Fuming

The guy at my Socrates Cafe conversation group is fuming. His hands are twitching, grabbing at his pants, squeezing together. His breathing is labored, his forehead sweating. The man is impatiently waiting his turn to speak. When he does speak, he goes on forever, a monologue morphing into a diatribe. He rambles, asks rhetorical questions, stumbles over words, ends thoughts in the middle. He is convinced we're ganging up on him. "You misunderstand me." That is his mantra. "Don't interrupt me" is what he tells the moderator, a quiet, graying man, soft spoken and adept at avoiding confrontation. "You are in a position of power and you keep interrupting."
Sometimes Mr. Fume loses his breath and has to pause. His points are almost interesting, even if you disagree, but his abrasive behavior is making us uncomfortable. I saw him take the decaf coffee, so caffeine can't be his problem. If he is unstable or on medication that is not working, how do we deal with it? "Define your terms" is another phrase he repeats. Values, culture, The Constitution, these are his blockade points. We spend many minutes defining what should be obvious and take forever to reach the actual topic we're supposed to be discussing, which in this case, is immigration.
I tried placating him by noting he brings up good points, but that only serves to aggravate him more. He wants to rant the entire two hours while we listen. We have a deranged dictator in the room and the citizens are in a quandary about how to depose him, beyond locking him in the closet.

Funny

Sofia Vergara is being interviewed before the SAG awards and is asked what was it about her current boyfriend that led her to choose him. This woman's body is 3-D without the glasses. Her answer--he's funny, he makes me laugh.
Stop right there. How many of these drop dead gorgeous actresses and models give exactly the same response when asked that question? I am so sick of hearing these Amazons rate humor as their highest quality in looking for a partner. Be honest. Think of every guy who's dated or married any of these women. Have ANY of them showed even an inkling of wit? Can they tell funny stories? Ad lib at parties? Do impressions or accents or dialects? Can they balance odd things on body parts? Do any of these studs possess the capability to create humor in any form, including funny faces? Tell the truth ladies. It's got nothing to do with humor. They are with these women because they are hung like rhinos and can go all night.
I am a funny guy, ask anyone. Yet I can't get a handshake from these women or even a shoulder squeeze. Humorous guys get the fast talking, wise cracking, nervous tic types, always off to the side making snide comments IE. Whitney Cummings, except now she's a babe with her own sitcom. Then again Julia Roberts married Lyly Lovett, so maybe there's still hope.

In the Zone

For a writer, there is nothing quite like being in the zone. That is when ideas are flying at you and you can't type fast enough. In the zone means you don't eat or answer the phone and neglect your personal hygiene. You ignore beautiful, scantily clad women in your bedroom doorway giving you a come hither look. Nothing matters but slamming through as many pages as possible before you lose that muse. Actually, it's not even a muse, it's a tsunami of wit, metaphor, symbol, and sharp dialogue coming together causing facial flushing and tremors.
Every writer in the zone is certain he is creating the great American novel, even if it's only an essay. As the sentences burst free, he imagines huge book deals, TV guest spots, monster sales, eventual screenwriting opportunities and lunch dates with Sienna Miller. Finally the world will recognize his importance and his tomes will enter the canon of classics like Little Women and The Scarlet Letter.
I feel the heat overcoming me. I must abandon this blog and quickly transfer to my novel, which I've been working on for eight years. In the zone I can finish the damn thing once and for all. Then I will deal with the scantily clad wench, who I suppose has gotten impatient and gone out for a taco.

My Haircuts

My hair cutting place loves me. I pay $10 a cut, have no preference for any of the women barbers, never need a shampoo, close my eyes as soon as they put the apron on me and sit quietly. Most are bi-lingual and outside of a quick comment about the weather, it is all business.
Beyond my excellent behavior, what ingratiates me to these women is my hair. There's not much of it. I hold up my index finger, say #1, and they nod happily. #1 is the easiest haircut to perform, being a tad longer than complete baldy. I'm am done in three minutes, and that includes trimming my eyebrows.
I stand, giving a two dollar tip, and walk to the payment desk. They return to their conversation, reading gossip mags, TV watching, or head outside for a smoke. My head contains no bumps, sores, or pimples. My ear hair is under control, my nostril hair carefully trimmed. I smell pretty good. In short, there is nothing disgusting about me. I am the ideal customer.
I do feel nostalgic in that chair. I'll open my eyes and peek, seeing a few small clumps of gray hair, pitiful, frankly. In my youth, there were piles of dark brown follicles all over the apron and on the floor. They had to call in special South American cleanup teams to get the area ready for the next customer. The Hair God is what they whispered. Now it's simply, have a nice day. I just checked. My ear hair isn't as under control as I thought.

