookcase for anything other than books. I know some deluded collectors place artifacts from their numerous trips abroad on those shelves and that is something karma will nail them for.
I replaced the battery and tested the alarm. Thumbs up. If I had any guts I'd return the bookcase and pack up my books asap. But in my experience, gutty people don't have blogs about replacing batteries.

Vigilant

We all need to be vigilant. Take the woman who reported a flasher to the police. She had her two tykes riding their little bikes on a footpath where bikes were prohibited. She wasn't even from that town. Now we have this man out for his morning exercise, circling this path in a public park, going round and round, wearing cargo pants covered by an oversize shirt.
According to this woman, this fellow's pants were hanging down, with his zipper open. Of course, vigilant suburban cops immediately responded with an unmarked car driving past seven times according to the accused. The undercover cop actually asked why he wasn't wearing sneakers.
As any sensible person can deduce, the disgusting walker, with a clean record, a local property owner, undoubtedly had all sorts of nefarious goals while traversing this track. Thank God this woman was there to report him and protect her two precious children. And thankfully the prosecutor released this man's arrest to the media so they could print his photo and pretty much ruin his reputation.
I say more of this needed. Monitor walkers, bus stop loiterers, public transportation starers, delivery men who look somewhat slovenly, bikers whose shirt rides up on them, and let's really keep an eye on those beady-eyed crossing guards who are supposed to protect the kids. More vigilance, more questioning, more arrests. I'll bet that woman is sleeping better. Of course, if one wanted to expose oneself, perhaps walking around a track is not the most effective method. You would think.

book discussion

It is agony to be the only man in a book discussion group. You try to get a word in, but seldom do you get to complete a thought. Even if you make a good point, someone is always slowly shaking their head in disagreement. You are outnumbered, brutally shouted down if you persist.
The woman next to you periodically touches your shin with her swinging foot. The one across from you in the circle is undressing you with her eyes. The old ones cough up phlegm and drown out everything. The young ones always have to leave early to pick up their kids. The quiet ones puzzle you. Why are they here? Did they read the book? Ate they homeless?
The facilitator can be soft spoken and insistent or belligerent and close-minded. Some are quite sensitive; if you dislike the book they pout and retreat, encasing you in guilt. Some groups go on for hours until your buttocks hurt. Other barely reach 50 minutes before ideas run out. Then they gossip about people you don't know or discuss linens.
Sometimes I think it is beneath my intelligence to participate in these groups. but they smell good and really dress well and sometimes one of the young ones will poke me to make a point. Don't kid yourself; poking can be very sensual.

Intolerance

Admittedly, I was still working on my craft, not fully confident of my skills. I'd only begun training a few weeks before. Bored with my life, disgusted with my choices, I decided to turn things around in dynamic fashion. I have always respected the work of Eugene O'Neill. He is the master, maybe our best dramatist. In addition, I've loved the work of Marcel Marceau as well. So I decided to combine both of my passions.
I thought I had the perfect audience. The protesters at Zuccotti Park, those Occupy Wall Street folks seemed open to free expression. That's what this protest is all about. Liberal minded, accepting, intelligent people are what drove our country forward and made us what we are. All I was seeking was quiet respect for my endeavor. Asking the drummers to take a break was perhaps my first mistake.
Whatever the cause, my attempt to perform a mime version of Long Day's Journey into Night was met with less than full enthusiasm by the contingent there. In fact, as soon as it became apparent I was a mime, protesters began tossing donated canned goods at me. Several fired paintball guns in my direction. As I backed away, instead of protecting me, police poked me with batons and shouted awful things. Then ordinary passersby on their way to work threw in a few kicks to my shins, not bothering to accept my explanation.
What has happened to appreciation of the classics? I never claimed to be truly adept at this new craft, but even Al Jolson had to start somewhere. I'm home icing down my bruises, contemplating my next move. Perhaps a mime interpretation of Chekhov. No one dislikes Chekhov, right?

Phone Book

I haven't received a new phone book in a long time. Is it possible they aren't printing them anymore? I love phone books. I keep old ones, scour dumpsters for discarded ones, hound librarians to turn over outdated tomes for other cities and counties. I enjoy browsing through them, trying to find names of people I've lost contact with. These are old, stubborn folks who wouldn't have a Facebook account.
I look up odd businesses-aquariums, haberdashers, record stores, sculpture galleries, party outlets, costume stores, pop up businesses that last longer than real pop up businesses, but less than established brands like CVS. I always want to know where every single CVS and Rite-Aid is located in case I get gas.
I found one listing for a store that sells nothing but pipes you smoke. I glance through the white pages, seeing all those names representing individual lives and I feel connected. I can't get enough of plumbing ads.
I, myself, have an unlisted number, but that's beside the point. If phone books disappear, will road maps be next? What about greeting cards if we can make our own on the computer? One tragic conundrum to these events is the plethora of legal briefs that still clog our courts, words without charm, paper wasted, wide margins.
The horror, the sheer horror.

