Suds Alert!

That is the sign above the washers in my laundry room. These are state of the art, front loaded models that require only one eighth of a cup of detergent. Otherwise one's clothes can be damaged or smell bad or something else horrible. Also, do not use regular detergent. Use a detergent I've never heard of or seen anywhere.
Why did I never notice this sign? For nine years I've been using a full cup of  99 cent detergent. I LIKE watching the suds and bubbles. It calms me. I did not request these super washers that barely need sustenance. I just want all my stains removed. I want my clothes to smell good. I want a dryer that actually dries.
What if there are hidden cameras in this place? The condo board would have evidence I violated the suds rule. Used unauthorized detergent. I can say for certain, I'm not the only one. If they try to pin anything on me, fine or imprison me, I will give up names in a heartbeat. Especially Mrs. Ortiz, who never times her removals accurately and screams at you if you dare take out her wash before she gets there.

Night Out

More and more communities are hosting official Night Out events. They pick a day in August and declare ownership of the streets, inviting wholesome families to leave their homes and join in the festivities, which include children's games, music, good conversation and a few cops scattered about.
I'm not sure how this battles crime. I can't imagine gangs like the Crips and Bloods shivering in fear watching all this. Lifetime hoodlums probably won't turn in their weapons after observing kids creating chalk drawings in the street and adults trying to throw down dance moves.
I don't know whose idea this was. Hoboken seems to have been the first town to try it. Hoboken is the same place that does everything possible to keep out of towners out by its prohibitive parking regulations. My question is what happens after this Night Out is concluded? Do the same people then stay inside the rest of the year? Do civilians, pumped up with pride, patrol the streets with bats and brass knuckles seeking out suspicious types? What happens to all those cute chalk scribblings? Who owns them?
I have minimal fear walking the streets. I carry little money, my watch is worth $10, I wear no rings or jewelry, keep my head down and do not make eye contact. And I certainly don't try to dance in public.
I hope I never have to throw a punch, especially with two bad shoulders. Frankly, I don't want ownership of any street. I have enough trouble maintaining my garage.

Mom Made Me Do It

First off, I'm afraid of heights. I'm thirteen and already I know I won't be a pilot or lighthouse keeper. My mother usually leaves me alone. I'm the oldest of five kids. That's why I was surprised when she told me I had to build a tree house. She even bought the wood and nails and a schematic from Home Depot.
She said it was a constructive way to spend my summer vacation and would make it easier to invite friends over. I hated inviting friends over. I much preferred daydreaming.
I spent four weeks working on that thing, positioned within a large oak in our yard. Dad was at work all day and always too tired to help. When I finally pounded in the final nail I felt so proud. However, when I called up friends and invited them to join me, they all asked if it had WiFi.
At this point I have not spent one moment in this house. Why? Because I figured out why mom made me build it. I came home from school in September only to find my brother Allen cutting up a magazine for no reason, sister Allie had spit up Cheetos in the parlor, the twins, Lisa and Gilbert were fighting over the TV, our chicken dinner was burnt in the oven, the phone was ringing, the toilet wouldn't stop running and something smelled really bad.
Mom? Mom was up in the tree house, eyes closed, listening to an Enya CD.

One Way Out

The compound wasn't big enough to get lost. Of course we were watched constantly. After three weeks I was losing my mind. I had been arrested and charged with wearing denim on a Wednesday, which was corduroy day. For some reason I thought it was Tuesday, which was denim day. I was sentenced to six months hard time wearing fleece. Fleece is very warm and I sweated all day and night.
There was only one way out. Every Tuesday and Friday the laundry truck came to drop off clean clothes and pick up the dirty ones. If I could get myself tossed onto that truck I'd be free.
One day I sneaked away from the cafeteria and hid inside a laundry bag in the pick up room. I waited. And waited. Three hours I waited, sweltering in my fleece outfit and no one came. Then I realized it was actually Thursday and I had screwed up.
I know I'll be punished for being missing. The last guy was forced to watch America's Top Model all day. He was taken away in a straight jacket. Another way out.

