I'm not going to bash Lars Van Trier. I loved his movie Dogville. He has his own sensibility. I understand he suffers from depression, which is nothing to joke about. His latest film, Melancholia, runs about 2 hours and 15 minutes. Kirsten Dunst wants to die in all 2 hours plus. This is not the Spiderman Dunst. This is a young woman who is supposed to be married that day and wanders around in her wedding dress in a fog. She is ill and her sister, that French actress whose name escapes me, is frightened the world will end after it is hit by another rogue planet, which was hiding behind the sun all this time. Lars isn't strong on logic.
Keifer Sutherland plays Dunst's brother-in-law, who is impatient with her stalling. He does what he does best, which is heavy breathing to connote consternation. None of the characters are likeable, except the little son of the sister. The horses are beautiful, as is the estate they reside in. But his typical jumpy camera and the lack of music until the very end create an eerie viewing experience. I saw it at a library and several patrons walked out half way through. I stayed, knowing there was a possibility I'd get a ticket for going over two hours.
Charlotte Rampling plays the mother. I thought she was dead. Well, spoiler alert, the world does end, but on the up side, I didn't get a ticket. Maybe that French actress was Jane Birkin's daughter. If you don't recognize that name it just means you're young and not French.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Hummus Lust
I discovered hummus yesterday. Oh, I had dabbled in it at various events, not really analyzing the experience. I mean, I already had peanut butter as a staple. I experimented with almond butter, and, of course, there was actual butter. Who needed another spread or dip?
Well I did. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I have led a life devoid of dip. I can't explain it. Dip was never a goal or need for me. I suppose it's like those who never eat grapes. I consume tons of grapes. I can't imagine my life without grapes.
Anyway, I was at this outdoor event in NY and they were giving away free cups of hummus, along with a small bag of pretzels. I won't mention the brand because I don't plug things except for Pringles. I sat down on a bench and let me tell you I went through that hummus like Rommel blasting through Africa. I quickly ran out of pretzels and began using my index finger to dig out every bit. I was a hummus whore. A worker came over and asked me to do a survey about the product. I waxed eloquent, believe me. I was rewarded with a $10 Amazon gift card. So I discovered a food staple, which I will now pursue at every market visit, as well as getting ten bucks.
I just wonder if you rub the hummus over certain body parts whether the same sensual experience is duplicated. I probably should move past that.
Well I did. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I have led a life devoid of dip. I can't explain it. Dip was never a goal or need for me. I suppose it's like those who never eat grapes. I consume tons of grapes. I can't imagine my life without grapes.
Anyway, I was at this outdoor event in NY and they were giving away free cups of hummus, along with a small bag of pretzels. I won't mention the brand because I don't plug things except for Pringles. I sat down on a bench and let me tell you I went through that hummus like Rommel blasting through Africa. I quickly ran out of pretzels and began using my index finger to dig out every bit. I was a hummus whore. A worker came over and asked me to do a survey about the product. I waxed eloquent, believe me. I was rewarded with a $10 Amazon gift card. So I discovered a food staple, which I will now pursue at every market visit, as well as getting ten bucks.
I just wonder if you rub the hummus over certain body parts whether the same sensual experience is duplicated. I probably should move past that.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Coffee's On Me
That phrase is all it takes to get me there. Actually, with some friends, we have a great system--alternate paying. We trust each other, compare bills. We share conversation, sip and munch on desert and in those precious minutes, the world isn't so bad.
Coffee itself makes it impossible for me to create arguments. I find myself nodding in agreement to just about everything. Water and soda don't do that. Chocolate pudding is another mood enhancer. Strangely, rice pudding gets me in a feisty mood.
There is something empowering about paying the check. But I do not feel emasculated if the woman pays. I am evolved, so damn evolved.
Now, relationships where the guy does all the paying all the time are tricky. If it's just a friendship, that situation needs to be re-examined. No expectations, to me, means you split the bill if it's over $6. I think $6 just feels right. At some point one has to distance oneself from friends who never pay. Unless they're homeless and destitute. Then you get them refills and do lots of listening and sympathetic nodding. That's my concept of friendship.
Coffee itself makes it impossible for me to create arguments. I find myself nodding in agreement to just about everything. Water and soda don't do that. Chocolate pudding is another mood enhancer. Strangely, rice pudding gets me in a feisty mood.
There is something empowering about paying the check. But I do not feel emasculated if the woman pays. I am evolved, so damn evolved.
Now, relationships where the guy does all the paying all the time are tricky. If it's just a friendship, that situation needs to be re-examined. No expectations, to me, means you split the bill if it's over $6. I think $6 just feels right. At some point one has to distance oneself from friends who never pay. Unless they're homeless and destitute. Then you get them refills and do lots of listening and sympathetic nodding. That's my concept of friendship.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Tech Support
I am afraid of tech support. As soon as they introduce themselves and I don't catch their name I tense up. If they speak softly and I can't hear them, I pretend to understand every word and quickly get lost. If they have an accent, I get more nervous. If it's a woman, I relax a bit until I realize she is just as disdainful as the men.
Oh, you can sense it in their tone, the careful way they pronounce your name, very formal, like a butler who knows too much about you.
I try not to sob during these painful events. I lower my voice to sound manly, but when whatever they try doesn't work my voice gets higher, I talk faster, conveying serious desperation. I clench my fists and take deep breaths as we try to connect to the Internet. What will happen to my readers if I can't blog? Am I responsible for their depression and subsequent actions?
Now my carrier has auto support. The woman's voice is very calm and patient and polite, but it is not a real person. She and I both know she's only there because of budget cuts, leaving young tech support people collecting carriages for Pathmark.
Why don't I possess computer savvy or even the confidence I can troubleshoot my own problems? I certainly troubleshoot my medical events. I know when a body part isn't functioning correctly and I take appropriate action. No, not Viagra. I'm talking about body parts I still use.
Oh, you can sense it in their tone, the careful way they pronounce your name, very formal, like a butler who knows too much about you.
I try not to sob during these painful events. I lower my voice to sound manly, but when whatever they try doesn't work my voice gets higher, I talk faster, conveying serious desperation. I clench my fists and take deep breaths as we try to connect to the Internet. What will happen to my readers if I can't blog? Am I responsible for their depression and subsequent actions?
Now my carrier has auto support. The woman's voice is very calm and patient and polite, but it is not a real person. She and I both know she's only there because of budget cuts, leaving young tech support people collecting carriages for Pathmark.
Why don't I possess computer savvy or even the confidence I can troubleshoot my own problems? I certainly troubleshoot my medical events. I know when a body part isn't functioning correctly and I take appropriate action. No, not Viagra. I'm talking about body parts I still use.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Philadelphia
I planned to go to Philadelphia today. Every April I go for a day. Last year it rained and I stayed home. Today it's cloudy and they predict rain. Since I'll be outdoors for this event I will get wet. It's also kind of chilly.
You see where I'm going with this. I'm looking for excuses not to go to Philly. It's not about Philly, it's about me.
I find I don't want to leave the area anymore. It's too much trouble. A drive to Weehawken, parking in the supermarket lot because the streets are only for their residents. A bus to NY, a walk to Penn Station, buying a ticket that gets more expensive every year. Then it's the 80 minute train ride, the walk from the station to the event, waiting in line for a ticket, which also gets more expensive each year, and finally the event itself. I know I'll be checking the clock outside, counting the minutes until I can return home.
Even at plays and movies, I keep checking my watch. It's not like I have a family at home. Sure, I write and paint and read, but I can always find time for that. I guess as I get older I increasingly crave more time alone with my thoughts. Or perhaps my imagination. I have grown to accept my inner monologue. In fact, I'm finding my inner world more entertaining than what is out there. And much cheaper. I have to decide in the next few minutes whether I'm going to Philly. Looks like a cloudy, chilly day. Maybe I'll just take a nap. Philly will be there next year.
You see where I'm going with this. I'm looking for excuses not to go to Philly. It's not about Philly, it's about me.
I find I don't want to leave the area anymore. It's too much trouble. A drive to Weehawken, parking in the supermarket lot because the streets are only for their residents. A bus to NY, a walk to Penn Station, buying a ticket that gets more expensive every year. Then it's the 80 minute train ride, the walk from the station to the event, waiting in line for a ticket, which also gets more expensive each year, and finally the event itself. I know I'll be checking the clock outside, counting the minutes until I can return home.
Even at plays and movies, I keep checking my watch. It's not like I have a family at home. Sure, I write and paint and read, but I can always find time for that. I guess as I get older I increasingly crave more time alone with my thoughts. Or perhaps my imagination. I have grown to accept my inner monologue. In fact, I'm finding my inner world more entertaining than what is out there. And much cheaper. I have to decide in the next few minutes whether I'm going to Philly. Looks like a cloudy, chilly day. Maybe I'll just take a nap. Philly will be there next year.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Correct Behavior
As a man among women in my book discussion group I have learned the correct behavior expected of me over time. Here is my advice.