Dancers

Dancers greet each other with squeals and hugs, even if its only been a month since they've met. Sometimes they will climb on each other and do elaborate spins and convolutions right in the aisle. They wear warm up leggings and stretch into splits at intermission. Dancers are great audiences for other dancers, although it is a small competitive world. Their posture is scary good, shoulders back head up, eyes focused. They frighten store clerks and receptionists.
Dancers stride everywhere, even Wal-mart  and antique outlets. Their stomachs are flat and rippled, buttocks high, thighs smooth and bulging. No one will look at a dancer's feet if they can help it.
They define lithe, have remarkable memories, express themselves verbally better than you would think.
All picket lines should consist only of dancers. They travel constantly, bandage injuries, grimace and push on. They exude sensuality, but probably don't have as much sex as you think. Dedication to their art comes first, second and third. Only eight dancers in the world are rich. All the others scrimp and share appetizers.
There are no racial or ethnic or gender boundaries in dance companies. Only physical limitations factor into acceptance decisions. There are many more female than male dancers, but some of the women are strong enough to lift other women. A few can lift men. Dancers must diet and do strength training. I've never sat on a dancer's lap, but I bet it's a well maintained construction. An over enthusiastic dancer may damage your ribs with a hug. It's worth it.
Beat up ballet slippers are sculptures of sweat.
They cry a lot without necessarily being sad.
Alas, a dancer's career is usually short compared to actors and especially, writers and artists. They are the butterflies of culture. If they ever formed their own political party, I'd give them my vote.

Predictable

Look at them. Sitting there in front of the TV. Every night the same thing. Glazed expressions, except when they're napping or reading the paper. Where is the communication? This is a relationship? Any minute she'll get up and go to the kitchen, come back with chips or ice cream. Then they'll munch side by side without a word. Can't they at least touch? They're going in senseless circles.
How does anyone live like this? The sheer boredom is frightening. I think I'd keel over and die if they got up and danced cheek to cheek. God, I wish I could dance. I wish I had cheeks. I wait and wait for something to happen. That couch has got to go. The wall paper, lamps, throw rug, end tables, even their wax flowers reek of blandness. No wonder their kids are hardly around, not that they're any more interesting.
I could have wound up with a dynamic family that took chances and shunned predictability. Hell, I could have been in a bordello--something to watch, pique my curiosity. But this...this is mind numbing. Oh look. He's moved his recliner another six inches back. Be still my heart.

Honey, did you feed the fish?
I thought you did.
No wonder they seem restless.
C'mon, fish don't get restless. That would be like saying fish get bored.
Just the same, that big one keeps staring at us. I'm going to feed them.
Yeah, sure. I never liked that big one eyeballing me.

Mortality

I'm always sad when my bottle of bathroom tile spray is getting low. Barely two weeks before, its stream was strong and confident. Gradually that power dissipates, until squuezing the nozzle illicits little more than impotent squirts that don't reach the wall, dribbling to the tub, useless, humiliated.
Has anyone considered what a sponge must feel like once it's been used frequently? Again, once colorful, ready to absorb, its appearance changes to some kind of dark, sticky critter with a bad fragrance, unceremoniously dumped in the garbage.
Can we discuss soap slivers? Is there anything more pathetic looking? What began as a hard, sturdy cake transforms into slim, slippery, eroded paste. You feel guilty over how you've abused it and never throw them out, piling them in transparent cases left in the garage or basement, waiting for mold to form.
Bottles, sprays, powders-think of an almost empty can of Ajax, pounding the bottom to get the last few crumbs-all suffer the same fate. Toothpaste and shampoo are especially difficult to utilize when they're on their last legs. They actually come in contact with your person and squeezing the last drops out is agonizing. Conversely, no one cares about a roll of toilet paper running out. Roll-on deodorant is sneaky. One day its in full control, releasing plenty of stuff. Then, suddenly, you roll and ...nothing but dryness. You feel abandoned, similar to loss of a beloved friend.
I'm still getting over the disintegration of my mop. I owned it for countless years and it served me well. Now it is blackened and shredded, something a zombie might consume. Everything has a shelf life. Only God goes on forever. And certain kidney beans.