Three cents

So far, after five months of blogging, I've made exactly three cents profit from my Adsense application. If 1400 people have viewed my blog, how can that be? Why aren't those readers clicking on the ads below my blog, which is I guess how money is made? Maybe they're too depressed after reading my essays to deal with people trying to sell them something.
Or perhaps the ads themselves are off putting. I haven't been checking. I think capitalism is a noble concept which should be available to everyone. Unfortunately it seems only a handful of citizens actually have access to it. People like Miley Cyrus and Daniel Radcliff. The rest of us flock to Filenes lusting for bargains. Except Filenes
Basement filed for bankruptcy and will soon become a real basement. The sheer number of chain stores gone under is staggering. When Circuit City was replaced by Sixth Avenue Electronics I had hopes that would be my new tech store. Then SAE went under before I could even visit. Every six minutes another Barnes & Noble disappears. Right next to it, a FYE record store bottomed out. Soon, we will have nothing but gelato outlets. I passed an Arthur Murray dance studio and only one couple traversed their spacious floor. How can we call ourselves a capitalist country when dance instructors can't get work?
I know I should be mature about this, but that three cents profit for an insightful, potent blog like this is rather insulting.

White Teeth

I've given up trying to get white teeth. I don't smoke, drink one cup of coffee a day. There is no reason my teeth shouldn't be brilliantly white. It is especially annoying confronting people who I know are much less healthier than me, who couldn't jog around the block, whose teeth are whiter than mine.
I floss and brush up and down and use bacteria killing mouthwash, which I gargle expertly. If gargling were allowed on resumes, I'd be a CEO. A big disappointment has been Colgate Optic White toothpaste, which I've been using for months. It supposedly contains the same ingredient found in whitening strips. I have seen no change whatsoever in my condition. But now my gums hurt because I stopped using the sensitive toothpaste. Of course I could brush twice a day, using each brand, but what kind of message is that sending to my teeth? This is a confused, insecure man I'm chomping for.
I tried this gel which you carefully place on your front six teeth, upper and lower. You're not supposed to get it on your lips because they will stick together. Well, once that stuff is applied and you close your mouth, it's gonna get on your lips, which is what happened to me. Then I did get these strips, which I'm afraid to use. Suppose I stick them on and they won't come off? Or what if I start to gag? I gag easily; the list of gag prompts is long--Michael Myers, open mayonnaise, dust motes on pasta, Jimmy Fallon's monologue, facial punctures for jewelry purposes, bearded men with nose bleeds, Ken Burns' documentaries, the words fecal matter--just typing this makes me gag. My choice-brown teeth or shirt vomit.

Clout

According to a letter I received today, my FIA Card Services World MasterCard with World Points rewards is being replaced by a Bank Americard Power Rewards World Master Card. I'm trying to imagine someone with an MBA sitting alone in a room coming up with these designations.
I won't lose any of my old points. Wonderful. Every time I call up and ask how I can redeem said points I'm told I don't have enough to do anything. Sometimes a recorded voice tells me. Evidently you need thousands of points to get that miniature flashlight, batteries not included. I read the titles on my credit cards and feel intimidated. I won't repeat them because of security concerns, but I'll bet my combined total points on all these cards can get me a flight to Botswana. It's all about clout, who has it, who doesn't.
I'll earn one power point for every dollar I spend. Do power points mean I can take control of any situation, like too many standees on a bus? Will I get a badge I can flash--600 power points and counting? Can I make citizen's arrests and interrogate suspicious loiterers? Why is one bank replacing another? Does the new bank expect me to spend more than I have in the past? There's an 800 number for questions--there always is. I'm not confident they'll answer my queries. I'm usually told to take deep breaths and hum softly by customer service reps.
Does anyone trust Bank of America under any circumstances?

