Crusaders

Morris and I have no idea what this is all about. We've got nothing against the Turks. They've got their deal, we've got ours. But then this Pope guy, Pope Urban II, silly name if you ask me, he decides Catholics need to send 60000 of us to the East Nowhere to retake territory somebody calls The Holy Land. Hey, any land created by God is holy, right?
This whole Jerusalem thing confuses me. Who built it, owns it, right? Why don't they have a different neighborhood for each clan? It worked in London. It works everywhere, except Italy. Damn Italians hate everybody who's not Italian.
I'll tell you something else. Morris and me, we're nothing in this thing, completely expendable like all these guys around us. Why? Because we never got no stinking horses. Look over there. Knights in armor. Impressive, huh? Think they'd give us the time of day. The damn animals get treated better. Gruel every day and night. My stomach's killing me. Look at Morris. He looks sicker than me. How are we supposed to pull this thing off when we're too sick to stand? Frankly, I don't feel much like killing people, if you want to know the truth. I was a tailor back home and Morris a blacksmith. They told us if we went along on this here Crusade we'd get full health benefits. We signed up, figuring we'd be back home in a week or two. Six weeks later we're not even halfway there. We have the worst navigation system on earth. Arkie is supposed to know the fastest route, but why are we stuck in Portugal? Supposedly, he's somebody's brother in law, that's how he got the job. Christ, this armor is heavy. My shorts are soaked in sweat. Suppose we take control of the entire Byzantine Empire. What the hell are we going to do with it? Weekend flea markets? We need to have a say on who gets to be Pope, that's what I think. Stop whining, Morris. I gotta pee too.

Underestimate

Every once in a while I underestimate someone. Something about them convinces me they are in over their head. That's essentially what I tell them. These words of wisdom are not terribly appreciated. Suppose someone told me the same thing. Joe, stay away from blogging, you can't handle the pressure. I'd be furious. My ears get red when I'm mad and then I get angrier because I look silly with red ears. I'd do anything to prove them wrong.
I questioned whether it was wise for an actress acquaintance to pull up stakes and head to California. How many Asians do you see on TV and in the movies? Okay, Grace Park on Hawaii 5-0 is proof of God's existence. I love Sandra Oh's work on Gray's Anatomy as well as Lucy Liu on the old Allie McBeal. But, overall, if they're cast at all, it's usually small sidekick roles, quirky characters.
My actress friend hadn't done that much outside of roles in indies and theater parts for tiny groups in small venues. Wouldn't she be buried beneath silicone stuffed Caucasians? Well, that remains to be seen. She seems just fine, auditioning and taking classes, getting a couple of lines in a popular sitcom. I'm told by some there are 28 shows filmed in NY, as well as all the theater work. But there are dozens more shot in Cal. and most say if you're serious about acting, that's where you need to be.
She's 26, but could pass for 20. No one can use her eyes the way she can. I guess I miss seeing her on stage. But you can't keep what isn't yours. One big break and she'll belong to everyone. Damn. I should have gotten her autograph before she left.

In Defense Of

Leave Brian Seacrest alone. Stop dumping on this man, who is just trying to make a living. The literal dumping of phony dictator ashes on Brian at last night's red carpet by some idiot who shall remain nameless is unacceptable. Seacrest, as usual, kept his cool. Chris Rock or Rosie O'Donnell would have screamed epithets, lost all control. This man, and he has handled the challenge of having no discernible talent in a manly way, deserves more respect.
God bless Dick Clark, who was smooth as Formica no matter what catastrophe occurred while on the air live. That is a lost art, and Brian is the notable exception. I hope he can put this in perspective, weigh the humiliation against the sixteen jobs he now holds and the 38 shows he produces.
Billy Crystal, I love the guy, but his forehead has become a WMD. And dying the hair just doesn't work after a certain age unless you're Cruise. His opening basically is where he shoots his load. At least he had a load. James Franco had to be tasered last year to keep him relatively alert. Why don't they have a montage of actors behaving inappropriately with various animals, like Eastwood did with that Orangutang? And where was Nicholson? Why did Nolte look older than Max Von Sydow? When is Bruce Willis going to get invited to this thing? His films have grossed ten times more than Streep's. Both are from Jersey. Is there some kind of anti-Jersey quota going on? If Michelle Williams acted any more fragile on the red carpet she'd crumple to fragments. Rooney Mara is great in the movie, but she's about 2500 words short of a vocabulary when answering questions.
Leave Seacrest alone, I mean it. What? His name is Ryan? Never mind.

