Wistful

I am seeking wistful people. You know them when you see them. They sort of amble along, not focusing on anything, in no hurry to get anywhere. A wispy sadness envelopes them, like thoughts of a long lost love they will never see again. You want to hug or at least touch the shoulder of a wistful person.
You need to be a certain age to be wistful. At least 45. Perhaps younger for Europeans, except Germans, who are strangers to this experience. It's all about being near or in Paris. In fact, wistful ones carry around Hemingway's A Moveable Feast. It's best to wander side streets at sundown and dress lightly while sharing your wistful feelings. Don't say anything; just give observers a forlorn expression and wrap your arms around your shivering body. Women do this better than men, although men can light a wistful cigarette more effectively.
As a writer, I need inspiration; perky people are poison to be around if you write; they can be so annoying you want to become a Hemingway character and throw a punch. Optimism has its place in daily affairs, but not in a serious novel. Writers must practice standing at a window, preferably high up, and gazing at the world below as if they are carrying an enormous weight and are trying to make sense of it all.
My problem is whenever I try to be wistful I don't watch where I'm walking and trip over a sidewalk crevice. Or forget where I left my car or where I was driving. If I'm late for your dinner party, go easy on me. I am trying to be in the moment, a sad, wistful moment.

My Art

My paintings are beginning to scare me. First, there are so many of them I have no room for my sculptures, which are formless pieces of dried clay with no purpose except to keep my hands busy. Someone recently described my work as phallic. I wish it were a critic. Sales would skyrocket. Right now sales are flat because I'm not exhibiting anywhere. The reason is my fear of not being able to explain the nuances of my art to interested visitors. I would have to say something like Post-Paranoid Impressionism, or Retro Enlightenment Expressionism or Flagrant Abstraction.
Truthfully, I don't have the patience to draw an orange. I used to spend hours painstakingly sketching accurate portrayals of fire hydrants. Then I saw I could just take a hydrant photo in a second and accomplish the same thing. So I dug deep into myself, became engrossed in mixing colors and slashing shapes across the canvas. I use cheap brushes because genius does not need the best tools. Consequently, hair comes out of the brush and winds up in the oils. I tell people I did it purposely as an experiment. Everyone dressed in black nods in understanding.
As I said, my art is not warm and fuzzy. If you look closely, creatures reside within the shapes-- ugly, possibly disturbed beings. I keep canvases in my overflowing closet and barricade the door. Just in case. That still leaves my strange sculptures lying on shelves, conspiring against me, the way we curse God, our Creator.
I do have the option of darts or pool to fill the time. Phallic indeed.

Epigrams

If every starving writer came up with one good epigram and marketed it correctly, it would earn enough money to support him and leave him time to do serious work.
I came up with one and I provide it here because I trust you to not steal it. You have too much integrity. Here we go.
"Life is like a twist off cap. Initially, you have to struggle, but once you get past the tough part, you are free to swallow all the sweetness within the bottle."
You really have to read that a few times to appreciate its impact. Of course, there are limitations to its applicability. For instance, mouthwash is not something you can swallow or you'll cough like crazy and your nose will burn. Same with medicines, which are dry pills and need to be taken with water. Peanuts aren't sweet; neither is peanut butter, not the way jelly is. Turpenoid, used to clean paint brushes, is not for consumption. Wheat germ certainly is healthy, but a spoonful is sufficient. Lemon juice is too sweet and prune juice has its own problems. Canola oil and pasta sauce are necassary, but don't qualify as sweet.
All that aside, is my epigram too long to fit on a t-shirt or cap or refrigerator magnet? Why am I asking you? I need to contact an ad person, someone who can spot an idea with potential.
Now I'm going to take a nap. This kind of creativity exhausts me. Wait. I just thought of one. "Naps are God's way of extending your warranty." I like it. Both religious people and lazy people will buy into this.
Two gems in one afternoon. I really do need to lie down.

