Writing Day

Pinned inside because of the storm, none of you should let this day go by without making considerable progress on your writing project. No nonsense about entertaining your kids. Lock them in a room with good ventilation and enough food and water to keep them alert. They have enough imagination and electronic devices to keep themselves busy.
You, yes you, have an obligation to your art. Shut off all TV and radio reports suggesting we are all going to drown. Fill a bowl of unused Halloween candy, sit your butt down at the computer and write. Finish that poem, start that play, find the focus of your novel, create a new character.
I am looking out the window. It is damp, it is breezy, it is a bit chilly. I do not think this beast will devour me, but my conscience will pester me unmercifully if I don't start a short story.
Right now it is 11:12 AM and I have not a single idea. A good three hour movie is coming on at 11:30, so I need to get cracking. Because, well, I really want to see this movie and I can't write and watch at the same time. But I'm betting as soon as I conclude this blog, an idea will come to me.
Okay, it is 11:13AM.
You should be halfway through with that poem. We are writers, persistent, fearless, determined.
Of course, if the power goes out...

Buried With...

Augie was buried with his rake and Charles with his hedge clippers. Appropriate. They fought over Augie raking leaves onto Charles' property and the later carving hedges into geese figures. Augie hit him in the head with the rake, Charles sliced off his neighbor's arm at the elbow and he bled to death.
Bill was buried with his wife's dentures atop his chest because she wanted to have the last word. Eunice had her deceased pet yorkie in the casket until it woke up and yapped at mourners. Cal was sprinkled with his beloved Rice Krispies, Mike lay there in his Burger King uniform. Lauren took along her vibrator in case she got bored in the next world. Rumor has it Jack LaLanne was buried with his juicer and Steve Jobs with his I-phone in case his successor had a marketing problem.
My grandmother was buried in her apron, symbolic of how hard she worked. She also included her bowling ball and a shot glass. She played hard too.

Message from Beyond

I keep getting these messages from the beyond. I don't recognize any of the voices. I'm lying in bed trying to doze off when I hear this: "Where's my slippers?" "Who farted?" and "Put the seat down, Frank."
Who are these people? Are they dead, and if so, why do they need toilets?
I was afraid to mention this to anyone until one day, on line at Stop & Shop, I spotted my friend Danielle a few places in front of me. She was holding two heads of broccoli and talking to no one I could see. She wasn't wearing a Blu-Tooth device on her ear. I got her attention and asked who she was talking to. Oh, that was Joe, she said. You know, the guy who went on a hay ride two years ago and was somehow crushed in a thresher. He's been bitching about it ever since and I get to hear his whining voice for some reason.
What does he say, I asked. He complains about the lack of Brillo up there--the guy was a neat freak. Yesterday he moaned about being up there two whole years and not meeting Ingrid Bergman.
I confessed I too had been hearing voices from the beyond. Wanna trade, she asked. You can have Joe & I'll take whoever you got. Just then a nasally voice invaded my consciousness and I recognized Ernie, killed by a falling icicle after leaving a writers meeting. Where's the hazelnut coffee? it asked.
Ernie was kind of shallow and a lousy poet. It's Ernie, I informed her. Never mind, she said. I'll stick with Joe.

Down in Front

Thank you for choosing me to give your commencement address. I was a bit taken aback to have such a prestigious university select me, Wally The Wad Waskowitz, porn star, but who am I to question?
In a nutshell, here is my advice: control your erections. Yes, they are enjoyable, but at the wrong time they can impede your advancement in your chosen field, especially if you are working around animals. In fact, erections can be a problem just about anywhere--zumba classes, ferris wheels, road races, cooking demonstrations, surfing, poetry readings, crowded rooms, hula hoop competitions, bowling, doctor visits, on and on.
Keep control of your Willy Wonka and the world is your oyster. Easy on those oysters, though. We all know what can happen after oyster consumption.
That's about it. My check, please.