Melted Pocket Candy

For most people, melted pocket candy is disgusting. I cherish that squishy feeling, excitement tingling right up my arm, across my chest and down to my stomach. I purposely put chocolate in my pocket and wander around on steaming days. Eventually I'll find a private spot away from judgmental types and stick my hand right in there, extracting a glob with my fingers. There will be licking, my friends, plenty of sordid licking.
Periodically, I will stop and repeat this procedure. A piece of advice--empty your pockets of all fuzz. Kills the taste. Dries the palette.
A point about licorice. A serviceable treat, but not in chocolate's class. It doesn't melt. Just gets stickier. No licking involved, despite its name.
A word about nuts and chocolate. No matter how hot it is in and out of your pocket, your nuts will never melt.

Recorder

I used to play the recorder, a wooden instrument somewhere between a clarinet and a flute. I did this to prove to myself I was musical. I had three different sizes and each had a different sound.
I spent many hours playing this thing alone in my room. This is not pathetic, it is someone exploring his creativity. I still have notebooks somewhere with pages of instrumentals because I taught myself to read music.
Sometimes I would put on a record of a famous bluesman like Albert King and play along. Admittedly, the recorder doesn't possess the grittiness and gravitas of a blues guitar, but I poured my soul into each performance. I even recorded some and I'm sure I could find them and perhaps release them as a tape. Or I could return to those days, relearn the instrument and put videos on You Tube.
Good recorder music is scarce and that is a mystery. I know this instrument is associated with third graders, but adults can, with time and effort, elevate this woodwind to higher levels of acceptance. I believe the opening of Stairway to Heaven was all recorder.

Olympic Pressure

Every four years I drive myself crazy watching the Olympics. I mean, it's our duty, right? Eight different channels, all hours of the day and night. Four years ago I killed myself trying to absorb everything. Sadly, I did not see one minute of field hockey.
Watching NBC promos, you'd think every single athlete there is a young, hot white girl. Seriously. Outside of one black female hoopster, no one of color is shown. Track and field used to be the center of the games. You'd never know it. There's more hype about beach volleyball. Swimming and diving, gymnastics, soccer, and when it was included, softball, all garnered more publicity than t&f. Could it be perhaps because that sport is dominated by African Americans and marketing honchos don't think they attract viewers in large enough numbers?
There's a 17 year old American female swimmer who is going for seven gold medals. She claims she wants to attend college afterwards and will forgo millions in sponsorship if she wins. And she says it with a little smile. Right. Sponsorship has allowed athletes to compete in two or three games now, essentially reinforcing their brand. Hope Solo already has her memoir out. She is the soccer goalie who looks like Catherine Zeta Jones. Lo Lo Jones is the hurdler who fell last time and who looks like Ashley Greene. Sue Bird is the hot hoop star. Ailleen Morgan the hot soccer star.
Our best female weightlifter's brother is a Jets lineman. Now I have to check what channel the archery is on. I hope Canada wins a gold. I really like their national anthem.

Getting Older

No one expects much from an old guy and that's just fine with me. A lot of pressure lifted from my shoulders. I drive slow with two hands clenched on the wheel. Take my time getting into and out of cars. I do not take risks to prove anything. Nothing dangerous happening here should be on my t-shirt.
Young guys hardly ever listen. That's pretty much all I do now, that and nodding to avoid arguments. I'm afraid if I get upset I'll pass wind or worse.
Getting older means you don't have to go mountain biking, bungee jumping, hang gliding, jump from planes, or bend quickly. I speak as slow as I bend, using fewer big words I can't pronounce anymore. Age gives me the right to complain about little things. I can take crap and not lose sleep. Fast walking women who leave me behind don't aggravate me anymore. I accept the loss of testosterone as long as I keep choosing mens' underwear. My self image is intact. I'll still take out the garbage, except for the heavy pails.
Any chance you can massage my shoulders? I promise not to grunt in ecstasy.