Running From Hemingway

I am reading A Moveable Feast and I can't stop writing like Hemingway. It's humiliating, but I can't help myself. Yesterday I woke up and my bathroom floor was covered with water and it was clear and cool and dark until I turned on the light. I examined my toilet bowl, a clean, rich porcelain that had served its purpose for seven years and I could see now it was beaten, worn down, leaking softly, embarrassed at its own dissolution.
I took my sad pee and retreated to the living room with its tan walls covered in abstract paintings that I had done in Austria during the war when I lived with Lilith and her chain smoking. I thought of calling Mitchell, my friend, but I remembered he was in Nigeria covering the relocation situation. I doubt he knew anything about leaking toilets anyway. I poured myself a drink and went back to the bathroom where the water was getting deeper. I tossed a bath towel on it and it quickly became soaked, but the sunlight streaming in gave it a sacrificial aura. I loved that towel. It was a soft towel, soft in a good way.
The plumber came at two. He was a stocky man with a small dark mustache who spoke in broken English and gave me an estimate and it was a good honest estimate, so we sat down and had a drink to celebrate his honesty as the water spread into the hallway. Within minutes I had written a check in that jaded manner I have when paying people. I handed him two tens and they were crisp tens for his trouble and he seemed to appreciate it. He took away my bleeding, beaten toilet and I stood watching him drive off and it seemed everything had changed.
I gave the new toilet a flush and it was a strong one, full of confidence, a no nonsense flush and I felt quietly satisfied the way one feels when shooting a buck. Then I went into the living room and poured myself another drink and sat in my favorite chair and thought about all the good peeing I'd be doing throughout the long, merciless night.

Pipe Woes

I refuse responsibility for the pipe below my toilet, especially if it's damaged. When I bought, I purchased walls, a floor and ceiling, a door and several windows. No one said anything about pipes leading to the basement, pipes that might be leaking. The plumber came and immediately discovered my bowl is leaking from the bottom. Seven years old and wear and tear have triumphed. This is what we get for sending our bathroom fixture manufacturing overseas to third world countries. The plumber spoke English as a second language, so I hope I understood him when he gave me an estimate. If there is still water leaking into the basement I am praying the building is responsible because my insurance informed me wear and tear is not covered in anything.
I hate pipes in general. Yes, they are necessary, but do they have to be so colorless? No one has ever written a poem about a pipe.
So now I'm waiting for the plumber to return with my new toilet. I should have asked for a power flush model. My friend has one and it's quite impressive. Can I be prosecuted for refusal to accept responsibility for faulty pipes? If so, let's expand it to those with dogs that flop onto their back and expect you to rub their stomach. Now I must go and change the soaked towel on the floor. I should have invested in a squeegee.

No Rules

When you retire there are no more rules. You get up when you want, go to bed whenever, yawn and burp and pass gas, spill food on yourself. Do not answer the phone, door or email. You don't have to remember names or titles.
You can spend the entire day being wistful, watching old b&w movies, a Walter Pidgeon festival, and not feel guilty. Cooking and cleaning are optional. So is shaving and showering. No structure exists in anything.
Then one day you look at yourself in the mirror and notice bits of you are disappearing. A toe, fingernail, an earlobe, a kneecap. As days full of freedom follow, more and more of you vanishes. You walk down the street and no one notices. Enter a coffee shop and the waitress hurries past like you're invisible.
Conversely, as your physical presence vanishes, your thoughts multiply in all this free time. You spend long periods contemplating Velcro or dental floss or why your eyebrows are uneven. You literally enter a fugue state for hours at a time.
At some point you begin hungering for rules.
Out of desperation, you join The Elks Club. Plenty of rules there, but not enough to get you back on track.
So you start a blog, hoping for the one thing you left behind when you said goodbye to the workplace--structure. If you see an older person wandering around, suggest they begin blogging. Unlimited freedom is so 1960's.

Survey on Me

 Many stores are requesting customers either call an 800 number or go online to complete a survey about their treatment when they shopped there, so I've decided, in my quest for self improvement, to offer a survey form about myself to give me a better idea whether you feel I'm worth talking to.
JOE'S CONVERSATION SURVEY
Answer to the best of your ability.
1. Did Joe use big words you couldn't understand?
2. Did he lose focus at any time or doze off?
3. Did he repeat himself?
4. Did his sentences trail off into gibberish?
5.Did he scratch or touch himself inappropriately?
6. Did he attempt to scratch you?
7. Did he listen to your points and nod periodically?
8. Was his appearance presentable? Please be specific.
9. Did he tell lame jokes or endless anecdotes?
10. Did he look around as though he were searching for someone more interesting?
11. Did he use the phrases 'That's a moot point' or 'Suffice to say'?
12. On a scale of 1-5, where 5 indicates conversing with Joe was a pleasurable experience that made you want to go home and touch yourself all over, and where 1 means you went straight to therapy, please indicate how was your overall experience conversing with Joe.
I know your time is valuable, but anyone who fills out my survey is placed into a hopper and the winner gets to spend an entire afternoon with me doing whatever you wish as long as it doesn't involve Velcro.

