Moral Dilemma

I'm at the urinal in a supermarket and the guy in the stall, who sounds about 85, is having trouble UN-spooling the toilet paper. Don't anything work anymore, he grumbles. Question: should I knock and offer to help him? Sooner than I'd like to think, I might be in the same situation.
Thankfully, he got it going and finished his personal hygiene. I hate these decisions.
The other day outside the same store I found a perfectly good cylinder of the Original Pringles potato chips. I picked it up, stood there looking around for someone to step forward and claim it. Normally I would just take it, but this was Pringles. I'm sure the person who lost  it was stunned and heartbroken, maybe suicidal. But if I bring it to the courtesy counter odds are someone will just stick it under their coat. I mean, it's freakin' Pringles, not Wise or store brand and NOT pretzels. That would have been easy. No one cares about pretzels except guys in bars.
The cylinder is on top of my fridge and as days go by, the chances of my returning it decrease. Let me carry the guilt.

Absence of Presence

There are people who enter a room causing electricity throughout. Then there is me. I come into a room and everyone yawns. Even the pets. The furniture shrinks away; chairs mutter not here, sit over there.
I have no presence, no gravitas. Ironically, this helps me as a writer. I can be there watching and listening without garnering attention, making it easy for me to create stories and characters. Inside, I am a lava flow of creative juices. But on the outside I simply have no presence.
Imagine trying to create a character based on me. What is my core essence? Plaid shirts? A sensual lower lip? Hairy shoulders? I don't do karaoke or dance. I take no controversial stances. I even vomit quickly without fuss. Never once have I projectile vomited.
No, I'm someone who blends into the decor. But I'm always watching and listening.

High End

Every year my life coach, Ellen, sits down with me and helps me whittle down my list of friends. I'm not a snob, but do have expectations of these people, who must qualify as high end friends.
Right off, we eliminated Harry and his Velcro painting of Hillary Clinton. Louise's earrings were too ostentatious--out. Marge we kept because finally removed that Neil Diamond tattoo from her shoulder. The Fanucci twins were problematic. They voted Republican, but had a 36 D cup. We kept them.
Al was kind to me all year, yet his connection to Tupperware forced me to toss him out. I want my friends to be both accomplished and edgy. Like Augie, who claimed to have invented the Frisbee and rode around on a bike wearing a Batman costume.
Truthfully, I have only one Superhero as a friend--Elastic Man. But like rubber bands, his elasticity decreased over time to the point where his left arm just snapped off while battling an evil villain. Ellen said he had to go and I agreed.
So it went for two hours. At the very bottom of the list was Ellen's husband Steve. Certainly Steve stays on, I said. Ellen frowned. It pains me to inform you that Steve has removed you from his high end list, she said. He feels you did nothing interesting all year.
I sat there in shock. I realized he was right. I needed to get myself a nose ring. It's a start.

Well Wishing

This is the time of year for well wishing. You send out messages of support, hope and joy to people. You wish them continued success, renewed creativity, serene happiness for them and family.
This is all well and good when it comes to those who have been responsive in the past. You send them a message, they respond, life goes on.
But what about those who've ignored you all year? I mean seriously ignored you to the point where they never respond to anything. These are folks who, for some reason, have decided you are not worth their attention. It's not like there was an argument between you or you stole something from them. Getting inside their heads leads only to frustration--it's impossible. Evidently, some people get up in the morning deciding they will feel better about themselves if they snub a percentage of their acquaintances.
Should you continue to wish them a happy new year etc., hoping that they will comes to their senses and recognize you as someone worthy of their attention? Or should you just write them off as a loss and move on?
This year I'm leaning toward contacting a few and waiting. If they do not respond I'll toss in the towel on the rest of them. Frankly, based on their posts, they aren't all that interesting anyway. I will keep them on my social media pages in case something really great happens to me like a publishing deal. I want them to know about it. Boy, do I want it in their faces. I feel much better now.

My Secret

I love my Lycra workout shorts, but I must confess sometimes I wear them under my pants. It's that tight, sensual feeling on my nether regions I can't seem to resist. Walking around the gym, it's hard for me not to stop in front of a full length mirror and admire my quads, hamstrings and glutes.
I have another secret. Sometimes I stick tissue in the crotch to make me feel more secure surrounded by huge guys. And sometimes, in the process of exercising, the tissue pops out. Let's just say I've been warned by the gym manager.
My other secret is I steal coffee cups at people's homes during social events. Stick them right down my pants in between my underwear and the Lycra shorts while I'm in the bathroom. I've accumulated quite an array of cups. I have a trusting face and no one notices.
What can I say? I like living on the edge. Tomorrow I'm having breakfast at Waffle House. I doubt their metal detector will pick up a glass coffee cup.

Holly Jolly

I went to a library to hear Christmas Carols yesterday afternoon. They had lots of cookies, pastry and hot chocolate. Four adults dressed in red and white outfits bounced around, getting pumped up. One tuned his violin, another failed to tune her flute, which cost her later.
There were only a few of us in the audience, which was just fine. They were scheduled to begin at 2:30, supposedly standing outside. A couple complained it was too cold to the young woman who organized it. In short time it was switched indoors to a point near the Christmas tree. To me, this made sense. I settled in on a comfortable couch, drank my hot chocolate and appreciated retirement.
They were pretty decent; the singing was fine, choice of songs familiar, as you might expect. I enjoyed the violinist, but was dubious about the showy necklaces he wore. The other guy looked like Christopher Plummer and had Bill Medley's baratone.
The flute player realized her instrument wasn't tuned after several abortive tries to play something, but eventually that got resolved.
Then it happened. The grade school across the street let out at 3 and kids swarmed in and around us. Kids do not hesitate. If they want a space they take it. If they want most of your couch they take it. And if they want hot chocolate and cookies, boy do they take that. Thankfully, I'd already had two cups and four cookies before they attacked us.
I left at intermission. Too much holiday spirit upsets my stomach. I think I've outgrown kids.

Tuesday Coffee

Is there anything better than sitting in Burger King sipping their Tuesday Senior Coffee, discounted by 30 cents, and reading Lee Child's latest thriller? I could have been at the gym, running with my club, or attending a Meet Up for writers. That would mean work. Punishing my body, coming up with insights, smiling a lot.
Here I can just be myself on a December evening. The guy sitting in front of me is blasting his radio tuned to a talk show. I don't even have to look up and acknowledge anyone. After 90 minutes I shut my book, return the extra milk containers to BK, and head out into the night.
Am I becoming a loner tired of people? Recently I quit three groups I was involved in and a fourth is ending because the facilitator is changing jobs. Today I could have gone to the library and watched White Christmas, but decided to hit the gym. Afterwards I went to Goodwill to browse. Found nothing that appealed to me. Reminded myself that I had only a dozen more days to donate tax deductible housewares, and I have to say, my knick knacks are far more appealing than what they have.
Six more days to another discount coffee. Nothing better than retirement.

What Bit Me?

First they yank out all my leaves, then dig into my heart. My artichoke identity is compromised.
He rips off my cover and cracks me in half... granola bar
How can I still refer to myself as a Yankee bean if they try to drown me in soup?
My best friend Ralph was swimming next to me in our bowl when this beast grabs him and swallows him whole. Goldfish have rights too.
I wake up lying on my side, feathers gone, somebody taking a bit of my leg. Where did my head go? I wish we chickens could run faster.
I'm basking in the sunlight, buried in cool earth and then I'm pulled violently and teeth puncture me. Sure I'm going to squirt juice. This is what tomatoes do.
Since when do humans give us hickeys? Yams don't even have necks.
Stop complaining. My owner licks instead of bites. You do not lick potatoes.

Let's Not Talk About It

My social circle is incredibly polite. When we meet for our discussions, manners are our priority. This past Saturday I had just put out the coffee and snacks and we were juiced to begin our session. Suddenly one of the members, Jim, keeled over, face down on my new red tablecloth. We were stunned.
Being the host I felt I should say something. I asked Carl to see if he was breathing. Carl declined, citing fears he would be sued if he moved the head and snapped something. Joyce remarked how she never realized Jim had pattern baldness. Lucy became anxious because Jim was her lift. Keith got up, walked over and removed Jim's keys from his jacket. He gave them to Lucy and pronounced the problem solved.
Bob was upset because Jim's collapse took attention from his topic--Why We Need More Amusement Parks. Bill arrived late, looked at Jim, shrugged and revealed he had never liked the guy. Too many plaid shirts. Carl poured himself a cup and proposed we begin and if Jim woke up we'd inform him where the discussion was.
Well, eventually he regained consciousness, but by then everyone was gone.
He staggered outside and barked, where's my car? I doubted Lucy would return for him. How rude to lose consciousness at such a moment.

Crushed It

Suddenly 'crushed it' has become the new hip term. When did this happen and why weren't seniors informed? I was finally used to going green and now I have to incorporate this new tag in my daily discourse.
I can't imagine Ian McKlellen auditioning for King Lear and telling friends he crushed it. It's all I hear now.
I shopped for blueberries and crushed it.
I wore my new suede jacket and crushed it.
I baked an apple pie and crushed it.
I jogged around the block and crushed it.
I read the entire Sunday Times and crushed it.
I argued with a meter maid and crushed it.
I went to Confession and crushed it. Jesus really does love me.
I cut my toenails and crushed it.
I rotated my own tires and crushed it.
I listened to Keith Urban and crushed it.
I did the Rosary and crushed it.
I had a bowel movement today and absolutely crushed it. Ask anyone.

Stop Pacing

People on cell phones, stop pacing in front of me. Stop making stupid circles, stop suddenly changing direction, cutting me off, stop pacing in front of businesses I wish to enter.
Stand in one spot, have your little meaningless conversation, and leave the area.
People in waiting rooms, stop pacing. I don't care how serious the situation is, whether your grandfather's ear came off or a gall bladder ruptured. You're only going to make everyone else more nervous than they are. Sit down and read a copy of Vogue with Rhianna on the cover. She looks like a cell phone pacer. So does Taylor Swift. I bet Leonard Cohen never did the pacing dance.
If you absolutely need to pace, do it with consistent rhythm. Don't get all herky jerky and change speeds. Establish a pattern and stick to it. But don't be surprised if, after awhile, I begin following you, step for step. I'm pretty coordinated in confined spaces.
And do not dare get up and pace in an audition. I will never hire you, assuming I'm ever in that position. And don't fake a gall bladder attack to gain my sympathy.