Penny for Your Thoughts

When God said that to me I had the sense He was being sarcastic. Maybe he thought I was wasting the mind He gave me.
Well, I told Him, I was contemplating why I can't seem to finish the container of hummus that's been in my refrigerator for weeks. It's baffling because only a little while ago I couldn't get enough hummus. I'd buy two or three different flavors at a time and anticipate an entire evening of hummus and crackers. Sometimes I'd rub it over my chest.
Gradually I noticed my excitement lose steam. It wasn't like I substituted something else, like spicy salsa dip. That ravenous desire for this creamy substance had come and gone quickly. Peanut butter crackers are a so so substitute I've dabbled with. Maybe my taste buds got bored. Yes, perhaps it's time to move on, adjust and accept change. Change is a healthy part of life, right?
I looked up and realized God had dozed off.

Festival

Every July Hoboken has its St. Ann's Festival, crowded and sweaty and full of muscular guys named Vito and flip flop wearing women wearing lots of jewelry named Josie.
The entertainment is quite good. Harold Melvin's Blue Notes, minus Harold, who passed away, put on a terrific show. Four old guys flying through dance steps while women practically fainted. Maybe it was the pasta or sausage and peppers.
Always there is one muscle bound guy in a revealing t-shirt trying to throw a baseball through a canvas sheet. Invariably, he doesn't break 60mph and his buxom girlfriend busts on him. Strangers strike up conversations because you're practically standing on each others feet. The smells, the crackling from the grill, the barked invitations to play this or that game, and more than anything, the zeppoles, sold from a long table by old Italian women who work endlessly, are the earmarks of this yearly event. It would be nice to see a priest or nun occasionally. But God knows a full stomach, a little beer from the beer garden, and fancy stepping singing groups amount to a certain type of mass no one wants to skip.

Bloom Where You're Planted

I was planted in Hudson County, where I've lived my whole life.
This is what you should know about Hudson County.
Protect your cookies at all times. Accept that you can't breathe without difficulty. Flat tires are a badge of honor. If something bad happens to you, everyone within a ten block radius will know within minutes. Characters abound to the extent that there are no characters.
Strange smells assault you. Assume everyone has at least one knife. Don't try to count the conveinience stores. Anything half price engenders a stampede. Free stuff causes riots.
Don't scratch your nose while behind the wheel. Someone will think you're giving them the finger and open fire. Do not smile at cops or you'll be questioned. Kids will run you down on a bike, skateboard, roller skates and scooter.
Toddlers give you the stink eye. Hudson County women can yell longer and louder than you. You need MACE against surly grandparents. Finding a parking space is better than an orgasm. Pushing your way to the front of a line is considered exercise. A happy meal is any food sitting in front of you at any time.
Music is loud and in a foreign language. People talk fast in that same language.
Sometimes suburbanites get lost and end up in Hudson County. Days later their carcasses are found near a dumpster.
Hudson County lakes spit up furious fish who piss off the turtles who refuse to pose for anyone stupid enough to spend all afternoon standing there with a camera.
I fear blooming here. Residents resent flowers and plants and anything sprouting from the earth. So I remain closed down, safe and anonymous.

A Second Ago

A second ago...
I had hair and a five year plan.
I could run a mile in under 6 minutes.
My friends were all young.
My waist was 33 inches.
Toe fungus happened to others.
I took no prescription drugs.
Women undressed me with their eyes.
My ears were hairless.
My parents were in the next room.
I could change a tire without grunting.
I had grandparents.
I remembered where I put everything.
I could drive for miles.
Listen for more than a minute.
I trusted my government, cops, teachers.
priests, coaches and bankers.
A second ago I wrote poems that rhymed.
I didn't need caffeine or a massage.
I had all kinds of time to create
and never contemplated cremation.
A second ago you looked at me differently.