Judo

Judo means taking the force and energy thrown at you and using it to your advantage. Consider the applications beyond actual physical combat.
Someone spraying saliva while speaking-catch it in your mouth and spray it back. Body odor is met with airing out armpits. Burping triggers bigger burps as a response. If someone is talking fast, talk faster. Don't express frustration at slow talkers or people who take long pauses or repeat themselves. When it's your turn to speak, take longer, speak slowly, pause, repeat endlessly. Mirror the scratchers, except scratch in more places. Genital cupping is also easily imitated; throw in some rubbing.
Loud yawns, loud talking, loud farting, loud breathing, hiccuping, sniffing, yodeling, grunting, growling, anything obnoxious being tossed your way is grounds for retaliation in exactly the same mode. Lifestyle judo is all about anticipation and execution. There is no room for mercy. Telling a long unfunny anecdote or joke is robbing you of precious time and you need to address that with equal malice. Reversal from defensive to offensive should become a natural response to aggressive interactions. Age should not be a deterrent. Old people, once they get up a head of steam, can drive you out of the house with their etiquette attacks.
Sudden sobbing is the most insidious of power techniques. Your first response will be to sob louder. Instead, take a step back and wait until their initial burst has calmed down. Then, wordlessly offer the person a carefully folded handkerchief that conceals a gob of snot within.
This is about social survival and there is nothing pretty about combating in the mingle and mix pit.

Award

It's time I got an award.
I'm not particular what kind or what it's for. I don't even care what shape or size it is, how much it weighs, what material it is made out of, although bamboo might be insulting. I won't complain about the presenter or the event I receive it at. In fact, if they want to mail it to me, that would be fine.
If one looks at me objectively, it's ridiculous I haven't gotten an award by now. I've accomplished lots and lots of important things. I am compassionate and philanthropic, all about humanitarianism and other long words I can't remember. I volunteer for all kinds of things including medical and drug tests. I deal with side effects without whining. I am, in every sense, a world citizen.
What's really bothering me is the plethora of awards being given to others. First it was celebrities with talent. Then, reality stars with no talent. Then folks who aren't even in the media being honored by their community or group. Then all those awards being handed out to kids for things I could do just as well when I was a kid. Pretty soon they'll be a Best Fetus award.
I have a dozen acceptance speeches ready, each wittier than the next. I can do the humble bit. I am primed and ready to receive an award. If I die before that happens a whole of people are going to be haunted by guilt. I think this blog entry should be nominated for something.

Rocking Chair

I found a perfectly good rocking chair down by the dumpster. It was wooden, with nice soft cushions. I actually sat in it and rocked back and forth right next to the dumpster. It was light, so I carried it home and placed it in my bedroom, where it was blocking a closet, but that was temporary. Soon I would replace my ratty old recliner with this baby, opening up more room in my parlor.
Of course I would have to pay the super to help me get the recliner out, so my rocker wasn't completely free. Frankly, I don't know how movers got the recliner into my place, the doorway is barely wide enough. But if you saw the quality and felt the comfort of that rocker you would understand my jettisoning an old friend.
My brother and sister-in-law understood nothing. They looked at me like I was crazy. Did you ever stop to wonder why anyone would toss out a perfectly good rocker, they asked. Actually, I hadn't. They said one word--bedbugs. My response was 'huh?' The more they talked, the more I realized they had a point. I may have innocently brought in millions of bedbugs to my condo. The more they stared at me the more I also concluded they suspected I had brought these critters into their midst.
I was ordered to buy bedbug spray and saturate the thing. I did as told, furious at the criminal who left the rocker out where any idiot could take it. I've spent the last three days spraying it, leaving the windows open, with my door closed. I hesitate to use my bed or dress there. This morning there were red patches on my cheeks. Oh God, has the onslaught begun?

Annoy Someone

When I'm sitting next to someone on public transportation and we're both reading a book, I enjoy annoying them by reading faster and turning the page before they do. If they don't notice what I'm doing, I'll cough loudly every time I turn said page. They will shift in their seat, realizing what is occurring and what is at stake. Frankly, I give them no choice in accepting the challenge. The prospect of losing face and confidence as an efficient reader compels them to participate.
Back and forth we go, flipping pages, breathing quickened, brows knotted, blasting through entire chapters. My rival invariably falls behind. Why? Because I only take James Paterson books with me on my travels, with five page chapters and middle school prose. If my foe is reading James Joyce or Virginia Woolf, you can guess the outcome. I don't like losing.
But sometimes they will fake it, pretending to flip through pages with complete comprehension. Their jittery manner tips me off. Guilt swallows them, haunts them. They are disrespecting classic authors. More importantly, they will become even more annoyed at me because once they disembark they will have to reread every sentence they skimmed to get meaning and subtext.
No one reads James Patterson for the subtext.

Adopt

A local library is starting an Adopt A Shelf program, where individuals can pick a shelf or an entire section and come in every two weeks to make sure all the books there are in the right order.
I think this concept can be applied elsewhere to benefit all of us. I've decided to start Adopt A Cold Cut and I've chosen Genoa salami. I will do my utmost to publicize this delicious staple of nutrition, making certain to combat any bad publicity directed at my chosen one. I will promote it at social gatherings, dinner parties, and even barbecues. I will push for more inclusion in school and prison menus. I will conduct sessions on how to correctly slice it. I will do the research necessary to weed out nefarious suppliers of knock off Genoa salami, mostly on 14th Street in the city. It was a tough decision not to go with pepperoni, but I'm only one person.
I would think applying the Adoption concept to power tools would also work. We have power drills, saws, screwdrivers, nut removers, but to my knowledge, there are no power wrenches. There is something remarkably embarrassing in a man not being able to open a jar in front of a women. One twist should do it, but too often guys with weak forearms and wrists struggle mightily to no avail. The power wrench would end this embarrassment. Muffled jackhammers are next in my idea bin.