Pills and Juicers

Someone is switching my pills around, putting the wrong pills in the wrong bottles. I could die or be paralyzed.
I think it's Natalie, sneaking around in my kitchen. She lives next door and loaned me her juicer. I wanted to experiment with healthy foods. I ended up with green glob that tastes worse than it smells. I tried pouring it down the drain, but almost puked as it backed up my sink. Then I remembered I owed Lois $10, so I offered her the goop instead, and to my shock she accepted.
Except every time I drive her somewhere she insists on sipping this sewer water and licking her lips. I almost drive off the road, feeling my breakfast come up.
Feverish cleaning has still left the juicer smelling rancid. Thus, my neighbor's vengeance expressed by switching my pills. Meanwhile, Lois is pestering me to reveal the ingredients so she can mix her own batch.I think all that crystal meth she took in college destroyed her taste buds.

Your Hut is on Fire

This is the sixth hut to go up in flames. The Shah has declared this area to be set aside by eminent domain in preparation for construction of a state of the art camel trail. Coincidence? I think not. But what can I do? I am but a poor insurance adjustor. The Duchy of Kabarkistan does not respect my work. But the village where the huts block the trail is refusing to move. They were given the choice of relocating to South Kabarkistan, but the feeling is there is poor drainage there and floods are a threat. Also, they can't get cable.
Demonstrations have brought repercussions in the form of forced feeding of David Hasselhoff's CDs. The UN Rights Commmission is investigating.
My company is forced to make pay outs after what is obviously arson and the whole deal smells like oyster socks. Frankly, we should have replaced camels with cars long ago, but the Shah insists only the royal family may own a vehicle. It is doubly humiliating when the vehicle chosen is a 1988 Volvo hatchback.
What is really tragic are the two story huts without smoke alarms. I'll leave you to imagine the rest.

A Matter of Time Until

Staten Island becomes part of Nova Scotia
Toe fungus reaches Defcon 5 threat level
Eye contact will completely disappear
Twitter posts will replace a Masters thesis
Roseann Barr will be placed in a time capsule
Pepper spray will outsell Holy Water
Strip searching is an Olympic sport
Every white person on the upper West Side will adopt a Chinese orphan
Paul McCartney will develop a fourth chin
Local militia will form to prevent Taylor Swift from entering city limits
Bald becomes the new symbol of sensitivity
Boy bands will be bought & sold on the Black Market
No one south of Delaware will use the word conundrum
Excess poets will be auctioned off
The words Man Up will mean switching from margarine back to butter

Disappearing Dentist

My dentist has vanished. I spent a week calling and getting no response. Finally the phone company informed me the number was temporarily disconnected.
I am hesitant to drive past his office. What if there is police tape across the entrance? Is it possible he just snapped and went berserk on a patient with a drill? Did he do away with his receptionist? I wonder if he was secretly inhaling laughing gas, causing a disconnect with reality.
I liked my dentist. He didn't talk much and cleaned my teeth himself. He was gentler than the hygienists, who may secretly hate men and exact revenge by digging in under the gums. Maybe he served as a drug drop or sold illicit Poly dent. God, what if he wasn't really a dentist? What if he got off on x-raying teeth? Over the past three years he has filled no cavities. What if my mouth has been decaying all that time, while this fraud ignored obvious problems?
Now I have to find another dentist, preferably one without a sadistic hygienist.
Why do these things happen to me?

Burger King Blackout

The lights went out in Burger King as I sat there reading a book. Luckily I had finished my meal, otherwise I might have let the lettuce and tomato slide out in the dark. I would have spilled the soda and tripped getting up and quite possibly have left a French fry or two on my plate.
No one screamed or panicked. I suppose I could have sneaked over to the soda dispenser and refilled my cup. Maybe even swiped extra straws. Don't laugh. As we filed to the door the couple in front of me found it locked. Evidently, BK has a system to automatically lock everyone inside in an emergency. Or so they can frisk us. Or maybe it's to keep others out. I am trying to imagine being stuck in a BK for hours, unable to see. Would there be grounds for a lawsuit? Copulation in the rest rooms?
Actually, it only took moments for the doors to open and there we were out in the blackened parking lot with nothing to do but start our cars and leave. The workers? Hey, they were getting paid for standing there doing nothing and I'm sure they had coffee. Maybe it was experimental. If you can't see the food it might taste better.

Privacy Settings

In these intrusive times privacy is so important. One must create levels of exclusion in one's life. I have gone down my list of contacts and carefully delineated where their boundaries are with regard to my personal idiosyncrasies and especially my space.
Jan can check my hair and armpits for lice, but nowhere else. Danielle can inspect my entire body for anything abnormal. Steve has permission to read my poetry, but not my strange musings, which might put him over the edge. Mirella can look through my pajama drawer, but not my underwear, Candy can check out my shorts, but not my socks, Carl can explore my medicine cabinet, but not my diary.
Harriet has full access to my diary, but not my morning pages, Howard has my garage to check, but stay out of my storage space, Keith can get into that space, but not my fridge, Ed has access to my public blog, but not my private fantasies, which are locked in a safe only Nancy can open.
Mary can watch me brush my teeth, but not pee, Josie can watch me shave, but not pee, Margaret can watch me shave and pee because she is a doctor, Ulrike can tickle me, Arlene can clean out my ears and then blow in them.
Jackie can give me a massage only above the chest.
I have to end this because Candy is in my bedroom spending just a little too much time checking my shorts. There are limits to sharing.

Tender Mercies

I am feeling especially compassionate this holiday season and decided to offer clemency to all those who got on my nerves this year.
Let's start with women who keep picking lint from my clothes. I enjoy lint; it completes me. Those who correct my pronunciation, who leaves clothes in the communal washer/dryer for hours, who bought my books thinking they were scratch and sniff, who interrupt my expatiating on any subject to remind me they have to get up early for work, who clean out the apple crumb at Dunkin.
I forgive my own body for emitting strange noises on public transportation.
I am determined to pardon all those who begin sentences with...
To be honest
Frankly
In my humble opinion
Let me say first
Before I get to my point
At the risk of offending
As inappropriate as this sounds
Maybe I'm wrong about this
Call me stupid
Be forewarned
I consider you a friend, but
To make a long story short

Finally, I resolve not to lose my temper and use chloroform on anyone this entire holiday.

Service with a Smile

My robot hardly smiles anymore. When I first purchased Louise she smiled during whatever task I gave her. I was satisfied except for one instance. When I asked for discipline, she smiled all through the spanking session. It took the edge off. I tweaked her software so that she would glare at me more often. Guess I overdid it. Now when I ask her to do the dishes she gets surly.
I can't afford another robot.  When I take her to social events she makes the other guests' pleasant robots uncomfortable. I have to assume none of these people have their robot discipline them.
It's all my fault this happened and I feel guilty, which means it's time for some discipline. Maybe at some point Louise will enjoy punishing me so much, that smile will return.
Louise, come in here please. And this time bring the suede strap. Variety is key with your robot.

Too much Light

By my count, there are now 176 tree lightings scheduled in this area. They begin right after Thanksgiving and continue to mid December. I plan to attend all of them, no matter how exhausted I become. Why? Because I know you can't and somebody has to be there. There will be singing and short speeches and lots of color. The trees vary in size, but the message is clear. We have the spirit, we know the drill.
As far as I know, none of these events include giving away free stuff. Maybe if they offered a free slice of pizza attendance would spike. Also, if it is too warm the atmosphere changes for the worst. Bitter cold, puffs of breath, rubbing of hands are conducive to a quality tree lighting.
You pray the DPW guys in charge haven't overloaded any circuits or the volunteers who trimmed the tree did not put too many figurines on one side creating an imbalance, which could lead to a toppling. I've never seen anything like that, nor fist fights or arguments. Most guys are embarrassed to be there. Nothing masculine about a tree lighting. I think the kids get bored pretty quick. Old people tend to enjoy it, as long as there are port-o-johns nearby.
The smallest towns have them and you hope all that electrical usage won't cause an Elks Club blackout. That would force all the Elks to the VFW hall and we know how much they rub each other the wrong way.

Sweater Shortage

Why can't I find men's sweaters? Have men stopped wearing the zipper or button up styles? Do not talk to me about pullovers. I have shoulder problems and avoid pulling anything over my head. I'm looking for a brown, tan or dark yellow zip up sweater which will match my various outfits in those colors.
I have blue sweaters up the kazoo, purchased with my postal uniform allowance. I still keep them and wear them with the official patch. It sems to get me more respect.
Old Navy had just what I wanted, but a size too small. Forget Target. Not a single men's sweater of any type. TMaxx wasn't much better. K-Mart has disappeared. I'm desperate enough to try Walmart. Kohls might be a possibility with a discount card I got in the mail.
What can I say? I look good in sweaters. The market should be accommodating guys like me. I also wish my legs were longer. Try finding a decent pants with 29 length. If I go 30 I have to create cuffs which never stay up. The bottom gets worn out and ragged.
Perry Como and Bob Newhart wore great sweaters. Bill Cosby's sweaters were all pullovers. Come to think of it, I never saw Cary Grant wearing a sweater. I guarantee if he shopped Targets and complained, they'd lay out tables full of sweaters faster than you could say Sinatra, who favored ORANGE button ups, but who am I to judge?

One of Those

I don't want to become one of those old people. You know, the ones who walk into a place of business and cause the young counter people to whisper, oooh, he's got something hanging from his chin. Who starts up one aisle, reverses direction for no apparent reason, who can't remember what parking lot he left his car, let alone what space. Whose nieces and nephews avoid him at family functions, who sprains his back putting out the garbage, who cannot slide his car into a space on the first try, whose socks don't match, whose best friend is his dog.
Who trims his own hair with frightening results, who leaves a dollar tip, who goes power walking with sissy one pound weights, who talks really loud on public transportation, who feels he can say anything inappropriate because he is old, who tries to flirt with women who are just doing their job, who takes too damn long walking up or down stairs, who incites giggling among teens for any number of reasons.
I want to be like Cary Grant or Gregory Peck, who never had noodles with gravy hanging from their chins or lips. I want respectful looks and for people to sit up straight when I walk into a room.
I just hope it's the right room.