The Choice

What do you do when a friend chooses her dog over you? This is a little yapping annoyance who needs constant attention. When a group of us visit, she fusses obsessively over this ball of fur, not focusing on the brilliant insights we espouse. Humiliating.
No one else even likes her dog. We tolerate it because we like her and don't want to lose contact. But the writing is on the wall. She hugs that beast like it's her child, purring into its ear. I need to be hugged and purred to, but does she care anymore? She won't even cook for us.
We knew this woman long before that damn dog. At the very least, she should have brought us together and explained she was essentially dumping us for Tinkerbell, or whatever precious name she gave it. Nobody is saying it aloud, but we're all thinking the same thing. If we sneak a baby alligator into the yard and she lets the dog out...I miss her laugh and her silly complaints. If I had known she was that lonely, I would have offered myself to her. I'm still pretty toned at my age with hardly any hair on my shoulders. I would take her out for breakfast the next morning and she would see me as someone who could fill her void.
I hope the dog craps on her rug.

Pedestrian

The police car slowed as it pulled up next to Walter. "May I speak to you, sir?" the cop asked politely. Walter had always been taught to obey policemen and in his 48 years he followed that policy, though his interactions with the law were few. He walked over to the patrol car and smiled rather weakly.
"May I ask what you're doing?" the cop inquired. "Walking for my health," Walter answered, nodding reflexively, as though this made all the sense in the world.
"Are you new in town?"
"Two weeks ago I moved here from Pennsylvania. Allentown to be exact."
I'd like to see some ID."
"I don't have my wallet with me. I live at 278 Milburn Court."
"So you say. Why would you leave your wallet home?"
"I was only going to be gone an hour. A straight line to the park and a few times around the lake, then back home. What is this all about?"
"We got a call. You fit the description. A middle aged man moseying along. A stranger. We have to follow up. You understand."
"Actually I don't. I take issue with your description of moseying. I was moving at a good pace."
"Your head was swiveling. Checking out homes."
"This town is known for its beauty. Surely you don't expect me to stare straight ahead the entire time."
"What I expect is for you to explain why you aren't working."
Walter  began to shake with anger. "This is my day off. I'm a doorman at a reputable building in the city."
"Doormen must make more than I realized."
"Officer, I've been cooperative. I'd like to continue with my walk."
The cop took out a pad. "I need a last name."
"Krasner. Walter Krasner."
"I'm going to give you some advice, Mr. Krasner. When you go for your little walks, use hand weights and pump those arms. Look straight ahead. Don't be checking out the neighborhood. We have three gyms in our town. Think about joining one. One more thing. When you're circling our lake...be careful how you interact with our water fowl. We have citizens on alert. You're not in Penn any more. This is Jersey."
The cop drove off. Walter looked down at his sneakers. He wanted to return home, but he knew if he reversed direction he'd be stopped again. He made a mental note to buy some hand weights and headed toward the park, walking a bit faster.

Watch Your Back

The Star-Ledger reprinted its 9/11 issue on the tenth anniversary and Fran Wood, a columnist, had speculated then on how our freedoms would be curtailed. She mentioned  metal detectors, multiple forms of ID, high level security put in place everywhere from museums to buses, subways or any public building.
Sadly, her predictions have come true. Cameras all over. Everyone is being watched. What she didn't foresee was the wholesale anonymous reporting of citizens by other citizens, usually by cell phone, to police at even small, community events. She didn't predict undercover cops sitting among spectators at scholastic sporting events, fairs, festivals, parades, celebrations. It seems anyone who doesn't look like they fit in, or isn't recognized by someone, is vulnerable to a police stop. False accusations are multiplying. Rights are being ignored. Reputations smeared. There seems to be no conscience on the part of those turning fellow citizens in. Profiling is rampant and much of this has nothing to do with terrorism. Know who is sitting around you. Be wary if a stranger starts up a conversation. It could very well be an undercover cop probing. It doesn't matter if you are doing nothing wrong. In this country now, all that matters is if someone THINKS you might be a problem. And you have no right to face your accuser. Fran Wood barely touched the surface of how our freedom has disappeared over these last ten years. Suspicion is rampant. Watch your back.