Socked

Someone is sneaking into my place and depositing socks in my sock drawers. I use the plural because up until recently I needed two full drawers to hold my socks. Then I had a long talk with myself. Actually it was a short talk--I get bored with myself during long talks. I decided to be pro-active and eliminate the problem  with a Sock Decluttering Assault.
I was merciless. Anything that looked like it might be on the verge of a hole got tossed. All those mismatched couples, goodbye. Dozens with the tops scissored to give my lower extremities more circulation unceremoniously dumped into a baggie. White, brown, blue, gray, black, wool, silk, cotton, it mattered not how old, how attractive, how sturdy. These were socks I knew I'd never wear again, replaced by diabetic ones with little elastic to block blood flow.
Yes, it was traumatic. Having sufficient back up socks was almost as important as back up underwear. But one reaches a point in one's life where choices have to be made. My ties are looking at me suspiciously and they should. When do I ever wear ties? I assumed by now I'd need formal wear for events where I receive writing awards. Strangely, that hasn't happened, so several of my suits and perhaps 80% of my ties may be headed for Goodwill.
None of this explains how I wound up with socks I don't remember buying. What if the same person is also breaking in and leaving cuff links and tie clips? I know this: if I come across a nose ring in my spare change drawer I'm calling in detectives.

Jennifer

She was in her mid-twenties, but looked seventeen. Blonde, fragile features, chirpy voice, pretty young woman. Studied acting at Rutgers. I met her at a local community theater. Asked her to perform a few of my monologues for a workshop and she agreed. She was just about perfect in each of the three she did. Before another show, I met her mom outside, and she also looked much younger than her age. She'd flown in from the west coast.
After that show, I saw them interact backstage and there seemed to be the kind of friction evident when a mother and daughter are close, perhaps too close. Jennifer told me she had a problem with sugar. Maybe she was pre-diabetic. I didn't press the issue.
Over the next couple of years I saw her in more productions--Off Off Broadway, community theater. She decided to apply for admission various places for an MFA and I sent her letters of recommendation. Faith Ford was her favorite actress. There was a benefit for a theater group she was starting. She seemed nervous around people. After one show, they had to drag her out to meet the audience. I recall she peeked out from backstage at another play, saw me, and scurried back behind the curtains.
Something wasn't right about Jennifer. I remember she told me she had to take a bus back to NY late at night all by herself when performing in NJ. She sounded like a middle school student. Fragile.
Recently, I tried emailing her and it bounced back. I hope nothing happened to her. She would be in her early thirties now. No Facebook page that I could find. There are some people you lose track of who haunt you. Jennifer is one of them for me. Maybe she moved back to Oregon. Became a teacher, married and lived happily ever after.
Or maybe whatever problems she had, finally overcame her.

Using What You Have

I have decided to sell my imagination. People have indicted it's my best feature. Why not profit from it the same way male models make money from their cheekbones?
I haven't worked out the fee range yet, but I can see numerous utilitarian uses for it that can benefit common folks who just can't make up goofy stuff.
1. An excuse for getting out of work.
2. A story/essay/report/term paper needed for a school assignment.
3. A monologue or skit to impress a hot actor or actress.
4. An alibi.
5. A witty joke or humorous anecdote to use on a first date.
6. A long, spooky story to scare little kids who annoy you.
7. A complete fabrication to explain suspicious behavior to your spouse or partner.
8. A false history to relate at reunions.
9. A fully logical rationale for illogical acts.
10. A series of daydreams to entertain yourself during traffic jams.
11. Fantasies to take your mind off aching body parts.
12. Quick, vicious retorts to use in sudden verbal conflicts.
I have something of value I'm willing to share for a price. With the extra money coming in I imagine myself on a South Seas cruise.
For a bit extra I can create a dual personality you are not responsible for. Multiple personalities we would have to discuss.