Let the woman finish her sentence no matter how off target her perspective is.
Never speak in a loud, threatening tone. Never gesticulate and put the women sitting next to you in danger.
If they fly off topic and begin discussing menstrual stuff or the new top bought in some boutique, let them continue until there is a pause. Let someone else suggest they return to the book.
Do not make eye contact for more than three seconds with any hot women. Act like you're befuddled by the book, even though you have a thorough understanding of the themes. It gives them an opportunity to nurture you to a deeper understanding. Women love caring for confused men.
Compliment the coffee, no matter how bland it it. Same with the cookies. Say something nice about a different woman each session. You'll have them anticipating a compliment. If you have strong forearms, flaunt them. Conversely, if you possess toothpick arms keep them covered. Bathe beforehand, use deodorant and moisturizer, brush your teeth, employ mouthwash. Wear clean clothes, do not pass wind. If one of the ladies passes wind, do not crack a joke. Clear your throat and move on. Do not argue with anyone over anything.
Do not doze off. If one of the women hits on you, you're on your own. If you and a woman are competing over the same parking space, let her have it. She'll take your side in case you're stupid enough to get into a dispute with the ladies. Never sit opposite a woman who can give the fish eye.
Let the woman finish her sentence no matter how off target her perspective is.
Never speak in a loud, threatening tone. Never gesticulate and put the women sitting next to you in danger.
If they fly off topic and begin discussing menstrual stuff or the new top bought in some boutique, let them continue until there is a pause. Let someone else suggest they return to the book.
Do not make eye contact for more than three seconds with any hot women. Act like you're befuddled by the book, even though you have a thorough understanding of the themes. It gives them an opportunity to nurture you to a deeper understanding. Women love caring for confused men.
Compliment the coffee, no matter how bland it it. Same with the cookies. Say something nice about a different woman each session. You'll have them anticipating a compliment. If you have strong forearms, flaunt them. Conversely, if you possess toothpick arms keep them covered. Bathe beforehand, use deodorant and moisturizer, brush your teeth, employ mouthwash. Wear clean clothes, do not pass wind. If one of the ladies passes wind, do not crack a joke. Clear your throat and move on. Do not argue with anyone over anything.
Do not doze off. If one of the women hits on you, you're on your own. If you and a woman are competing over the same parking space, let her have it. She'll take your side in case you're stupid enough to get into a dispute with the ladies. Never sit opposite a woman who can give the fish eye.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Pringles
The following is a list of actual Pringles flavors and what famous person might choose as their favorite.
Original-Mitt Romney. Lite-Ryan Seacrest. Low Salt-Sarah Palin. Fat Free-Kate Moss. Seaweed-James Cameron.Paprica- Jennifer Lopez. Hot & Spicy-Sofia Vergara. Roasted garlic-James Gandolfini. Jalapeno Chedder-George Lopez. Onion Blossom-Dick Chaney. Cheesy Fries-Rosie O'Donnell. Pizza-Rex Ryan. Honey Mustard-Chelsey Handler. Ragin' Cagin'-Harry Connick Jr. Sweet Chili-Carlos Santana. Barbecue-George Bush. Grilled Shrimp-Danny Devito. Super Stack-Donald Trump. Onion Blossom-Angelina Jolie.
Extreme-Johnny Depp. Bangkok Grilled Chicken-Jackie Chan. Italian-Danny Aiello. Baked Potato-Whoopie Goldberg. Ranch-Tom Selleck. Taco Night-Josef Stalin.
As you can see, I have a lot of time on my hands. Isn't it amazing how every Pringles chip is exactly the same size? As you get to the bottom of the tube and try to reach in, there is a real possibility of getting your hand caught. There is no graceful way to explain this predicament without the word gluttony coming up.
Original-Mitt Romney. Lite-Ryan Seacrest. Low Salt-Sarah Palin. Fat Free-Kate Moss. Seaweed-James Cameron.Paprica- Jennifer Lopez. Hot & Spicy-Sofia Vergara. Roasted garlic-James Gandolfini. Jalapeno Chedder-George Lopez. Onion Blossom-Dick Chaney. Cheesy Fries-Rosie O'Donnell. Pizza-Rex Ryan. Honey Mustard-Chelsey Handler. Ragin' Cagin'-Harry Connick Jr. Sweet Chili-Carlos Santana. Barbecue-George Bush. Grilled Shrimp-Danny Devito. Super Stack-Donald Trump. Onion Blossom-Angelina Jolie.
Extreme-Johnny Depp. Bangkok Grilled Chicken-Jackie Chan. Italian-Danny Aiello. Baked Potato-Whoopie Goldberg. Ranch-Tom Selleck. Taco Night-Josef Stalin.
As you can see, I have a lot of time on my hands. Isn't it amazing how every Pringles chip is exactly the same size? As you get to the bottom of the tube and try to reach in, there is a real possibility of getting your hand caught. There is no graceful way to explain this predicament without the word gluttony coming up.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Iceberg Speaks
You know, I'm really tired of this crap. Tired of explaining, tired of feeling guilty, tired of the questions. It's only gotten worse recently because this is the 100th anniversary.
Understand something. I never wanted to be a %$#@ iceberg. I was living a fine, simple existence as part of a very impressive ice sheath. I knew what each day would bring. I liked the view. I felt part of a family. Then one day the bottom fell out. Or in, as the case may be. I've broken off from my home and find myself drifting who knows where, water all around me.
Maybe the temperature rose, or maybe it was politics. Why some broke off and the rest went on as before, who knows? I put it behind me and tried to figure out what I would do with the rest of my life.
One night I'm dozing, minding my own business when something awakens me. I hear this shushing sound coming toward me, too big for a whale even, and let me tell you that monster ship was busting it, going way too fast. Really, who needs to see Nova Scotia that bad? At the last second it veers off so we don't collide head on, but one of my underwater jagged edges (and believe me I had no control of my entire bulk) slits open the hull of that beast and, well, you know the rest. Take me at my word. If I had &*)$ arms I would have tried to save some of those sorry bastards. I mean, who wants to go through the next 100 years with this on their conscience.
Suppose the damn ship had sunk me? Would anyone give a crap?
Understand something. I never wanted to be a %$#@ iceberg. I was living a fine, simple existence as part of a very impressive ice sheath. I knew what each day would bring. I liked the view. I felt part of a family. Then one day the bottom fell out. Or in, as the case may be. I've broken off from my home and find myself drifting who knows where, water all around me.
Maybe the temperature rose, or maybe it was politics. Why some broke off and the rest went on as before, who knows? I put it behind me and tried to figure out what I would do with the rest of my life.
One night I'm dozing, minding my own business when something awakens me. I hear this shushing sound coming toward me, too big for a whale even, and let me tell you that monster ship was busting it, going way too fast. Really, who needs to see Nova Scotia that bad? At the last second it veers off so we don't collide head on, but one of my underwater jagged edges (and believe me I had no control of my entire bulk) slits open the hull of that beast and, well, you know the rest. Take me at my word. If I had &*)$ arms I would have tried to save some of those sorry bastards. I mean, who wants to go through the next 100 years with this on their conscience.
Suppose the damn ship had sunk me? Would anyone give a crap?
Old Time Radio
Old Time Radio. Man oh man. Jack Benny, Amos N Andy, Fibber McGee and Molly. Those were the days. I have a confession to make. I auditioned to be the very first Shadow. Lost out. My voice was too high. They gave it to grumbling William Conrad, who went on to TV fame as Cannon.
How about Orson Welles Mercury Theater's presentations of War of the Worlds? Man, were people fooled. I was actually cast as one of the Martians. I was supposed to cackle. But ultimately Welles decided no Martians would be heard. Damn shame. I worked on my cackle for weeks.
Every night entire families would gather around this magical appliance and have their imaginations engaged. Then TV arrived and everything was just presented to us. We didn't need to imagine anything. I auditioned for Tonto in The Lone Ranger, but lost out because I couldn't mount a horse. Damn. I was this close.
I'm an old man now and I find myself staring at the radio as depressing news drones on. I think about what has been lost. Then again, without TV we wouldn't have Sophia Vergarra's Boom Booms or J Lo's caboose. I may be old, but I'm not dead.
How about Orson Welles Mercury Theater's presentations of War of the Worlds? Man, were people fooled. I was actually cast as one of the Martians. I was supposed to cackle. But ultimately Welles decided no Martians would be heard. Damn shame. I worked on my cackle for weeks.
Every night entire families would gather around this magical appliance and have their imaginations engaged. Then TV arrived and everything was just presented to us. We didn't need to imagine anything. I auditioned for Tonto in The Lone Ranger, but lost out because I couldn't mount a horse. Damn. I was this close.
I'm an old man now and I find myself staring at the radio as depressing news drones on. I think about what has been lost. Then again, without TV we wouldn't have Sophia Vergarra's Boom Booms or J Lo's caboose. I may be old, but I'm not dead.
Melting
Lucy down the block melted away.I can't say it was a surprise We've had unusually high temperatures. I told her to suspend her afternoon walks. Stubborn woman, Lucy.