Saturday Morning

It is Saturday morning and I am headed to my writer prompt group. We toss out ideas, write about one for 15 minutes and read aloud if we wish. Sometimes people will pass on the reading. Not me. I will sip the host's coffee, scoff down whatever pastry is on the table, and be brilliant.
My prompts will be edgy, the writing entertaining, the response quite positive. Some will regard me with awe, or at least deep admiration. The two hours will fly by. It is a great way to begin a weekend. Sometimes I will give a lift to a young lady and I will impart some wisdom during the trip. She will nod occasionally and pretend to be listening, which is what young people do around me. I will glance in the rear view mirror, eye my turkey neck and sigh inwardly.
After we do three prompts, we'll chat for a bit. This is always bittersweet because we recognize we have created an island of civility in a mass killing world and that is concluding until another week has passed and we return, perhaps to another home. For me, this usually is the highlight of my weekend. Except I drink more coffee later on.

Police Action

Police are questioning my neighbors. There are two cop cars and two unmarked cars, about eight cops questioning two old people. I can't park my car in my spot because of this, so I have to park on the street.
Why do cops need backup for even the smallest issue? A traffic stop now calls for two cop cars surrounding some poor slob who broke some minor regulation. In fact, any stop and search becomes a group grope, with cops flying in from all directions.
Meanwhile, it remains so easy to get guns, periodically some nut goes berserk in a theater or business. The President releases a statement, a commercial comes on and it's back to Rachel Ray.
Cops usually stand a certain way like they own the immediate vicinity. They speak in disdainful tones, and eye you up and down like we know you did something and you might as well tell us now. Every cop is a former high school athlete who spent four years swaggering through the halls. You have to have an attitude to be a cop, the kind of thing most people do not want to be around for more than six seconds. I can't imagine cops having friends other than other cops.
Eventually the neighbor issue was resolved and I was able to move my car into my spot. Until the next time.

Zoo

Another Wednesday has come and gone and I haven't visited the Bronx Zoo. I go on Wednesday because you choose what you pay. I missed last year altogether and feel guilty. We have to support our zoos. Intellectuals handle museums, we salt of the earth types must visit our animals.
I notice some of the animals don't seem too thrilled. In fact, they purposely hide. What good is it to harbor grizzlies and snow leopards if we can't see them? The ape house is always full of spectators waiting for two apes to go at it. Of course that never happens. They just slop around looking moody, pushing away their children. Sort of like most dads on weekends.
The Bronx Zoo is huge, separated into geographical compartments. Asia, Africa, South America. Camden, New Jersey. Everybody loves the trained seals. I personally am sick of seals and the stupid noises they make when some comely lady trainer holds up a fish. At least walruses have some dignity. Then there is the building housing animals who can't stand sunlight. Naturally it's so dark in there you can't see a damn thing and keep bumping into strangers who are sweating and smelly.
At the entrance to the food court there is a camel used for photos. I don't think anyone is allowed to ride the beast. I wonder if it's the same camel every year. Does it spit at hedge fund managers?
The lion never moves, just sits there on a hill facing away from everyone, oblivious. Too bored to chase zebra who is too bored to run. Maybe if someone held up a dead fish.

Lying Down

As soon as I finish typing this I'm going to lie down and no one can stop me. That's the great thing about being retired and living alone. I don't have to ask permission. I can put on the jazz station or just lie there in silence, resting. Notice, I never mentioned napping. Napping is actually losing consciousness. I will be wide awake, eyes closed, mind quite active. I may rub my stomach or turn on my side, adjust the pillows, but I am NOT napping.
Yes, I have to hit the gym, but that is later. I haven't painted anything all week, but that, too, is a future project. My second collection of stories, Plowed In, is coming out soon and I need all my energy to market this baby. I'm competing against Batman. It will be on Amazon, like Twilight People, the first collection. The heat wave will be over and people will want to leave the house again. What better destination than seeing me read from my book?
Now I'm going to open the windows, remove my undershirt, perhaps trim my chest hair and take the next hour off, just lying down, NOT napping.