Olive Lust

My salads are a dismal excuse for food without olives, preferably black, pit-less ones. I never took a poll, but anyone who ever consumed my salads went right for the olives first. Several times I considered leaving them out, just to see what the reaction would be. But I backed off at the last moment. I can't afford to lose any more friends over condiment conflicts. When I insisted on bacon bits as an ingredient, four once close buddies got up and left. I had to beg their forgiveness, offering to double the crouton ratio.
I go by instinct and my instinct declares nine olives per bowl is the limit. You don't want the olives to overwhelm the celery. Celery has a tendency to sulk and grow limp, which isn't as bad as cucumbers, which rot at a stunning pace when left abandoned. Tomatoes have the right attitude toward olives--benign indifference. Tomatoes are the cats of the produce world, remaining above it all.
Dressings seem to avoid olives, settling over lettuce, almost caressing its chunks. I can't say for sure if olives are standoffish. It's not like they clump together. Each individual one stakes out its own position and challenges the feeder to ignore it. Picking up an olive with your fingers doesn't bother me as long as one quickly consumes it. Fondling your olive around others shows disrespect for the food staple and other diners.
One last word about those disturbing hosts who sprinkle nuts into their salads. Nuts cannot be eaten with any other food, not even Cheese Doodles. Nuts impart wisdom. Nuts tell you to embrace some sort of olive lifestyle. Without nuts, we'd all be obsessed with pickles. If the Greeks had made the transition from pickles to nuts they wouldn't be in such a horrible financial crater.

Who Knew What?

Did the Madoff family know Kim Kardashian was having marital troubles? Did Ryan Seacrest know Regis was leaving the show? Did Charley Sheen know Valerie Bertinelli was a binge eater? Was William Shatner aware that Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez vacationed separately? Was Robert Duval in on Julia Roberts cellulite problem? Is Bruce Willis going to be a father again and how does Cybill Shepard feel about that? Are we to believe Goldie Hawn's first husband reporting her beastial behavior? Was Snookie aware Gene Hackman had retired? Was Rick Perry in on Chaz Bono's persistent irritable bowel syndrome? Was that Kelsey Grammer arm wrestling Mitt Romney at an Elevation Burger outlet? Do we believe Bob Barker's report of seeing Vanessa Redgrave getting dry heaves outside a Domino's? Was that Josh Groban romancing Condelisa Rice at a DC Five Guys? Did Lindsay Lohan slap David Cassidy at MOMA? Did Salma Hyack then slap Lindsay? Did Kathy Griffen then push Salma against a wall? Why wasn't Antonio Bandaras in the middle of this? Can someone please discover Faith Ford in a compromising position with Ed Harris? Is Cher still privy to insider info about Wilford Brimley?
From time to time I will include juicy gossip to give your brain a rest. You're welcome.

Laundry Quandry

Every time I bring laundry down to the wash room of my condo block I pray no one will be there. I am not anti-social, but sharing that room with strangers makes me uncomfortable. Some don't speak English very well and I find myself nodding a lot. Others are overly friendly, asking me personal questions. Women are skittish, which makes me feel guilty for being there. Men seating on a bench waiting for clothes to dry, with no TV or radio on, has to be at the top of the Awkward List. If you toss out a sports reference to break the silence, you might get a puzzled look as often as an intelligent response. You can't gossip--men don't gossip. Okay, Hilton Perez, but that's it.
Doing push ups against the wall might pass time while impressing others, but how many can you do before exhaustion sets in? Dance steps might get you punched. There should be no eye contact whoever is there, loading, unloading, sorting. Whistling only makes things worse. Soft humming might ease the tension as long as it isn't Neil Diamond.
Why should there even be tension in a laundry room? We're all owners. Except, well, some are behind on their common fees and we glance at each other in suspicion.  Nobody likes slackers. Or people with way too many chinos. Invariably, someone will leave a damp sock in the washer. We go by the honor system, placing the item on a table for return to owner. Spare change lying around is finders keepers. At least that's the way I've been playing it.
Reading the paper works best, just submerging oneself in the pages, pretending not to notice that hot lady pouring fabric softener. Maybe if I hummed loudly enough...

Mitigating Circumstances

I was at my doctor's and had to do #2. I've been seeing him, and now his son, for twenty three years and we've had a good relationship. Hell, I'm still breathing.
I was on edge because I was getting blood work results. This affects my digestion, so I had to use the facilities. Well, to my surprise, the toilet wouldn't flush. After I lifted the lid and checked to see if the flap was in the up position (it wasn't) I monkeyed with the pressure valve to no avail. A plunger is useless without water flowing in. Strangely, water was flowing through the hose, but not getting into the tank.
I quietly notified the receptionist who told the doctor and his son. Among the three of us we had about sixty years of formal education and we had no idea what was wrong or how to fix it. So up went the Out of Order sign and I felt for those following me with appointments who had to go.
It was only after I'd showered next morning that I realized the temporary solution was simple. Fill cups from the faucet and pour them into the tank until it fills up. Then flush. In my defense, I wasn't focusing because of worry over blood work results. I have no excuse for my physicians' brain lock.