10 Reasons to Brave a Snowstorm

1 Old Navy has a 40% off sale
2 Hot coffee at McDonalds
3 Sledding is Ageless
4 Free movie at the library
5 Observe those who have to work
6 Replenish snowball supply
7 Must find a newspaper
8 Huddle with others, pretend you're under seige
9 Cool air opens sinuses
10 Women admire hearty men

Thanksgiving Strangers

I spent Thanksgiving with my sister in law's family, mostly Irish who speak quite loud. I sat at the head of the table and for a moment wondered if we should say grace. That passed and for the next two hours we ate heartily and discussed the storm.
I made none of this food and felt somewhat guilty. But I made up for it by inserting witty remarks at regular intervals. Football, of course, dominated the TV. I settled in the most comfortable chair and had a perfectly civil conversation with someone's aunt.
A part of me wanted to leave early and line up at one of the early bird stores. Maybe I could get a great deal on smoke alarms or something. Perhaps I could make new friends. Including Thanksgiving and door busters in the same sentence seems sacrilegious.
Now I will have to buy wreaths for the graves. I will use a coupon at AC Moore. Maybe I will seek out a small tree at the 99 cent store. I know half my fridge will be leftovers and a good part of my upcoming conversation will also be fragments from Thanksgiving, except without the constant chewing.
I sure hope olives last a long time because I've got an army of them.

Blinking Phone

My Samsung cell has been blinking at me for weeks. The entire keyboard flashing, with a combination of numbers and letters on the screen that bears no resemblance to anything. Am I being contacted by aliens? I called AT&T and was told someone else made this complaint. So there is one other person in the world experiencing this phenomenon. We may well be the chosen ones.
They promised to send me a free replacement, a much more expensive phone. That was a month ago. Then Sandy hit and mail was delayed. I made a followup call and was told they would try to speed up the process. So far, no phone.
Sometimes my old one will actually work for a day, teasing me. The aliens are displaying complete control over my communications.What do they want from me? Did they actually intercept my call and pretend to be phone representatives? Should I visit an outlet store in Hoboken and have them look at the strange occurrence with my Samsung? What if the entire corporation has been taken over by aliens in human form and are toying with me? I wish I knew the identity of the other person inflicted with this phone madness. And what is the meaning of that message flashing across the top? I wish Stanley Kubrick were alive.

The Coconut Kid

I was turned on to coconut spread on toast and there is no reason to leave the house anymore. Plus, I have a bag of coconut flakes which I will sprinkle on my cereal. I was shown a book about the miracle of coconut. It can heal, sooth, calm inflammation, give me younger skin and stronger hair. Can it get me a date with Carly Kloss?
I was also told about Tumeris, a spice that also combats inflammation, which can cause lots of health problems by itself. But I went to three stores and they were out. People have been secretly hoarding this spice in my opinion. I don't just want good health. I want to outlive all my readers.
The point is you have to pay attention when those who know about nutrition wish to share that knowledge. Especially if they look better than you. Whole Foods is quite fascinating. The average educational level of its customers is Masters Degree. Everyone is extremely polite and serious. These are people who are quietly changing the world with their food choices and they know it. Nevertheless, peanut butter is about $2 less at Walmart. And you can grab a Subway sandwich after shopping there.
Hey, I only have a BA.

Black Friday

Well Black Friday wasn't all that crazy. I hit Radio Shack for memory cards, AC Moore for art supplies and a bookcase, Modells for a gift fleece vest. I was basically in and out because I'm a guy who knows what he wants.
I know what balloons I will photograph at the Macy's parade and which I will ignore for aesthetic reasons.
The only hesitation I experienced through this holiday was at the Expendable Relative Wholesale Warehouse in Secaucus. I entered knowing I have a small family, but not certain who I would add, if anyone. Last year I found no one there terribly interesting on any level. A few were downright unattractive.
But this year it was a whole different story. Evidently a lot of families downsized over the year and the result was a succulent choice of f aux relatives. I left with a second cousin, two first cousins, an aunt, a nephew and a son in law. Could hardly fit them all in the car. But at least I'll be surrounded by actual people this Christmas instead of those cheap inflatable relatives made in Hong Kong. Hopefully one of them can cook. Now I have to find those extra air mattresses I picked up at a Labor Day sale at Targets. If this works out I may even get them cots.

Kate Moss

Kate Moss moved upstairs from me. This was unexpected. I happened to see her pulling into my parking space. I decided to avoid a confrontation and parked a block away.
She's not a very big woman, but has a heavy footstep. I can hear her pacing back and forth all day. Nights, she is always out. Sometimes she looks really extraordinary and sometimes she looks like a slob. She never empties her mailbox. I have to do it for her. The hall smells of cigarette smoke.
She's polite, using that gap tooth smile to charm. Her kid is brought over almost every day, but I think she lives elsewhere. She doesn't ever bring men home. I was thinking of asking her out. There's an age difference and she has way more money than me. But I have a college degree and write short stories. She doesn't.
One time she asked if I had any crackers. I gave her a whole box of Saltines. In retrospect I should have only given her some. I'm not going to see those crackers again.
I wonder what she's doing in New Jersey. She saw me in my undershirt today and kind of gave me the eye. Good thing I sucked in my stomach. I noticed she does get food caught in that tooth gap. Peppers and cole slaw, licorice especially.

Bosses

Sometimes I consider returning to work part time to supplement my pension. Then something happens to snap me back to reality.
I was in a supermarket yesterday reading the paper, sipping coffee along with others. Suddenly, to my right, I heard tense talk. The manager was reaming out a worker loudly enough so that all could hear. Evidently, the stock clerk had gotten coffee while he was supposed to be working. The boss leaned in and charged him with getting coffee 'on my time' instead of on his break. 'Yes or no' he kept repeating like a vicious prosecutor. The guy hesitated, stumbled around, embarrassed, trying to avoid escalating this conflict. "This is the way you want to go with this?" he repeated. Eventually the boss told him to punch out and go home. I'm guessing he's going to be written up and the union will get involved.
I am very familiar with this form of public humiliation, having worked 30 years for the Post Office. Supervisors relished embarrassing workers on the floor over minor in fractions. The sensible thing would be to take the employee in the office and discuss things privately, adult to adult. The clerk, like everyone, knew he was lucky to have a job in this economy. Here he was, working on a Sunday at a dead end job for low pay and because he grabbed a cup of coffee he gets sent home. Wonderful.
No, I have no desire to work for someone like that. Ironically, the boss resembled Dr. Phil, a Dr. Phil with no understanding of human dignity.

Suburban Stranger

She moves up and down our blocks, stately, elegant, dressed in black. Quite beautiful.
Roz and I decided to lock our husbands in the garage when she's around. We know she must live around here. Her perfume could kill a commando. Leaves whirl around her, squirrels flee.
She is a Suburban Witch, looking to take our spouse. An evil Succubus feeding on happy marriages. Roz wants to throw a net over her and dump her in the bay. I won't get that close. One time she met my eyes and it was like white hot ingots searing into my face. Gypsies fear this woman.
One day she will insinuate herself into a domestic situation and ingratiate herself with the kids. In an eye blink the poor wife will be tossed to the gutter or worse.
No, this one will never join a PTA bake sale. The most dangerous woman in suburbia.

Returning Your Call

Hello? Yes, God, it's me returning your call. I was out bowling. You should know that. You're All-Seeing. Let's not quarrel. I'm here now. What? No way. I did not scoop out Holy Water into a cup and use it in my Netti Pot. Don't listen to Father Shaw. He hates my tongue. Every time he slips the Communion wafer in my mouth he flinches. The man has issues.
Okay, you got me on skipping three Rosary beads and maybe shortening a Novena or two. I'm a busy guy working two jobs. Plus we had that hurricane. I need a new mattress among other things. Of course you don't use a mattress or pillows or bath mats. You never sleep. You must have been dozing when you created Wilmington, Delaware.
I'm not being snippy. How do you keep getting my new number? A Divine Mystery? Your usual explanation. Well, explain why my Breath Right nasal strip keeps peeling off at night.
Do me a favor. Put one of the saints on. St. Agnes. Someone I can communicate with.
For once.

Slice It Thin

Marty, the Word Butcher, had a tattoo of Dmitri Pushkin on his forearm. His apron was stained with rotting similes.
What's good this week big guy, I asked.
Five haikus for a buck, he shot back. I shook my head. Got a year's worth of those. Got any sonnets? Last time you didn't trim the fat and I rambled at an open mike. He looked offended. I sell lean prose, fella. No fat.
Well, this is poetry and flabby syntax doesn't get it.
I got a bad shipment, Lenny. But if you're looking for tasty anecdotes...
Are they fresh?
In my freezer as we speak. I shrugged. Anecdotes are so 1988. Gimme a dozen limericks, no topping, preferably English. Hold the punctuation. And slice them thin. This is a sensitive group with delicate pallets.
Lenny, you're trying to be Bukowski and I told you they can't digest that stuff before 10PM.
I grabbed my limericks wrapped in wax paper and left the place, muttering eat my vowels. The problem with audiences today is they never chew slowly and savor the images. Thinking about my latest poem, my mouth started to water. What to wash it down with? Something Irish.

Downward Slide

Today a middle aged woman in the library left her post at the coffee bar (the libraries I frequent have coffee bars), walked over and helped me put on my coat. I was having trouble getting one arm in the sleeve. I have shoulder pain on both sides and have to be very careful extending my arms. I thanked her and she smiled and returned to her spot, feeling good about herself.
Outside I started to panic. Suppose she wasn't there and my arm stayed stuck in a bent position halfway inside the sleeve. Who's to say if anyone else would have stepped forward and assisted me? I might have staggered outside, all bent sideways, moving awkwardly, unable to remove my cars keys, open the door or start the car. How would I steer? The police station is adjacent to the library, but how would I reach up and press the buzzer? Would cops be sympathetic?
I was this close to being in a helpless situation. Is this my future? If I try to scratch my back will my shoulder freeze, leaving me with one arm trapped behind me? What if I have to rub something? Will there be a time when I can't don socks or shoes? I have no hair to comb, thankfully. Still, a wedgie demands quick action and if I have two frozen shoulders, who would yank my underwear from my butt crack? If you were truly a friend you'd have your hand up.
I hate getting old.