They found a puddle of her in front of the Post Office. A pile of clothes, her purse and a soaked book of stamps was all. Sympathetic postal clerks collected her in a Tupperware container. The sun had already dried most of her up.
Folks dropped off flowers at the site. Not long afterward, Ollie's bulldog melted. I never liked that dog. But now Ollie's depressed and won't return calls. I don't much like him either, but he owes me money.
I wish I had an air conditioned garage because I believe my tires are melting. Yesterday I tried to have a conversation with Harv across the street, but our words melted somewhere in the middle of the steaming asphalt.
I'm considering gathering all my anxieties from my storage closet and leaving them outside so they will just melt away.
They found a puddle of her in front of the Post Office. A pile of clothes, her purse and a soaked book of stamps was all. Sympathetic postal clerks collected her in a Tupperware container. The sun had already dried most of her up.
Folks dropped off flowers at the site. Not long afterward, Ollie's bulldog melted. I never liked that dog. But now Ollie's depressed and won't return calls. I don't much like him either, but he owes me money.
I wish I had an air conditioned garage because I believe my tires are melting. Yesterday I tried to have a conversation with Harv across the street, but our words melted somewhere in the middle of the steaming asphalt.
I'm considering gathering all my anxieties from my storage closet and leaving them outside so they will just melt away.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Cadillac of Toilets
My friend is upset because after 25 years her toilet broke. She paid $600 for it back then and it was considered the Cadillac of toilets. Now she would have to pay $300 just for the parts, not counting labor. In fact, her whole bathroom is old. She thought about combining the toilet and sink in a replacement plan, but was told they no longer make bathroom fixtures in brown. This was news to me. I suggested tan, beige, raw umber, raw sienna, burnt umber and gold. She mentioned something called bisque or brisque, which sounds like a breakfast staple. Only one person at Home Depot has the color chart which he keeps at home as though it were the Magna Carta. Her daughter cannot imagine having a two colored bathroom. Neither can her sister. I suggested she do the whole place over, but that would run into the thousands. I told her my toilet costs $500 and I was quite satisfied with it, though I wish the flush were quieter. But who doesn't?
There is a basic sadness when a toilet breaks down, a grief process no one wants to address. Perhaps I could start a toilet grief support group. Maybe Sarah McLaughlin could write a song about this.
There is a basic sadness when a toilet breaks down, a grief process no one wants to address. Perhaps I could start a toilet grief support group. Maybe Sarah McLaughlin could write a song about this.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Shock Treatment
I'm going for shock treatment today. Once a year at my podiatrist I must undergo a procedure where some guy, not my doctor, places the tip of a jack like instrument all over my foot to see how badly diabetes has affected my nerves. I know the little shocks are coming, but I can't really prepare myself. It's not like I'm screaming in pain. The whole thing takes five minutes. A machine displays data which is given to my doctor who never tells me the results. Frankly, I've reached the point where I don't want to know anymore.
The only good aspect of this visit is being offered coffee, tea or hot chocolate from their coffee machine. That baby is a marvel of modern technology, producing no coffee grounds. As I sip away, I grab a few cookies, close my eyes and imagine I'm in a spa. I hate leaving the office. The other patients are chatty and look in worse shape than me. The magazines leave something to be desired, but both the doctor and his receptionist bought my book, Twilight People-Switchblade Stories. I can't imagine what it's like spending one's life examining feet, but he lives in a wealthy suburb, has a good marriage and seems relatively happy. Maybe he secretly watches his patients being foot shocked. Hell, I would.
The only good aspect of this visit is being offered coffee, tea or hot chocolate from their coffee machine. That baby is a marvel of modern technology, producing no coffee grounds. As I sip away, I grab a few cookies, close my eyes and imagine I'm in a spa. I hate leaving the office. The other patients are chatty and look in worse shape than me. The magazines leave something to be desired, but both the doctor and his receptionist bought my book, Twilight People-Switchblade Stories. I can't imagine what it's like spending one's life examining feet, but he lives in a wealthy suburb, has a good marriage and seems relatively happy. Maybe he secretly watches his patients being foot shocked. Hell, I would.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Explaining
This is why I support the death penalty:
People who ask you to explain something and as you proceed, they cut you off and ask you to repeat what you just said very clearly. Or they'll repeat what you're saying as soon as you say it, except now you're saying something else and they are always a second behind. Or they will disagree with what you're telling them even though they asked you to explain something that they presumably did not understand in the first place. Or they'll ask you to spell a word they can easily look up, or tell you to slow down or speak louder or pronounce each word syllable by syllable. Addresses are especially difficult to convey to them. No matter how detailed the directions, they want more. If you give them a major street, they want a cross street. If you give them that, they want the name of a business to look for. If you supply that they ask for the location of the nearest Post Office so they can get better directions. All the while, they are scribbling indecipherable gibberish on a pad which they will probably misplace or forget to take.
If you act peeved they will glare at you like you're the one with the problem. How to avoid this: act so dumb they won't dream of asking you anything. I hope you understand this explanation because I'm not repeating a damn thing. I would like someone to explain the reason why people pushing carts always run into me.
People who ask you to explain something and as you proceed, they cut you off and ask you to repeat what you just said very clearly. Or they'll repeat what you're saying as soon as you say it, except now you're saying something else and they are always a second behind. Or they will disagree with what you're telling them even though they asked you to explain something that they presumably did not understand in the first place. Or they'll ask you to spell a word they can easily look up, or tell you to slow down or speak louder or pronounce each word syllable by syllable. Addresses are especially difficult to convey to them. No matter how detailed the directions, they want more. If you give them a major street, they want a cross street. If you give them that, they want the name of a business to look for. If you supply that they ask for the location of the nearest Post Office so they can get better directions. All the while, they are scribbling indecipherable gibberish on a pad which they will probably misplace or forget to take.
If you act peeved they will glare at you like you're the one with the problem. How to avoid this: act so dumb they won't dream of asking you anything. I hope you understand this explanation because I'm not repeating a damn thing. I would like someone to explain the reason why people pushing carts always run into me.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
A Woman's Place
I was tired from traveling all day. The only light I saw in this hick town came from a bar. A Woman's Place. Thirsty, not fussy about where my beer came from, I pulled over and got out.
It was dark inside, but not so dark I couldn't see at least twenty women sitting around, playing pool, one dancing alone, eyes closed, to Doris Day's "Magic". I ordered a Bud. Women seated to my right glared at me. The bartender, short and quick, hesitated before pouring my beer. Even the suds seemed hostile.
The music ended, the dancer plopped into a seat like a scoop of ice cream. It got real quiet. I sipped my beer, shoulders tense.
"You new in town," somebody said from the shadows. I turned to face the voice just as several large women approached. I was surrounded. One rubbed my back with slow, deliberate strokes. I took another sip, planning my move. They saved me the trouble.
"Back room," one said. I saw a glint of metal. Cuffs. They were smiling now, lions smiling at their gladiator. Something told me I wouldn't be finishing my beer.
It was dark inside, but not so dark I couldn't see at least twenty women sitting around, playing pool, one dancing alone, eyes closed, to Doris Day's "Magic". I ordered a Bud. Women seated to my right glared at me. The bartender, short and quick, hesitated before pouring my beer. Even the suds seemed hostile.
The music ended, the dancer plopped into a seat like a scoop of ice cream. It got real quiet. I sipped my beer, shoulders tense.
"You new in town," somebody said from the shadows. I turned to face the voice just as several large women approached. I was surrounded. One rubbed my back with slow, deliberate strokes. I took another sip, planning my move. They saved me the trouble.
"Back room," one said. I saw a glint of metal. Cuffs. They were smiling now, lions smiling at their gladiator. Something told me I wouldn't be finishing my beer.
Excuses
I collect excuses. I steal the best ones and place them in my files. My favorite excuse for murder is the Twinky defense. Too much sugar. I cherish excuses from politicians, wacko celebs and the Catholic Church.
It's usually someone else interfering with one's schedule that leads to lateness, right? I also collect alibis. Frankly, my friends need all they can get. If a detective asks where you were on a certain night, a good answer is I was out collecting excuses.
I notice you dozed off during this blog. What's your excuse?
The five best excuses for being late:
I accidentally sliced off my fingertip chopping onions and it rolled under the stove.
A flash flood destroyed my porch deck.
Aunt Irma fell out of a helicopter and I'm her emergency contact.
I mistakenly rubbed Crazy Glue under my pits instead of deodorant and my arms are stuck to my body
I was traumatized watching Joan and Melissa Rivers reality show.
There is no excuse for you not reading my blog or purchasing my book, Twilight People-Switchblade Stories, unless you blew your spending money on the Three Stooges movie.
It's usually someone else interfering with one's schedule that leads to lateness, right? I also collect alibis. Frankly, my friends need all they can get. If a detective asks where you were on a certain night, a good answer is I was out collecting excuses.
I notice you dozed off during this blog. What's your excuse?