Finney's Fanny

Under the Volcano, directed by John Huston, is an old film I caught up with at a library screening. We were told this film won lots of awards. A half hour in, I wondered if we were seeing the wrong film.
From what I could discern, the entire enterprise concerned Albert Finney's character staggering around soused in some foreign country, maybe Mexico or Spain. Finney does a good drunk--hell, he's Albert Finney. And Jacqueline Bissett plays his old flame, returning from who knows where. She has nothing to do but look chagrined over her former paramour's condition. At one point he falls down in the road and almost gets run over. I was rooting for the car.
But what really set me off was a brief nude scene when Bissett and Anthony Edwards put Finney in a shower to sober him up. We get a glimpse of the actor's butt and rotting whale meat comes to mind. We are also treated to an even briefer glimpse of his genitalia as he emerges from said shower and a worm peeking out of a forest best describes that scene. Soon after this, appropriately, the DVD began breaking up and I left.
If you're going to show Finney naked, you have to do the same with Bissett, that's the rule. We got no naked Jackie, not even a naked Katy Jurado, who had a small role playing a woman with a thick accent and too much makeup, not much of a stretch.
This whole frightening experience led me to compose a list of famous people I never want to see nude.
Gary Busey, Jane Pauley, Wilbert Scott, John Goodman, Ann Coulter, Anna Wintour, Richard Dryfuss, Dave Letterman, Al Sharpton, and certain distant relatives who've let themselves go.
What was John Houston thinking?

Stare

I realize now that they can see me through my open blinds. All of them, if they choose, can look down into my living room, can observe all my activities. My garage is right across from my condo, part of a line of garages. Above them are two rows of windows, most with blinds drawn.
But they can peek and I would never know. I could stand by my window and look up at them, showing I have nothing to hide. Perhaps a quick glance would catch them unawares. I would mouth no words, but my expression would make it clear I know they are spying.
But if I look up at them, they'll think I'm the one spying. They'll take umbrage, feeling their right to look out their windows is being challenged. My response would be that from my angle I can see virtually nothing, but they can see everything.
What is everything? What exactly do I do in my living room?
I watch TV. Lie on my couch. I paint, relaxing in my recliner. I reorganize books and cds. I talk on the phone. Sometimes I will be at the computer writing intense essays like this and printing them out. I will relocate my coffee table knick knacks. For sure, I am well over the knick knack quota. So what?
I won't be exercising or flexing or touching myself in any way, except to scratch. If I pick my nose, which is very rare, they won't be able to see because my back is to them. However, with binoculars, these beasts can notice my arm moving to my face and extrapolate from that a nose picking event.
Should I shut the blinds like a coward or should I flaunt my ordinariness? One day I am certain I will have a visitor and then these decisions will be complicated. I have decided right now to remove my shirt and display my upper torso for the voyeurs to indulge. Why hoard ripped abs and pulsing pecs? Why indeed.

Workshop

I have an upcoming workshop of my monologues at a local theater. The following is a list of anxieties we stage writers experience before the event.
Will the actors show up?
Will they show up sober?
Will an audience come?
Will the air conditioner break down or drown out the words?
Will performers demand changes in the text?
Will they argue about what the order of appearance is?
Will all the props be in place?
Will they project so the back row can hear?
Will there be a Q&A afterword with tough queries?
Will the read through raise doubts about the work's quality?
Will I have to sleep with any of them later?
Will hot women in the audience want to meet me?
Will everyone laugh where they're supposed to?
Will there be a side exit to flee if the whole thing bombs?
Theater is my life.

Boris

I am Boris the Angry Bohemian. I am not a slob. This is a lifestyle choice. I am unconventional, an artist. My hygiene is peripheral to my philosophy. I do not whine about inequality. My concerns are not whether I am of the 1% or the 99%. Nothing is permanent, especially money and grapes. I establish my own criteria for living and none of it has to do with social acceptance.
I am the edge of cutting edge. My history is unimportant. My education is what I perceive. Whether you afford me your attention is not my concern. I am my own reality show. I will paint for 14 hours straight or I may not paint for days. I am walking poetry. I despise your middle class values, except skiing. I embrace cross country skiing. But I wear Bohemian outfits and if I fall I will contemplate the entire process, lying in the snow, and reaching weighty conclusions.
Yes, I can be ponderous, usually after a few beers in Bohemian-tinged bars. Our circle deconstructs politics, power and sex, not in that order. My God has never forsaken me, although occasionally He seems preoccupied. In the past, I have prayed for soap and shampoo and He has answered. Hand sanitizer is for cowards.
These are anti-establishment flies buzzing around me. I can smell myself just fine and it is sublime. I do not panhandle. My art sustains me. I ponder the void that is the universe, as well as the do-nut hole in Medicare prescription coverage. As long as I can ignore the bourgeoisie underpinnings of our society I will be separate and apart from the rest. Except other Bohemians, one of whom stole my sleeping bag. Bastard.

