Monday, October 31, 2011

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.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

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...

Saturday, October 29, 2011

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.

Friday, October 28, 2011

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?

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

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.

Monday, October 24, 2011

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.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

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.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

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?

Friday, October 21, 2011

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.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

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?

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

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?

Monday, October 17, 2011

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.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

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.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

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.

Friday, October 14, 2011

Convenience

Convenience stores are lanterns illuminating black street squalls; a light tap on the shoulder by an old friend. As insistent as they are vulnerable, laminated in shadow, they invite us in, away from darkness. One peers inside, perhaps sees the owner leaning across his counter, hope, boredom, anxiety etched on his immigrant's face. His wife sweeps, his children race down its two narrow aisles. A splattering of color fills the shelves. Sudden urges for chips or Mountain Dew, pork rinds or beef jerky are satisfied here. A bandage, matches, a comb, thumb tacks, glue and a newspaper wait for anyone deliberate enough to search. These are not neat, balanced stores. Surgical light glares, the radio plays salsa or meringue. Cowardly businesses close for the night; this lonely outpost, seen from afar, becomes a beacon of sustenance, civility, safety.
 One steps inside, where a customer chats and gesticulates, where laughter prevails, keeping vigil for a sleeping neighborhood that craves identity, needs the store's endless hours, always awake and watching. From the sky, these pinpoints of light are a town's sentries, convenient needles jabbing at the isolation within this urban ethos.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Home Depot Salivating

I want that $5000 gift Home Depot is offering if I do their online survey and get chosen. What would I do with that kind of money in that store?
 I'd buy wood because I love wood. I'd figure out what to do with it after it came. Batteries, lots of batteries, especially flashlight D size, which no one could get before the hurricane. If they sell lanterns, I'd get one  just for the prestige aspect. I'd perform an upgrade on my tool kit. I don't really use tools, except to hammer  nails when I hang a piece of art I've created. Plus a screwdriver to tighten my mailbox, which the super is sick of doing.
I'd get exotic lamps, or what passes for exotic there. I already have a new toilet, so I'd add a glazed tub and new tiles around said tub. A new soap dish and towel rack would complete the bathroom make over.
Shelves, containers, and shoe racks would be next up. Then I'd hit the garden section, pick up perennials, cactus and mulch because I like saying that word. Add a safe for my important documents, if I can find where I put them. New keys, five of each, small locks, lots of sandpaper and varnish and shellac and something powerful like a backup generator. And paint and throw rugs and a new hamper. Alarms for every room and my perimeter. Make my day, interloper.
If there was anything left, I'd get fancy doorknobs. Damn it, I deserve that money.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Insecticide

What are the ethical guidelines for killing insects in your house? I'm conflicted as I ponder the consequences of each decision. Technically it's my house and this could be construed as an invasion. I have the right to control my environment on my property, right?
But like all issues of life and death, it's complicated. If I leave a door or window open, shouldn't I share responsibility for their entrance? Do I differentiate between flying and crawling ones? Suppose some are on the insect endangered species list? Could I be fined or imprisoned for squashing one?
Witnesses might be a problem. People embellish things to get attention. What if a delivery person spotted a flattened mosquito or bloodied earthworm in my living room? Friends and family would protect me, although since I never invite anyone over, that's a moot point.
Do insects have families in any real sense? I'm wondering about possible retribution, being covered with red ants as I sleep. How many of us have had the opportunity to kill a praying mantis, but felt it would be sacrilegious? A case can be made that insects are also God's children. Or possibly the spawn of Satan. These are split second value judgments. It's not like capturing mice who are covered with germs. Germs are not insects. If you lay out a germ's options, it will at least listen and decide.
I admit to getting satisfaction from snatching insects right out of the air or blowing them off the table. Less you think I'm an insect bully, I am quite gentle with butterflies. Unless they get stuck in my pancake syrup. Then it's Last Rites, over and out, bring in the casket. If a roach gets into my stuff, or worse, into my bathtub, I get all Swat Team Fevered. I stun them with spray, tie them to tiny chairs and viciously make them watch old Fabio commercials. It's called Situational Ethics.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Refinance