The five best excuses for being late:
I accidentally sliced off my fingertip chopping onions and it rolled under the stove.
A flash flood destroyed my porch deck.
Aunt Irma fell out of a helicopter and I'm her emergency contact.
I mistakenly rubbed Crazy Glue under my pits instead of deodorant and my arms are stuck to my body
I was traumatized watching Joan and Melissa Rivers reality show.
There is no excuse for you not reading my blog or purchasing my book, Twilight People-Switchblade Stories, unless you blew your spending money on the Three Stooges movie.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Magazine Ballet
Here is the problem for masculine men like myself who buy magazines. This month W has Jessica Biel on the cover. W is a women's magazine. I happen to like looking at pictures of Ms. Biel. In this particular issue, the photos are especially spectacular.
So I quickly grabbed a copy.
You must understand the process. Once you've surreptitiously grabbed W, you flee from the women's section to the male interest section. May I say that many of the mag covers in the women's section feature very hot women and it's difficult tearing oneself away. But you do it because you don't know who is watching.
Now, safely in the guy area, you grab a copy of Maxim and/ or Sports Illustrated/ ESPN Magazine to balance out the choice of W. You cannot include a knitting periodical or home decorating or any of the gossip rags. Poetry quarterlies squirt the boundary of masculinity. You can still be considered macho if you also appreciate sensitive stanzas. As long as they're not TOO sensitive. Ideally, you want a copy of Maxim featuring Biel, but that may be wishing for too much. Choosing an artsy thing like High Fructose might also convey the wrong idea, although some of their artwork is off the charts. In a very masculine way of course. Toss the W issue down nonchalantly, like you're buying it for the woman in your life and hope the cashier doesn't hold it up in front of other customers. Cashiers can be cruel.
So I quickly grabbed a copy.
You must understand the process. Once you've surreptitiously grabbed W, you flee from the women's section to the male interest section. May I say that many of the mag covers in the women's section feature very hot women and it's difficult tearing oneself away. But you do it because you don't know who is watching.
Now, safely in the guy area, you grab a copy of Maxim and/ or Sports Illustrated/ ESPN Magazine to balance out the choice of W. You cannot include a knitting periodical or home decorating or any of the gossip rags. Poetry quarterlies squirt the boundary of masculinity. You can still be considered macho if you also appreciate sensitive stanzas. As long as they're not TOO sensitive. Ideally, you want a copy of Maxim featuring Biel, but that may be wishing for too much. Choosing an artsy thing like High Fructose might also convey the wrong idea, although some of their artwork is off the charts. In a very masculine way of course. Toss the W issue down nonchalantly, like you're buying it for the woman in your life and hope the cashier doesn't hold it up in front of other customers. Cashiers can be cruel.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Hosting
I really want to fit in. This is my first time hosting the ladies. I'm the newbie here. I need them to accept me. The sewing ladies relax me. These women have such a storehouse of stories. I never get tired listening to them.
There's the bell. Right on time. One dozen sewing ladies in my apartment for two hours. Hope there's enough coffee and tea.
"Where do we change?" Eloise asked.
"I don't understand."
"What's to understand, Bull? You spent 18 years as a professional wrestler. We want to learn some moves. Where's the mats? I want a piece of Shauna."
I was taken aback. The whole point of hosting the sewing ladies was to get away from my past.
"Is this for self defense?" I asked.
"Hell no, we just want to kick some butt. Show the hubby who's boss. Teach those young punks hanging out a lesson. I brought a coral leotard. That's my color."
I felt so used. Wasn't my personality enough?
"Coffee, anyone?"
"Stop stalling, big boy. Get into your skin tight outfit. First let me feel that muscle."
Loretta elbowed Eloise out of the way and grabbed my biceps. It hit me--I was nothing but a piece of meat. My sewing skills were a joke to them. I could barely conceal a sob. Always the outsider.
There's the bell. Right on time. One dozen sewing ladies in my apartment for two hours. Hope there's enough coffee and tea.
"Where do we change?" Eloise asked.
"I don't understand."
"What's to understand, Bull? You spent 18 years as a professional wrestler. We want to learn some moves. Where's the mats? I want a piece of Shauna."
I was taken aback. The whole point of hosting the sewing ladies was to get away from my past.
"Is this for self defense?" I asked.
"Hell no, we just want to kick some butt. Show the hubby who's boss. Teach those young punks hanging out a lesson. I brought a coral leotard. That's my color."
I felt so used. Wasn't my personality enough?
"Coffee, anyone?"
"Stop stalling, big boy. Get into your skin tight outfit. First let me feel that muscle."
Loretta elbowed Eloise out of the way and grabbed my biceps. It hit me--I was nothing but a piece of meat. My sewing skills were a joke to them. I could barely conceal a sob. Always the outsider.
My Tunnel
I have my own tunnel. None of my friends do. I'm ten. We moved to West Virginia last year right near the woods. That's where I found my tunnel. There aren't many kids around my age, so I go wandering a lot.
I won't tell you where my tunnel is. That's my secret. I've never gone all the way through. I probably will someday. Maybe it goes straight down into the earth.
It really is dark inside, but I'm not afraid. It's not like I'm five years old.
I shouldn't tell you this, but one day while I was in my tunnel exploring, I heard a noise. "Who's in my tunnel?" I yelled. Maybe I yelled too loud. I asked again. This time I saw in the shadows a stooped old man coming toward me. I picked up a rock. I wish it were a bigger rock. I knew I could out run him.
Then he said, "Please don't hurt me." Well, I wouldn't hurt anyone, mainly because I'm 72 pounds. "I have nowhere else to go and I'm hungry," the man said.
I asked who he was and how he got here. He said it was a long story and he'd be happy to tell me if I brought him food. Well, I was curious and ran home to get some sandwiches. He wanted beer, but I got cranberry juice instead. Beer is bad for you.
I couldn't wait to hear his story. He first told me his name. Sounded funny. His name is Jimmy Hoffa. And the story, well, after he was done I was pretty sure he made the whole thing up. Pretty good story though.
I won't tell you where my tunnel is. That's my secret. I've never gone all the way through. I probably will someday. Maybe it goes straight down into the earth.
It really is dark inside, but I'm not afraid. It's not like I'm five years old.
I shouldn't tell you this, but one day while I was in my tunnel exploring, I heard a noise. "Who's in my tunnel?" I yelled. Maybe I yelled too loud. I asked again. This time I saw in the shadows a stooped old man coming toward me. I picked up a rock. I wish it were a bigger rock. I knew I could out run him.
Then he said, "Please don't hurt me." Well, I wouldn't hurt anyone, mainly because I'm 72 pounds. "I have nowhere else to go and I'm hungry," the man said.
I asked who he was and how he got here. He said it was a long story and he'd be happy to tell me if I brought him food. Well, I was curious and ran home to get some sandwiches. He wanted beer, but I got cranberry juice instead. Beer is bad for you.
I couldn't wait to hear his story. He first told me his name. Sounded funny. His name is Jimmy Hoffa. And the story, well, after he was done I was pretty sure he made the whole thing up. Pretty good story though.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Please Go
You have torn out my heart and flayed it in the harsh winter light. My spirit is crushed, my will destroyed, my reason for living vaporized.
I offered you my being, my soul, my essence, and you took a sledgehammer to my sensibilities. I am a fragile man, a fount of vulnerability and you manipulated my weakness for your own devious ends. You stomped on my trust, spit on my loyalty, burped on my honesty.
I opened myself to you, surrendered all my secrets, passions, beliefs. I shared the full range of my fantasies, all the colors of my dreams, the texture of my dramas.
My plans for us were dashed against the jagged rocks slathered with black foam from the waves of your disdain. You have eviscerated me, left me a shell of a man. Without you, this is a Godless universe minus hope, happiness or worth. No philosophy will heal my wounds, no religion will create sense out of nonsense, no sunrise will blot out my despair.
Why? One lousy genital wart.
Leave me be. Remove yourself from my pitiful existence.Please go.
Oh, I forgot. This is your apartment.
I offered you my being, my soul, my essence, and you took a sledgehammer to my sensibilities. I am a fragile man, a fount of vulnerability and you manipulated my weakness for your own devious ends. You stomped on my trust, spit on my loyalty, burped on my honesty.
I opened myself to you, surrendered all my secrets, passions, beliefs. I shared the full range of my fantasies, all the colors of my dreams, the texture of my dramas.
My plans for us were dashed against the jagged rocks slathered with black foam from the waves of your disdain. You have eviscerated me, left me a shell of a man. Without you, this is a Godless universe minus hope, happiness or worth. No philosophy will heal my wounds, no religion will create sense out of nonsense, no sunrise will blot out my despair.
Why? One lousy genital wart.
Leave me be. Remove yourself from my pitiful existence.Please go.
Oh, I forgot. This is your apartment.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Carrying Grandma Upstairs
She grabs my ear, screams please don't drop me, wraps her bent legs around my waist, pulls at my nose, drools on my neck, by the third step she's leaning toward the ground ready to vomit.