Compost Heap

There is an art to compost heaps. For a while they were out of fashion, but with the increase of disposable garbage, folks are seeking constructive, environmentally supportive means of disposing of junk.
Each compost heap is different in its own way. I can only provide the ingredients I used in mine to give you an example.
I include the following: sweat drenched yoga mats, globs of lip silicone, Kevin Spacey's hairpiece in American Beauty, several plaid flannel shirts I used to wear in tough sections of Jersey City, poodle poop from the upper East Side, Jackie Collins entire body of work, spoiled squash, hoodie footie pajamas, Huggs boots, an old videotape of Chevy Chase's short lived talk show, Jennifer Lopez's used Spanx, smoked pork in lard, defective cell phones, ancient pagers, Reese Witherspoon's discarded hair extensions, and a large portion of my late Aunt Louise, who swore no one would put her six feet under. Well, she's two feet under Joni Mitchell's paintings, which I insanely purchased in bulk from a warehouse some years ago. This is why I'll never be an investment counselor.
My compost heap does what it is supposed to do. How many of us can say the same?

Fooled Them

They sit there scribbling away in my writer's workshop. Some are clicking like crazy on their laptops. Twelve writers, all ages, both sexes, a couple of young ones. They trust me, look to me for inspiration. I have just finished a 90 minute exploration of writers' fears. It went over well--it always does.
I'm very convincing as an academic. I have an understanding expression. They come to me with their blocked novels, their lousy syntax, their failures and rejections. And I comfort them. Constructive criticism, that is who I am in their eyes.
The library is empty and quiet, except for us, ensconced in the conference room. All of them have lives, histories, families. A part of me is sad they will never see any of that again. Because very shortly, both doors will burst open and my beloved species, firing stun guns, will take over, loading all twelve into the mother ship hovering in the night sky. They will be examined and eventually displayed for our race's amusement.
Yes, I will finally be returning to my world, see my family again, and resume my real existence. They will hate me, these writers, but after some eons, perhaps they'll appreciate the opportunity no other human has experienced, except those skateboarders from California. There has to be a book in this.

Prospectus

Here is the downside of not allowing comments on the blog: there are smarter people out there who would be able to translate this message from Prudential I received yesterday.
"Effective February 27, 2012 the Value Line Target 25 Portfolio Sub-account will close to all Owners EXCEPT those Owners who have ever invested Account Value in the Sub-account. You may continue to allocate Account Value and make transfers into the Sub-account after the Closure Date, including any electronic funds transfer, Dollar Cost Averaging, Automatic Rebalancing, asset allocation and Balanced Investment programs. If you have never previously invested in the Sub-account and you do not have Account Value invested in the Sub-account as of the Closure Date, you will not be permitted to invest in the Sub-account thereafter."
After I finished reading this and vomiting what's left of my brain into the sink, it occurred to me that when you invest money with a money manager and periodically receive thick pamphlets listing hundreds of companies and stocks and tiny numbers, row afer row, page after page, you may as well have waved bye bye to said investment. I simply check my quarterly statement to see if I have anything left. If there's still money in my portfolio, I resume worrying about other things, like that lump of food in the Tupperware container at the back of my fridge that's been there for months and I'm afraid to open.
26 more days til spring.

My Accountant

My accountant is in his forties, but still has a boyish brush cut. He also has chipmunk cheeks and wears glasses. He is fast and accurate and finds deductions everywhere. He is worth whatever I pay him.
My accountant is also a money manager. I am tempted to give him money to invest, but I'm very conservative. Scared actually. He claims he gets between 4 and 7% for his clients, which is a lot better than my money market is getting. I ask about rising oil prices and he shrugs it off as cyclical. I mention the Dow almost at 13000 and he disdainfully informs me the Dow is only 30 companies. I mention the problems in Greece and he says let the whole thing blow up, let it fall apart, it's not working. Stop the bailouts and try something new. Actually I thought that, not him. What if Israel attacks Iran? He assures me that won't happen.
I am up in the air with this. I have to do something. Three years without any real interest earnings with no end in sight. I just checked--the Dow is over 13000. Unemployment is down. Production is up. Housing? He says that's always the last to recover. He seems so confident. Maybe if I give him money, he'll let me come over periodically and reassure me I'm not going to lose my shirt. A hug is not out of the question, although he'd probably charge me.