Alumni Magazine

I hate my alumni magazine. I never gave them a change of address when I moved 8 years ago, but they found me anyway. Everyone in every issue is accomplishing things at levels I will never reach. Athletes breaking records, researchers making breakthroughs, architects building museums, people traveling on cultural exchanges, working for charities, raising money, designing furniture, holding office, becoming CEO of  trendy companies. Getting books published. I hate it when someone who graduated after me gets their book published. All of these graduates smile into the camera, obviously having built these incredible lives.
If I made something up, how would they check? Suppose I said I once dated Sandra Dee. She's deceased. How could that be contradicted? I had a photo exhibit in Ecuador. No way to check that. I can bench press 250 pounds. I've won senior division tennis tournaments in Florida. My own book has sold in the thousands. I mean, they're way too busy at Rutgers Magazine to check any of this. I'm sure there have been staff cuts. I can hire someone about my age who still has all his hair to pose for an accompanying photo.
On page 64, I'm staring at a woman in a loud red and white flowered dress who received a fellowship from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation--$263000 to study reproductive issues in Niger in 2008. No wonder she's smiling. I could live on that for years.

First Snow

That Halloween mess doesn't count, it just doesn't. We are hours from this winter's first snowfall. I went to CVS and stocked up on potato chips and peanut butter crackers, plus I got a pair of wide calf socks. I don't really have wide calves, but, hell, I can fantacize.
They're saying 3-5 inches. Or more. Or less. Depends on who you listen to. I can't trust Al Roker. Too much multitasking. How can he focus on the weather if he's giving away thousands of dollars worth of goods to charities across the country? When I was a mailman I dreaded these days. Those trucks were probably tested in Arizona--damn things slide all over the place. But that's not my problem anymore. My problem is getting my car into the garage. It's only a matter of feet, but I'm on a slope and things could get tricky. I could do the sensible thing and drive it in tonight. But suppose we only get a dusting. I would look like a wuss to my neighbors.
Mornings after snow fall I can hear homeowners behind me shoveling out. I haven't had to do that since I moved here eight years ago. That's why we have a super. But just in case he gets sick, I have been working my ab muscles hard. Shoveling is all about the stomach, especially the obliques. Not currently visible to the naked eye, my obliques are right there under the surface ready for action.
So I will lie awake tonight waiting for the assault. Planning my day indoors. I may actually begin that new play. Or dust my corners. Winter finally descends.

Homeless

My poetry group may have lost its home. The cafe where we were meeting wants a minimum $6 charge for each poet each week. It has come to their attention that some of us aren't ordering enough food and drink.
I'm not denying I have been recalcitrant in my ordering history. I have bought one cookie and a few ice teas, but have yet to sample the food. I am diabetic and can only eat at certain times. I could put off my dinner until seven once a week. It wouldn't be that much of a sacrifice.
But more disturbing is our failure so far to find another place for our meetings. We have tried surrounding libraries, only to be informed their space is all booked up. Plan B was rec or senior centers, but that also was a dead end. You can't focus on poetry critique when elders are playing ping pong behind you. Other eating establishments would want us to buy food too. Damn capitalists. My thought is to advertise for a lonely person with extra space and promise company two hours a week. We'd bring our own coffee, let him listen to our writing, even contribute a comment or two. We'd also promise not to use the bathroom.
Rutherford is associated with William Carlos Williams, and here we are in 2012, wandering poets looking for a home. It's been proven that having poets around the premises raises property values. If worse comes to worse, I'm voting for Hooters. Sensuality is such a part of great verse and Hooters oozes inspiration.