Points

Citi Bank tells me I have 319 points that will expire at the end of the year. I didn't even realize I was accumulating them. I try to get on my account but don't remember the password. I want to call them but maybe they won't speak to me unless I know my damn password.
What could I get for those 319 points? People tell me I need more plants in my condo. Actually I have no plants because that means responsibility and I've had enough of that. Old age should be synonymous with irresponsibility and slacking off.
Maybe I could buy holiday presents, except I've already done that back in August when I had some extra money. I don't have excess cash now because I published my second book, Plowed In-More Switchblade Stories and used money to do that. It's a good book, everyone who's read it shouts kudos. Mybe I can barter my 319 points and let Citi Bank take some books. Do bankers read?
I don't want to lose those points. I'm not even sure which Citi card they belong to. Pressure, more pressure. And now Optimum wants me to upgrade to new e-mail when I've gotten used to Classic e-mail. Why can't we go back to baseball cards and marbles?

Scary Dark

Darkness itself is not as scary as that time in late afternoon in the fall when people see the gathering clouds, the dimming light, when pedestrians walk faster and drivers hunch upon the wheel as though it were a restraining bar on a roller coaster, willing their vehicle to speed up.
Shop owners stand nervously by their windows watching the last touches of day slowly disappearing. The wind blows up, street lights escape their prisons, pets of all types move closer to their owners. The homeless know the transition means temperatures will drop, streets will empty. Families wait tensely for bread winners to return home. TV news anchors look serious. Librarians keep busy to avoid images of grey blanketed blocks.
The electric avenues are shutting down, with only fast food cubbyholes and gas stations remaining. I run from the laundry, tugging two bursting bags of steaming clothes, needing to make my front door before the sun has completely abandoned us and shuffling gangs claim the streets as their own.
Stray cats observe all this scurrying without blinking, while humans shiver in the gloaming.
Doctors let the phone ring. You don't want to know who is making house calls during this scary period of transition.

Wet Your Whistle

I have a bar in my place, but don't drink. As a former mail carrier I got bottles from customers during the holidays. I still have most of them, unopened. I do not understand the charm of getting drunk. Sure, vomiting burns calories, but what else is so attractive about getting blitzed?
At social events I sit in the corner waiting for others to get plastered. Then I tape what they say, things they'd never reveal while sober. I keep these tapes in a safe place for future use in case I need a favor. Or perhaps just to make my life easier I'll barter them.
Except now, with everyone writing memoirs, nothing is secret.
Wetting my whistle means seltzer or water. No headache, no sick stomach, no loss of memory. No, I'm not very popular. Sometimes I'll remove the cap off my bottles and sniff. I still don't get it. Drinking and smoking. When did that equal sophistication?

The Final Pizza Pie

Our government paid farmers not to grow tomatoes because there was a cucumber shortage. Over the years, said farmers forgot how to grow tomatoes. Europe and the Americas refused to sell us theirs. Selfish bastards. The result is no more pizza pies. The final one is scheduled to be made this afternoon at a secret location outside Philly. Celebrities bid on one slice each at an exclusive auction. Trump, Sara Jessica Parker, Brad Pitt, Spike Lee, Ray Romano, Anna Wintour, and Tim Tebow were the winners.
Oh, at one point they tried presenting pizza with a twist. Different toppings. Artichoke hearts, sushi, sauerkraut, pecans, Garbanzo beans, broccoli etc.
No one bought into that nonsense. Unless contraband pizza starts appearing, another American food staple has bit the dust, which is where the damned tomatoes used to be planted. Meanwhile, stores are stuck with rotting cucumbers not even Africa wants.

Dream New Dreams

I need new dreams. The dream of rolling down a hill naked into a vat of chili has served its purpose. Being scratched by the Olsen twins in intimate places is almost inappropriate. Living alone in a cave impractical, even for a dream.
I thought about paying others for their dreams, but that is unethical and cowardly. I do believe at least one dream should involve wearing Lycra.
The worst is having snatches of a dream that never seem complete, sort of like the Carter Administration. I wonder what professional pole dancers dream. Regardless, I must set aside time to formulate a new set of them. There is just too much time to think during the day, especially with an election coming up. A sense of staleness has been setting in as I daydream. For a long time I wanted to experience astronaut dreams, but the space program seems to have run out of money.
As a last resort I'll force myself to head to the Amalgamated Dream Distributors local office. That's where one can pick up some pawned dreams, brought in by desperate folks in exchange for a bag of fruit.