Two Timer

I caught my writing partner writing with someone else. Let me stabilize my breathing. Carol and I had been faithful for over two years, sitting opposite each other at Leo's coffee shop each Monday night. There was little actual conversation, no critiquing, occasional eye contact. We just sat there and clicked away on our projects, mine a novel, hers a memoir.
I sensed we had a solid writing relationship. There was no hint of problems.
It was a rainy night in January. I had come from a Protect the Turtles meeting of local environmentalists. It was cantankerous to say the least. Marcia was adamant that kids should not have pet turtles because invariably they forgot to feed them, causing early death. Several parents got upset; shouting ensued and almost led to fisticuffs. We environmentalists are a righteous bunch.
So I was tired when I decided to stop in an unfamiliar coffee shop on the way home. It had a Grand Opening sign out front. Good. I'm also a big supporter of small businesses.
As soon as I walked in the door I saw her, Carol, sitting at a rear table, looking down, typing away. Opposite her was another woman whose face I couldn't see. She too was clicking away. I gasped. It was obvious what was happening. Shock is understatement. The hurt didn't hit me until I was home, alone with my laptop. I called her names, which I won't repeat. I threw things.
Tonight we are meeting for the first time since I discovered her duplicity. I haven't figured how to approach this. I don't want us to argue in public. She may get up and storm out, denying everything. She might say it was her cousin from out of town. She might even suggest a three-way, something I'd fantasized about for too long. Whatever happens, I hold the moral high ground here, right? Strangely, seeing Carol writing with someone else has made her more...exciting. I may just fling caution to the wind, order a caffeinated drink tonight and let events take their course.

Strange Cab Ride

When we left city limits I got nervous. The cabbie said nothing. I have short term memory loss and forgot where I was supposed to be going. Perhaps it was Brooklyn Heights. If I were more authoritative I could have prevented this. But I've always been reticent about creating friction. The meter ticks away. The sign we pass says, "Welcome to Nassau County". I've always wanted to visit there. Why not now?
Hopefully he'll take one of these exits because I have to pee. I'm going to need a calculator to figure his tip. Hey cabbie, if we keep going we'll hit the Atlantic. I force a smile and he half turns to me without a word. Finally he asks, "You healthy, no?"
I shrug and respond that I supposed so.
He suddenly slowed, pulled off at an exit and drove a few blocks to an empty parking lot. Out of nowhere a group of burly men pointing guns surrounded the cab. "What is all this?" I asked.
The cabbie looked directly at me and said, "My friends pay well for healthy kidneys."
That's when I saw the spray can. I took one breath as the stuff hit me and knew I'd never get to see Nassau.

Six Word Film Treatments

Popeye realizes he really loves Bluto
Caught beneath an avalanche with grandma
Disgruntled Toyota owners firebomb auto show
Docudrama about the Oreo cookie development
Animated feature tracking displaced angry geese
Really old people having awkward foreplay
A library hiding a crazed sniper
Man has unwholesome relationship with koala
Two nubile teens trapped in Oswego
Viral mosquitoes terrorize a transcontinental jet
Sick jokes played on Helen Keller
Grandpa gets sucked into the humidifier
Cavemen discover pork chops by accident

Flaneur

All this time I thought I was just nosy. Now, according to a NY Times article, it's obvious what I really am is a flaneur and I've been engaging in flanerie. This activity began in 19th century Paris. "The flaneur would leisurely stroll through its streets and especially its arcades--those stylish, lively and bustling rows of shops, covered by glass roofs--to cultivate what Honore de Balzac called 'the gastronomy of the eye'."
That is exactly what I do in NYC. Hours and hours of flaneuring. Not sure where I'm headed, without a real goal. Just absorbing and mentally cataloging, in the process locating myself within the bathos surrounding me. Or I could just be a nosy bastard.
Do I hope to meet someone? Not really. Is eyeballing strangers inherently wrong? I don't know, but I always catch people eyeballing me for no reason. I'm normal height and weight, walk at a normal pace, wear presentable clothing and boring hats. What if there are thousands of flaneurs clogging sidewalks, pretending to be awed tourists? With me, architecture is just as much a target as people. I find myself stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk, gazing up at a particular style. Sometimes others will stop and look where I'm looking, in which case I will quickly move on. Don't like imposition into my flaneuring territory.
Looking in shop and business windows is something I can't control, especially on weekends. I want to see the faces of those stuck working like I used to be, want to feel their pain. Boutiques without customers, imprisoned clerks with nothing to do but refold sweaters, has to be one of the saddest sights imaginable. A life sliding by on a beautiful spring day.

Notary Public

Paul thought this was the best day of his life. He received an online certification authorizing him as an official notary public. He had always wanted to stamp things with authority and finality. He put a big sign in front of his house and before long clients began streaming in. In this society everyone needs proof of something, unimpeachable credentials and Paul was there to provide them. Within a week he had stamped paperwork for a potato farmer, a short order cook, a bassoonist, a quick change artist, a flap jack flipper, a cake icing creator, a hop scotch extremist, a fine tuner, a mixed media curator, a rhyming coordinator, a barbecue critic, on and on. So much to stamp, so little time.
Paul's reputation grew. He was quick and accurate and soon other notary public types visited from all over, spending hours comparing techniques, new approaches, all the fine points of this invaluable service.One night, after a few glasses of wine, they began stamping each other, rolling around the floor in hysterics. Neighbors called police. Warnings were issued. Somehow, in all the craziness, Paul's stamping arm was dislocated. It took months of rehab, but he was never the same. His stamping now lacked authority. He brooded openly. Mumbled profanities. Reeked of liniment. Soon, his business fell off to nothing. He couldn't sleep. A decision had to be made. Paul drew up his own paperwork and stamped it himself. De certification. He was no longer a notary public. Eventually got a degree in child psychology. Sometimes frightened the children in one on one sessions by suddenly making a fist and bringing it down hard on the table in a stamping motion. Dreams die hard.