Can't Get There From Here

So I applied for a home equity loan from BOA and the fellow was so friendly on the phone. Assured me I'd have to pay no closing costs or fees. Then I get the paperwork in the mail. It turns out, yes, BOA will pay certain costs, $722 worth. But there's a whole truckload of other services that must be performed by an official agency whose costs can run up to $650. Plus you need an attorney, adding hundreds more. A 25 year payoff would run me $4000 more in interest than the actual loan, $14000 total interest on a $10000 loan. All I wanted to do was consolidate my credit card bills. So I'm going in a different direction.
I've decided to learn harmonica. Once I've reached a certain level, which shouldn't take me long, since I'm a fast learner, I will choose a spot and entertain commuters, with a basket nearby for tips. I have strong lungs and rain and cold don't bother me. I also can knit my eyebrows like I'm really intense on certain Muddy Waters and Little Milton blues numbers.
 Everyone loves harmonica. Once I establish a reputation and a brand (I'll call myself Monika Man), I'll branch out to accordion, perhaps more challenging. I will need someone to watch my accordion while I'm engrossed in the blues harp. If any of you have been ordered to perform community service for misdeeds, this is a perfect opportunity. I just want to balance my budget. Why let hidden talent go to waste?

Nooked

My new Nook is charging. Very soon I will become a downloading God. I will access cult magazines like Mulch Quarterly, buy cheap books by unknown authors by the hundreds, read newspapers from Nepal and Bhutan. I will see what adult material is available and download it so I can go to wholesome places and privately read about heaving bosoms and sweaty thighs. I will fly through entire books in an hour, engorging myself in the finest literature has to offer.
There is no limit to my voracious appetite for knowledge. Actually remembering facts is not important. What's key is my once knowing things few people have learned. I will access music, learn games that require dexterity, build a library William F. Buckley would envy. People on mass transit will stare at me in awe as I blow through entire chapters at a red light. I will look up words I never use.
I am going to love my Nook. I love its red earth case, a color I picked myself. I love how it sets just right in my palm. It's clear screen doesn't bend or stain and no pages can be torn out. Mostly I love the fact that I am now included in a very exclusive group--those carrying their own library. I need a name for my collection.  The Miracle of Narrative. Too long. Naked Words. Too suggestive. Piles of Wisdom. Sounds like a landfill. You know what? I'm just going to call my e- library Emma, in honor of Emma Goldman, who I think did something really important way back when, but I can't recall exactly what. Soon as my Nook gets charged, you'd better believe I'll find out.

Hoops

I bought a basketball on impulse. This is a top of the line $25 ball. I put it in my trunk two months ago when kids were still out of school. Kids who were bigger than me and hogged the courts, even though I am a tax payer and have just as much right to use them, maybe more.
Truthfully, as we enter November, I still haven't used it. Every time I drive past the courts I contemplate parking and getting out and shooting a few hoops. I imagine myself at fifteen with moves Kobe would envy, able to hang in the air, bending my legs at the knees and stroking jump shot after jump shot, hour after hour. I couldn't dribble; I was a rebounder, crashing the boards, fearless.
Now I'm afraid I'll get out there and embarrass myself. Bounce the ball off my foot, attempt a few moves and fall down, throw a head feint at no one and get dizzy. Try to jump and barely get off the ground. I'll wind up shooting layups, standing two feet from the basket.
More than anything, I'm fearful someone will ask to shoot with me, ask to use my ball. Worse, more than one, a bunch of young men, angry and out of work, show up, take the ball, choose up sides, leave me out or don't toss me the ball. Since their day is free, they'll stay there for hours, long past when I want to leave. I will politely ask for my ball. Anything can happen. Knives could appear, I could get roughed up, maybe tossed in the bushes, perhaps they'll take my watch and wallet and sneakers and keys and car and my box of Ike and Mike candy.
So the ball stays in my trunk. I should have bought a tennis racket. Three old women looking for a doubles partner is more my speed. Unless they expect me to provide the balls.

Free

I am battling back by seeking out whatever is free. If banks and Wall Street want to come at me with fees and greed, I have options.
Free movies at libraries, free plays if I volunteer to usher, free samples at supermarkets, free massages and blood pressure testing at street fairs. Free meals at friends' gatherings, provided I listen to their complaints, practically free books at library sales, free art and photography if you photograph someone else's work when they aren't looking, free music outdoors by those who are slightly pitch challenged, free Shakespeare in the parks, though you can't hear a damn thing, free conversation with anyone relatively clean and cogent, free dance if you wait in Lincoln Center for Julliard students to show up and start leaping for no reason, free candy and t-shirts and hand fans and water at parades if you can fight off other spectators.
Free sports events if you enjoy watching little kids run in circles trying to kick or catch a ball, free drama when parents argue with officials, free comedy in parking lots observing out of shape folks carrying bundles to their car or trying to reach a shopping cart before a fit person gets there. Walking is free and comes with sightseeing, especially along the north Jersey waterfront if you appreciate the found art of crumbling piers and feral cats and rusted metal, free lectures by experts on just about anything.
Let's barter, bypass the whole system. I've got extra socks, hardly used. What are you offering?