I hate carrying grandma upstairs.
Grandpa, I just tossed over my shoulder. He was the quiet one. In fact, the last time I carried Grandpa upstairs he had stopped breathing. I realized he had passed on when I tried giving him cranberry juice at the kitchen table and it just sort of dribbled down his chin.
I wanted to mourn him, but there was no time.
Grandma was downstairs clamoring to be brought up.
Thankfully I have a good orthopedic doctor and chiropractor, who informs me my whole spine is out of line.
I am probably the most compassionate blogger out there, but it's costing me my health.
Now it's time for grandma's oatmeal. It calms her stomach.
You only get one set of grandparents. Actually two, but who's counting?
I hate carrying grandma upstairs.
Grandpa, I just tossed over my shoulder. He was the quiet one. In fact, the last time I carried Grandpa upstairs he had stopped breathing. I realized he had passed on when I tried giving him cranberry juice at the kitchen table and it just sort of dribbled down his chin.
I wanted to mourn him, but there was no time.
Grandma was downstairs clamoring to be brought up.
Thankfully I have a good orthopedic doctor and chiropractor, who informs me my whole spine is out of line.
I am probably the most compassionate blogger out there, but it's costing me my health.
Now it's time for grandma's oatmeal. It calms her stomach.
You only get one set of grandparents. Actually two, but who's counting?
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Caught
Pounding on my door at 3am. I jump up in bed, sweat already building. Staggering to the door, not sure what is happening, I peek through the blinds. Two tall men in black trench coats and fedoras. One flashes a badge.
"Dunkin' Donuts Security. Open up."
Oh God. They've caught up with me. I slowly opened the floor, feeling completely vulnerable. They moved as one, quickly into my living room. I turned on a lamp. Shadows everywhere.
"You, sir, have some explaining to do. You have obtaining 16 free donuts by filling out our online survey. Correct?"
"Yes sir."
"Except this last time you slipped up, fella. It specifically states you must purchase a medium or larger beverage to be eligible. We have computer evidence that you bought a SMALL coffee, thereby not fulfilling your obligation. You then did the survey anyway, received your code and subsequently went back and got a Bavarian Creme donut free. Are you disputing any of this?"
I swallowed. "I got confused." One of them slammed me against a wall. "Don't get cute, donut boy. We want our donut back."
"But I...consumed it."
"The whole thing? You pig."
"It was Bavarian Creme. I couldn't stop myself. Please, let me make it up to you. I have tangerines."
They laughed loudly, too loudly. "Do we look stupid? This is the deal. Give us all your olive oil or we take you in. I promise you will not enjoy what happen at our DD Detention Center. You have 3 seconds to decide, buster."
I cursed my carelessness. I knew this day would come. Could I part with my olive oil? Right then it seemed I had no choice. They glared down at me, professionals just doing a job. As they left with my olive oil and a stern warning, I knew I would be under surveillance at every DD, my photo placed above the counter. Was one Bavarian Creme worth this shame? Do not judge until you've eaten one.
"Dunkin' Donuts Security. Open up."
Oh God. They've caught up with me. I slowly opened the floor, feeling completely vulnerable. They moved as one, quickly into my living room. I turned on a lamp. Shadows everywhere.
"You, sir, have some explaining to do. You have obtaining 16 free donuts by filling out our online survey. Correct?"
"Yes sir."
"Except this last time you slipped up, fella. It specifically states you must purchase a medium or larger beverage to be eligible. We have computer evidence that you bought a SMALL coffee, thereby not fulfilling your obligation. You then did the survey anyway, received your code and subsequently went back and got a Bavarian Creme donut free. Are you disputing any of this?"
I swallowed. "I got confused." One of them slammed me against a wall. "Don't get cute, donut boy. We want our donut back."
"But I...consumed it."
"The whole thing? You pig."
"It was Bavarian Creme. I couldn't stop myself. Please, let me make it up to you. I have tangerines."
They laughed loudly, too loudly. "Do we look stupid? This is the deal. Give us all your olive oil or we take you in. I promise you will not enjoy what happen at our DD Detention Center. You have 3 seconds to decide, buster."
I cursed my carelessness. I knew this day would come. Could I part with my olive oil? Right then it seemed I had no choice. They glared down at me, professionals just doing a job. As they left with my olive oil and a stern warning, I knew I would be under surveillance at every DD, my photo placed above the counter. Was one Bavarian Creme worth this shame? Do not judge until you've eaten one.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Friendship Overture
Someone recently told me they wanted me as a friend. I have nothing in common with this person. I've been polite and civil like I am to everyone, except crazy drivers. I just nodded and smiled uncomfortably. This person revealed they have been hurt before by so called friends, but I seemed very kind and a good candidate for friendship. I kept nodding, not sure how to respond. I do not want needy friends. I seek people who act like they don't want or need my friendship. Doesn't everyone?
I'm always suspicious people who proclaim friendship or act out intimacy with sudden hugging are those who will call me at all hours, expecting me to listen to their problems.
Look at what happened to poor Alec Baldwin. A couple of lunches years ago with an actress looking for advice and now she won't leave him alone.
I fear the same could happen to me. Some neophyte writer latches onto me, begging for career guidance. I give in and have lunch, only to impart my wisdom, nothing more. For years afterward I am haunted by this writer, stalked and punished for not caring enough about their career.
Anyway, I saw this person a week later looking over discount books at a library. I greeted said person and barely got a return greeting. As we both checked out the books I could hear this person chuckling. Not at me, at something from a book. I expected it would be shared with me. Instead, I was still ignored. Now I'm intrigued by this individual. Maybe I'll let this person be my friend. But if I get ignored again, I may just follow this person around until I get an explanation. How dare anyone play with my emotions.
I'm always suspicious people who proclaim friendship or act out intimacy with sudden hugging are those who will call me at all hours, expecting me to listen to their problems.
Look at what happened to poor Alec Baldwin. A couple of lunches years ago with an actress looking for advice and now she won't leave him alone.
I fear the same could happen to me. Some neophyte writer latches onto me, begging for career guidance. I give in and have lunch, only to impart my wisdom, nothing more. For years afterward I am haunted by this writer, stalked and punished for not caring enough about their career.
Anyway, I saw this person a week later looking over discount books at a library. I greeted said person and barely got a return greeting. As we both checked out the books I could hear this person chuckling. Not at me, at something from a book. I expected it would be shared with me. Instead, I was still ignored. Now I'm intrigued by this individual. Maybe I'll let this person be my friend. But if I get ignored again, I may just follow this person around until I get an explanation. How dare anyone play with my emotions.
My Birthday
April 16 is my birthday. This is what I would like:
A reasonable explanation for Elvis Costello's career.
Someone to drive me to a hot air balloon festival this summer.
Elaborate Ukrainian colored eggs.
More shelf space.
A market for my quirky published stories.
A pet that leaves me alone when I'm non communicative.
Someone to teach me just one recipe.
To learn key words in another language without having to study all of it.
A three piece suit that doesn't make me look like an overweight banker.
A strange park I've never visited.
The meaning of parsley.
A very expensive, yet sturdy back scratch er.
One night of eight straight hours sleep.
To be invited to more barbecues than anyone else.
A cortisone shot where and when I need one.
An attractive woman who finds me funny.
More French fries.
A complete understanding of modern art.
The guts to perform at open mikes.
The wisdom to sense when to buy new underwear.
A reasonable explanation for Elvis Costello's career.
Someone to drive me to a hot air balloon festival this summer.
Elaborate Ukrainian colored eggs.
More shelf space.
A market for my quirky published stories.
A pet that leaves me alone when I'm non communicative.
Someone to teach me just one recipe.
To learn key words in another language without having to study all of it.
A three piece suit that doesn't make me look like an overweight banker.
A strange park I've never visited.
The meaning of parsley.
A very expensive, yet sturdy back scratch er.
One night of eight straight hours sleep.
To be invited to more barbecues than anyone else.
A cortisone shot where and when I need one.
An attractive woman who finds me funny.
More French fries.
A complete understanding of modern art.
The guts to perform at open mikes.
The wisdom to sense when to buy new underwear.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
The Lesbian Question
Why aren't there more lesbians?
I ask this as a proud man who sees the frightening future--men are becoming irrelevant. With artificial insemination, surrogate mothers and adoption you don't need a male significant other to have a child. But it's much more than that. Men are sliding down a steep slope with no way back.
Women are hitting the gym, throwing themselves into Zumba and spin classes, twirling kettle weights, working the hell out of their core. Men are not needed to carry heavy packages. Women executives are stealing our thunder. Female athletes behave more professionally. Ladies can handle more pain; they live longer and maintain their mental capacity far beyond their male counterparts. Take away male celebrity chefs and who cooks better, men or women?
Men have become just as insecure about their appearance, more inclined to give up on a project, needier than they've ever been. Their toenails alone signal approaching extinction.