Waiting for the Plumber

The condo board president, super and plumber check my walls for dampness. Some owners are complaining of damp walls. I told them my walls are dry. They didn't believe me. Have I ever found water on the floor? Never, I swore. The plumber looks at me askance. Why would I lie to a plumber? He is impressed by my sculptures and asks if I'm a world traveler. I tell him I frequently shop at Marshalls Home Goods.
The super tells me I need to stay home and wait for his phone call to let me know the plumber is coming to fix a pipe under my new $500 toilet. He says there is dampness in the basement coming from my pipe. I should demand to see this wetness. I use bowl cleaner that specifically states it will not harm the septic system, which I assume means the pipes.
They're trying to pin all plumbing problems on me, I know it.
The plumber called this morning because I wrote a note to the super stating I cannot just stay home all day waiting for this guy. I'm a busy man with a full schedule. Plus, I ran out of oranges. He understands and mentions emergencies being a priority, which I understand. We are two understanding men trying to get something accomplished. If he doesn't come tomorrow, screw the bastard.

Dangerous Cereal

I used to have a bowl of oatmeal every morning. It just lays there, mushy and defenseless. I got bored with the predictability. Next time I was in the cereal aisle I took my time, examining one colorful box after another, each promising good health and nutrition. I was getting dizzy, comparing and contrasting.
At the very end of the aisle were three bright blue boxes that had a photo of a cherubic woman in her forties with a warm smile. Underneath it were two words: "Ulrika's Goodies". I assumed it was cereal because it was in the cereal aisle. In small letters on the side it said: "Made in Rumania". As soon as I got home I opened the box and filled my bowl.
It was burgundy in color, with rough texture. When I poured a sprig of milk onto it, I heard a violent crackling and a sucking noise. I backed away from the table, unable to breathe. Somehow, I got to the window and threw it open, taking deep breaths. My new cereal was sucking the oxygen right out of the room. Once my heart stopped pounding, I decided to follow through with my adventure and finish the bowl. I had trouble chewing and swallowing the kernels, but it tasted very sweet.
I patted myself on the back for my courage. An hour later my stomach was doing flips, my gums were bleeding, and my lips frozen. I grabbed the box to toss it out and it was then that I noticed that smiling woman on the outside now had her head thrown back and was guffawing madly.
The joke was on me.

Cold

Cold
A man's nipples harden
Your eyeballs sting
Lose a glove and you panic
Wind burn without the wind
Your body hates you
You envy fat people
Your coughs struggle to stay inside your mouth
Your car sounds like its humping its own gas pipe
Frost mocks you
Small birds manage one tweet before keeling over
Puffs of breath spell Get me inside!
Your butt crack is lined with ice
Genitals retreat to small intestines
Vaseline simply will not help

Fizz

I don't know how much fizz I have left because I'm not sure how much I started with. I can fly past people on stairs, but others leave me in the dust. I have good insights, but often get drowned out by younger voices. I still tackle projects with gusto, which presents an interesting conundrum. If you're stranded on an island, would you prefer a stockpile of gusto or fizz?
For some time now I sense I've been leaking spunk.Growing up, I was a spunk machine, salivating over any challenge. I took no guff. Now, not only do I take guff face to face, I accept Fed Ex parcels packed with guff. The sheer amount of guff piling up in my living space has pushed my remaining gusto to a corner of my guest room. If I didn't have a crate of chutzpa in my garage, I'd have to depend on my pitiful stash of fizz to get me through the day. I flat out ran out of gumption last week.
I hear a knock at my door. It must be my weekly supply of braggadocio. I use it to wet my lips and wash down a crustiness, which I'm certain is just the remnants of my once impressive fizz.

Contact List

My contact list for Joe Wannabes is growing. I always share my personal and professional achievements with them. Sometimes some fool will try to reciprocate by informing me of their own success. I'm too polite to respond in a nasty way, preferring to chalk it up as a delusional episode by someone who should be content basking in my limelight.
I recently posted photos of some souvenirs I picked up on my latest safari to the Serengeti this fall, while my wannabes were home changing tablecloths or some such nonsense. I try not to rub it in, but it feels so good knowing I have this wondrous life in the midst of so much banality.
I was thinking that should I have an emergency and need assistance, I should have another contact list of trusted, loving people ready to come to my aid. So far, this list includes only you, but, seriously, aren't you flattered?