Bobbing for Books

Library book sales are a brutal, neanderthal competition. Get there early after a hearty breakfast, buy your $5 bag and proceed to throw yourself into the masses, shoving past old, small people, kids and volunteers. The whole idea is to stuff as many books, cds and videos from the eighties you will never watch because you trashed your VCR years ago into that bag. My personal record was fourteen books.
Yes, I behaved like a crazed animal--but in a good way. I am determined to become an intellectual if I have to elbow grannie to the ground to get there. It doesn't matter that I haven't heard of most of the authors. These are basically new books no one has checked out and are taking up valuable James Paterson space. I got a signed book by figure skater Kristi Yamaguchi to 'Jay's Mother.' The poor woman probably croaked and this was discarded to the library as part of her last wishes. I got a Hemingway and a Faulkner and a John Le Carre. I embraced a Life Magazine special edition on Princess Grace. I got a book by someone named Mikkel Birkegaard. Another by horror master Dean Koontz.
Here is the incredible part. I snared cds by Clapton, two Enya works, Sinatra, Keeny G, Mannheim Steamroller, John Tesh, and a TRIPLE cd by Yanni. Someone was a New Age/Easy Listening junkie.
Yes, I have bruises and was bitten once by an especially vicious reader, but I broke my record with 18 books and 8 cds. I stayed away from those lost cause videos. I deserve a reward. Gonna get myself a new bookcase, then hit the weights to bulk up for the next sale. First I have to lug this bag to my car.

Bowling with God

God is a lousy bowler. No sense tip-toeing around it. The Lord lacks the ability to read the pins.  He never gives me notice. Shows up in front of my garage. Let's roll a few games, Cisco. He calls me that. My name is Ralph. He says He hates that name. I argue He created all the names. He shakes his head. Only the cool ones, He insists.
It starts when we get there and He can't find shoes that fit. God has extremely wide feet. You'd think He'd create his own. Claims He's busy. Well, it sure as heck isn't busy working on His form. He looks like a drunken stork on His approach. His release attracts stares and snickers. Of course no one knows who He is. Once, I had a few beers and mentioned it to the people in the next lane when God stepped out for a smoke. "What's his average?" one asked. "I37," I answered truthfully. "Eleanor Roosevelt could beat that," he huffed. "Could she multiply fish and loaves?" I felt I had to defend Him. He did heal my arthritic shoulder. There's more.
God can't make a split to save His life, not that He's ever gonna die. Not the 7-10, not the 2-8, not the 3-9. He averages at least three gutter balls a game. He becomes tight in close games. Sweats, hesitates. I have to say it. God chokes when it's on the line. Speaking of lines, He fouls continuously and becomes enraged when I disqualify him. Rules are rules, I say. "I'll destroy every foul line and that stupid rule," He growls. I point out it would set a terrible precedent. First foul lines, then maybe Winslow, Arizona, then ferrets disappear. Once you start with that Infinite Power deal it is damn hard to just stop.
Invariably, He asks if he can drive my Camaro home. The car has great pickup. I decline. God never signals and usually is distracted by his cd collection. He likes Elvis Costello and Taylor Swift. There's no accounting for taste, even with the Divine.

Book Club Angst

I'm in nine book discussion groups and I'm falling behind. I set this challenge for myself because I don't like bungee jumping, deep sea snorkeling or cannoli eating contests. It's not going well. One week before my Hoboken session I got the book from the library & it was a 600 page novel on witchcraft. I gave it right back. Passage to India I finished, but a Dr. appt. will cause me to miss the first half hour, which means people will glare at me when I arrive. True Grit was an easy read, but that wind & rain out there might keep me home. I gave up after 60 pages on the Ben Franklin bio for Ridgewood, but completed the Antonia Fraser memoir of her life with Harold Pinter for Teaneck. I can't forgive her for leaving a husband & six kids for some playwright. My Tenafly group went smoothly through its contemporary fiction novel and I actually got a word in. My Secaucus group gave me three books to read for fun. I have no time for that, but I accepted them anyway. Meanwhile, hardly anyone is buying my book, Twilight People. I am facilitating an Edgewater group, using Katherine Mansfield stories, which means I'll have to skip my Glen Rock group, led by two young librarians who may decide to ban me for poor attendance. My North Bergen group I skipped because my back went out from carrying around all these books. I am so well read it's disgusting. It's still easier than a triathlon.