Six Word Memoirs

Free floating anxiety. Froot Loop remedy.
Crossing guard phobia. Avoid all intersections.
Unhealthy attachment to ice cream trucks.
Women flee. I pursue. Wasted time.
Deep breaths on Motor Vehicle line.
Pick at phantom scabs all night.
Roll over into the wet spot.
A job minus secratary or windows.
The confidence of a con man.
A life spent in self-imposed shackles.
A clean bathmat is joyous morning.
I exist only on Facebook profile.
My neurosis needs some privacy please.
Tuesdays and Thursdays are insult free.
I create pristine garbage on weekends.
38% of life is swallowing pride.
Can a one armed dominatrix compete?
A rose is a rose is.
I must protect the last cookie.
Silk, satin, bourbon, soft lights, mirror.
Up against the wall. Spread 'em.
Who cheats on six word memoirs?
Bamboozled, scammed, baffled, all before noon.

Anticipation

Funny how as you get older the things you joyfully anticipate shrink in gravitas. Young people anticipate a possible hook up that might lead to a meaningful relationship. Or not. A night of pub crawling with friends resulting in crazy stories that will be retold for years afterward. Or a job offer, a promotion, an overseas vacation; in short, big stuff, life changing events.
With me, I look forward to small pleasantries. "Person of Interest", Thursday nights, 9pm. Free coffee and cake at a seniors event every Friday morning at a library. More free refreshments at a book discussion group. Hitting the high notes in the song "People" while in the shower. Waking up and seeing no discolored toe nails. Switching from beef jerky to turkey jerky and looking forward to a new, exotic taste.
No one screaming outside my window. Locating that itch with my back scratch er. Spelling all the words right in an essay like this. Getting a $10 coupon from AC Moore. Making a witty remark on Facebook. Not boring anyone all day. Having a brisk discussion with someone older than me and noting I still have years of intelligent discourse ahead. Just anticipating that sometime during the day, there will be a low key high point that only I will appreciate. It's time for my power walk at a local park. I'm expecting to do 45 solid minutes and if someone smiles at me, that just may be today's high point, and that, friends, is enough at this point of my life.

Electric

I bought an electric razor for the first time in many years. I have to say there is nothing more masculine than shaving oneself with a high powered Remington. I don't feel ready for a Norelco right now, but that will come. For the longest time I've been using a straight razor, a Bic no less. Frankly, I felt emasculated. First you have to apply just the right amount of cream, evenly distributed. Too much and you look like a foam derelict, too little and you look like a cheapskate.
Plus, shaving this way means you have to be very careful, almost dainty in your strokes. Shaving cuts ruin your day before it begins. And those tiny areas right under your nose are virtually inaccessible no matter how hard you try. After a few days of missing those spots you resemble Hitler.
With an electric razor a man can attack his face, using bold, fearless motion, ripping into those stubborn spots, listening to that masculine whirring of blades. I seriously doubt Lee Marvin ever used a girly straight razor, except in Cat Ballou, when he won his Oscar. I can't see Josh Groban employing a Remington, at least not with the reckless abandon I use. I even use it on and in my ears. My dirty little secret. The only downside is when you open the top to clean it and all you see is gray ash where there used to be dark ash, a reminder that even the most testosterone fueled man will grow old.

My Blog

My blog moans in the night
Each entry a restless spider monkey
I sit up in bed, reeking of pepperoni
I just want to make people smile
So what happens?
Dirty secrets, disdain, cranky old guy stuff
My blog is fed up with my issues
Followers down to three
a defrocked minister
a disbarred lawyer
a dreamer without a plan
The ads at the bottom are supposed to generate revenue
No one clicks on them
Now advertizers are angry at me
My blog, begun with enthusiasm,
Has morphed into a deserted newsroom
in a deserted building
in the center of an empty town
My blog is pathetically lonely

Maturity

I took another step toward maturity today. Sports Illustrated swimsuit models were signing copies at a Walgreens in midtown. Plus, more supermodels were at Lincoln Center for Fashion week. I could have gone over there and stood in line for hours in exchange for a quick autograph by some lady I will never see again. I could have stood in the cold with my camera waiting for runway models to emerge from a show like so many others without a life.
Instead I chose to attend a writers support group at Montclair library and discuss perplexing writer problems and offering sage advice to the younger scribes. Then, after a hearty lunch in Secaucus at a Dunkin' Donuts, I went to a book discussion at their library. Actually all the seats were taken, so I went to the Sara Jessica Parker movie next door. It was kind of funny in that quirky, modern style of Sex and the City. And I had tea and pretzels to boot.
This is how I should be spending my time. Will I watch Letterman tonight because he has Kate Upton, the SI cover choice? I may just check in a moment and listen. She's only 19, but young people's opinions are important too. I'm particularly interested in who her favorite authors are.