I am going to try to refinance my condo. I have all the paperwork ready. I shaved extremely close today and found clothes that were wrinkle free. I practiced my sincere smile in the mirror, made sure I had blown all the mucus from my sinus cavity. Valley National Bank advertises a $499 refinance. My brother says that doesn't include the lawyer's fee. I hate it when he comes up with these details.
My new toilet is still working. The expensive car repairs last week have not broken down. But I need some relief from the ever increasing property taxes and monthly common fee. The eye doctor tells me my cataract has gotten worse, but not much worse. Sooner or later that will have to be dealt with. More bucks gone.
Perhaps I should seek a part time job. Nothing stressful. Maybe carriage retriever for a supermarket. Summer is over and I'm too old to be a cabana boy. I'd love to be someone's personal assistant. Do you need help organizing your place? Answering annoying calls? Scraping the calluses off your feet? I'm your guy. Plus I can parallel park under pressure. If you think about it, each of us has little special talents we don't realize. I can stack things that most people can't. My stacks never tilt or fall over. Artisans have commented favorably on my stacking structure. Anyone can stack pillows or shoe horns. I can pile up oddly shaped nick-nacks. That might not get me a new mortgage, but it's the kind of thing one seeks in a personal assistant. Put me on speed dial.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Parade Passivity

If you're going to have a parade, keep the damn thing moving. I'm Italian, but I have to admit the Spanish themed parade the afternoon before Columbus Day far overshadows the actual thing. Every Latino country is represented, including all of South America. Colorful costumes, elaborate dancing, large, fancy floats represent high standards of its parade structure. Loud, varied music predominates. There are no stalled floats or gaps in momentum. It's a marching tsunami.
The Italians approach things differently. Sluggish best describes their pace, with long, unnecessary pauses that expand into full fledged stoppages. The floats are plain, there's usually one overly costumed horse and a bunch of old women exhausted by the time they reach 54th Street.The kids look confused. None of the crowd blows whistles. Even Senator Chuck Schumer struggles to look interested. Hardly anyone's body twirls. Spanish people were born twirling.
The biggest difference is the Italians incorporate about 52 high school bands, kids grimly stomping up Fifth venue trying to play an instrument in ridiculous outfits. Who made the rule that high school bands were culture?
The Italians need to ask the West Indian parade organizers if they can borrow some stilt walkers or scantily clad women. Bagpipes will not help this mess.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Library Movies

Library movies are great because they're free. Since it's mostly older folks in attendance, they keep at least one light on for the scary movies. Some libraries have refreshments, but you have to get there early. Old people love their tea and coffee and snacks and can move pretty fast when they have to.
Recently I went to see a movie on a Thursday night at a local library. It was an Indian film and before it began I got into an intelligent conversation with a woman seated a row in front of me. Actually we were the only two who showed up. We surmised the Jewish holiday accounted for the dearth of attendees.
As I say, we talked for a good twenty minutes, as the janitor, who was in charge of setting up the DVD, thought we should wait a bit longer in case someone else showed up. When the film finally began it had subtitles, lots of music, a young couple in love and was beautifully shot, with most scenes at night.
About forty minutes in, we heard a clicking noise and suddenly the picture went out. The sound was still good, but since there were no subtitles without the picture all we heard were characters making unintelligible conversation. Taking charge, as the man must do, I quickly found the janitor, a young man with adolescent hair falling across his forehead.
He took his position seriously, stood there clicking the remote at the overhead DVD player to no avail. He got on a ladder and began monkeying with wires. I suggested he change the battery. He nodded in agreement, left and came back with a new battery. The picture still remained dark. By this time both myself and the woman kept assuring him it was okay, not his fault, we'd leave and call it one of those things.
He just kept shaking his head and proclaiming he would fix this. So much time had passed by then that even if he got everything fixed, the movie wouldn't end until well after the library had closed. He was becoming very agitated; this was an affront to his efficiency. I sensed he would be there all night by himself fiddling with it. He might break down into tears. I couldn't handle that. So I said goodbye and left. The woman was a few steps behind me. Outside we smiled and went in opposite directions. I never got her name. I think both of us sensed that janitor had an element of Jim Carrey in The Cable Guy within him. It wouldn't surprise me if he wound beating the DVD player like a pinata and punching a hole in the piano, which sat there minding its own business.

Friday, October 7, 2011

My Hand Puppet

You know, I'm getting a little tired of people asking why a grown man would own a hand puppet. Can't folks use their time more productively? If you think about it for five seconds it makes a lot of sense. Companionship is at a premium. Hordes are working long hours at two jobs. Depression and isolation cloud our cities. No one calls or writes and social networking with all those smiling strangers makes us feel even more alone.
For a modest price, one can find a buddy that will always listen, never interrupt and continually display affection. You don't have to feed it a or give it shots or have its teeth checked as so often happens with elderly relatives. Roscoe and I complete each other. When I go to a cafe I just sit him opposite me while I order. Sometimes I'll read for awhile, but inevitably I feel the need to converse and he is always right there to absorb my insights. I'll slide my arm into his essence, turn my wrist and point his little charming snout--he's a lizard--at my face and our discussion will take off. Don't think others don't notice. All eyes are upon us as we debate a range of topics.
In retrospect, I have to admit Roscoe was right about Colin Powell. I had high hopes for that man and he disappeared into private life. However, I was right about Greece and the European mess, countries trying to bail them out. Roscoe stated it was all a misunderstanding. Foreign affairs are not his strength.
At the risk of sounding immodest, quite a few attractive woman have shown a marked interest in eavesdropping on our conversations. The fact that they seem to find Roscoe fascinating doesn't bother me. Without my right hand that fellow is just a pile of felt and fabric. I always have things in perspective.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Garage Monster