Grout Bully Search

Bed, Bath and Beyond has run out of Grout Bully. It's a tube you shake and press and caulk comes out in a straight line. I was crushed. Only last week I discovered this marvel. I knew I should have bought two.
The stock fellow searched the entire store, me right behind him. He went into the stock room and many minutes later emerged looking like his dog died. Nothing.
I tried not to get emotional, but standing in the aisle in full view of customers and cashiers, yes, I broke down. Why me? Just when I think I've finally solved my grout problem, the solution is whisked away.
I suppose I could try other BB&B outlets, but knowing my history, I doubt if I'll ever see another magical tube again.
I could go on E-Bay and Craigslist, but buying USED Grout Bully seems so...unhygienic. I still have some squeezes left in my old tube and I'm careful not to waste any. My tile floor has spots screaming for cleansing. I dread the last squeeze. Most likely I'll go out afterwards and do something reckless, like park in a bus stop.
You are victims here too. I was planning on coming to your place with my tube and work on your grout. That may be nothing but a wistful dream now.

Scary Actors

Ten Scariest Actors

Michael Madsen
Tilda Swinton
Mickey Rourke
Christopher Walken
Jennifer Jason Leigh
Anthony Hopkins
Glenn Close
Jack Palance
Lee Van Clief
Joan Crawford

Scary Masterpiece

My home, Hudson County, is a scary masterpiece. It is sneaky scary because some parts, like Secaucus, are quiet and suburban in nature. You let your guard down.
But more often a resident will hear loud arguments, punctuated by screams at ungodly hours. Violent disputes over parking spaces. Pushing in line, elbowing at bus stops, empty homes, dark warehouses, steep cliffs bordering the Hudson River, itself a scary masterpiece.
Cops? Cops may be the scariest thing in this county. And Halloween in Hudson causes even longtime residents to double lock their doors. Youth gangs containing bitter adults are everywhere. Do not look strangers directly in the face. Stay to the curb, walk fast, head down. The Joker would scare no one here.
Last month a floating body was found in a local lake. Scary? Hell, no. One more parking space for the rest of us.

Disfunctional Discussions

Somebody is in a bad mood, that's how it starts. They try to push buttons, inciting personal attacks. If third parties don't intercede, the discussion gets messy quick.
Take last night. Ollie is upset about something-you could see that from his expression and fidgeting. He states artichokes are an overrated food staple, knowing Joe was a big artichoke guy. Joe defends his food, pointing out all the benefits of them. Howard proclaims they are a racist food grown by plantation owners. Joe gets all huffy and demands Howard apologize. Debbie says Canada has no artichokes. Carl adds that salmon poisoning is rampant. Carol pales and faints because she has salmon four times a week. Ellen now has to perform CPR on Carol because she is the host.
Mary opines that tomatoes are the most amazing food, all things considered. Debbie informs us Canada does indeed have tomatoes. Bill comes in late, explaining he had to pick up artichokes for his anniversary and his wife loves them. Howard calls Bill an Uncle Tom. They grapple on the floor, accidentally stepping on Candy's windpipe, reviving her. Ellen is happy she doesn't have to perform CPR.
Ollie sits there with a big smile on his face.

The Shoplifter

I saw someone get arrested for shoplifting today. It was at CVS. I had a 20% off coupon and I must have circled the store three times trying to find items not already on sale and thus ineligible. I felt like I looked suspicious as I walked to the checkout counter. So when four cops came rushing in I was ready to surrender.
Instead, they nailed a young man who shoved something down his pants. They had the cuffs on him in seconds. One cop held out a cell phone that may have belonged to him. The cashier was rattled. I turned and as they were dragging him out, our eyes met. His expression screamed What the hell? Yeah, he looked worried.
Outside two more cops were checking out a car with one window missing, looking at it like it was a puddle of vomit. Six cops to arrest one shoplifter. I did manage to save $3.70. I would never shoplift. Perhaps if were a box of Ike and Mike candy and I was really lusting for sugar. When I go to the wide opening sock section for people with circulation problems it looks like I'm casing the female stockings and underwear.