Carbon Monoxide

So I return home after being out all day and my carbon monoxide detector is beeping. I pull it out from the wall and it says right on the back to call the fire department immediately and find fresh air. I fling open the window and try not to panic. It is Sunday night and snow is falling. Maybe it will stop by itself. I wait a few minutes. It keeps beeping. I could be breathing in poison. I call 911 and am transferred to the FD. I explain what happened and am assured they'll be right there.
I decide to wait outside. A minute later I hear sirens that sound like they are approaching. Then they trail off and my biggest fear is realized--the firemen are completely lost. My condo is very difficult to reach. I won't go into details, but every repair person or salesman with an appointment has gotten lost. I pace back and forth until I hear the sirens getting louder again. I run to the corner and see a small fire SUV. Waving frantically, I get his attention and before long large firemen are tramping through my place, checking my stove.
The first guy checks the monitor and promptly informs me it has expired. This happens all the time, he says, and is probably the reason it's beeping. This is confirmed moments later by the guy holding the meter, which shows a big, fat zero. I'm happy, but embarrassed. My other monitor is five years old, also due for replacement. I go to home Depot next morning and shell out $45 for two detectors.
Now I'm wondering if my thought processes have been affected by silent, odorless, tasteless carbon monoxide poisoning. Insidious, that's what this is. I'm just glad there were no dirty dishes in the sink, allowing me a smidgeon of face saving.

One of Each

Hugo's yard sales are always a rich experience. The variety amazes me. I had a larger budget than last year and went right to work picking and choosing. Here is my booty for 2012.
A theorist to provide the kind of deep intellectual discourse I deserve.
A dominatrix for when I'm bad and need to be punished.
A third world gardener who doesn't speak English and can't ask for a cost of living raise.
A handyman to fix whatever gets broken because I'm tool kit challenged.
A Slavic cook who can also serve as my bodyguard.
An exotic dancer to make me feel rejuvenated after the dominatrix has punished me.
A depressed poet who makes me feel better about my life.
A man who does vivid impressions of dictators.
A sad looking Asian man who sits with his legs crossed and may have the secret to life.
A magician and his female assistant, who wears slightly torn black stockings
and a Spandex costume, which leads to impure thoughts and more punishment.
Everything goes in circles. I'm still looking for a contortionist, preferably female. Connect the dots.

The Pack

I'd love to run with the pack if I could find the damn pack. I wander streets at night searching for anything resembling a pack. At intersections I yell at drivers, "Have you seen any packs around?" They usually ignore me, but one guy described what he assumed was an environmental pack demonstrating in front of a hardware store. Walking quickly, I found myself confronted by a group of eight folks holding up signs. "Burst the bulbs!" and "Exposure to new bulbs causes cancer!"
The leader, a short man with premature jowls, explained there was scientific evidence these new environment friendly bulbs that cost four times more than the old bulbs cause the analytical part of the brain to atrophy. He gave me examples; Housewives of New Jersey on cable, Ron Paul, Meet Up groups, million dollar drones that mistakenly bomb our allies, the Winter Olympics, especially curling, the continuing career of Lorenzo Lamas, fish oil supplements, a phone app for obscenities.
They were a small, vociferous bunch, none of whom looked like they spent much time choosing a wardrobe--my kind of pack. I grabbed a sign and joined in. Ten minutes later, slightly hoarse, I asked what time was lunch? Even packs have to recharge.

Whitney

I was too young to understand what happened to Judy Garland. I'd see her on late night talk shows and was both entertained and disturbed watching her. She could be loopy in an unbridled way, yet obviously not all was well. I remember thinking why didn't all those powerful people around her monitor her more closely and stop feeding her those uppers to keep her working. Just from a business stand point it made sense.
Now, reading the dozens of responses by famous, powerful people, you have to wonder if things might have turned out differently for Whitney if any of them had devoted more time and effort to pushing her to get straight. In sports, teams literally hire someone to be a constant companion to a star who has substance abuse problems, like baseballer Josh Hamilton. They're protecting their investment. Couldn't her record company have done the same? Or her family? If that's what it takes and you have to do it year after year, you do it. Though her career was much shorter, Amy Winehouse falls into the same category. It's easy to say people must take responsibility for their own lives, but how cold is that when you can see someone unraveling, someone who has lost control? We make jokes about Sheen, Lohan, Hasselhoff and so many others. Sickness is not a choice. Whitney Houston was ill. Her body finally wore down. It never should have gotten that far.

