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.