Hanging Hair

How to Handle One Nostril Hair Sticking Out

Ignore it and hope no one sees the damn thing.
Go to your happy place.
Isolate yourself and yank on it.
Try to extend a matching one from the other nostril.
Tell people you are testing a new model tweezers and need another sixteenth of an inch.
Look down, pretend to be meditating.
Let your ear hair get all the attention.
Go on the offensive, point out others defects, like pebbly jowls.
If it tickles, insinuate a certain sensual satisfaction.
Stick cotton in your nostrils, explain you had a sinus operation.

The Bed

If I move my shoulder up off the bed, that could be a start. I want to lift my head, but these pillows feel so good. This is silly. I have a full day ahead of me. I need to get off this bed right now.
Here is the problem as I see it. I bought an air mattress and let me tell you someone should warn us that those things are just too damn comfortable. There isn't a single body part that isn't telling to stay right where I am, do not move, life doesn't get any better.
I lift my arm and it flops back down. I take a deep breath, marshaling my resources, determined to sit up, pivot and slide off onto the floor. I get to the sit up position, remain there a moment, and collapse back onto my haven. I don't even have the ambition to reach over and grab the channel selector. I'm sick of Grey's Anatomy and all their problems, but without the clicker I can't change channels. Where did all my energy go? I think this mattress is sucking it out of me.
Now I turn on my side and it feels just as good. I bend my knees and collapse into a fetal position, eyes shut, breathing soft and steady.
I'm going to lose friends and opportunities. I don't want to answer the phone. I swear, as soon as I finish this nap, I am getting out of this bed and letting my feet hit the floor.
I feel another yawn coming on.

Blending In

As a frog, Eubie had one problem: he couldn't hop. It was psychological. Nothing wrong with his legs. He just froze when it came time to move. While his peers flew past him, he took tiny steps. When questioned, he said he had hamstring problems.
Eubie was forced to move around a lot, evading questions and discovery. Luckily, he was adept with his tongue, snatching flies at 20 inches. He was depressed and frustrated, however.
Then one day another frog, Archie, a practical joker, gave him a hot foot and Eubie exploded off the lily pad all the way across the pond. Euphoric, he spent the day leaping from pad to pad. Alas, one such jump landed him in a sinkhole and he vanished.
The moral of this story is to accept ones limitations only after every option has been tried. Then just live your life with a croak and a rib-bit.

Unsung Heros

I have great respect for toenail collectors. They traverse entire neighborhoods, carrying burlap bags, providing a vital public service. Formed in 1963 after it became obvious no one wanted to recover their clipped toenails, Toenail Collectors Incorporated has provided continuous dedicated service. We know toenails dead over six months are a haven for bacteria, as well as a pollutant.
These public servants pore over every inch of one's home, rugs, carpets, bathmats, under furniture in the sink and bathtub, using gloves, collecting hundreds, placing them in those burlap satchels and moving onto the next house, refusing tips, unlike the lint collectors, who mix navel and butt lint and stare you down until you give them a fiver.
Where to store all these curled up, brown clippings? Off shore toenail dumping has been considered. So what if a few fish die consuming them. As long as the turtles aren't harmed. At some point though, someone is going to have to start clipping the turtles' nails. Let's leave that to the next Administration.

What the Cat Dragged In

Amber stumbled in, hair frazzled, face flushed, gasping, looking like something the cat dragged in. She had just come from a session with her personal trainer. It's always the same structure--stretching, breathing, focusing. Then comes the torture--one exercise after the other, each more intense, with Bushka, her trainer, screaming at her to step up the pace. Swing those kettle bells.
Pain is weakness leaving the body. Limited water breaks, no sobbing allowed. Fast music, heavy bass beat. There was no safe word that could end the agony. Worse than anything, Bushka kept up a stream of complaints about her boyfriend, family, back stabbing friends, not enough parking spaces and a spreading yeast infection she couldn't control.
Personal trainer nightmare. All so Amber could fit into stretch pants. Women.