Nerve Test

On November 29 I will be getting my semi annual nerve test for the feet. Being a diabetic, these things are needed to monitor how much sensitivity I'm losing in the extremities. A man has five extremities, four of which are visible. All are, sadly, vulnerable to this rotten disease.
The man who administers my big nerve test is personable enough. My issue is with the test itself. He hooks up this prong device to a monitor and places the tip at various point along the ankle and foot and calf and unleashes a shock that jerks your foot slightly. My least favorite is when he puts it behind the knee. The test takes about 12 minutes. I cringe all the way through.
My foot doctor has a coffee machine and cookies. That is what I concentrate on during this torture.
There is also a small nerve test, which is just a little pinprick and that is basically painless. That man is older, bald, and more blue collar. I can talk sports with him while he goes through the procedure. I tell him when I feel something.
My foot doctor hates Obamacare. Maybe I should too, considering how much will be cut from Medicare. Meanwhile we're spending 8 gazillion dollars to fight wars in countries that don't want us in there.
104 million people voted. Where did it get us?

Medicare Surprises

I am slowly learning about Medicare, which I will switch to next spring. If you attend a Medicare lecture you will see many troubled, confused faces. Just keeping track of what Medicare does and doesn't cover is challenging. It doesn't cover routine foot care. 90% of what my podiatrist does is routine. Because I'm diabetic, does that mean nothing he does is routine and I'm covered?
Medicare does not cover medical expenses caused by an auto accident. I called my agent at Cigna and she assured me if I kept that as my secondary insurance they would cover anything Medicare didn't. But she didn't sound sure. Not that I'm planning to get into an accident.
I'm on a lot of prescription drugs, which will be covered until I reach the donut hole, in which case I will have to pay 100% until I move out of said hole and into open air again. Obama is supposed to reduce that hole, but will Obamacare wind up costing me more?
How much of my next colonoscopy will Medicare cover? Suppose the doctor gets halfway in and a buzzer goes off signifying my coverage has just ended? Does he pull out and shut everything down?
Does Medicare cover panic attacks because I feel one coming on.

Rude

There are some people I really don't care enough about that if they do not respond to a message I shrug it off. But others I do want to maintain a connection and if they blow me off for no reason, that is the height of rudeness. It's worse than making a snippy remark. No response means you are completely irrelevant. No one wants to be interchangeable.
One person who performed many of my monologues and skits and with whom I had a good relationship suddenly decided to cut me off. Three messages sent, none returned. It's been over a year since we spoke. I never paid her a cent for performing my work. Instead, I commissioned a beautiful watercolor portrait of her. She never acknowledged my act, never responded to my request to drop it off. I had no hint she would behave like this. I could send a nasty email telling her to grow up and get over herself. But that would only make me feel worse.
So her portrait hangs on my wall, smiling down at me. And every day my bafflement grows. You never really know another person.

Jump the Line

A beautiful woman carrying an empty gas can is kind of sexy, especially if she looks sad. I ran into one while stretching out in he park, a babe near tears. Naturally I stepped in with comforting words, gently leading her out of the park to a line of similar souls holding their cans near a station.. The line moved slowly and we related our life stories. I was a mime and she was a ventriloquist. Work was slow during and after the hurricane. We were bonding however, when a car tried to cut in the vehicle line. I jumped into action, getting the plate number, while others kicked and pounded on the vehicle.
I looked inside and was stunned to see my grandmother behind the wheel. I fought back instinct to protect her and let the others continue to pound away until the window rolled down and several shots rang out scattering the crowd. It slipped my mind that granny never left the house without a weapon. Cheryl, the woman I met, was hiding behind a tree and ducked as Granny drove off in a huff. She evidently thought seniors got priority.
Many were shook up, no one hurt, except we lost our place in line and Cheryl started crying. So I told her to go home, I'd take her place holding the gas can and after getting the precious fuel, I'd call her & meet for coffee. In this way I got her number, except later her huge brother Lenny showed instead for the gas, thanking me as he handed over a twenty. Keep the change, he said.
Damn you, granny.

Lobsters Can't Plan Ahead

One minute you're crawling along minding your own business
The next thing you know you're soaking in boiling water, legs cut off and no fingers to dial 911.
I came across a lobster spread sheet yesterday lying in the street and it was sad. The entire month of December was filled with activities. I never knew there was a lobster karaoke night. This was a vibrant crustacean named Warren with unlimited potential. To end up as a main course for affluent diners at an upscale establishment is a sin against nature.
Maybe they remove frog's legs, but at least they can still get around with prosthesis. And it's done so fast I doubt they feel anything. But to be a proud creature with threatening pincers reduced to impotency is crushing to say the least. Warren's circle, assuming lobsters have circles, must have been equally upset.
I want say chin up to every lobster out there, but am not sure lobsters have chins.

Do Not Refreeze

Unless I use my ideas quickly they spoil. My freezer is already full of unproven theories, so I can't store them there. Once you remove intellectual material from your freezer you must thaw it out and immediately do something constructive. Do not refreeze. I tried that once with a frozen rant. Once it thawed out I felt I only had the energy to recite part of it. I stuck it back in the freezer and three days later when I went to remove it, it had shrunk into a smelly haiku.
I've left damp hyperbole out on the window sill to dry, went out jogging and when I returned, discovered only stale crumbs of sentence fragments. I keep all my punctuation in the top cabinet where it is cool and dry. One time I left a sealed box of metaphors under the sink and a leak in the pipe left me with mold and mildew covering my powerful work. Editors far and near were heartbroken went I informed them.
My theater pieces I keep in the stove next to my frying pan. Sometimes they get greasy, but that only adds to their poignancy I think. The one time I put them in the vegetable bin next to a head of broccoli, a week later I found nothing but curled, blank pages. My words, fearing the unknown, which was the broccoli, had scattered all over my place, in the wardrobe, under tables, beneath my quilt, in the dishwasher.
Since I don't own many shoes, I use my shoe rack to stock my short stories. I keep my stream of consciousness ramblings close, even sleeping with them.
My witty asides are in my knife drawer as you might expect. They are quite sharp and often draw emotional blood. Aimless musings are lined up in my storage space above the towels, waiting for the next yard sale.
You know, I seem to remember you purchased a dozen or so for $5. Hey, if you pay for it, it's not plagiarism.

Should I?

Friday Night

Should I stay home and watch the Knicks?
Should I attend a dance performance which I won't understand?
Should I check out a jazz concert at a nearby church?
Should I stay home and begin reading Nostromo?
Should I hit the CVS and get prescriptions filled?
Should I do my power walking in the dark?
Should I e-mail all those I've lost track of?
Should I take a shower?
Should I start a painting?
Should I hang out somewhere sipping coffee and looking forlorn?
Should I stay home and find online porn?
Should I go to a movie not staring Will Ferrell?
Should I begin a short short story?
Should I write down all the witty remarks I'll use tomorrow?
Should I do 50 pushups and situps?
Should I just stay on Facebook for three hours?
Should I gloat over pounding out another blog that said essentially nothing?

This Morning

Attacking the day, knowing bad weather was coming, I managed to accomplish exactly what I wanted to do.
Hit the Post Office, mailed bills. Stopped at Dunkin Donuts, ordered breakfast, got free donut for filling out survey. Read papers quietly. Three quarters of a tank gas. Did 55 minute power walk around park.
Went to library, downloaded two e-books for review. At 11:40 looked outside, saw flurries. Got right in my car, made it home by noon. Put car in garage.
Finished reading papers, plus 100 pages in my Nook while watching The Fifth Element, featuring delicious Milla Jovovich, Bruce Willis & one of Gary Oldman's stranger roles.
Confirmed my doctor visit tomorrow, checked e-mail, posted on Facebook, took periodic pees, had lunch, ready to tackle Joseph Conrad's Nostramo. Feed the brain during storms.
Did not browse any porn sites.
But the day is not over.

Young Voters

I am uplifted by all the young people urging me to vote. Their belief in the system is inspiring. I respect their enthusiasm. We need people like this to ensure our future.
But ringing my bell, tricking me to come to the door, and then force-ably dragging me to a voting location, right into the booth and threatening to play Elvis Costello music outside my window unless I pulled a few levers is completely over the line.
I am going to risk stating that ultimately it makes little difference who gets elected. The people who own Bed, Bath and Beyond run things. Businesses. Shareholders. Sophisticated crooks and scam artists. That's who decides our fate.
The middle class has been dying a slow death since Clinton.
I feel like Chris Christie is sitting on my chest.

Strange Week

Beyond all the destruction and shortages, this has been a strange week. With the exception of stopping by my foot doctor to change my appt. and spending a few minutes talking to his assistant, it was a full week since I had a face to face conversation with someone.
I went to the Ethical Culture Sunday meeting and after an hour address about loss and grief, I stayed and had coffee, spotting an acquaintance, showing her my new book, Plowed In-More Switchblade Stories. She called over another writer, we exchanged notes and he asked to buy the first book, which was a pleasant surprise.
E-mails and phone conversations do not take the place of being with someone and seeing facial expressions.
I will try to get gas tomorrow. I did find a Pathmark with Sunday papers. The rest of the mall was shut down. Even the Pathmark only had power by the registers. I missed my papers.
I took an hour walk in the almost empty county park, had lunch at Burger King and now I'm home watching Giants football. Daylight Savings Time means it's already getting dark, but at least I have heat. Don't know if my luck will hold out when another possible storm hits mid week. Found mail in my box. Sunday delivery? Strange week.

Gas Shortage Pondering

Once again I had a craving for a cheese sandwich. Once again I slapped several slices on bread and once again took a big bite. Once again I had to spit it out. Who decided putting paper squares between slices was a good idea?
Who decides when to paint center lines on busy streets? Who determined all pustules are bad? Why are there no elegant stuffed animals? Why don't some people recognize they can't tell a joke?
What is more off putting than an untreated open cut? Why is all the important stuff on the top shelf? Are boutiques ever crowded? What is this impulse to join any line? Why am I lonely eating by myself at Subway, but not at Burger King?
How often should we update our nick knacks? Shouldn't there be some sort of signal at the mid-point of long speeches? Doesn't it seem like preambles are more interesting than what comes after?
How long can broccoli last in the wild?
These are the kind of questions that occur during a gas shortage and you're stuck home.

Sprawled Giants

They lay like giant slain dinosaurs. Trees uprooted is not adequate. Huge trunks, splayed branches so enormous kids climb across their breath, barely balancing themselves as we took pictures.
Circular and oblong ripped patches of grass and dirt clinging to the bottom of each trunk, naked roots exposed, gaping mouths of shocked soil.
Tree after tree in this section of Braddock Park in North Bergen under grey guardian clouds with not a breeze to play court jester. These were dignified pillars.
Some remained barely touched. Why? Violence is fickle, cruel, impatient, unpredictable.
Pond ducks glide nonchalantly, perhaps bemused, more likely, indifferent. Some spit at the sky, as to say, What else ya got?
Hudson County ducks.