Garage Hell

I am cleaning out my garage and naturally I wait until the hottest day of the year. First to be tossed out are all those thick booklets from Prudential explaining my investments, none of which I understand. I next eliminate my dried clay sculptures, damaged by leaking water. Hundreds of clippings centering on health issues go next. I am a recovering hypochondriac.
Some old pay stubs from before my retirement, along with letters detailing all the forms I had to supply and fill out in order to leave the Post Office are history.Old magazines featuring stars from the eighties and nineties, whose careers have nosedived are gone. There are two boxes of letters from people I used to know when letters were still being written. Those I keep for when I get really old and moist-eyed, pondering the meaning of my life.
Lots of early stuff I wrote, which I thought was really edgy, but upon rereading appears pretty lame. I'll keep them to remind me how far I've come. There are boxes I haven't opened in years. Nothing in them can be of much importance to my life now. Always, in the back of my mind, is the thought that after I croak, will there be anything left behind that might embarrass my nieces and nephew, who I surmise, still look up to me. I discovered twelve pairs of old sneakers that I could have donated somewhere. Now I feel guilty.

Backing Out

I hurt my back again today. It was just about a year ago I messed it up and was limping around for three weeks. Don't ask how I hurt it. Too embarrassing. Of course I made it worse by searching for something in the garage, a magazine I had a story published in years ago. Did not find it. Naturally I came across a pile of other crap, which I just had to bring inside to sort through and that made things worse.
Now I'm on painkiller and muscle relaxant, but not sleepy. Old people with back issues look pathetic. Getting in and out of my car is humiliating. Amazing. One moment you're bouncing around, practically sprinting from place to place. The next second you're doubled over grimacing.
What does my body want from me? I go to the gym, eat right, stretch out, massage myself because I'm too cheap to pay for it. I haven't had pizza in ages. I never go sky diving or bungee jumping or pogo stick hopping. I hate using a heating pad in a heat wave. AC will cool the room until I have to wrap myself in a blanket. Assisted living looms.

Secret Room

I keep all my ideas in my secret room above the garage. I used to keep my anxieties there, but a year ago a friend contacted me, requesting I loan her some anxiety. Her life was going too smoothly and it unnerved her. I shrugged and sent the whole collection to her by Fed Ex. Some of them bordered on the irrational, like my intense fear of costume designers.
My friend felt she should reciprocate by sending her stash of silly ideas to me. I had enough of my own, but didn't want to ruffle her feathers. So I included them with my serious and silly ideas.
Within a month it was obvious her silly ideas were infecting my serious ones. Soon, none of my concepts evoked more than chuckles from my inner circle. Soon after that, I had no inner circle. I was being shunned as a silly guy with no depth. I spent two weeks in my secret room trying to disengage worthless ideas from earth shaking ones. I failed badly. It seems my serious ideas were tired of being serious and grasped onto silliness once they were exposed to it. My own silly ideas became jealous of her silly ideas and isolated themselves. Total intellectual chaos.
Sort of like what happened to Al Gore.

Lines

There are lines and there are lines.
Educated people quietly fume. Blue collar types make loud complaints about everything. Poor people assume whatever it is they are waiting for won't be there by the time they get to the front.
Audition lines are all about cell phones, lipstick, mirrors, gossip. Lines to the ladies room are long, slow and self hating. Lines of ventriloquists and impressionists are very competitive. Lines of convicts are sullen and brooding. Lines of writers are sullen and brooding.
There are no lines of CEOs and no lines of cats.
Athlete lines are infused with stretching and flexing, making them indistinguishable from pole dancer lines. Lines of altar boys are uncomfortable subdued. Lines of dictators are quite short due to frequent executions while waiting. Lines of dogs contain all sorts of sniffing.
The Pope, when he is depressed, likes to create lines of Cardinals, who bow in unison. Evidently, that is more effective than Zoloft.

Washcloth!