Lost in Fairlawn

I thought I knew Fairlawn. Just another Bergen County town. I'm stubborn about getting a GPS; my maps should be sufficient.
And then...one of my short plays was being performed at a rec center in this town. I was given the address on a flyer and, busy as I am, waited until the day of the show to drive out there. I left in the afternoon, giving myself plenty of time to find the place. When I got to town center, I parked and took out my map. For the next 15 minutes I strained my eyes trying to find 20th Street. The Post Office was closed, I had no idea where the police station was, so I did what all guys do. I drove off figuring I'd find it anyway.
I went down Morlot Street and saw the street numbers rising. I hit 17th Street and figured I was home free. The next thing I noticed was 22nd Street.Where were the intervening blocks? I continued driving around as the sky darkened. My night vision is not as good as when I was younger. Is it possible there was another Fairlawn in another dimension?
Eventually I gave up and went to a jazz jam in Leonia, where all the streets listed on the map are actually there. I've since been told there is a 20th Street. I'm taking this as a challenge. I will leave early Sunday morning, take plenty of provisions, make certain my will is in order, and set out to Fairlawn again, this town of illusion. Perfect for my plays. If I find this damn place I want free coffee and cookies.

Forced Hugging

A woman hugged me last night. She is married, fairly attractive, not someone I see a lot. When we meet at a party she always initiates the hug. It is in her control; how long, how intense, whether there is eye contact, whether I can smell her hair, what, if anything, is said afterward. Does it feel good? Oh yes. She has meat on her bones, some real huggable flesh.
Here's the thing--she hugs everyone. I mean everyone, even people who obviously don't want to be grasped by a virtual stranger. Her husband doesn't seem to mind. She's Filipino, so maybe it's a cultural thing. The fact is, we really don't have much to say to each other. She's into spirituality; I'm into everything but. I believe people with lots of money who can help other people have more spirituality than those who are poor and look beatific while expounding on inner peace.
The more I think about it, the more I realize I'm at risk of catching other people's germs by allowing this woman to hug me. Who knows what kind of hugging targets she's captured? Homeless people? Not that I'm suggesting the homeless have more germs than others. In fact, children are covered in bacteria. Think about that the next time you hug a precious kid. You could be opening yourself up to all sorts of disease.
Admittedly, I'll continue to let anyone hug me who wants to. Especially really tall women.

Ten Things

Ten Things I Hate About Show Business
1.Actors saying they love the opportunity to work with Woody Allen despite him paying about $142 a movie.
2.All this gushing about George Clooney's Italian villa. It's a freaking villa with a kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, living rooms and probably a pool, surrounded by lots of shouting Italians, arguing about nothing.
3.Owen Wilson's bangs. He's pushing 40 and looks like a goofy, baffled 15 year old.
4.Ed Harris thrusting his bald dome in our faces year after year. At least try a hairpiece. It's done wonders for Travolta, almost keeping his career going.
5.Morgan Freeman's entire career. He's doing exactly what Whoopi did for three decades--playing the same damn character.
6.Why no one is giving Rachel McAdams props for that butt. You could hide Joel Grey under those cheeks.
7.Does Kathy Griffen have to talk so fast? She seems scared out of her mind she won't be funny and substitutes quantity for quality.
8. For two shows that are supposed to be cutting edge, why do Whitney and Chelsea have laugh tracks?
9.Every time an actor shaves their head we're supposed to be duly impressed--see Cynthia Nixon.
10.As brilliant as 30 Rock can be, sometimes it slides into silliness. And I'm not prepared to put Tina Fey in Rosalind Russell's class. Lauren Graham is funnier than all of them and Gilmore Girls was the best written show of its time.

Leave Giselle Alone

This is exactly why I don't allow comments on my blog. Giselle gets harassed by bottom feeders, loses her temper and lashes out, causing media to blow everything out of proportion. Certainly she should have ignored criticism of hubbie Tom Brady, Pats QB, but she is a tall, proud woman with long legs and a straight nose.
Giselle and I have a lot in common. Both of us have an artist's temperament. We are serious about our work--me, writing, she, taking long strides down a catwalk. We are both successful business people-her with her multimillion dollar brand, me with my refrigerator magnets containing clever sayings. We also have perfect posture, straight, impressive shoulders, and beneath our hard gaze and cold exterior, we are nurturing people. I took care of a German Shepard for seven long years. Her teeth are whiter. Giselle's, not the dog.
Sensitive artists can easily be thrown off their game by louts and philistines shouting disparaging remarks. I refuse to be that vulnerable. Plunging ahead with my projects, I ignore the phone, disable texts on my cell, plug my ears, close my eyes to the mass of low culture surrounding me, and continue to create a solid, if not spectacular blog. If Giselle were at close proximity, I'd offer words of support and maybe a hug. If she broke down sobbing, something she has never done, I would speak softly, offer more words and Pez. I discovered supermodels have a thing for Pez.