Class Action

I am part of a class action suit. I got two cards in the mail indicating Chase screwed up a promotional interest rate. Because I have multiple Chase credit cards, I received the two notifications, each with a long ID and pin number. I may get $8 per claim. I mean, why would I receive these cards if I weren't wronged by this behemoth institution? They claim they did nothing wrong. Right. I do have the option of opting out, hiring a lawyer and claiming severe emotional distress because of their promotional shenanigans. I have that 'victim look', which would come across effectively in a courtroom. I see where attorneys' fees may be one and a half million bucks. Sounds fair.
So I'll check my mailbox everyday for the dough. Sixteen dollars is like three good size Wendy's meals. One upsetting trend I've noticed is the increase in minimum payments on all banks' statements. I have a balance of $40 and they want a $35 minimum payment. Where is the trust? The only solution is to stop using credit cards. That will happen when I stop breathing.
I half expect a call from Chase asking to negotiate my possible $16. I'm a reasonable guy. If they can provide twenty followers to my blog I may consider excluding myself from this whole suit. Until they try to screw me again.

Fashion Week

Here they come. Models and models and more models. Gargantuan strides, heads down, smoking and texting and tweeting. The bloggers step in front of them, risking being trampled, requesting information, having them sign a sheet. Here at Lincoln Center during fashion week, even the anonymous look and act famous. Male designers, fragile boys with slicked back hair and toothy smiles, are accompanied by tall, regal women who could be bodyguards. Men in black patrol the entrance checking credentials, swinging neck jewelry audaciously.
I am but one of many snapping photos of anyone who looks interesting, including other photographers. A young, gorgeous woman in tight denim short shorts, sits against a wall sketching people. We surround her as though she is some unimpressed European art student. Her tanned legs and feet in flip flops indicate a world traveler. Are the models as beautiful in person? Oh yes. This is not normal protoplasm we're running after. Most are cooperative and pose as long as needed. There are all shades of women, though most are Caucasian. Many are wearing very short skirts and heels and probably should have their own cable channel.
One photog, missing many teeth, appears to be a veteran who knows each model by name and orders us to let them through. Another is tall and never focuses, holding the camera waist high and firing away.A middle aged man in a wrinkled white shirt and Odd Lot tie paces in circles, nervous and confused, an R. Crumb wannabe.
After four hours I leave, having captured over 200 shots of these exotic creatures. No one asked me who I was wearing, probably because my baseball cap said 'Old Navy'. I can't afford Banana Republic.

Death By Coupon

I was $2.07 short. I needed to spend $25 at CVS to get $5 off and I was short. This is a coupon nightmare when there is only one cashier and a line behind you. The sensible thing would have been to grab two candy bars right under the counter. Except I'm diabetic, so I race into the aisles frantically searching for something cheap and nutritious. I settled for a small bag of Doritos and a Pringles chips cylinder, which combined contained 8000milligrams of sodium and I'm hypertensive.
I could hear grumbling on the line about the idiot with the coupon. But as I was being checked out I heard the manager say to the guy behind me that he was only allowed one item on a particular sale and he had already purchased three of that item. He pretended ignorance. Who was he kidding? We've all pulled that one and the smart move is to hit different CVS outlets, buy one at each so no one can keep track. I don't know whether it was toothpaste or stockings, but that man's humiliation knocked my holding up the line right off the radar.
An even worse situation is when you carefully calculate your $25, only to discover the tax doesn't count and you're still short, or something is on sale, causing the same problem. Frankly, sometimes I will grab a candy bar just to get the sale over with. On the self serve machine I can never remember when to scan the coupon and invariably stall out the whole process. Lights flash, there is beeping, the teen employee saunters over, glaring at me, and I want to pull out my 1971 BA from Rutgers, but I can't find it. Instead I smile and shrug and pretend English is my second language, which works only in Hudson County.