Writing Day

Pinned inside because of the storm, none of you should let this day go by without making considerable progress on your writing project. No nonsense about entertaining your kids. Lock them in a room with good ventilation and enough food and water to keep them alert. They have enough imagination and electronic devices to keep themselves busy.
You, yes you, have an obligation to your art. Shut off all TV and radio reports suggesting we are all going to drown. Fill a bowl of unused Halloween candy, sit your butt down at the computer and write. Finish that poem, start that play, find the focus of your novel, create a new character.
I am looking out the window. It is damp, it is breezy, it is a bit chilly. I do not think this beast will devour me, but my conscience will pester me unmercifully if I don't start a short story.
Right now it is 11:12 AM and I have not a single idea. A good three hour movie is coming on at 11:30, so I need to get cracking. Because, well, I really want to see this movie and I can't write and watch at the same time. But I'm betting as soon as I conclude this blog, an idea will come to me.
Okay, it is 11:13AM.
You should be halfway through with that poem. We are writers, persistent, fearless, determined.
Of course, if the power goes out...

Buried With...

Augie was buried with his rake and Charles with his hedge clippers. Appropriate. They fought over Augie raking leaves onto Charles' property and the later carving hedges into geese figures. Augie hit him in the head with the rake, Charles sliced off his neighbor's arm at the elbow and he bled to death.
Bill was buried with his wife's dentures atop his chest because she wanted to have the last word. Eunice had her deceased pet yorkie in the casket until it woke up and yapped at mourners. Cal was sprinkled with his beloved Rice Krispies, Mike lay there in his Burger King uniform. Lauren took along her vibrator in case she got bored in the next world. Rumor has it Jack LaLanne was buried with his juicer and Steve Jobs with his I-phone in case his successor had a marketing problem.
My grandmother was buried in her apron, symbolic of how hard she worked. She also included her bowling ball and a shot glass. She played hard too.

Message from Beyond

I keep getting these messages from the beyond. I don't recognize any of the voices. I'm lying in bed trying to doze off when I hear this: "Where's my slippers?" "Who farted?" and "Put the seat down, Frank."
Who are these people? Are they dead, and if so, why do they need toilets?
I was afraid to mention this to anyone until one day, on line at Stop & Shop, I spotted my friend Danielle a few places in front of me. She was holding two heads of broccoli and talking to no one I could see. She wasn't wearing a Blu-Tooth device on her ear. I got her attention and asked who she was talking to. Oh, that was Joe, she said. You know, the guy who went on a hay ride two years ago and was somehow crushed in a thresher. He's been bitching about it ever since and I get to hear his whining voice for some reason.
What does he say, I asked. He complains about the lack of Brillo up there--the guy was a neat freak. Yesterday he moaned about being up there two whole years and not meeting Ingrid Bergman.
I confessed I too had been hearing voices from the beyond. Wanna trade, she asked. You can have Joe & I'll take whoever you got. Just then a nasally voice invaded my consciousness and I recognized Ernie, killed by a falling icicle after leaving a writers meeting. Where's the hazelnut coffee? it asked.
Ernie was kind of shallow and a lousy poet. It's Ernie, I informed her. Never mind, she said. I'll stick with Joe.

Down in Front

Thank you for choosing me to give your commencement address. I was a bit taken aback to have such a prestigious university select me, Wally The Wad Waskowitz, porn star, but who am I to question?
In a nutshell, here is my advice: control your erections. Yes, they are enjoyable, but at the wrong time they can impede your advancement in your chosen field, especially if you are working around animals. In fact, erections can be a problem just about anywhere--zumba classes, ferris wheels, road races, cooking demonstrations, surfing, poetry readings, crowded rooms, hula hoop competitions, bowling, doctor visits, on and on.
Keep control of your Willy Wonka and the world is your oyster. Easy on those oysters, though. We all know what can happen after oyster consumption.
That's about it. My check, please.

Points

Citi Bank tells me I have 319 points that will expire at the end of the year. I didn't even realize I was accumulating them. I try to get on my account but don't remember the password. I want to call them but maybe they won't speak to me unless I know my damn password.
What could I get for those 319 points? People tell me I need more plants in my condo. Actually I have no plants because that means responsibility and I've had enough of that. Old age should be synonymous with irresponsibility and slacking off.
Maybe I could buy holiday presents, except I've already done that back in August when I had some extra money. I don't have excess cash now because I published my second book, Plowed In-More Switchblade Stories and used money to do that. It's a good book, everyone who's read it shouts kudos. Mybe I can barter my 319 points and let Citi Bank take some books. Do bankers read?
I don't want to lose those points. I'm not even sure which Citi card they belong to. Pressure, more pressure. And now Optimum wants me to upgrade to new e-mail when I've gotten used to Classic e-mail. Why can't we go back to baseball cards and marbles?

Scary Dark

Darkness itself is not as scary as that time in late afternoon in the fall when people see the gathering clouds, the dimming light, when pedestrians walk faster and drivers hunch upon the wheel as though it were a restraining bar on a roller coaster, willing their vehicle to speed up.
Shop owners stand nervously by their windows watching the last touches of day slowly disappearing. The wind blows up, street lights escape their prisons, pets of all types move closer to their owners. The homeless know the transition means temperatures will drop, streets will empty. Families wait tensely for bread winners to return home. TV news anchors look serious. Librarians keep busy to avoid images of grey blanketed blocks.
The electric avenues are shutting down, with only fast food cubbyholes and gas stations remaining. I run from the laundry, tugging two bursting bags of steaming clothes, needing to make my front door before the sun has completely abandoned us and shuffling gangs claim the streets as their own.
Stray cats observe all this scurrying without blinking, while humans shiver in the gloaming.
Doctors let the phone ring. You don't want to know who is making house calls during this scary period of transition.

Wet Your Whistle

I have a bar in my place, but don't drink. As a former mail carrier I got bottles from customers during the holidays. I still have most of them, unopened. I do not understand the charm of getting drunk. Sure, vomiting burns calories, but what else is so attractive about getting blitzed?
At social events I sit in the corner waiting for others to get plastered. Then I tape what they say, things they'd never reveal while sober. I keep these tapes in a safe place for future use in case I need a favor. Or perhaps just to make my life easier I'll barter them.
Except now, with everyone writing memoirs, nothing is secret.
Wetting my whistle means seltzer or water. No headache, no sick stomach, no loss of memory. No, I'm not very popular. Sometimes I'll remove the cap off my bottles and sniff. I still don't get it. Drinking and smoking. When did that equal sophistication?

The Final Pizza Pie

Our government paid farmers not to grow tomatoes because there was a cucumber shortage. Over the years, said farmers forgot how to grow tomatoes. Europe and the Americas refused to sell us theirs. Selfish bastards. The result is no more pizza pies. The final one is scheduled to be made this afternoon at a secret location outside Philly. Celebrities bid on one slice each at an exclusive auction. Trump, Sara Jessica Parker, Brad Pitt, Spike Lee, Ray Romano, Anna Wintour, and Tim Tebow were the winners.
Oh, at one point they tried presenting pizza with a twist. Different toppings. Artichoke hearts, sushi, sauerkraut, pecans, Garbanzo beans, broccoli etc.
No one bought into that nonsense. Unless contraband pizza starts appearing, another American food staple has bit the dust, which is where the damned tomatoes used to be planted. Meanwhile, stores are stuck with rotting cucumbers not even Africa wants.

Dream New Dreams

I need new dreams. The dream of rolling down a hill naked into a vat of chili has served its purpose. Being scratched by the Olsen twins in intimate places is almost inappropriate. Living alone in a cave impractical, even for a dream.
I thought about paying others for their dreams, but that is unethical and cowardly. I do believe at least one dream should involve wearing Lycra.
The worst is having snatches of a dream that never seem complete, sort of like the Carter Administration. I wonder what professional pole dancers dream. Regardless, I must set aside time to formulate a new set of them. There is just too much time to think during the day, especially with an election coming up. A sense of staleness has been setting in as I daydream. For a long time I wanted to experience astronaut dreams, but the space program seems to have run out of money.
As a last resort I'll force myself to head to the Amalgamated Dream Distributors local office. That's where one can pick up some pawned dreams, brought in by desperate folks in exchange for a bag of fruit.

Grout Bully Search

Bed, Bath and Beyond has run out of Grout Bully. It's a tube you shake and press and caulk comes out in a straight line. I was crushed. Only last week I discovered this marvel. I knew I should have bought two.
The stock fellow searched the entire store, me right behind him. He went into the stock room and many minutes later emerged looking like his dog died. Nothing.
I tried not to get emotional, but standing in the aisle in full view of customers and cashiers, yes, I broke down. Why me? Just when I think I've finally solved my grout problem, the solution is whisked away.
I suppose I could try other BB&B outlets, but knowing my history, I doubt if I'll ever see another magical tube again.
I could go on E-Bay and Craigslist, but buying USED Grout Bully seems so...unhygienic. I still have some squeezes left in my old tube and I'm careful not to waste any. My tile floor has spots screaming for cleansing. I dread the last squeeze. Most likely I'll go out afterwards and do something reckless, like park in a bus stop.
You are victims here too. I was planning on coming to your place with my tube and work on your grout. That may be nothing but a wistful dream now.

Scary Actors

Ten Scariest Actors

Michael Madsen
Tilda Swinton
Mickey Rourke
Christopher Walken
Jennifer Jason Leigh
Anthony Hopkins
Glenn Close
Jack Palance
Lee Van Clief
Joan Crawford

Scary Masterpiece

My home, Hudson County, is a scary masterpiece. It is sneaky scary because some parts, like Secaucus, are quiet and suburban in nature. You let your guard down.
But more often a resident will hear loud arguments, punctuated by screams at ungodly hours. Violent disputes over parking spaces. Pushing in line, elbowing at bus stops, empty homes, dark warehouses, steep cliffs bordering the Hudson River, itself a scary masterpiece.
Cops? Cops may be the scariest thing in this county. And Halloween in Hudson causes even longtime residents to double lock their doors. Youth gangs containing bitter adults are everywhere. Do not look strangers directly in the face. Stay to the curb, walk fast, head down. The Joker would scare no one here.
Last month a floating body was found in a local lake. Scary? Hell, no. One more parking space for the rest of us.