Free Movies

I have become a free movie junkie, mostly at libraries. It is out of control. I travel from library to library, sometimes taking their popcorn without leaving a donation. My travels cover days and nights. I have been ignoring friends and my reading groups, not shaving or eating right.
You see, I refuse to pay for movies anymore. When Judd Apatow's films began dominating the market I threw in the towel as a paying customer. But I'm all in when it comes to freebies and for months I've been a glutton. I get there early, grab a seat in the last row near the door in case I have to pee, twiddle my thumbs until the lights go down. I shut off my cell, cut myself off from everyone. Yesterday I saw an old Doris Day movie with Jack Carson and Oscar Levant, who smoked incessantly and could really play the piano. Last week I finally caught up with Double Indemnity, stunned at how evil Fred McMurray and Barbara Stanwyck were. Today I saw Delta Force, exploding more blood than Nick Cage's recent films. And I just left Woody's Midnight in Paris. Tomorrow it's Niagara in the afternoon, followed by My Day With Orson Welles in the evening, all at different libraries full of really old people, some of whom talk to themselves.
I'll say this--Doris Day had some figure and Rachel McAdams in jeans stacks up nicely against Biel, Alba and Lopez. Culture. Ain't it great?

Playing Myself

I played myself on stage and I was borderline brilliant. It was my script and I studied it for hours, looking for the key to grasping the essence of myself. Seeing myself as one character interacting with others was a novel experience. Usually I interact with myself in front of a mirror. In socks and underwear.
I have no training as an actor. Stubbornly refusing to ask for advice, my pride at stake, I worked in solitude on my breathing, projection and timing. I sat up straight in my seat and made eye contact. I did not trample other people's lines. Did not get confused or lose my composure. Did not get an erection.
It was a receptive audience, full of friends, ready to laugh. And they did. Right from the first line. The skit built up with funny conflict until it reached its apex--one character pretending to break down in tears. There was no profanity, except for a 'bastard' reference. None of us removed any articles of clothing; a complete success.
Afterward, at a restaurant, I received congratulations from even those who'd ignored me up until then. Several women came up and conveyed their awe at all the complexity of that Joe onstage. I humbly admitted I wasn't all that complex, but I could see they weren't convinced. Frankly, my charisma quotient skyrocketed after that performance. It wouldn't surprise me if members of my theater group began referring to me as Mr. Excitement.

Fumbling An Opportunity

Seated across from me in the airport waiting room was film director David Cronenberg, creator of some of the edgiest movies of our time. For a man who wrote Twilight People-Switchblade Stories, edgy flash fiction, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I had a copy with me as luck would have it, and, as intimidated as I was, I had to introduce myself. Getting this man to turn my stories into films was my dream.
So I did.
"Excuse me, Mr. Cronenberg, I don't wish to disturb you, but I'm a big fan, a huge admirer of your work."
He looked down and saw my book.
He frowned. "I must ask you to step away from me immediately, sir. I have had the unfortunate experience of reading the book you are now holding. I found it to be the sickest, most despicable collection of demented slasher porn fiction I have ever read. I do not wish to interact with anyone perverted enough to consume such garbage. I shudder to imagine what kind of diseased mind created this cesspool of words."
With that, he grabbed his briefcase and stormed away.
It took me minutes to recover. Then I looked at the up side. Perhaps Ron Howard is looking for a change of direction. My stories await, Mr. Howard.

Hypothetically Speaking

Hypothetically speaking, suppose someone was a loyal library patron. He always returned books on time, never ripped out coupons from newspapers, remained polite while waiting endlessly for a librarian to look up from whatever he or she was doing to answer a simple question. Suppose he belonged to their book discussion group and attended all their events, even the boring poetry readings with maybe four others. Suppose when he used the facilities he always flushed and washed his hands. Suppose he let really old people use the softer chairs. And if he should fall asleep there, he never snored.
Now suppose said library held their annual book sale. For $3 you get a plastic bag to fill with as many books as you can fit. And you do just that. Nineteen books in all, paperbacks, some by famous authors. You can barely carry it to your car.
Now here is where it gets sticky. Suppose that same ideal library patron returned the next day with the now empty plastic bag crumpled up in his pocket. After glancing around to make certain no one was looking, suppose said patron slipped the bag out and used that same receptacle to fill up again, this time 17 books. Without paying another $3.
Can you forgive that person for this one instance of cheating a public institution? Or will he go to hell? Hypothetically speaking.