The Gondolier

The gondolier refused to give his name. He was quiet, so very quiet. We, Elizabeth, my wife, and myself, assumed they would be like friendly tour guides. Chatting in a charming accent, informing us of the history of Venice, throwing in anecdotes. Not in this case. He wouldn't even look at us. So we entertained ourselves, waving at people on shore, taking note of the architecture, listening to music from the city's market place.
We'd been on our gondola for over an hour and both of us were getting hungry. It was time to return, especially with the sun going down. We didn't want to get lost trying to find our hotel. On three occasions we had passed other vessels and it seemed their gondoliers were singing and talking and laughing. Our sullen guy, tall, well over six feet, slim at the waist, wide shoulders, muscular arms and back, stared straight ahead, his aquiline profile ready to be sculpted.
Say, young man, I believe we should turn around and return. I spoke in what I thought was a firm voice. He ignored me. Elizabeth repeated my words, sounding perhaps a bit shrill. No response. It was dusk now; we saw no other gondolas. I thought he may have been deaf, so I stood up shakily and stepped toward him. Before I could open my mouth, he turned and faced me. His eyes were black oil spots; he slowly smiled, dropping his oar. Everything happened in slow motion. It took me a moment to see his incisors, two inverted pyramids, and I froze.
With his powerful hands on my throat and Elizabeth screaming, I told myself this is the part where I wake up.
Isn't it?

Quarters

The obvious solution to a lack of laundry quarters is to go to the bank. But I can't bring myself to do that, even at a bank where I have an account. I have trouble just asking diner employees for a quarter for the meter before I order lunch. It seems cruel to request bank tellers turn over a roll of quarters someone spent precious minutes creating and handing them a crumpled ten dollar bill in exchange.
You see, the washers and dryer at my condo are much cheaper than those at laundromats. For 50 cents your clothes really do get dried. But we don't have a change machine--fear of robbery I was told. I tried a number of sneaky moves involving outside establishments. One cranky old German woman demanded to see my wash when I tried to use their change machine. I told her it was in the car and spun on my heel to escape. Sometimes my beaten dollar won't be accepted, which means scrounging for other bills and time wasted. Get in, get out is vital when filching a laundry's quarters.
Now I go to the trouble of packing a laundry bag with dirty clothes, driving to the local place, walking in with my bag, getting my change, then sitting and reading the paper for ten minutes, like I belong. Then I leave, carrying my unopened bag, with no one the wiser.
I get my quarters, avoid confrontation and after awhile, the guilt vanishes. I save about $175 a year by using my washers and dryer. I guess it's people like me that are slowing economic growth. At least I'm not making my own cereal and bread.

Lost in the Valley

First they tell me I have to borrow at least $100000 and because I'll be getting extra money over the $88500 I need, the fee goes from $499 to $899. Then they suggest I apply for a $100000 home equity loan, even though my condo is worth only $110000. I fill out that application and send it in. Two hours later I realize how ridiculous that was. So I return to the bank with my refinancing application filled out. I am told the interest rate rose from 3.74 to 4.5% just that morning. I can still save $95 a month from the 6% I'm paying now, so I say let's send it in. Then I'm told my loan to value ratio has to be 75%. So for a $100000 loan my condo would need to be worth $135000. Not even close. Any assessment would kill that baby. So I wind up with this advice: try a savings bank. Their standards are lower.
Now when I hear a Valley National Bank commercial I gag.

At Twenty

At twenty I was in love with the mirror, savoring Rutgers, working part-time and taking care of my German Shepherd. I was trying to avoid being completely self absorbed and failing. I joined a fraternity and hated it. So much was happening in 1968 in politics, music, and society. I grew a fine looking mustache.
I wrote satirical pieces for the school newspaper and expounded on whatever floated around us. I was ready to enter the world as a mature, responsible citizen.
Where it went wrong I don't know. I switched my major from psychology to education. I wanted to teach. Then I got into a classroom and realized I didn't like kids all that much. I spiraled into thirty years of carrying mail. Perhaps I could have been an excellent psychologist, appearing in panel discussions, writing books, helping innumerable troubled souls. Maybe I would have gotten my own radio show.
At twenty I never thought I'd be staying out of everyone's way, keeping my opinions to myself. No, at twenty the world was my oyster, but somehow over the years the shell became more important than what was inside.

Eavesdropping

I can still fit under the furniture, crouch behind curtains, squeeze into narrow spaces, listening. I know where everyone is all the time. I can distinguish each voice in this house. Disease has left me mute. Too soon, my hearing will vanish, but I can still read lips. When my sight goes, and that is a certainty, I will still be able to smell the fear and, yes, the happiness. Illness will spread to my nose and then I will be left with only touch to discover the secrets around me.
That is why I have my hand on your leg. I'm practicing.