Disfunctional Discussions

Somebody is in a bad mood, that's how it starts. They try to push buttons, inciting personal attacks. If third parties don't intercede, the discussion gets messy quick.
Take last night. Ollie is upset about something-you could see that from his expression and fidgeting. He states artichokes are an overrated food staple, knowing Joe was a big artichoke guy. Joe defends his food, pointing out all the benefits of them. Howard proclaims they are a racist food grown by plantation owners. Joe gets all huffy and demands Howard apologize. Debbie says Canada has no artichokes. Carl adds that salmon poisoning is rampant. Carol pales and faints because she has salmon four times a week. Ellen now has to perform CPR on Carol because she is the host.
Mary opines that tomatoes are the most amazing food, all things considered. Debbie informs us Canada does indeed have tomatoes. Bill comes in late, explaining he had to pick up artichokes for his anniversary and his wife loves them. Howard calls Bill an Uncle Tom. They grapple on the floor, accidentally stepping on Candy's windpipe, reviving her. Ellen is happy she doesn't have to perform CPR.
Ollie sits there with a big smile on his face.

The Shoplifter

I saw someone get arrested for shoplifting today. It was at CVS. I had a 20% off coupon and I must have circled the store three times trying to find items not already on sale and thus ineligible. I felt like I looked suspicious as I walked to the checkout counter. So when four cops came rushing in I was ready to surrender.
Instead, they nailed a young man who shoved something down his pants. They had the cuffs on him in seconds. One cop held out a cell phone that may have belonged to him. The cashier was rattled. I turned and as they were dragging him out, our eyes met. His expression screamed What the hell? Yeah, he looked worried.
Outside two more cops were checking out a car with one window missing, looking at it like it was a puddle of vomit. Six cops to arrest one shoplifter. I did manage to save $3.70. I would never shoplift. Perhaps if were a box of Ike and Mike candy and I was really lusting for sugar. When I go to the wide opening sock section for people with circulation problems it looks like I'm casing the female stockings and underwear.

Hanging Hair

How to Handle One Nostril Hair Sticking Out

Ignore it and hope no one sees the damn thing.
Go to your happy place.
Isolate yourself and yank on it.
Try to extend a matching one from the other nostril.
Tell people you are testing a new model tweezers and need another sixteenth of an inch.
Look down, pretend to be meditating.
Let your ear hair get all the attention.
Go on the offensive, point out others defects, like pebbly jowls.
If it tickles, insinuate a certain sensual satisfaction.
Stick cotton in your nostrils, explain you had a sinus operation.

The Bed

If I move my shoulder up off the bed, that could be a start. I want to lift my head, but these pillows feel so good. This is silly. I have a full day ahead of me. I need to get off this bed right now.
Here is the problem as I see it. I bought an air mattress and let me tell you someone should warn us that those things are just too damn comfortable. There isn't a single body part that isn't telling to stay right where I am, do not move, life doesn't get any better.
I lift my arm and it flops back down. I take a deep breath, marshaling my resources, determined to sit up, pivot and slide off onto the floor. I get to the sit up position, remain there a moment, and collapse back onto my haven. I don't even have the ambition to reach over and grab the channel selector. I'm sick of Grey's Anatomy and all their problems, but without the clicker I can't change channels. Where did all my energy go? I think this mattress is sucking it out of me.
Now I turn on my side and it feels just as good. I bend my knees and collapse into a fetal position, eyes shut, breathing soft and steady.
I'm going to lose friends and opportunities. I don't want to answer the phone. I swear, as soon as I finish this nap, I am getting out of this bed and letting my feet hit the floor.
I feel another yawn coming on.

Blending In

As a frog, Eubie had one problem: he couldn't hop. It was psychological. Nothing wrong with his legs. He just froze when it came time to move. While his peers flew past him, he took tiny steps. When questioned, he said he had hamstring problems.
Eubie was forced to move around a lot, evading questions and discovery. Luckily, he was adept with his tongue, snatching flies at 20 inches. He was depressed and frustrated, however.
Then one day another frog, Archie, a practical joker, gave him a hot foot and Eubie exploded off the lily pad all the way across the pond. Euphoric, he spent the day leaping from pad to pad. Alas, one such jump landed him in a sinkhole and he vanished.
The moral of this story is to accept ones limitations only after every option has been tried. Then just live your life with a croak and a rib-bit.

Unsung Heros

I have great respect for toenail collectors. They traverse entire neighborhoods, carrying burlap bags, providing a vital public service. Formed in 1963 after it became obvious no one wanted to recover their clipped toenails, Toenail Collectors Incorporated has provided continuous dedicated service. We know toenails dead over six months are a haven for bacteria, as well as a pollutant.
These public servants pore over every inch of one's home, rugs, carpets, bathmats, under furniture in the sink and bathtub, using gloves, collecting hundreds, placing them in those burlap satchels and moving onto the next house, refusing tips, unlike the lint collectors, who mix navel and butt lint and stare you down until you give them a fiver.
Where to store all these curled up, brown clippings? Off shore toenail dumping has been considered. So what if a few fish die consuming them. As long as the turtles aren't harmed. At some point though, someone is going to have to start clipping the turtles' nails. Let's leave that to the next Administration.

What the Cat Dragged In

Amber stumbled in, hair frazzled, face flushed, gasping, looking like something the cat dragged in. She had just come from a session with her personal trainer. It's always the same structure--stretching, breathing, focusing. Then comes the torture--one exercise after the other, each more intense, with Bushka, her trainer, screaming at her to step up the pace. Swing those kettle bells.
Pain is weakness leaving the body. Limited water breaks, no sobbing allowed. Fast music, heavy bass beat. There was no safe word that could end the agony. Worse than anything, Bushka kept up a stream of complaints about her boyfriend, family, back stabbing friends, not enough parking spaces and a spreading yeast infection she couldn't control.
Personal trainer nightmare. All so Amber could fit into stretch pants. Women.

In Memory of Ann

Like all of her fans, I was nauseated watching Ann Curry sign off from her co-host job at the Today Show. Fighting back tears, she struggled to be gracious, while the barracuda replacement, whose name shall not be mentioned, waited in the wings. Let's call her Pepsodent Girl. Curry had 15 years of superb reporting, award winning stuff. She was the good soldier, watching while the network brought in Meredith It's All About Me Viera to take Katie Curic's place.
Because the ratings slipped a notch and Good Morning America crept ahead, panic ensued. The change was bad enough, but the awkward way it was handled made you cringe. Matt Lauer seems semi-comatose, Al Roker's bad puns multiply and Hoda and Kathy Lee are two bar flies swathed in makeup. So let's blame the only professional journalist on payroll. Wonderful.
I haven't watched the show since, except for the Olympics. I have to say Josh Elliot on GMA is getting on my nerves. I'm not going to call for Regis. That would be an easy solution. No, the person we need to see and hear early in the morning, the one guy who would start our day right is Larry King. Let's start a petition.

Electrocute

In his continuing quest to kill himself, David Blaine is now allowing himself to be electrocuted for three days, protected only by a special suit. One million volts fired at him, enough to light Anna Wintour's dressing room. He can't even scratch his face or risk horrible death. With my itchy mug I'd last about 30 seconds.
This man has created the highest profile stunts on the planet, yet he could walk down the street unrecognized. He's like the Olympics. Once it's over people go on with their lives.
He's doing this in NYC, where self electrocution might stimulate a shrug. He's tried to drown himself, I'm sure he's been stabbed and shot at and strangled, encased in ice, all televised. He's starved himself, gone without water, probably leaped from high altitudes using a cellophane parachute.
I'm trying to picture his Board of Directors sitting around trying to come up with new ways to thrill audiences without actually killing this guy off.
They should force him to remain in line at Motor Vehicles, or wait for an auto part to arrive at Firestone, or spend hours at a walk-in clinic waiting for an x-ray. Self mutilation would be a respite.

Joestock

I have decided to file a public offering for Joestock. I believe I have strong growth potential and would be an excellent investment for those dabbling in the market.
I write, paint and photograph. I keep myself in good shape, have a nice smile. I'm working on my handshake. People seem to like me. I have friends who will vouch for my potential.
I plan to widen my interests, travel more. I am certainly well read. Ask anyone. I'm constantly creating new goals, becoming a more complete person. I feel I am reaching my peak. I also create a fair amount of gas, which is a prime commodity.
You could do a lot worse than putting your faith in me. Dividend checks are almost guaranteed. My initial offering is a ridiculously low $22.99 a share. Get in on the ground floor and watch your investment grow. Speed dial your broker. Joestock will get you that summer house in Cape Cod. Trust me.

Slippage

My transmission is slipping. I can feel it when I accelerate or decelerate, that rough hesitation. My car has over 72000 miles and I was about to have a transmission flush at Firestone, but the service guy told me that may worsen the problem. Tomorrow at 8am I have to take it to a transmission specialist. I am praying it's something that can be corrected without needing a new trans.
I estimate only .00003 percent of the population knows anything about this complex auto part. It puts us at the mercy of the specialists. I have to believe this man is honest. But this will still cost me money.
I need to create a way to generate income. Maybe I can be an extra in films. I look like a somewhat creepy innkeeper in the middle of nowhere. A young couple happens upon my place and decides to spend the night. One closeup of me, without any lines, should sell tickets. Or I could be a baffled tourist. A murmurer in court scenes after someone has been caught lying. Mostly, I can be an extra in movies where humans are actually aliens.
I wish I could bake and set up weekly bake sales. Would you trust any food I made?
I need my car more than I need my self respect. That's my point.

Street Talk

Maybe this is just street talk, but rumor has it the local poetry group is a front for the Mob. They meet in the back room of a cafe. One day I entered, looking to buy a poem. The sign in the window hawked Poems for Sale-Poets Inside. No one was behind the counter, so I hit the buzzer.
A minute later a tough looking, middle aged woman with powerful forearms came from the back room and eyed me up and down.
"What can I do for you, fella?"
"I'd like to buy a poem."
"Whatcha looking to spend?"
"Maybe $30."
"For that you get a haiku."
"That's only three lines."
"Who sent you?"
"I saw the sign in the window."
"Watch your tone, buster."
"What can I get for $40?"
"A kick in the ass. Shut your pie hole or you'll be kissing the sidewalk." This from two gruff voices in the shadows by the back room entrance. I swallowed hard, as the woman bore a hole right through me with her blazing eyes. I quickly handed over two twenties, which she stuffed down her stained blouse. She went behind the counter and I shuddered, envisioning her popping up, expelling hot lead into my gut. Instead, she handed me a crumpled piece of paper. A ten line ode to Hudson County, New Jersey by a local pol currently serving time for embezzlement.
I shot out of there fast as my legs would move and rushed up the block, too scared to look back. I read the poem under a street lamp and knew I'd been taken. It sucked. But the image of that woman's cold glare prevented me from doing anything foolish.