Women have somehow arranged to have 44% more orgasms during their lifetime. They read more books, understand popular culture, are better salespeople. They smell better and don't scratch as much. Grace is something they effortlessly master. Look at all the female modern dancers compared to the paucity of men.
Most of all, women win 96% of all arguments. Sometimes its vocal volume, sometimes sheer logic and sometimes they just wear us down. Our gender is gradually falling behind in everything, and one can easily see a future with only a handful of guys kept around for their sperm, and maybe to change an occasional light bulb. Don't get me started on the metro sexual, who is only prolonging the inevitable.
I ask this as a proud man who sees the frightening future--men are becoming irrelevant. With artificial insemination, surrogate mothers and adoption you don't need a male significant other to have a child. But it's much more than that. Men are sliding down a steep slope with no way back.
Women are hitting the gym, throwing themselves into Zumba and spin classes, twirling kettle weights, working the hell out of their core. Men are not needed to carry heavy packages. Women executives are stealing our thunder. Female athletes behave more professionally. Ladies can handle more pain; they live longer and maintain their mental capacity far beyond their male counterparts. Take away male celebrity chefs and who cooks better, men or women?
Men have become just as insecure about their appearance, more inclined to give up on a project, needier than they've ever been. Their toenails alone signal approaching extinction.
Women have somehow arranged to have 44% more orgasms during their lifetime. They read more books, understand popular culture, are better salespeople. They smell better and don't scratch as much. Grace is something they effortlessly master. Look at all the female modern dancers compared to the paucity of men.
Most of all, women win 96% of all arguments. Sometimes its vocal volume, sometimes sheer logic and sometimes they just wear us down. Our gender is gradually falling behind in everything, and one can easily see a future with only a handful of guys kept around for their sperm, and maybe to change an occasional light bulb. Don't get me started on the metro sexual, who is only prolonging the inevitable.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Pillow Fight
Why did I not attend this year's pillow fight, part of a worldwide event? I go every year to observe because that is what I do. But this year I made both an aesthetic and ethical decision not to be there.
Let me say that Saturday morning I spent two hours writing to prompts with my group. Creatively, I felt I was below my standards and that feeling of disappointment carried over into the PM. I told myself I needed to recoup my self esteem by going home and writing a high quality poem. Instead, I took a nap. When I awoke it was nearing 230pm, a half hour before the pillows were to be unleashed.
I was frankly upset because they changed venues from Union Square Park to Washington Square Park, less than a half mile away. But WSP is more associated with artistic aspirations, while USP is more politically oriented, and, thus, more appropriate for what I feel is both a political and psychological battle. Pounding strangers with pillows is the non lethal version of our economic system. No one cares were the pillow lands as long as you deliver more blows than the other guy. Symbolically, this needs to be at USP. Especially when you have innocent subway riders emerging into chaos, like small investors.
Aesthetically, the authorities decided to eliminate feathered pillows because of the clean up costs. That's the official explanation. I think feathers engender sensuality, leading to oodles of after fight groping and illicit coupling in front of Whole Foods. Seriously, without feathers, there is overwhelming blandness and inconclusiveness in pillow bashing. Feathers signify all that is lost as we struggle on, but when the feathers drift away, metaphorically, they represent memories of hardship, and a clearer sky/clearer vision of the future.
Plus women get to hit back with impunity. Return this event to its origins. Make it purposeful again. There are no tiny pillows, only tiny minds.
Let me say that Saturday morning I spent two hours writing to prompts with my group. Creatively, I felt I was below my standards and that feeling of disappointment carried over into the PM. I told myself I needed to recoup my self esteem by going home and writing a high quality poem. Instead, I took a nap. When I awoke it was nearing 230pm, a half hour before the pillows were to be unleashed.
I was frankly upset because they changed venues from Union Square Park to Washington Square Park, less than a half mile away. But WSP is more associated with artistic aspirations, while USP is more politically oriented, and, thus, more appropriate for what I feel is both a political and psychological battle. Pounding strangers with pillows is the non lethal version of our economic system. No one cares were the pillow lands as long as you deliver more blows than the other guy. Symbolically, this needs to be at USP. Especially when you have innocent subway riders emerging into chaos, like small investors.
Aesthetically, the authorities decided to eliminate feathered pillows because of the clean up costs. That's the official explanation. I think feathers engender sensuality, leading to oodles of after fight groping and illicit coupling in front of Whole Foods. Seriously, without feathers, there is overwhelming blandness and inconclusiveness in pillow bashing. Feathers signify all that is lost as we struggle on, but when the feathers drift away, metaphorically, they represent memories of hardship, and a clearer sky/clearer vision of the future.
Plus women get to hit back with impunity. Return this event to its origins. Make it purposeful again. There are no tiny pillows, only tiny minds.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Church or Parade?
It's Easter Sunday and if I attend church I'm a complete hypocrite because I haven't been going. I could use today as a starting point to regaining my religion, rededicating myself to following our laws, which are confusing because they keep changing. No masses in Latin, the option of placing the Communion wafer into your own mouth, and most baffling, the elimination of Limbo. For years, Limbo was my fallback position. If I wasn't good enough to enter Heaven immediately, instead of being consigned to Hell, I'd be held over in Limbo until the powers that be decided my fate. Possibly, I could have an opportunity to make my case for Heaven. Really good hygiene is often overlooked in the criteria. If I choose to skip church I could use that time to attend the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue, where I could take pictures of pets in ridiculous costumes and transvestites well over six feet in heels wearing fishnet stockings. The bonnets weigh about twenty pounds and it's especially disturbing to see kids wearing these monstrosities, which will cause emotional scarring for many years ahead.
I could actually combine the two by going to the parade and attending mass at St. Patrick's, where I could pray for those kids and the poor, humiliated pets. Transvestites can fend for themselves.
I could actually combine the two by going to the parade and attending mass at St. Patrick's, where I could pray for those kids and the poor, humiliated pets. Transvestites can fend for themselves.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Wrong Furniture
Hello? Bristow Furniture? This is Tom Castle.You delivered the wrong furniture. I did not order bamboo chairs. I have no use for a plexiglass hammock. Civilized people do not sit on bamboo. The recliner was supposed to be dark leather. You brought neon pink canvas. I am a masculine fellow. I would have settled for tan.
These futuristic end tables had to be stolen from James Cameron's Id. Who am I speaking to? Put Laurence on the phone. He was my salesman. What do you mean he's not available? Identify yourself. Loretta, Laurence's wife. You kicked him out for flirting at a party. Not my problem. Life changing for you.
Here is what is important. Your men brought me a square, glass topped coffee table. I ordered a rectangular mahogany. Anyone with a square coffee table is suspect. Do not play dumb. Now some guy named Aldo wants my signature. He is unquestionably Mafia. I shake my head, he threatens me with a thick throw rug. Is this how you do business? Listen to me. I have a blog. I can damage your livelihood. If Aldo doesn't back off I will spread rumors your bookcases are infested with termites. Rescind this onslaught of schizophrenic decor or I will start a Twitter account and toss a hissy fit. Although I must say I'm becoming attached to that throw rug. Imported?
These futuristic end tables had to be stolen from James Cameron's Id. Who am I speaking to? Put Laurence on the phone. He was my salesman. What do you mean he's not available? Identify yourself. Loretta, Laurence's wife. You kicked him out for flirting at a party. Not my problem. Life changing for you.
Here is what is important. Your men brought me a square, glass topped coffee table. I ordered a rectangular mahogany. Anyone with a square coffee table is suspect. Do not play dumb. Now some guy named Aldo wants my signature. He is unquestionably Mafia. I shake my head, he threatens me with a thick throw rug. Is this how you do business? Listen to me. I have a blog. I can damage your livelihood. If Aldo doesn't back off I will spread rumors your bookcases are infested with termites. Rescind this onslaught of schizophrenic decor or I will start a Twitter account and toss a hissy fit. Although I must say I'm becoming attached to that throw rug. Imported?
From Scratch
I've got 500 pounds of clay and a sudden desire for a family. God created man with just 100 pounds of clay, but mine is air drying clay, so I have to work fast.
I will mold a 13 year old boy I can play catch with, an eight year old girl too young for boys but old enough to make me a sandwich.
A mother in law who is small and quiet. A terrier who barks at my mother in law.
My wife will be well proportioned, strong yet pliable, smart enough to share intelligent discourse and still spoon at night.
I'm guessing at least three hours to mold her butt. I'm very particular. Dimensions have to be just right. Because once the clay hardens I'm stuck with what I have. If one cheek is larger than the other, that would be untenable.
If there's any left over I may create a neighbor, someone handy who can unclog things and fix whatever is broken.
I may not enough energy for a clay toddler. I'll play it conservative. Working from scratch is the only way I can guarantee quality. Must sign off. I think my clay's already drying in the box.
I will mold a 13 year old boy I can play catch with, an eight year old girl too young for boys but old enough to make me a sandwich.
A mother in law who is small and quiet. A terrier who barks at my mother in law.
My wife will be well proportioned, strong yet pliable, smart enough to share intelligent discourse and still spoon at night.
