I can't get the foil cover off my can of Blue Diamond walnuts without ripping it into bits that land within the nuts and who knows what the heck I'm swallowing?
I filled out a Subway online survey and received a free cookie code to be written on my receipt. What I didn't realize was you have to return to the same Subway to get the cookie. Calculating the 12 miles driving to Bayonne in time and gas money leaves me no choice--I have to relinquish my free cookie unless I can convince some local Subway counter person to give me a break. I may have to offer sex. Hey, have you tasted their new strawberry cookie? Don't judge me until then.
CVS sends me 20% discount coupons over the Internet and I go there and buy several CVS brand products. At the register, on a $16 order I only get .40 off. None of my CVS products were discounted. When I inquired, I was told CVS products are on sale and you can't use the coupon for sale items. It's right there in the small print. But I didn't see any sale sign on the shelf, I protest. The woman shows me the circular, which I never looked at beforehand. See, she says, all CVS products are on sale. If that's the case, why are their prices on a par with regular priced national brands? Shouldn't the CVS price be lower if they are on sale? Incredibly, by sending me this coupon with its stipulations, CVS is encouraging me to buy other brands so I can get the 20% off.
So instead of saving $3, I saved a lousy .40 on a thank you card for someone I don't even like. Where is capitalism headed?
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
Pink Slime
Let me state this up front. I want as much pink slime filler in my meat as they can fit. As far as I'm concerned, there is no controversy here. Pink slime is getting a bad rap. Open a can of tuna. Examine said tuna. How many times have you come across a dark chunk and wondered what it was? Maybe a disgruntled worker tossed in a bit of tar or worse.
Think about sausage. Get out the microscope and check out what is in sausage. Tell me God isn't embarrassed by this food staple. Rice and beans. Do you seriously think every one of those little nuggets is actually a bean? Get your head out of the sand.
Think about what could be hidden inside an artichoke. Even experts can't truly determine if a mushroom is poisonous. Bacon bits? Pebbles painted red. Liver-- visualize a slab of liver and conjure up its dry, flat taste. You could be ingesting cardboard and not know it. Look at the fat on pork chops. People cook with lard. I can barely tolerate canola oil and you have folks shoveling lard down their maw.
We're are not even considering foreign foods like tacos. What are they injecting them with? Is dog food involved?
Leave pink slime alone. Hypocrites. One more thing--every single meatball involves trust between its creator and the person dining. Vet your chef, my friends, get a back round check.
Think about sausage. Get out the microscope and check out what is in sausage. Tell me God isn't embarrassed by this food staple. Rice and beans. Do you seriously think every one of those little nuggets is actually a bean? Get your head out of the sand.
Think about what could be hidden inside an artichoke. Even experts can't truly determine if a mushroom is poisonous. Bacon bits? Pebbles painted red. Liver-- visualize a slab of liver and conjure up its dry, flat taste. You could be ingesting cardboard and not know it. Look at the fat on pork chops. People cook with lard. I can barely tolerate canola oil and you have folks shoveling lard down their maw.
We're are not even considering foreign foods like tacos. What are they injecting them with? Is dog food involved?
Leave pink slime alone. Hypocrites. One more thing--every single meatball involves trust between its creator and the person dining. Vet your chef, my friends, get a back round check.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Festival
One of my one act plays was accepted into a Ca. festival in June. It's one of six and they are paying me $$$!!
If the judges like it best I get more $$$!! And if it is deemed an audience favorite I get still more $$$!!
Maybe I'll make enough to advertize for a trophy wife.
Something like this keeps you writing. You just never know who could be in that audience. Mike Nichols? Sure, he's directing Salesman here, but who's to say? Michael Bay? He could turn it into a two hour series of chases and explosions, even though it's a drawing room piece. Penny Marshall could develop it into a series.
I could get nominated for Best Original Whatever and be invited to awards shows and be greeted on the red carpet by Ross Mathews.