Ten Years Later

I remember the summer concerts on the plaza, blues, folk, rock, country. Well dressed young men and women who worked in the towers on their lunch break. The sun burning down and me seeking shade under those buildings. At two, after the music ended, I'd lunch at a nearby fast food place, then walk down Fulton to the now vanished Strand Book Store outlet. Spend at least an hour browsing amidst their huge inventory. Late afternoon, I'd amble to the South Street Seaport where buskers performed and summer camp kids held hands, wearing colorful shirts, staring at the big, docked ship. I, in turn, stood by the railing watching cars cross the Brooklyn Bridge into that exotic land across the river, as tourist boats foamed past.
It was a perfect way to spend one's day off. No one has ever claimed those buildings were elegant, but like music itself, they had their own internal logic. They provided a venue for our messy, unique responses to the sounds far below.
Who knew those fragile notes would outlast their protector?

Arm Pit Hair

I love Mitchum gel deodorant. Twist the knob, three globs of gel pop out, one swipe under each arm, all day protection. Problem is I confused the gel with the rub on because both sticks look alike. I hate the rub on. Every time I use it at least one arm pit hair winds up in the deodorant stick. At my age, losing hair anywhere is traumatic.
You were thinking perhaps this was going to be an entire blog about arm pit hair. I defy anyone, Philip Roth included, to accomplish that. No, I have a more important subject to address, namely, the possible end of the Post Office. My pension comes from the PO--thirty years of mind numbing repetitiveness and stress. The Postmaster General is talking about reducing retiree benefits. If they cut my pension I would not be able to afford my mortgage. I'll be out in the street.
Who could I stay with? My brother's terrier wants its stomach rubbed for hours at a time. Scratch that option. I have friends who are bossy, who tell endlessly long stories, who I suspect snore, who have demon kids, who can't cook, who don't get my sense of humor, who are too upbeat, who are homeless themselves. Could I live in my garage after my condo is repossessed? The woman upstairs lives alone, but she orders pizza at 11:30PM and paces the floor at all hours. I don't need neurosis right now. The shelter is an option. I know self defense and don't sleep that much anyway. I need to find a sturdy baggie for my belongings and warmer clothes for winter. This dissolution of the PO isn't supposed to happen until next summer, but I can't go into denial. One thing for sure--if I'm homeless I'm going to need lots more arm pit gel.

I've Fallen

Is it time for me to get a Life Alert button? I live alone as a senior citizen. I don't know the people upstairs or next door. I certainly would not give them a spare key in case the mailman sees my mail piling up. My brother has a spare key, but he's usually out golfing. I could lose my balance and be unable to crawl or reach my phones or turn off Judge Judy. In essence I could be helpless, not unlike what happened several weeks ago when I threw out my back lifting weights.
I literally could not dress myself or shower. If I dropped something, it stayed there. The spasms were excruciating. I resembled several contestants on "So You Think You Can Dance." Stooped in front of my full length mirror, I grasped what it must be like to be Abe Vigoda. Somehow I eventually got clothes on, made it into my car and drove to the clinic. It was Sunday at 1230 and they wouldn't take me. They closed at 3. There was one stinking person waiting. I was in too much pain to argue, so I went home and took expired muscle relaxants and ibuprofen, which helped not one bit.
Next day I made it to emergency, where I received stronger meds from a doctor who looked like Josh Groban, but it wasn't until I went to my orthopedic doctor who looks like Sissy Spacek and gave me even stronger meds that I began to feel relief. Five visits to my chiropractor, who resembles a large pear, completed the treatment. I have resumed my exercise regimen, but now I'm using a heavy belt for support. I look like a WWF champion. This Life Alert button would help me in any emergency, including falls, CO gas release, other medical situations and invasion. I guess if aliens breech my living quarters I just press this button and Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones show up. But by getting this button I'm essentially giving up the idea of dating Charlize Theron. I'll bet she never falls. She would get my spare key in an instant.