Whenever I Sneeze

Whenever I sneeze a child in a Third World country gets free dental benefits and I get 25 points toward heaven. That's the deal I struck with the kindly woman who appeared at my door one day.
Well I just can't leave well enough alone. I dialed the 1-800 number at the bottom of our contract and asked if there was anything else I could do to ensure my entry into Paradise. She said a rider could be added indicating whenever I burped another indigent child would receive new shoes and I'd get another 25 points. Never has my hiatus hernia been so beneficial, not to mention my allergies.
I mentioned this deal to my friend Carl, who nodded and leaned in to whisper. My deal, he said, is every time I fart a poor kid gets a slice of pizza and I get 50 points toward heaven. Without warning he let loose a gaseous explosion that brought me to my knees. That one had extra cheese, he said. Uh oh, I feel one with pepperoni topping coming on, he gasped. But I sprinted away before that bomb landed.
I have lots of phlegm, but they actually subtract points for spitting. I hear only St. Paul is allowed to chew tobacco up there.

No Smiling

New Jersey has ordered drivers posing for license photos not to smile. Smiling disrupts the digital identification process designed to prevent identity theft. A good idea, no doubt. Who would smile anyway after waiting several hours on line?
Other situations that should require a smile prohibition:
Leonard Cohen concerts
Ingmar Bergman films
Austrian ballet
Rush Limbaugh wisecracks
Nun card games
Trampoline mishaps
Food that squirms on your plate
East Village poetry events
Garbled train announcements
Spreading ashes
Bad puns by talk show hosts
A mouth full of licorice
Groin boils
Foxhole chatter
Stuck ferris wheels
Fish with diarrhea
Starlets crashing cars into street vendors
Opera in a foreign language 

Toolbox

When ever I'm feeling insecure I go into my cabinet and take out my toolbox. I'll open it and stare at the shapes and sizes, not exactly certain what some of them do. But that is irrelevant. It is the fact I have this box and can leave the house anytime I want, carrying it with confidence and aplomb.
People are reassured when confronted by someone baring tools. They automatically assume this is a guy who applies complex solutions to complex problems. This is a man good with his hands, who can choose just the right whatchamacallit. We make eye contact--I sense respect. Sometimes pedestrians will walk right up to me and say things like, "Off to help someone, eh?" Or, "I've been struggling with a leaky faucet for weeks. Can you take a look at it?"
I'll shrug and tell them I'm cutting back, nearing retirement, unable to take on new customers. Then I'll rattle my toolbox and stride off. I don't have to glance behind me to see the expression melding disappointment and awe. I can feel it.
Someday I hope to actually fix something. Boy, then watch my confidence soar.

Spiritual Group

I do not understand how a spiritual group can be so loud. The book discussion group I attended was put in their space and I think they retaliated by speaking loudly in an adjacent space. Two members seemed slightly put off, but polite when I informed them what our group consisted of. We had 16, they only had 8, so we got the bigger space.
But the thought persisted that their discussion went deeper than ours. I thought about sneaking out to use the bathroom and eavesdrop, but our moderator is not crazy about people getting up and leaving during the discussion. We go deep, but don't deal with the whole Supreme Being concept.
If God were watching, would He be annoyed? I mean, it was the B&N employee who put us there. I did notice there were no men in the spiritual group. For that matter, I was the only guy in our group. It was a Monday night and the Packers were playing the Seahawks. You would think not every guy is a football fan. At least some might be seeking intellectual enrichment.
Maybe next month we can incorporate the spiritual group into ours. I will be leading the discussion on my book, Plowed In, and perhaps one of them can come up with a parable based on my title. Or maybe a fight will break out, which could lead to a short story, a win win situation for me.

I Remember When

I could run for a bus without losing my breath.
If someone cursed me behind the wheel I'd curse right back and flash the finger.
I could refold road maps without having a panic attack.
I could pronounce coagulate without hurting my jaw.
I didn't suck in my stomach for speed dating.
I could scratch my back without throwing out my shoulder.
 I'd gracefully exit any vehicle.
I could practice kissing on my arm without drooling.
I could open any jar on the spot.
I never missed the bowl.
Yes, I remember when I'd clear my throat and people would listen up. Now they hand me thick mucus absorbing tissue and move away.

Jesus's Wife Vents

He's out all night with 12 scruffy guys doing God knows what. Shady guys with spittle running down their chins.He won't speak to me until he's had his coffee, but he'll stand out back waving his staff at the sky, arguing with his Father about time management and compartmentalizing.
He's the leader of an entire religion which basically has no written rules which would distinguish it from the family down the block. Speaking of which, I'm getting neighborhood complaints about him not cleaning up after our Great Dane. Plus, early morning when he jogs, his flapping sandals wake up the dead.
When a salesman comes to our door, instead of politely declining whatever product he has, my motormouth savior launches into a twenty minute parable, which usually includes beggars and fruit, about as riveting as watching soap scum accumulate.
I wish someone would invent TV.
We don't communicate anymore. He stares off into space, embraces the goats and sheep, never does the dishes. He licks the plate clean--disgusting. That motley group periodically meet to discuss saving souls, but usually wind up playing cards, drinking wine and peeing on my flowers.
You'd think being the Son of God he'd be able to get the plumber to come.
His hair is attractive. I know he uses conditioner, but that's fine with me. We're still solid in the bedroom, but the sprinkling holy water fetish on me afterwards got old fast.
There's the door. Four hours ago I sent him out for bread and spread. Evidently that whole multiplying loaves and fish event was a one time deal in which he shot his load. We could've saved a bundle on groceries.
Wipe your feet! Did you get the margarine? Don't be waving that staff at me!

Little Known Terror Movies

Terror on the Commode
Arm Pit Terror
Lasagna Terror
Terror Tactics of Pre-schoolers
Terror Vestibule
Terror from the Goodyear blimp
Terror in the Laundromat
Interbreeding Clown Terror
Crawlspace Terror
Julio Iglesias Impersonator Terror
Toe Fungus Terror
Sherlock Holmes and the Terror of the Pulsing Afterbirth
Terror in the Gravy
Terror of the Shrinking Genitalia
Terror of the Vindictive MRI machine
Terrorist Strategies of Disgruntled Pygmy Wholesalers
The Michael Bolton Terror Live CD

Apple

Women are offering me sex in exchange for my spot on line waiting for the Apple 5.
I thought I couldn't live without my Apple 4. That's over. Finished. I've moved on. I will stand here for hours, but I'm not like the others. I took a 3am shower and shaved. Many of these obsessives look disheveled. and do not smell very good.
I will not converse with them because we have nothing in common. I will read poetry and check my messages. Munch on a scone. I made sure to bring coffee. My mind imagines all the new apps I will have that you will not. I smile, thinking about how light mine will be, how much bigger the screen is. I will make certain everyone I know will be aware of my owning this treasure by posting a photo on Facebook.
Some of these people on line do not look like they deserve an Apple 5. That's a value judgment I know, but after my previous four stints waiting for the other Apple phones, I can tell.
Once I get this phone I have to work on establishing actual friendships so I get more calls and can whip out this gem at gatherings and impress strangers who will then want to be my friend and so the cycle continues.

Out All Day

Sometimes I am out all day. I leave early and run errands. Perhaps I meet with friends or power walk or sit somewhere sipping coffee or reading the paper.
I'll eat out at someplace cheap. The hours will pass. There are free afternoon movies at libraries. I don't bring a radio so I have no idea what's happening in the world. I take pictures of inanimate objects.
When I finally return home, darkness has come. I quickly go through the mail, empty my pockets, remove my hat, pee, shut the blinds, check for phone messages, make a snack, turn on a game. It feels good being there, having this place to myself, no pet to greet me, no other human waiting. I am in the moment, yet able to scan through my day and evaluate whether I made the most of my time. I'll scroll through my e-mail, check Facebook, return any messages, think of something pithy to post. Then I will take out my oils and paint.
We create our own world and if mine seems constricted, so be it. Excitement? When you're my age, making it to the john in time serves up all the adventure I need.
I know there will come a point where I myself will be an inanimate object and some old coot will mosey over and take a picture of me.

Best Laid Plans

Ah well. So it goes. My appearance tonight at a local library to discuss flash fiction was cancelled. I didn't get the message because I was out all day. So I show up ready to do a workshop and get told there was a scheduling conflict.
Funny about that. For weeks the library had flyers all over the place advertising my appearance. Seems odd no one saw that there might be a conflict. You would think there was another space we could have used. I wonder if people showed up, not knowing about the cancellation.
If I were younger I would have lost my temper. But now I let this stuff roll off me. I have a few more appearances scheduled trying to market my book, but I can see there's little chance of significant sales.
I have to find a cheaper way to publish. I'm only looking for a limited amount of copies for family and friends. This marketing business is like running into a wall over and over and I'm tired. There are so many others trying to sell their books and only so much spending money out there. Hell, I don't pay full price for books anymore. Why should I expect others to?

Big Stupid Men

Big Stupid men in big stupid vehicles
Making dumb remarks
Looking smugly down at you
Ugly sweaty faces
Juice injected forearms
Seething contempt
Snarling obscenities
So much misdirected testosterone
You can scream back
Give them the finger
Wish you had a torpedo
Pick up truck turds, SUV scumbags
Gun their engines
Screech around turns
Send the bastards to Somalia
Let the crazed pirates have at them

Black Reverie

I thought my job, marriage, and hairline were depressing. I thought the economy and world violence was a downer. I was turned off by obnoxious family members and loud neighbors. But I didn't know what depressing was until I contracted this flesh eating bacteria.
Here I sit in my lounge chair watching squirrels race after nuts, listening to birds calling each other, feeling a warm breeze against my skin, remembering all the poignant memories of my life when I was full of hope and anticipation.
Now I look down and see that my right foot has fallen off and been carried away by large squirrels.
I take a sip of my tea and sigh deeply. Then my pinkie falls off. I can still grip the cup. I close my eyes and try to block everything out, imaging all that is beautiful in the world, especially flowers. I love flowers.
I am jerked from my reverie by the sun, which is burning my eyes. I realize I'll have plenty of opportunity to appreciate plant life because this disease has eaten up my eyelids. Now I'm really depressed.