I need a better haircut, a new wardrobe, new shoes, teeth whitening, a bigger car, more muscles, a better tan. Mostly I'll need a date. Is Carrie Fisher still in treatment? What about Joan Rivers or Kathy Bates? Wait, how about a young one like Emma Stone?
Lifts, I need lifts in my shoes. Damn, being a writer is full of pressure. Do they have waffle fries out there?
If the judges like it best I get more $$$!! And if it is deemed an audience favorite I get still more $$$!!
Maybe I'll make enough to advertize for a trophy wife.
Something like this keeps you writing. You just never know who could be in that audience. Mike Nichols? Sure, he's directing Salesman here, but who's to say? Michael Bay? He could turn it into a two hour series of chases and explosions, even though it's a drawing room piece. Penny Marshall could develop it into a series.
I could get nominated for Best Original Whatever and be invited to awards shows and be greeted on the red carpet by Ross Mathews.
I need a better haircut, a new wardrobe, new shoes, teeth whitening, a bigger car, more muscles, a better tan. Mostly I'll need a date. Is Carrie Fisher still in treatment? What about Joan Rivers or Kathy Bates? Wait, how about a young one like Emma Stone?
Lifts, I need lifts in my shoes. Damn, being a writer is full of pressure. Do they have waffle fries out there?
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Popping Gum
Nobody I know pops their gum. Maybe I've been hanging with a snooty group, but my friends either quietly chew and swallow their gum or surreptitiously roll it up into a napkin. Sure, little kids still blow bubbles, but even that is becoming passe. Besides good lung exercise, gum popping is inspirational and creative. And it's, well, intimidating. A strong popper became the de facto leader.
Growing up, we all popped. We did it right in front of each other, as well as in front of adults. Most adults were puffing away and understood our need to pop. The trick is to do it without warning, very nonchalant, not making eye contact. You could not appear to be impressed with yourself no matter how big the bubble. We were the Steve McQueens of gum popping.
Anyone popping purple gum was watched carefully. There were rules and purple was pushing it. It was fine to combine two slabs of gum, but that didn't necessarily translate into bigger bubbles or louder pops. Pop volume was without a doubt more important than size. If a girl could pop at the same level as a guy there was an unspoken respect offered in the form of licorice. But you never gave a girl black or red licorice, only brown. Maybe in Texas the rules were different. Some years ago when pop rocks had their brief popularity, I was a mature adult and had lost interest. Although I did try them a few times. Not satisfying. The candy was doing all the work. I mean, c'mon.
Growing up, we all popped. We did it right in front of each other, as well as in front of adults. Most adults were puffing away and understood our need to pop. The trick is to do it without warning, very nonchalant, not making eye contact. You could not appear to be impressed with yourself no matter how big the bubble. We were the Steve McQueens of gum popping.
Anyone popping purple gum was watched carefully. There were rules and purple was pushing it. It was fine to combine two slabs of gum, but that didn't necessarily translate into bigger bubbles or louder pops. Pop volume was without a doubt more important than size. If a girl could pop at the same level as a guy there was an unspoken respect offered in the form of licorice. But you never gave a girl black or red licorice, only brown. Maybe in Texas the rules were different. Some years ago when pop rocks had their brief popularity, I was a mature adult and had lost interest. Although I did try them a few times. Not satisfying. The candy was doing all the work. I mean, c'mon.
The Truth
Last night my Socrates Cafe group discussed how we determine true facts, especially with encyclopedias disappearing. Much was made of the unreliability of Wikipedia. I won't defend or attack that website, but a larger issue, I think, is how the media jumps all over a story and distorts the facts, creates its own truth, which, not surprisingly, seems to correspond with whatever brings the highest ratings.
We really don't know what happened down in Florida with the shooting of that 17 year old kid wearing a hoodie. But through all the protests and involvement by celebrities and even The President, until recently, no one scrutinized the police report, or this kid's history. His family claims the fact that he was on suspension for smoking pot is irrelevant. The guy who shot him claims the kid was the aggressor, making challenging verbal remarks before initiating a physical assault. How did this block watcher wind up with a broken nose if there wasn't a fight? No, he should not have been carrying a gun and I'm not a big believer in the block watcher concept. People are being profiled on a sickeningly regular basis, by cops and citizens. Until it's happened to you, do not underestimate how upsetting that can be.