Marsha stands in her kitchen, flushed and sweating, obviously agitated. Paul, her husband, stands there helpless. Ask me to build a tree house, he says, but this is beyond me.
Marsha is babbling on and gesticulating. Something about a new computer system at work, downsizing, a new young, impatient boss, twelve hour workdays, frantic calls from other confused workers, foot pain, the new administrator hates her sneakers, her neighbor backed into her car, her dog peed on the rug, her daughter's graduation party turned into a police action.
She came close to making a citizen's arrest of a guy who cut her off, but he turned out to be the local tax assessor and that calmed her down quick. But now she is unraveling and I shout Get me a washcloth! Once I held the cool, wet cloth I start with her face, work around the back of her neck, arms and hands. She finally stops shaking and her face returns to normal color, her breathing slows. This woman needs a vacation.
Right then our writing group shows up, immediately inquiring why the coffee wasn't ready and where were the scones? Marsha clenches her fists and growls.

Messages

I have decided to stop sending private messages on Facebook. The reason is no one responds to them, which is rude. Here I am trying to help people who obviously have issues and I get ignored. I can use my worldly experience to advise and consult in many areas, lead them out of the abyss. I can simply comfort them, extending a cyber hug. I can reassure them that their lives have meaning. Okay, I can also mention my new collection of short stories, Plowed In, due for release next month.
Here's an example: a woman in her forties is diagnosed with a stress fracture in her lower back and broadcasts this news on Facebook. In fact, she shares everything there, making certain we understand what a rich full life she has with her boyfriend who's also in his forties. Please. Is this high school? Anyway I advise her to stop the boxing lessons and fitness boot camps, recognize she's middle aged and ease up on her body. Sensible, right? Well I got no response and this has happened with others I've tried to help. What's the point of having a message system if people don't appreciate your wisdom?
I'm not asking for complete control of their lives. Okay, maybe 60%. It's for their own good. But now that all ends. Let them whine about their little problems and get one sentence useless comments from other friends. I'm going to focus on my own issues, like this bug bite that's itching like hell.

Choices

Life is all about choices. I choose double ply paper towels and toilet paper because I believe it adds to my quality of life. I recently chose to watch Good Morning America over my longtime favorite, The Today Show, because of the way they treated Ann Curry. They let her sit on that stupid coach and sob her way through a goodbye. She was the only serious reporter on that show. Matt Lauer seems comatose, I'm sick of Al Roker's puns, and Natalie Morales and Savannah Guthrie have the combined gravitas of Ready Whip.
Today I am choosing to visit the World Financial Center to witness mass tap dancing by pros and amateurs. I could have gone to the gym or to see a free movie at a library about Drew Barrymore saving some whales. She annoys me in subtle ways and I can't get worked up about lost whales. God gave them tiny eyes, let Him take the responsibility.
I choose to eat a golden delicious apple while I compose this because it just felt right. I suppose that's why Denise Richards married Charley Sheen. Now if Denise were in that whale movie wearing something small and tight, well, I would say to hell with the tap dancers. My choice.

Doris Day

Have I been in  a fog all these years? Why is it that just now I am discovering Doris Day?
How did this happen? Free old movies at libraries I frequent, that's how. Some people frequent clubs or restaurants; I select libraries.
I first noticed how provocative she was in her first film, Romance on the High Seas, or something like that. Jack Carson was lusting after her and eventually got his quarry. Doris was way too good for him. She had a charming overbite, but what a body. How come no one ever talks about Doris Day's assets the way they reference Monroe, Mansfield, Taylor, Loren and Brigette Bardoe?
Then I saw her being menaced by Rex Harrison in another flick. Finally I watched Love Me or Leave Me, where Cagney abused her. I wanted to punch him in the mouth. Obviously she has never hit a bad note in her life, every song nailed perfectly. But Doris Day is a very underrated actress and an absolute babe. I understand her personal life was filled with heartbreak and she turned to caring for animals. But I need to reexamine my priorities. Too much time fantasizing about Annette and Sandra Dee, not enough appreciation of Doris, the girl next door with a Victoria's Secret body.