Job Creation

If each of us creates one job, think of how the economy would bounce back.
I wracked my brain trying to come up with jobs that would gainfully employ someone. This is what I came up with. Organizing my paintings by color. Dusting my collection of sea shells. Telling me I'm in denial when I refuse to see reality. Making sure my key rings are located in the same drawer. Answer the phone when telemarketers try to sell me used tire rims.
Cooking fish in any way, shape or form. Cleaning up my gravy stains. Debating why Germany is the only European country that can make cars and doesn't owe money. When I'm tired of reading, finish off chapters. Blog for me when I'm lacking an idea. Check me daily for insect infestation. Rotate my sofa cushions, sheets, soap holders, shoe rack. Wipe me down with a cold wash cloth when I'm flushed with embarrassment. Accompany me to parties and feed me good conversation openers.
Test my mouthwash for contaminants. Explain the more sophisticated funnies. Serve as my stanchion during high wind advisory warnings. Cover my feet with a blanket at 3am. Take apart my arguments with flawless logic. Perform karaoke for me in public places. Trim my eyebrows.
I haven't worked out salary or benefits, but I'm offering ten days off. Unless I need you to shovel snow.

Bat House

I want my blog to be educational. So today I'll discuss how to build a bat house.
Proper site selection is key. You need to place your bat house at least 12 feet off the ground in an open spot, ideally facing south by southwest to maximize sun exposure. Bats enjoy tanning. Build it within one quarter mile from a drinking source like a stream or pond. Make sure there are enough insects around for snacking. Little known fact: bats love beer. Budweiser predominantly. Place your bat house within 100 feet of a treeline to provide cover from aerial predators. Our government has quietly been using drones to wipe out pesky bats, leading to the proliferation of pesky insects. Blame the Democrats.
Guano is a fancy name for bat crap. If you place your bat house above a pathway or patio, your guests will step in these droppings and eventually exclude you from future gatherings. But you can use guano as fertilizer or threaten your children with guano soup if they misbehave. The best place for them is on poles or buildings--the houses, not your kids.On trees, secure a metal predator guard around the tree below your bat house.
Having your bats sign a lease or just charging them by the month is up to you. If they demand repainting or electrical work, charge them a common fee. In the off season, when bats vacation in the West Indies, make sure no wasps set up nests in their house, unless the bats have a rental arrangement with them. Otherwise, hire a professional wasp remover to get rid of them. Or convince a particularly troublesome child that tree climbing is healthy. The wasps will do the rest.

Gym

As soon as I finish this granola bar I'm going to the gym. Can't have enough fiber before a workout. Well, maybe I'll write a blog first. And check my email. Don't want to upset anyone trying to get hold of me. I am now out the door, headed for the gym. Just a quick check in the fridge. Do I need oranges? Wait, a news bulletin on the New Hampshire primary. I am an involved citizen.
Was that the phone? Damn. Another robo call. Might as well listen to it. Looks like Mitt is in charge in NH. Okay, right to the gym. My muscles are screaming to be worked. I can smell that locker room. Have to pee. Can't drive when I'm squirming around. What's that thing on my chin? Should I squeeze it?
Okay, I am ready for a workout to end all workouts. Maybe I should weigh myself first. Where is that scale? What I really need to do right now is collect my thoughts. A disciplined mind leads to a firm body. I read that somewhere. Did I lock all the windows? Shut the stove? Is the toilet running? Have to leave a well maintained condo before I carve out some reps.
Hmmm. it's 7:38pm. The gym closes at nine. If I stop for coffee, which is a must energy booster, add in time to find a parking space, I'm probably only going to have 20 minutes to workout. You know what? I'm not comfortable with that number. Best to wait a day and hit the weights tomorrow. They'll still be there. Let's see what's happening on Access Hollywood. Damn Jessica Biel's engaged to the guy with the big honker. Need a beer.

Theater Mosh Pit

Attending a local theater group party is always fascinating for a writer. You pick up so many characters and much dialogue that can be used in your work.
First are the gasbags who seldom take a breath, going on and on about their past, current and future projects. You are there solely to bask in their brilliance. Then you have the gossipers, who have something harsh to say about just about everyone else there. Actually some of their gossip is quite juicy and you find yourself competing with them, in the process betraying confidences. Your guilt is assuaged by the strong possibility no one will remember anything said at these things, alcohol being what it is.
Another interesting group are the MIA bunch, those who show up for nothing except the parties, who leave all the actual work and volunteering to others, but because they paid their dues feel entitled to be there and engorge. My favorites are the deal makers, people who pigeon hole you and propose projects together. They have an incredible concept, all they need is someone to do the 200 hours of actual writing.
Last, over in the corner, sitting by themselves, listening and watching, are the writers. Sometimes it seems like they're dozing, but don't be fooled. Everything that's happening around them gets sucked into their Mind Baggie, taken home and put in a safe place for future reference. And whispering your conversation won't help--we hear everything.