I have to write this fast because I bought low carb chocolate ice cream and I can't wait to vacuum it up.
I'm proud of myself. While cleaning up my garage I threw out nine separate items. These included a dust covered portable radio/tape player from the early eighties, an electric typewriter, a VCR, and six other items I've already wiped from memory. Actually my super came and took my ancient wood coffee table because I had replaced it with a glass top number that looks intensely modern. I sensed he thought he got a bargain.
I have dozens of paintings lined up, bursts of colorful brilliance that for incomprehensible reasons I can't seem to sell. There are quilts and blankets and coats and jackets and ten scarves. My old desktop, which died in 2009, is still against the wall, along with monitor and keyboard. Roscoe, my hand puppet peeks up at me from a box, waiting impatiently for return to my home.
My clay sculptures, resembling diseased rocks, lay amidst flotsam from Marshals Home Goods, Pier I, Target, Wal-Mart, various flea markets and garage sales. I just kept stacking, moving, tweaking, folding, and squeezing in stuff that might be embarrassing to anyone else. I am a gifted hoarder, as opposed to those who can't differentiate. The bottom line is after two hours of reorganizing I now have room for three more hand puppets. Roscoe needs to hang with someone.
I think I'm going to reward myself. Whisper it. Cho-co-late.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Half Price

My high beams wouldn't stay on, so I called my service rep to make an appointment. It was right at the end of my five year warranty. The voice mail informed me they were running a half price oil change and it sounded good to me. So I made the appointment for the next day. Showed up an hour early and they still took me. Sat in the waiting area, read a book. Inside of an hour I was led to my car and asked to show the mechanic how I turned on my beams. I showed him and he shook his head. I was pulling the lever toward me instead of away. It never occurred to me to try the other direction.
I felt foolish, but relieved. A phantom problem solved. Then it got interesting. Never let them do a full 88 point checkup because I guarantee they will find things wrong you never imagined. Besides my oil change I needed a complete flushing of my anti-freeze along with a new thermostat and gasket. Plus my rear brakes were shot right down to the shoes. Plus I was due for a timing belt replacement at 60000 miles.
Even with a discount, the estimate could have paid for a weekend in Cabo. I am trying to squeeze two more years out of this beast of a car. My Hyundai hates me. It was never a good fit right from the test drive. I could tell by the acrid smell. No new car aroma. It got itself stolen last year and stayed in a Wal-Mart lot all December covered with snow. It thinks I purposely arranged for its theft, that much is clear. Since I got it back, nothing but trouble.
Later, the service rep informed me bubbles came from my old anti-freeze. He asked if I added something to it, which I didn't. Those bubbles were my car's fury venting itself. Why didn't I keep my 13 year old Corolla? I could have cleaned up the rust. I'm not even certain timing belts exist. That, along with angels.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Bad Reception

"My arms are getting tired," Bill called out.
"Another two hours and our shift will be over. Hang in there." I'm tired of yelling encouragement to this crybaby.
I wasn't sure of the two hour estimate. It could be longer. Each homeowner makes his own rules. My guy, Wally, is a compassionate sort. Limits me to six hour shifts. Then Eunice climbs up and takes the second shift. I don't know who comes on after her, but Angelo has the fourth segment. He's usually half asleep when he greets me at 6AM., which is dangerous since we're perched on this slanted roof thirty feet above ground.
Bill is sobbing. Third day in a row. "Why me?" he keeps asking. I've given up trying to offer him solace. At least he's single. I've got a wife and three kids waiting for me to take them to games and shopping, all sorts of trips. My legs are killing me, but I have my responsibilities. Forty-two years old, an MBA, and look at me. Hours standing on this stupid roof holding an aerial so the lucky employed fellow below can get good reception. Praying we don't get a lightning storm. Damn recession, damn layoffs. I had my own office and a secretary, a six figure salary and stock options. Now I get two ten minute breaks and complaints from Wally that I'm not tilting this thing at the correct angle and his picture is flipping.
I scan the area, see the others, maybe twenty, all pointing their aerials at different angles, looking ridiculous. You can't keep saying you have to put food on the table. Nine-fifty an hour doesn't get you fillet of anything. At some point you have to stand up and be a man, display some pride, tell them where to stick their aerial. Maybe tomorrow. Oh boy. Bill just slid off and landed in some bushes. You break it, you pay for it. There goes a week's salary.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Ninety Five