In Silence

I write in silence on Tuesday nights. I joined a Meet Up and we sit for one full hour and write. No one speaks. We can get up and use the john, but that's about it. Some bring laptops; I use my notebook and pen. The physical act of scribbling frees endorphins. Especially if I'm writing and the others are just sitting there blocked. This isn't supposed to be competitive, but who's kidding who?
I'm ripping through pages and you're sitting there sighing in frustration. What's not to like? Except this Tuesday there is a metaphysical group meeting right next to us. They are learning how to read tea leaves. I know this because I spoke to a couple of them before our writing hour began. Just between us, they seemed more interesting than the writers.
After our silent hour we put away our tools and talk to each other. Or not. Some leave, others continue writing. I spoke to a talented illustrator and perused her portfolio. Quite professional. She wants to add writing to her skills and produce children's books. She also rides horses. I can't illustrate or ride horses. Plus she's taller than me. I feel like an imposter. I reread what I wrote, seven pages worth of nonsense. Despair nudges me. I wish I had some Fig Newtons. Brownies can only take you so far.

The Fig Newton Trap

The Super Bowl is tomorrow and I'm going to watch it alone like I always do. I could meet people from my running club at a bar and surround myself with noise and comrades. But I haven't been going to runs lately and don't really know those people that well. It's no big deal, but it can be if you let it.
It's like being alone on Valentine's Day. That's another blog. Here's the thing--in high stress situations where depression is likely, it is very tempting to turn to Fig Newtons. I keep a pack in the back of my cabinet because I know how dangerous they can be. I swore to myself I'd never resort to them unless it was an extreme situation where I was in danger of feeling like I was worthless. Like Super Bowl Sunday. Even guys whose women hate football at least have someone to bring them snacks and beer. I have to organize my own refreshments. I can hear parties all around me. People with lives full of good friends and possibilities. See, thinking like that will drive you right to the FN bars. I use the plural because you're going to need more than one to lift your spirits. It can easily escalate into a dependence. Believe me, I know. I come from the streets and am quite familiar with illicit substances. I had to be weened off Caramel Corn rice cakes and it wasn't pretty.
Luckily I have the 800-Fig Newton number right by my recliner. They are professionals and know how to talk me down. Go Giants!

My Urologist

My urologist has big hairy hands. I have prostate issues. Not a good combination. My yearly check up is coming closer.I also have a small pimple on my butt. Not a good combination.
They make you pee into a special bowl that measures force and volume. I squeeze as hard as I can to get the most urine out as fast as possible. This is a man thing.They are also looking for protein in the urine. That means something isn't working right.
My urologist asks questions. How strong is your flow? Does it sting? How often do you have to go? Unless it's red, color doesn't seem to be an issue, although ideally clear urine is best. No one on this planet has clear urine, not even Dr. Oz.
Eventually he will suggest you bend over and drop your pants. The digital exam has been fairly quick in the past. I pray I won't spurt pee or fart during those awkward seconds. Each year, as I age, that possibility increases. I suppose I could cover the pimple with Clearasil. It's not like my urologist has never seen butt pimples before.
Too much information? Evidently not because you kept reading to the end. And, yes, sometimes peeing stings.

Slow walkers

Slow walkers are inherently creepy if they are young, puzzling if middle aged, sad if elderly. The most threatening slow walkers are those guys in the gym who move in deliberate short steps in between apparatus. You can smell them inching toward you, flexing, just begging for an excuse to flatten you. Their glare is not something you challenge. As they saunter past, you breath a sign of relief and return to bench pressing your 60 pounds.
The obvious offenders are tourists spreading across the sidewalk, texting or taking pictures. At least there is a rationale there. But perfectly healthy adults who simply are moving at an unacceptably, relaxed pace have no excuse. It's not like they're pushing a shopping cart or stroller. There they are, moseying along, head turning side to side, enjoying the scenery and weather. There should be a law limiting that sort of thing to between 6 and 7AM.
I love grandparents as a whole, but you simply cannot take them anywhere, especially if there's snow on the ground. It takes them so damn long to get in and out of the car. You go half a block and already they're far behind. And then you get that weak, whiny voice--wait for me! You have to double back and then the whole thing starts again.
I know children will walk faster as they mature, but do they have to stop and examine every little thing? Know what I've noticed? Priests walk faster than rabbis. Bellboys are faster than gas pumpers. Aunts are slower than cousins. Letterman is faster than Leno. No body's as slow as Abe Vigoda. Not even Betty White, who takes eons to reach the stage for her latest award. Can we declare a moratorium on Betty White awards?