I'm guessing at least three hours to mold her butt. I'm very particular. Dimensions have to be just right. Because once the clay hardens I'm stuck with what I have. If one cheek is larger than the other, that would be untenable.
If there's any left over I may create a neighbor, someone handy who can unclog things and fix whatever is broken.
I may not enough energy for a clay toddler. I'll play it conservative. Working from scratch is the only way I can guarantee quality. Must sign off. I think my clay's already drying in the box.
Treasure Hunt
Budget cuts
Only seven eggs for Easter hunt
Six hundred children and parents arrive
Horn goes off
Mad scramble by crazed egg hungry kids
Parents with clipboards keeping score
Hours pass
Exhausted, sobbing tykes return empty handed
Donated marshmallows ignored
Riot ensues
Call goes out for chocolate bunnies
Plan B
Only seven eggs for Easter hunt
Six hundred children and parents arrive
Horn goes off
Mad scramble by crazed egg hungry kids
Parents with clipboards keeping score
Hours pass
Exhausted, sobbing tykes return empty handed
Donated marshmallows ignored
Riot ensues
Call goes out for chocolate bunnies
Plan B
Friday, April 6, 2012
Good Friday
I am a Catholic and I feel guilty going out on Good Friday. But I didn't want to just stay home, so I compromised. I went to a Dunkin' Donuts where ice tea is on sale for 99 cents, including the large size. I then read an article in the Village Voice about some guy who posts nude photos sent to him by vengeful spurned lovers. He gets about 9 million hits a day and turns that into cash. This is heart breaking for those of us who actually attempt serious intellectual discourse online and make nothing.
I can't imagine sending a nude photo of myself to anyone unless they offered me Pringles. The amazing technology that allows Pringles to make all their chips exactly the same size so they can spoon atop each other in that environmentally correct cylinder, with no wasted air space like in those stupid bags, that concept should be applied to rentals, which would leave a lot more space for parks and skating rinks.
I also can't imagine any religion banning Pringles, not even on Good Friday. The streets seemed relatively empty, libraries were closed, no free movies. The way I figure it, if I'm somber throughout the week, I'm allowed to smile on Good Friday and scoff down Pringles. Maybe if I marketed holy water online I'd make as much as the Voice guy. It would alleviate some of that guilt. And perhaps some of you would be saved.
I can't imagine sending a nude photo of myself to anyone unless they offered me Pringles. The amazing technology that allows Pringles to make all their chips exactly the same size so they can spoon atop each other in that environmentally correct cylinder, with no wasted air space like in those stupid bags, that concept should be applied to rentals, which would leave a lot more space for parks and skating rinks.
I also can't imagine any religion banning Pringles, not even on Good Friday. The streets seemed relatively empty, libraries were closed, no free movies. The way I figure it, if I'm somber throughout the week, I'm allowed to smile on Good Friday and scoff down Pringles. Maybe if I marketed holy water online I'd make as much as the Voice guy. It would alleviate some of that guilt. And perhaps some of you would be saved.
On the Test
Is this going to be on the test, Miss Figgins? Because I was out sick that one day you covered sharks and I got no notes. No one lets me copy theirs because of what happened in the lunch room, which I'm sure you heard about and it wasn't my fault. What about the stuff on dunes? Is that on the test? I don't really understand the purpose of dunes. I pay close attention. I have pages of notes. Sometimes I'm the only one writing. Can you at least tell me what WON'T be on the test? My parents said I had to do better than my last test or they'll take away my I-Pod. I've seen you with yours, Miss Figgins, so you know how terrible that would be. I mean we just HAD a test two weeks ago and here we are faced with another one. History is my best subject. Mr. Burns always lets us know what's going to be on his tests so we know what to study. Yes, you said everything is important, but look at all these notes. How can I remember all this stuff? No offense, but I didn't want to be here. I was forced to take this class. I doubt I'm even going to college, unless I become a nurse and you don't need to know about the different types of sharks if you're a nurse unless you join the Peace Core and get sent near a shark infested country. Just between you and me, the Peace Core pays crappy. So I can pretty much expect this part to be on the test. Right?
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Stuffed Toy Cartel
My name is Det. Ed Chalmers and I broke up the stuffed animal toy cartel. I watched and eventually arrested Allison and Ted Knoberrnecker who were trying to create a monopoly in this market by hoarding imported stuffed toys in their spacious garage. They had no prior record. My disgust was unlimited. I have kids who went to sleep without a stuffed animal to hold. This is why I became a cop. We have to stamp out these vicious toy cartels before any more bloodshed.
Boxes and boxes of illegal contraband. If I told you how many pandas were kept in those cheap cardboard containers you'd vomit on your shoes. It took many months of surveillance. They were good, oh good and careful. Everything was off the books. No paper trail. Bastards wore disguises for the pick ups. A small van with Borges Plumbing on the side. There really is a Borges and he is a licensed plumber. I got him for being an accessory. Fool claims he didn't know it was stuffed animals. Thought it was pizza ingredients. If that were the case I would have shrugged and found something better to do.
But you don't corner the market on stuffed rhesus monkeys while Ed Chalmers runs the show. Not that I was looking for it, but I'm a hero to every kid in town. Except the ones who are allergic to these things. They have my sympathy. Let them hug their pillows. My kids will have a stuffed platypus and aardvark to keep them company tonight. The book deal isn't far off. Not that I'm pursuing anything.
Boxes and boxes of illegal contraband. If I told you how many pandas were kept in those cheap cardboard containers you'd vomit on your shoes. It took many months of surveillance. They were good, oh good and careful. Everything was off the books. No paper trail. Bastards wore disguises for the pick ups. A small van with Borges Plumbing on the side. There really is a Borges and he is a licensed plumber. I got him for being an accessory. Fool claims he didn't know it was stuffed animals. Thought it was pizza ingredients. If that were the case I would have shrugged and found something better to do.
But you don't corner the market on stuffed rhesus monkeys while Ed Chalmers runs the show. Not that I was looking for it, but I'm a hero to every kid in town. Except the ones who are allergic to these things. They have my sympathy. Let them hug their pillows. My kids will have a stuffed platypus and aardvark to keep them company tonight. The book deal isn't far off. Not that I'm pursuing anything.
Ms Brick
I can understand Samantha Brick, the English woman who writes about how difficult it is to be attractive. Other women resent her. Men give her things. Life is hell.
This is something only those of us who've experienced it can identify with. For as long as I can remember I've had to deal with women pawing me, even strangers. It's actually pleasant, but it's not like I'm encouraging it. I want ladies to see beneath the surface and accept me for who I am. I am much more than a ripped body and swarthy looks. I'm an intelligent, well read guy who has mastered a can opener. Just coming up and grabbing me will not result in my respecting you ladies.
Probe my thoughts, seek out my wisdom, listen to my anecdotes. If you still want to pinch or squeeze, that's fine. At least you've explored my other facets. I never sought sensual magnetism. In fact, I let myself go bald, never had surgery to pin back my protruding ears. I don't wear lifts and I never wear leather. Can I help it if I resemble Marcello What's His Name, the actor who made all those movies with Sophia Loren?
So, yes, I see where Ms. Brick is coming from. Except I don't think she's as attractive as she thinks she is. My profile is so much more impressive.
This is something only those of us who've experienced it can identify with. For as long as I can remember I've had to deal with women pawing me, even strangers. It's actually pleasant, but it's not like I'm encouraging it. I want ladies to see beneath the surface and accept me for who I am. I am much more than a ripped body and swarthy looks. I'm an intelligent, well read guy who has mastered a can opener. Just coming up and grabbing me will not result in my respecting you ladies.
Probe my thoughts, seek out my wisdom, listen to my anecdotes. If you still want to pinch or squeeze, that's fine. At least you've explored my other facets. I never sought sensual magnetism. In fact, I let myself go bald, never had surgery to pin back my protruding ears. I don't wear lifts and I never wear leather. Can I help it if I resemble Marcello What's His Name, the actor who made all those movies with Sophia Loren?
So, yes, I see where Ms. Brick is coming from. Except I don't think she's as attractive as she thinks she is. My profile is so much more impressive.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
A Boy
I'm walking in the park, getting my exercise, and this little kid riding along with training wheels suddenly loses control and falls off the bike right into the grass. I'm reading my book, minding my own business. Sighing, I straighten the bike and look down at him. He's wearing his helmet, lying on his side, knees bent in a fetal position. He is not whimpering, eyes are open, just lying there contemplating the insanity of bikes, learning at an early age about responsibility. He is a kid. Kids ride bikes. No one questions this chain of events, certainly not the boy.
I may have asked if he was okay. I certainly asked if he intended to get up. He hesitated, thinking it over, as if he had a choice. He finally does rise and climbs back on the bike, too embarrassed to thank me. I continue my walk. A few seconds later he again loses control, almost runs into me before regaining his balance. He glances at me sheepishly. All I can offer is two words--go slow.
He begins pedaling and is soon far off in the distance. I don't see him again.