My Plan

Here is my plan: Recruit actor friends. Rent a bus. Rent a video player. Create a video centering on my actors verbally abusing me, attacking my haircut, clothes, turkey neck, uneven sideburns, posture, drooping eyelids, etc. Make certain they speak clearly in a disdainful tone. I will become more and more upset and agitated. At some point they'll toss shoes, raw fruit and other items at me.
I'll just sit there and take it. Eventually I'll break into tears. Hold up a photo of my dead wife, though I'm not married. Plead for compassion, only to be met with increased insults.
The video will run at least three minutes. No one will be identified initially after we post it on You Tube. As the millions of hits accumulate and outrage grows, we'll release identification and contact info. Then, I and my conspirators, will sit back and wait for the contributions to come rolling in. The breakdown in profits will probably be something along the lines of me getting a third and the others splitting two thirds.
This is so much easier than the stock market.

Unintended Consequences

All I wanted to do was feed the squirrels in my yard. Ed, my neighbor, accused me of attracting more of them to the neighborhood, driving down property values. My wife wants me to clean the garage; my son pleads with me to kick around a soccer ball.
A coalition of animal lovers and nutritionists came over and protested my use of Cheetos as a food staple for the squirrels, claiming the sodium content drove up their blood pressure. An infestation of groundhogs resulted, leading to pitched battles between them and the squirrels. Constantly tossing the food caused a tear in my rotator cuff, necessitating surgery. Angry, hungry critters stormed my house while I was hospitalized, driving my family to the basement. Police had to wait two hours for the game warden from another town because budget cuts led to ours being laid off.
I got billed $400 in police overtime.
While in therapy, I fell hard for my therapist, leading to a costly divorce settlement. My kids, friends, parents, and ex all hate me now. My boss called me a disturbed individual.
I've completely run out of Cheetos and I don't like the way the creatures are looking at me as I put out the garbage. No way I'm turning my back on them. God, talk about lack of gratitude.

Catch Me if You Can

This is a cruddy job. Good thing I have strong arms. Gravity. Jesus, what a concept. On sunny days I have to wear shades. If I lose one in the sun I get docked pay or even suspended. Unending pressure. My cell goes off with another assignment, I hit the gas and speed to the other side of town. One hundred sixty pounds is my limit. Doesn't sound like a lot, but try catching that amount. I got a stiff neck checking out roofs and high rise windows.
I think more people should be medicated, especially during these hard times. The worst period was right after the Madoff scandal broke. I had 14 leapers in one day. My arms and back were killing me. But we have to try and save them, right?
When Oprah cancelled her show it was bad. Same when Julia Roberts married Lyle Lovett.
Oh boy. My cell is vibrating. Just when I was breaking for lunch. Hope this one's not naked.

Underpass

I changed my jogging route and that's when I came across the trolls. They were playing cards in the darkness of the underpass. I suppose I startled them. Not many pedestrians or joggers came by. I'm guessing the authorities don't even know about them. I stopped because I'm a curious sort. There were eight of them. Since they were trolls they didn't take up much space. Squatting was second nature. Traffic sounds from the world above made this enclave seem even farther away from my  existence.
The cards they were using were unfamiliar to me, as was the game. I was very polite in requesting permission to watch. I told them I was a guidance counselor at the local high school, which let out for the summer a week earlier. Everyone was preparing for the Fourth of July. The trolls grunted their permission. Didn't say much throughout the game. Eight seemed like a lot for a card game. They used cinnamon sticks as money.
Only once was there an argument. Actually it was three of them grunting louder and gesticulating with their tiny arms and fingers. I got so wrapped up in the competition it never occurred to me that I was the outsider.
This went on for several days, me ending my jog at the underpass. They spent most of their day playing cards and sleeping. Occasionally, one of them climbed up the wall and frightened drivers. Trolls have responsibilities too. One day I hope they let me play. I can pick up lots of cinnamon sticks at the market. And I think I'm beginning to grasp this game. I was a pretty fair polka player in my day. I'm confident I can hold my own here.
My wife complains I have a funny smell when I return from my jog. I tell her its good old sweat. I don't smell anything different. Who am I to question troll hygiene?