Modells Maze

I have come to hate Modells. They keep sending me coupons that advertise 20% off or $10 off any purchase over $50. But when you bring your item up to the cashier you are told the coupon doesn't apply to stuff already on sale. The problem is almost everything in the store is on sale.
You spend an hour stalking around trying to find ANYTHING you can buy that qualifies. Invariably, the only products left are those you don't want or can't use. Hand Squeezers, socks, underwear, insulated socks, bowling equipment, cut off socks, fishing equipment, black socks, lacrosse equipment, ribbed socks, hats--I have 45 hats--Lycra shorts--I already have two pairs--a bicycle pump, on and on. Superfluous stuff.
This last time I bought $39.99 sneakers in sale for $24.99, a nice savings. But my 20% coupon, which could have saved me another $5 was disqualified because it was a sale item. I bought the sneakers anyway, so angry I forgot to ask for the 10% senior discount, something Modells doesn't advertise. These were my back up sneakers. I was left with one alternative. Buy the regularly priced $39.99 sneakers for which my coupon was applicable, meaning an $8 savings. But now I had TWO pairs of back up sneakers. Where do I put this other one? I have limited closet space and a lousy memory. I'm sure I'll forget about those sneakers.
I was so furious I went right to Pathmark, ordered hot tea, demanding two tea bags and lemon. Then I marched to the hot soup section and brazenly took three packs of Saltines without buying any soup. Then I read The News and Post without paying. Sometimes you do what you have to to balance the ledger.

Handball

I don't grasp the concept of handball. If you want to say it's a great fitness activity, I'll go along. But spending hours slamming a rubber ball against a wall with no discernible goal other than to make the other player look foolish seems a waste of time and energy.
Handball leagues, if they exist, certainly don't generate any income. Handball statistics are a mystery; no one gets handball scholarships. There are no great handball memoirs or novels or movies. Bar flies don't argue over the greatest handball teams or stars. Where are the endorsements? If it's an Olympic sport why don't we ever see coverage?
Sweaty fat guys get just as much court time as athletic types. I've seen 60 year old men scrambling around like their life is at stake. Ambidextrous humans swatting with both hands is as close to mystical as this sport gets. I do like the thwacking sound the ball makes when it hits wall, but you get more thwack for the buck at volleyball matches.
On the plus side, handball is supremely more exciting than badminton, created by athletically challenged English aristocracy for slim noblemen and thin boned women carrying parasols. Maybe handball organizers should do what beach volleyball people did-put babes in bikinis out there. And serve beer.

Dryer

I fear for my dryer. I put my damp wash in and deposited two quarters, which gave me 25 minutes of high temp action. But a loud noise ensued, as though something was broken in the cylinder. I pulled open the door and pulled out dungarees, thinking maybe I overloaded it. But the same noise continued. So I replaced the jeans and retreated to my condo. Knowing my beloved dryer might be on its last legs, it was difficult focusing on a Rosalind Russell film. Also, she talks really fast in all her movies.
When I returned to the laundry room, the machine had stopped. I reached in and felt my clothes. Slightly damp. I would need another ten minutes. Luckily I had one final quarter and slipped it in. But this was disturbing. Never before had two quarters failed to get the job done. My dryer had suddenly aged like John Wayne after he got the cancer. You must understand, I love this dryer. It is five times more efficient than the expensive new ones that cost $1.25 a load and never get your clothes completely dry. You can just toss stuff in there, except bathroom mats, and sense power as it tumbles fabric to its will. This is the Patton of dryers, booking no nonsense.
Yes, I removed my now dry load and packed them into my duffel bag. Sensing this might be the final time I interact with this noble creature, I stared long and hard, tossed it a kiss, and left without looking back.