Part of me admires his persistence. Part feels sorry for him because he will discover no matter how many times he falls he will be expected to get up and start over. And one day, after he's retired and just walking along, some fool kid on a bike may cause him to jump away, some silly kid going sideways when he should be going straight.
I may have asked if he was okay. I certainly asked if he intended to get up. He hesitated, thinking it over, as if he had a choice. He finally does rise and climbs back on the bike, too embarrassed to thank me. I continue my walk. A few seconds later he again loses control, almost runs into me before regaining his balance. He glances at me sheepishly. All I can offer is two words--go slow.
He begins pedaling and is soon far off in the distance. I don't see him again.
Part of me admires his persistence. Part feels sorry for him because he will discover no matter how many times he falls he will be expected to get up and start over. And one day, after he's retired and just walking along, some fool kid on a bike may cause him to jump away, some silly kid going sideways when he should be going straight.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Sensual Words
The 15 Most Sensual Words in the English Language
knickers
skintight
mouthpiece
inseminate
slurp
meat
pubes
pudendum
glutinous
oomph
fandango
usurp
uncoil
verbiage
wedgie
You're quite welcome.
knickers
skintight
mouthpiece
inseminate
slurp
meat
pubes
pudendum
glutinous
oomph
fandango
usurp
uncoil
verbiage
wedgie
You're quite welcome.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
My Mission
My mission is to make it to the downtown Shoprite where I will buy coffee for $1, sneak back for a free refill, and read all the newspapers for nothing. In my retirement I have officially become disgustingly unethical.
I could choose the uptown Shoprite, but that would negate the challenge of zigzagging through miles of lane closing cones and workers in hardhats and yellow vests standing there sipping coffee.
Seven years they have been repaving, digging up old pipes, laying down new pipes, resurfacing, filling potholes, soaking up millions in Federal funds on this endless Mafia project.
Fifteen minutes into a massive back up, going nowhere, I curse my stubbornness. Nightfall, that is when I will get to this supermarket, the only one stocking Pringles new honey mustard potato chips.
Someone needs to set out on a mission into my brain, penetrating my scalp, seeking one dendrite full of common sense. It's not enough for me to scrub out my tub and mop my floors. To clip my toenails. To tackle that smell behind the refrigerator. I had to push past my limits with this hellish trek. If my car overheats, I'm going right after the yellow vest guys, no matter how big their forearms.
I could choose the uptown Shoprite, but that would negate the challenge of zigzagging through miles of lane closing cones and workers in hardhats and yellow vests standing there sipping coffee.
Seven years they have been repaving, digging up old pipes, laying down new pipes, resurfacing, filling potholes, soaking up millions in Federal funds on this endless Mafia project.
Fifteen minutes into a massive back up, going nowhere, I curse my stubbornness. Nightfall, that is when I will get to this supermarket, the only one stocking Pringles new honey mustard potato chips.
Someone needs to set out on a mission into my brain, penetrating my scalp, seeking one dendrite full of common sense. It's not enough for me to scrub out my tub and mop my floors. To clip my toenails. To tackle that smell behind the refrigerator. I had to push past my limits with this hellish trek. If my car overheats, I'm going right after the yellow vest guys, no matter how big their forearms.
Under the Table
How many of us spend our lives under the table, afraid to sit up in a chair with the adults? What happens to us? We are not born shadowy creatures, fearful of eye to eye contact. Children face us down, unblinking. When do we begin skulking beneath the light, dodging gum wrappers? I'm down here listening to fragments of conversation, coughing up the dust of timidity. Flatulence is my drumbeat. The aroma of whispered opinions surrounds me. Stomachs growl like evil fairy tale characters.
When everyone has left, I crawl out, let my squinting eyes wander across the steaming battleground of dirty plates and utensils, crumpled napkins, cookie crumbs, half filled seltzer bottles, chocolate covered raisins and spilled coffee.
I curse myself for missing another chance at connection.
I capture the lingering bits of argument still in the air, press them to my ears, eventually carry them back down to my dark space and its dusty echoes. This is my fragmented grasp of the life force above me.
It is so much safer under here. One can learn to adjust. Collecting cigarette butts is just as meaningful as collecting insults. So what if I don't smoke.
When everyone has left, I crawl out, let my squinting eyes wander across the steaming battleground of dirty plates and utensils, crumpled napkins, cookie crumbs, half filled seltzer bottles, chocolate covered raisins and spilled coffee.
I curse myself for missing another chance at connection.
I capture the lingering bits of argument still in the air, press them to my ears, eventually carry them back down to my dark space and its dusty echoes. This is my fragmented grasp of the life force above me.
It is so much safer under here. One can learn to adjust. Collecting cigarette butts is just as meaningful as collecting insults. So what if I don't smoke.
Inner Circle
So you want to be in my inner circle of friends. Understandable. There are some things you need to know, qualifications, to be frank.
You don't have to be terribly good looking, just exceedingly presentable. Posture is important--no slouching in my circle. Scratching is something I do not encourage. Nobody's counting, but you'll be quietly told if excess scratching persists. You need at least three good stories for when I must to take a break from imparting my wisdom. Silence has its place, but I prefer constant dialogue or monologue. No texting when I'm speaking, or checking anything on any electronic device. If you feel overwhelmed by my intellectual expounding you are permitted to hold onto someone.
If you speak Tagalog consider yourself halfway into my circle because I need someone to translate what beautiful Filipino women are saying. More important is understanding irony. If you can counter my points with irony, spoken in an ironic tone, rather than banish you, I will let you sit next to me when we go to Five Guys for burgers. I respect gumption as long as you don't spray saliva. My inner circle members must be able to raise one eyebrow quizzically. It's just a thing I enjoy. I do not micromanage. Decide amongst yourselves who will pick up the check when we go out. Occasionally I may pay, but do not get comfortable with that notion.
Can any of you teach me to rumba? That's an automatic entry into my circle.
You don't have to be terribly good looking, just exceedingly presentable. Posture is important--no slouching in my circle. Scratching is something I do not encourage. Nobody's counting, but you'll be quietly told if excess scratching persists. You need at least three good stories for when I must to take a break from imparting my wisdom. Silence has its place, but I prefer constant dialogue or monologue. No texting when I'm speaking, or checking anything on any electronic device. If you feel overwhelmed by my intellectual expounding you are permitted to hold onto someone.
If you speak Tagalog consider yourself halfway into my circle because I need someone to translate what beautiful Filipino women are saying. More important is understanding irony. If you can counter my points with irony, spoken in an ironic tone, rather than banish you, I will let you sit next to me when we go to Five Guys for burgers. I respect gumption as long as you don't spray saliva. My inner circle members must be able to raise one eyebrow quizzically. It's just a thing I enjoy. I do not micromanage. Decide amongst yourselves who will pick up the check when we go out. Occasionally I may pay, but do not get comfortable with that notion.
Can any of you teach me to rumba? That's an automatic entry into my circle.
Bruised Supermodels
There is a niche market waiting to be filled. All over the world, hundreds, maybe thousands of supermodels are falling on runways. When someone this size goes down it's never graceful. They resemble sprawled, drugged out ostriches. Alone, usually in ridiculously high heels, looking uber confident and indifferent to mortals, these skyscrapers stride past rabid fashionistas and a part of us waits for the inevitable. Whoa! There she goes!
Plop.
No warning. Happens fast. The music thumps. Collective intake of breath. The model does the only possible thing--gets up, smiles sheepishly. Continues her trek. The courage of supermodels has given us hope.
No recorded incidents of male models falling. Is it a conspiracy or just better balance? Or perhaps something more sinister. What better way to gain publicity for your line than to slip a young, hungry model a few bucks to take a flop? Doesn't it seem suspicious that all these falls happen right in front of the camera? And why aren't any of them seriously hurt? Oh, there are bruises. I have the photos, for which I'm open to negotiation. Just doing my job. The public has gotten tired of shots of celebs cleaning up their dog poop.
Plop.
No warning. Happens fast. The music thumps. Collective intake of breath. The model does the only possible thing--gets up, smiles sheepishly. Continues her trek. The courage of supermodels has given us hope.
No recorded incidents of male models falling. Is it a conspiracy or just better balance? Or perhaps something more sinister. What better way to gain publicity for your line than to slip a young, hungry model a few bucks to take a flop? Doesn't it seem suspicious that all these falls happen right in front of the camera? And why aren't any of them seriously hurt? Oh, there are bruises. I have the photos, for which I'm open to negotiation. Just doing my job. The public has gotten tired of shots of celebs cleaning up their dog poop.
Soft Place to Land
Bruises of youth
take longer to heal.
As life dots your Is and crosses your Ts
scar tissue of age creates leather
and scrapes are only another layer.
Falling is inevitable.
Finding a soft place to land
is all we can do.
take longer to heal.
As life dots your Is and crosses your Ts
scar tissue of age creates leather
and scrapes are only another layer.
Falling is inevitable.
Finding a soft place to land
is all we can do.
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