In Memory of Ann

Like all of her fans, I was nauseated watching Ann Curry sign off from her co-host job at the Today Show. Fighting back tears, she struggled to be gracious, while the barracuda replacement, whose name shall not be mentioned, waited in the wings. Let's call her Pepsodent Girl. Curry had 15 years of superb reporting, award winning stuff. She was the good soldier, watching while the network brought in Meredith It's All About Me Viera to take Katie Curic's place.
Because the ratings slipped a notch and Good Morning America crept ahead, panic ensued. The change was bad enough, but the awkward way it was handled made you cringe. Matt Lauer seems semi-comatose, Al Roker's bad puns multiply and Hoda and Kathy Lee are two bar flies swathed in makeup. So let's blame the only professional journalist on payroll. Wonderful.
I haven't watched the show since, except for the Olympics. I have to say Josh Elliot on GMA is getting on my nerves. I'm not going to call for Regis. That would be an easy solution. No, the person we need to see and hear early in the morning, the one guy who would start our day right is Larry King. Let's start a petition.

Electrocute

In his continuing quest to kill himself, David Blaine is now allowing himself to be electrocuted for three days, protected only by a special suit. One million volts fired at him, enough to light Anna Wintour's dressing room. He can't even scratch his face or risk horrible death. With my itchy mug I'd last about 30 seconds.
This man has created the highest profile stunts on the planet, yet he could walk down the street unrecognized. He's like the Olympics. Once it's over people go on with their lives.
He's doing this in NYC, where self electrocution might stimulate a shrug. He's tried to drown himself, I'm sure he's been stabbed and shot at and strangled, encased in ice, all televised. He's starved himself, gone without water, probably leaped from high altitudes using a cellophane parachute.
I'm trying to picture his Board of Directors sitting around trying to come up with new ways to thrill audiences without actually killing this guy off.
They should force him to remain in line at Motor Vehicles, or wait for an auto part to arrive at Firestone, or spend hours at a walk-in clinic waiting for an x-ray. Self mutilation would be a respite.

Joestock

I have decided to file a public offering for Joestock. I believe I have strong growth potential and would be an excellent investment for those dabbling in the market.
I write, paint and photograph. I keep myself in good shape, have a nice smile. I'm working on my handshake. People seem to like me. I have friends who will vouch for my potential.
I plan to widen my interests, travel more. I am certainly well read. Ask anyone. I'm constantly creating new goals, becoming a more complete person. I feel I am reaching my peak. I also create a fair amount of gas, which is a prime commodity.
You could do a lot worse than putting your faith in me. Dividend checks are almost guaranteed. My initial offering is a ridiculously low $22.99 a share. Get in on the ground floor and watch your investment grow. Speed dial your broker. Joestock will get you that summer house in Cape Cod. Trust me.

Slippage

My transmission is slipping. I can feel it when I accelerate or decelerate, that rough hesitation. My car has over 72000 miles and I was about to have a transmission flush at Firestone, but the service guy told me that may worsen the problem. Tomorrow at 8am I have to take it to a transmission specialist. I am praying it's something that can be corrected without needing a new trans.
I estimate only .00003 percent of the population knows anything about this complex auto part. It puts us at the mercy of the specialists. I have to believe this man is honest. But this will still cost me money.
I need to create a way to generate income. Maybe I can be an extra in films. I look like a somewhat creepy innkeeper in the middle of nowhere. A young couple happens upon my place and decides to spend the night. One closeup of me, without any lines, should sell tickets. Or I could be a baffled tourist. A murmurer in court scenes after someone has been caught lying. Mostly, I can be an extra in movies where humans are actually aliens.
I wish I could bake and set up weekly bake sales. Would you trust any food I made?
I need my car more than I need my self respect. That's my point.