What's for Dinner

We zombies seldom have to ask that question. We eat just about anything. Yesterday we were foraging around north Jersey and came upon a group of humans, heads bent, writing something very important. Normally we avoid writers (too salty) and focus on artists and dancers. But none of them were paying attention to their surroundings and we pounced, growling and drooling as per norm. They were too frightened to resist. The males were tougher to chew, while the females went down much easier.
Afterward, we sat in the kitchen, drank some leftover coffee and tried to create small talk. But since most of us don't have vocal cords that didn't last long. A half empty box of donuts made us queasy just looking. How humans put such garbage into perfectly tasty entrails is beyond me.
Now, a day later, I'm getting gas. Some of those writers must have been blogging.

Mirna

Long ago I named my Hyundai Mirna. She used to love me, worship me as a matter of fact. Took me everywhere I wanted. No moaning or hacking coughs, no hesitation, no weaving back and forth. She gave me a smooth, calming, sensual ride every time.
Now, after six years, Mirna is cranky and unreliable. She snorts when I stick the key in, whereas before, she would whirr beautifully. When I put her in reverse she bucks in protest. I can't get comfortable in her seat. Her wipers are sluggish and her horn is flat as a muted trumpet.
I am not responsible for any of this. I speak to Mirna in low tones, whispering compliments she doesn't deserve. I run my hands over her, using a clean cloth, wiping away sludge. I never kick her tires. Any scratches are immediately painted over. If I see her eyeing a newer model, I simply smile and accept it.
Today she repaid all my attention and devotion by posting her check engine light in the middle of my day. Disgusted as I was, I held my temper. I had to get the oil changed anyway, so I mentioned the check engine light to the attendant. Surprisingly, he pulled out some electronic gadget with a screen. He pulled off the cover on the left side of my dashboard, something I'd never done, and stuck the prongs into Mirna. We looked at the screen, which stated there was nothing wrong. Then he yanked the prongs out and to my joy the check engine light was gone and stayed that way all the way home.
That man with his device found Mirna's G spot. I could sense her disdain for me as I pulled into my space. Now I will go online and find one of those devices. I refuse to lose my beloved to some guy named Enrico.

Faking It

How to fake it at a book discussion when you haven't actually read the book.

Look thoughtful at all times.
Nod frequently.
Clear your throat as though you're about to say something significant.
Ask vague questions like How did people feel about the pacing?
Make vague statements such as Boy, that wife character, what a handful.
Be useful, pass around any refreshments.
If a disagreement breaks out, say something wise like, I think there's a middle ground here.
Comment on the cover, title, author's photo, previous works.
Compliment whoever chose the book.
If someone speaking looks to you for affirmation, give a subtle thumbs up.
If someone else quietly confesses they haven't read the book either, pat them on the shoulder and reassure them scheduling conflicts can happen to anyone.

Never on Sunday

Charles refused to allow negativity to invade his Sundays. He would sit under an umbrella in his yard, sipping seltzer, reading The Times, trying to simplify his day. He also was reading a collection of short stories, Plowed In by a Joe Del Priore. Good stuff.
Then Gwen entered the picture. She was renting the house next door. Attractive, worked from home, she said. Charles was intrigued.
The few times they spoke when she was out gardening, she seemed pleasant. Charles noticed how strong she was as she yanked out weeds.
He found himself thinking about her all week.
One Sunday, as he engaged in his routine, he suddenly heard slapping sounds coming from Gwen's house, followed by the whoosh of a whip. Accompanying this were moans and grunts. Charles was alarmed to the point where he debated calling the police. He put down that terrific collection of stories, walked inside and paced the living room.
He decided to ring her bell and investigate. As he approached her walkway, the door opened and a neatly dressed middle aged man emerged. He was rubbing his bottom, face flushed with excitement. He looked familiar. The man got in his car and drove off.
It wasn't until he had gone back inside and resumed reading that Charles recognized the man. He was on the cover of the excellent collection of stories he was reading--Plowed In--More Switchblade Stories.
Now Charles spent ALL of his time thinking about Gwen.

Only Make Believe

I wasn't even half way through one of my short stories when people jumped up and left screaming. The librarian, when I approached her, threatened to mace me.
Out in the street I became disconsolate. How could I ever sell copies of my books when people fled my readings? Why hasn't Stephen King experienced this?
Later, at my favorite cafe, over a coffee, I asked Louise, my friend behind the counter, what my problem was.
"I've read your books and I sleep just fine. It's not your stories. It's you. You're a scary looking guy. You've got a spooky, nasal tone, threatening eyebrows, quick movements. You sneak up on people and there's an odd odor coming from under your shirt. Plus, those ears are right out of Roswell, New Mexico. You are creepy in subtle ways. Find a benign looking person to read your stuff."
I had to admit she was right. But all my writer friends look like they could audition for The Addams Family. I'd have better luck at a Transylvania train station.

Clown Parade

On Friday I went to the annual clown parade at Union Square Park and I've got some complaints.
First, the parade didn't start on time. There was exactly one clown there at 530pm. It took 15 minutes for the others to trickle in. I evaluate a clown's proficiency by how intensely frightened the chidren are around them. If a clown can't scare kids, what is the point? These clowns scared no one. Kids surrounded them, laughing and smiling and poking at them.
Let's be blunt--putting a rubber nose on does not make you a professional clown. Nuances are so important. Goofiness is not a quality that can be quickly adapted and portrayed, unlike stupidity, which pops up everywhere.
A crowd gathered, adults like myself with nothing better to do. My feeling is they were pretending to enjoy this mess. There were several hot women in the parade, but with that nose on, you had to look hard to find them.
If you're going to interact with the clown aura you must do it with reverence. Respect must be paid. This did not qualify and may have pushed the profession back ten years.
The parade was supposed to eventually end up in Brooklyn. Good. Brooklynites, unlike Manhattanites, will not stand for this farce. Rubber noses WILL be ripped off, lectures given, and possibly citizen's arrests will ensue. But of course the organizers will escape punishment free.

Miss Molly

I have nothing against Molly Ringwald. At one time I thought she was an interesting actress. Then she went to live in France and I lost interest. She still acts here and there. I believe she's on a cable show now.
My issue with her has to do with her writing. She released a collection of short stories. Now she has crossed over into my territory. Her publisher is Harper & Row. She got a review in the Times Book Review. Yes, the review was kind of negative, but these perks annoy me.
If we, as serious writers, have to compete with every celebrity or struggling celeb who decides to put out a book, we're sunk. Ringwald gets to appear at B&N to hawk her book. I can't even get in my local library. I mean this whole industry has become more about signing names than quality of writing. Soon Christina Ricci, Natalie Portman and Ryan Gosling will release tomes, novels, memoirs, poetry collections.
I'll tell you a secret about Ringwald. I saw a photo of her barefoot. She has chubby sausage toes.

Her Mail

The woman upstairs hardly ever empties her mailbox. The mail carrier gives up forcing more in and puts hers in mine. Her mail is usually more interesting than mine just from the envelopes. She also gets a Victoria's Secret catalog. I am an ethical person and it would be unethical for me to look through it. So I place everything in the hallway in front of her door.
What if it just lays there and no one brings it upstairs?
What if her box fills up again? Should I inform the super? She's overweight and I can usually hear her walking around and it's been pretty quiet. I haven't seen her enter or leave recently. What if she moved out and told no one?
God, what if she had a heart attack? She could be lying on the floor. I have to do something. I hate having to make these decisions. Maybe I'll wait one more day. In the meantime, I'll step into the hallway and just take a tiny peak at the Victoria's Secret. Who's gonna know?

Who Are These Guys?

I see them sitting alone in parked cars in parks. I see them standing outside stores and supermarkets. I see them at parades watching the crowd instead of the parade. I see them sitting in libraries not reading. I see them glued to seats in coffee shops pretending to work on their laptops. I see them at bus stops, train stations, marinas, walkways, picnic grounds, basketball courts. I see them walking slowly, eyes darting back and forth on crowded sidewalks in urban areas.
They are men, all men and none seem to have a discernible purpose.
I don't like this one bit. But I am hesitant to ask what exactly they are up to and I don't feel right calling a cop because who's to say whether most of these men are undercover themselves.
Still, I sense something nefarious is going on. They are planning something, either as a group, or individually. The other day I parallel parked near my walking route around a park lake and as I got out I spotted an elderly man sitting at the wheel directly behind me. He was monitoring me, I know it.
The question is why and who the hell are these guys?

Pinned

Celebrities I Know I Can Pin in a Greco Roman Wrestling Match

Wilfred Brimley
Abe Vigoda
Linda Hunt
Peter Dinkage
Danny DeVito
Spike Lee
Angela Lansberry
Kirk Douglas
Frankie Valli
Paul Simon
Paul Anka
Willie Nelson
Kristin Stewart
Ellen Page
Emma Watson
Sara Jessica Parker
Joan Plowright
Twyla Tharp
Debbie Fisher
Carrie Fisher
Eli Wallach

Book Trailer

My first book trailer is on You Tube. Type in Book Trailer-Twilight People or my name and you'll see it. It runs just over two minutes and consists of a bunch of photos corresponding with the stories in the book. A classical music piece plays in the backround as I narrate the introduction to the book.
I wanted my voice to be as creepy as the text and it is. You don't realize how you actually sound until you listen to something like this. I don't know if it will help sales. Sandi Sola, the person who created it, is so imaginative in her approach. She did her sister Vicki's trailer and that one turned out great also.
Publishing a book really is a team effort. I have begun the tough job of marketing, which involves making appearances, this for the second one, Plowed In--More Switchblade Stories. My next workshop is Sept. 17 at The Nutley Library--a workshop on flash fiction. I'm getting better at speaking in front of people. I don't make enough eye contact though. I'm afraid of losing my place in the text.
Anyway, I hope some of you will give the book a try. It's available through Scribbulations, Amazon and B&N.
Now I'm immersed in creating more stories, writing and writing, always writing.