Wimbledon Strategy

Slice to his forehand
Topspin forehand to his backhand
Serve down the middle
Forehand volley at his feet
Backhand overhead angled wide
Drop shot with backspin
Lob directly over his head
Backhand volley angled to corner
Topspin backhand to his backhand
Half volley off toes
Forehand overhead to baseline
Charge at every opportunity
If falling behind
Hold elbow and moan
Medical time out
Sneak peak at coach
Hand signals convey strategy
Change rackets, sneakers, shirt, wristband
Glower
Snort
Hiss

KaBoom

You have to plan your Fourth of July carefully. I attend two parades; one is a baby parade, where parents dress their sweltering kids up in patriotic costumes and make them walk around in a four block circle, possibly scarring them for life.
I shoot from that monstrosity to a regular parade 10 miles away. That event is not as well attended as in the past. Perhaps the three other parades in surrounding towns have something to do with it. Or the heat. Or boredom. I have come to the conclusion that all fire engines and ambulances should be omitted from these spectacles. So should police and EMS workers. They just remind us of tragedy. More jugglers and friendly clowns instead. Not those scary types and you know who I'm referring to.
This evening I will go to the Hudson River and watch Macy's fireworks with nine million others. I'll have to park about a mile away and walk. Finding the exact perfect spot will be difficult. My night vision is limited and I fear tripping over someone's kid or pet. I will get a stiff neck from taking photos of the pyrotechnics and probably will forget where I parked.
In the days when I had sense, I'd just sit home and watch it on TV. But I have a Macy's credit card and I sort of feel obligated to express awe at their costly investment.

Cable Guy Anxiety

I'm waiting for the cable guy to come fix my TV. I swept the floor. Should I mop the bathroom and clean the windows? Certainly I must go over the full length mirrors on my closets, wipe away all the streaks. I made the bed, shaved, put on fresh walking shorts and a pristine white shirt.
I have on WBGO, the jazz station. Cool, but not too cool. I've already thrown out a bag of garbage, cleared away stuff from around the wiring. I know where my surge suppressor is located.
What if he asks me a question I can't answer, like where is your transfer converter box?
I have to move my car so he can park in my space. I want to make sure everything is perfect. I want him to report back to his fellow cable guys that I provided a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I need to stay out of his way. Only speak if spoken to. I don't get many visitors. This cable guy visit is a challenge. If I can host a short visit here, then I might be able to invite friends over at some point without having a nervous episode. What if he asks for soda? I only have water and its too late to hit the store. Why didn't I think of every contingency? The phone is going to ring any second, confirming the appointment.
God, this is nerve wracking. I should have just bought a new TV. Maybe I'll sweep the floor again.

Reboot

Both of my TV sets are out. At the request of the cable rep, I pulled out the plug, waited five seconds, and replugged it. The HOLD icon flashed as I spoke to the rep, who was very friendly. She asked what I was doing for Fourth of July and I told her. I mentioned I was retired and that I had a book published. She asked if it were available on Kindle and I answered in the affirmative. I said you have to prepare for retirement after she revealed a friend's father was lost after 40 years in the PO.
The five minutes were up and the icon still flashed HOLD. She said they'd have to send over a cable guy the next day between 11-2, just when I was going to meet friends. So now I have to stay home waiting.
I wish I could reboot my life. There is something hypnotic about watching that thing flash on and off. At least I still have my computer and phone. I can wave to people outside. I'm going to miss Bunheads tonight on cable. My guilty pleasure. Isn't it mature of me not to lose my temper over something I can't control? And maybe I made a book sale.

Ten Heat Wave Movies

12 Angry, Sweaty Men
Perspire Under the Elms
Die Hot
The Agony and The Ecstacy and the Right Guard
To Steam a Mockingbird
Little Sweltering Women
Arm Pit Jungle
Harry Potter and the Rivulets of Sweat
Dirty Smelly Harry
The Spy Who Came in from the Humidity