Street Talk

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

Whenever I Sneeze

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

No Smiling

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

Toolbox

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

Spiritual Group

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

I Remember When

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

Jesus's Wife Vents

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

Little Known Terror Movies

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

Apple

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

Out All Day

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

Best Laid Plans

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

Big Stupid Men

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

Black Reverie

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

What's for Dinner

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

Mirna

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

Faking It

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

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

Never on Sunday

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

Only Make Believe

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

Clown Parade

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

Miss Molly

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

Her Mail

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

Who Are These Guys?

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

Pinned

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

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