Disillusion

If I expect others to read my blog, I have to start reading theirs. Fair is fair. Here's my problem. What if their blogs are better than mine? What if people I always thought I was smarter than turn out to have deeper insights than me? What if much younger folks possess more wisdom? What if I conclude my entire blog is a farce, just a shallow exploration of arcane possibilities and meaningless observations? What if their blogs contain less rhetorical questions like these?
On the other hand, there may be those I've always respected as intelligent who turn out to be dumber than moss on their blogs, stating the obvious, repeating themselves, recounting endless, unfunny stories and anecdotes, whining about superficial stuff. I can never look at them in the same way. But isn't that the key with blogging? Never having to actually look someone in the face and letting them see you grimace at a bad pun or stupid opinion.
Recently I saw a man I've known for years, highly educated, verbally proficient, a good listener, a man who asks the right questions, probing deeply into the human psyche. He was crossing the street, carrying some bundles and his shirt was sticking out in the front. He looked disheveled, possibly homeless, unkempt. Actually he looked like me on one of my better days. I can never view him the same way again. I didn't beep to get his attention because what could I say? Tuck in your shirt, have some pride?
So I will make time to read blogs and battle my insecurities. Right now I have one follower, which reminds me of the movie High Noon, where everyone, including Lloyd Bridges, deserts Gary Cooper. No one wanted to be the only one helping him oppose that gang. I sense my one follower may feel the same if no one else joins.

Doggie Bag

When is it proper to bring a doggie bag to a barbecue? Is it ever? Invariably when I attend one of these things there's a truckload of food left. It is possible the host uses that food for a follow up barbecue where their second line friends are invited. Or it may be donated to a food pantry, which is fine. But what if it is just tossed into the fridge for days and weeks until it all runs together into an uneatable collage? All because I didn't have the guts to wield my baggie.
This particular gathering was not well lit and participants were distracted by a possibly feral cat and Macintosh apples falling from their tree, narrowly missing several vanishing species of intellectuals. My problem was how to smuggle in the baggie without anyone seeing. It was summer's end and too warm for a pullover. I could have stuck it down my shorts, but a sweaty baggie is no place for a potato salad concoction Paula Dean would have been proud of.
To make things more frustrating, the host dropped a glass container of chicken and onions right next to the grill. The food seemed perfectly fine as it lay splattered on the concrete, but there were glass fragments one had to consider. I mourned the onions more than the chicken. Despite the loss, there was still lots of grub left. People came much later than the 6pm time listed in the invite and they talked more than ate. In other words, this was a perfect scenario for a moocher. Periodically I glanced at the food table in between educating guests with my opinions on the cultural sludge pit our country has fallen into.
Understand, you simply do not ask the host for a doggie bag. There are standards of behavior in my circle that must be upheld. So, ultimately, I didn't even abscond with a carrot stick. I don't know what happened to all the leftovers. I did eat three small brownies, but only after offering them to others. After all, I got there first and the accepted rule on brownies is one extra for the first guest. You didn't know that? Because, my friends, you don't travel in the right barbecue circles.

M&M

I think parents' biggest responsibility is to prepare kids for life. In many instances, this is not happening. Take the other night. I was about to see a free outdoor screening of "Mary Poppins". I had successfully avoided this blockbuster for almost fifty years, but this was a freebie, the night was balmy and I was in the mood to be simply entertained.
Just before the film began, the MC announced that there were free M&M packs available at the publicity table, especially for kids. Note, they never specified they were ONLY for kids. So I made my way over there--okay, I walked crisply--and, sure enough, boxes of these precious items were being split open by four volunteers. Naturally some of the kids got there first--tykes can run fast over grass--but I was able to calmly wait my turn, smiling and patient. Except when I put out my hand, this woman scowls and says they were only for the kids. As I mentioned, that was never specified.
I did what mature adults do. I held my temper and moved laterally to the next volunteer. Did I push kids out of the way? Push is a strong word. A possible elbow may have ensued. But I got my candy. This is a life lesson kids must learn. Get there fast, maneuver for position, grab anything grabbable, say thank you if there's time and scoot away. I wasn't proud, but I wasn't exactly ashamed either. Now if it were Skittles, my behavior could have been criticized because you simply cannot compare M&Ms with Skittles. Don't embarrass yourself by trying.
During the movie, the very kids who were supposed to be watching were running around making noise. Not enough to prevent me from realizing Julie Andrews was pretty hot back then, but still annoying. Of course the parents let them do what they wanted. I had my dart gun with me and I was tempted. But perhaps the squeaky clean film being shown kept me from using it. If it were a Steven Segal flick I can't promise I would have restrained myself. I ate only twenty two M&Ms before stopping, the mature response.