I visited my uncle this past Saturday. He turned 95 in August. He wrote a 40 page memoir, centering on his WWII experiences. His hand printing is clearer than mine. My niece will type it up after I proof read it. Some pretty strong stuff in there about D-Day.
My uncle still lives on his own, close to his granddaughter and her five kids. He drives only during the day, stopped taking his blood pressure medicine and exercises his upper body, stretching two rubber pulleys attached to a door and wrist grips. Up until he was 88, he golfed regularly. Sometimes his old company will send a driver to pick him up and bring him there for some accounting work.
He was an engineer in the Army, building a number of bridges. Back home, he became a supervisor at some plant, went to Rutgers at night and eventually got his degree. I still ask him for financial advice. The hearing is not all there and I have to speak up, but he's still pretty sharp.
His apartment is filled with family photos, including his eight great grand children. In addition, there are many cards and photos of friends and their kids dating back many years. I guess he outlived them all. His wife died in 2007 at 87.
He has his 'war room'-- one wall covered with maps of the various troop movements and attack plans, and a computer filled with blown up photos of his parents and grand parents, dating back over 100 years.
What does he think about at night, lying in bed? Are there so many memories he has trouble choosing? Or have too many vanished, leaving holes he tries to fill, piecing together gaps in time? He was a success at everything he did and now he's elegantly handling extreme age. We should all be so fortunate.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

My Andy Problem

Andy Rooney is sitting in my living room cursing under his breath.
"What am I supposed to do now?"
I had spotted him wandering around my neighborhood and invited him inside, afraid he might get arrested. I gave him a cold beer and tried to be a good listener. He just kept moaning and holding his 92 year old head.
"They practically threw me out. You watch. Some 28 year old pretty boy will take my spot. They'll put Erin Burnette in there. Airheads. None of them have my insights, my experience, my dry wit. Don't you just savor my wit?"
I nodded, although to be truthful, last few years I've been watching Sunday night football previews. I didn't tell him that. After about a half hour of whining, he lay back and dozed off. Then it hit me. What if he never woke up? What if he croaks on my couch and there's an investigation? He's the beloved Andy Rooney; of course they'll be an investigation. What if they do an autopsy and discover I served him tainted beer? Will I be prosecuted? I can't do time. My sinuses will clog up. Why didn't I just leave him out there wandering like I did William Shatner before his comeback?
I watched him snoring like a chain saw, holding my breath. Should I call Larry King and ask for advice? I hate to admit it, but after all those decades I was getting kind of tired of Andy's raspy voice. And Erin Burnette is pretty hot.
Another problem: if he wakes up, is it time for his medication? If he doesn't have any with him, do I offer him mine? I'm guessing his nose gets stuffed up too.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Beauty and the Beast

Annette Benning has made 23 films in 23 years. From that output, she has garnered an amazing 68 nominations and wins in various awards categories. Conclusion: this woman should not be allowed to take any time off ever. We as a society need to work Annette Benning until she drops from exhaustion. Let her hire a nanny. She was put here to make movies, not children.
Which brings me to Ted Danson. I loved him in Cheers. So did everyone. Then he starred in Becker and that had a good run. Before you could blink, he popped up in Curb Your Enthusiasm. Then it was Damages opposite Glen Close. Was this enough to sate his voracious thespian appetite? Guess again. He jumped right into Bored to Death. Now I turn on the TV and who has taken Laurence Fishbourne's place on CSI? The inexhaustible Ted Danson. The only reason he was chosen is they have the exact same chin.
Ted Danson has become an acting monster, swallowing parts in one series after another. Gary Busey cannot get work because of this man. Lee Majors is hawking dental floss on The Tooth Channel because of Danson. Erik Estrada is playing fifth lead in Steven Segal films as a result of the greed blatantly displayed by 'Sam Malone'.
Forget demonstrating against Wall Street; that's a lost cause. What about an anti-Danson flash mob in front of the Emmy building? Danson has 15 Emmy nominations and two wins, 10 Golden Globe nominations and 3 wins, a Screen Actors Guild nomination and no wins. That's 26 nominations and only 5 wins. If you're playing first base for the Dodgers and are 5 for 26, you lose your job. He won an American Comedy Award, which I'm certain was given to him by his family. He is active in ocean conservation and wrote a book about saving our endangered oceans. Huh? Every time you turn on the TV oceans are beating the crap out of us. I say boycott Ted Danson and Save Bob Newhart, who, I'm guessing, doesn't give a crap about deep sea sting rays.