duplicates

Al got home from the supermarket and, as he was putting food away, realized he had bought a liverwurst pack when he already had an unopened one. He cursed himself. Unlike American cheese, which can remain unspoiled for decades, liverwurst begins going rancid as soon as you take it out of the bag. Al recognized that he could either return the second pack and make up a reason, like it clashed with his vegetable bin, or tell the truth, which made him seem like an idiot. If he kept the liverwurst, he knew he'd have to make liverwurst sandwiches for the next three weeks straight, and by that time his ham and baloney would have gone bad.
Al did this a lot--buying something he already had. DVDs, cds, books, magazines subscriptions, canned goods. It was annoying, but he could always give the extra stuff as a gift. Adam Sandler Highlights is a dvd anyone would cherish. He could donate canned corn to the food pantry. You cannot donate liverwurst anywhere. But there was one incident he found especially upsetting.
He was in a coffee shop scanning the paper when he noticed a bearded, rather disheveled man reading a volume of essays by Karl Jaspers. Al felt he was well versed in German philosophers and when the man paused to sip his coffee, Al made a remark about a particular Jaspers point he was familiar with. The man smiled and leaned forward. "So you know Jaspers work?" And that was all the opening Al needed. For a good two hours they debated intricate points by a wide array of German thinkers from Heidegger to Gerhold to Becker, Ebbinghaus, Herbert Marcus, Rudolph Otto. Invigorated, Al suggested they should return to his house and continue the discussion. The man frowned and admitted he was living on the street. Al proposed he stay in Al's garage on a cot for an indeterminate period. Having this sort of intellectual company was invaluable to him, so this was no great sacrifice.
Alas, when Al arrived home and opened his garage door the realization hit him when Max jumped up and bellowed, "Who is this man?" The truth was Al had already collected an expert on German philosophers and forgot about him. Now he had two--Max and Carl. Both men eyed each other suspiciously while Al apologized. Carl turned to him, scowling. "You are sick pervert. You wanted a threesome."
"No, that's not my intention," Al protested. "It was an honest mistake." Neither believed him. "I know people like you," Max stated. "Always seeking a new high. A simultaneous three-way intellectual climax revolving around a Jacob Frohschammer theory."
"Frohschammer was an imbecile!" countered Carl. Max grabbed a snow shovel and swung it wildly at his adversary. Al managed to grab it away from him, but things had completely unraveled. Both men left in a huff. Al had not a single German philosophy expert to debate. He sighed, shut his garage and went inside to make lunch. The liverwurst was already going bad. Right then he noticed he had two containers of mustard, both unopened.

moping and sulking

There is a basic difference between moping and sulking. Moping is a general malaise bordering on depression, but not quite there. Sulking springs from a single incident, leading to resentment. Some say mature adults shouldn't mope or sulk. I say go for it. I, myself, have mastered both moods for huge benefits. I have a way of looking down and hunching my shoulders, of walking slowly as though beaten and left for dead. I also have my far away look, my disgusted look, my victim look. I do lots of interesting things with my lips and eyebrows, frowning like Tom Selleck for reasons you have to guess.
Some parents have told me they mirror their kids in using these techniques to get what they want. I doubt that. Kids quickly master the guilt free sulk/mope to manipulate adults. Most adults have a moral center children lack, so it's really difficult for them to go around kicking things, refusing to make dinner and being uncommunicative, even surly in front of a five year old. Of course there are parents who realize they are in a steel cage death match from the moment their kids can reach a doorknob, and pull out all the stops to stay one step ahead. Our society is geared toward that philosophy--anticipate and act before the others sense what's happening. Sometimes moping and sulking are called for. Planting guilt in someone else for a perceived slight may be all that's left for some of us.
Which brings me to that party you're throwing, the one I haven't been invited to. The next time you run into me at Walgreen's expect an expression of hurt so deep you'll gasp in guilt. Serves you right. On the other hand, you have every right to sulk and mope because this entry is ending.