This guy Zimmerman is being raked over the coals. Innocent until proven guilty has fallen victim to a rush for THE STORY. What happens if he's only cited for an unlicensed gun? Will there be larger demonstrations? The truth, the ugly truth is if you were walking alone and saw someone wearing a hoodie at night coming toward you, you would tense up. Probably cross the street, and when you got to the other side and were three blocks away, you could then resume being a liberal.
We really don't know what happened down in Florida with the shooting of that 17 year old kid wearing a hoodie. But through all the protests and involvement by celebrities and even The President, until recently, no one scrutinized the police report, or this kid's history. His family claims the fact that he was on suspension for smoking pot is irrelevant. The guy who shot him claims the kid was the aggressor, making challenging verbal remarks before initiating a physical assault. How did this block watcher wind up with a broken nose if there wasn't a fight? No, he should not have been carrying a gun and I'm not a big believer in the block watcher concept. People are being profiled on a sickeningly regular basis, by cops and citizens. Until it's happened to you, do not underestimate how upsetting that can be.
This guy Zimmerman is being raked over the coals. Innocent until proven guilty has fallen victim to a rush for THE STORY. What happens if he's only cited for an unlicensed gun? Will there be larger demonstrations? The truth, the ugly truth is if you were walking alone and saw someone wearing a hoodie at night coming toward you, you would tense up. Probably cross the street, and when you got to the other side and were three blocks away, you could then resume being a liberal.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
At the End of the Day
Stop saying 'at the end of the day'. There is no end of any day if you look at the damn globe. One day leads into another. It's really one continuous day. When all is said and done is what you should be saying, even though it is never all said and done. There's always more to be said. And if everything is done, why have elections and fund raisers?
Please do not respond with 'word' if I say something and you agree with it. It sounds vaguely Biblical and it makes me nervous. I feel no younger when you call me dude.
'It is what it is' makes absolutely no sense. Be honest. Come right out and say, I screwed up and there's nothing anyone can do about it. If your plane is going down, do you really want to hear the pilot over the intercom matter of fact inform you, 'It is what it is.'
The phrase 'beat you senseless' is another misuse of the language. 'Beat you unconscious' is the correct form because no matter how much of a beating you administer, your victim will still have his senses, damaged though they be.
You don't have issues; you have problems. Hemispheres have issues. Continents, countries, NATO has issues. You, with your nasal drip, have nothing more than a problem which you solve with medication. If you start coughing up phlegm during sex, that is an issue.
If we don't use the language correctly how can we communicate?
Please do not respond with 'word' if I say something and you agree with it. It sounds vaguely Biblical and it makes me nervous. I feel no younger when you call me dude.
'It is what it is' makes absolutely no sense. Be honest. Come right out and say, I screwed up and there's nothing anyone can do about it. If your plane is going down, do you really want to hear the pilot over the intercom matter of fact inform you, 'It is what it is.'
The phrase 'beat you senseless' is another misuse of the language. 'Beat you unconscious' is the correct form because no matter how much of a beating you administer, your victim will still have his senses, damaged though they be.
You don't have issues; you have problems. Hemispheres have issues. Continents, countries, NATO has issues. You, with your nasal drip, have nothing more than a problem which you solve with medication. If you start coughing up phlegm during sex, that is an issue.
If we don't use the language correctly how can we communicate?
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Waiting in Line
Here is how you wait in line in a civilized society.
Stand perfectly still and stare straight ahead. Keep your eyes half closed and meditate. Shower, brush your teeth, use deodorant beforehand. Do not look confused. Do not panic if you think you're on the wrong line. Read the signs around you.
Don't touch yourself in any way that can be misconstrued. Ignore your cell. Don't overfill your basket. If you decided not to use a basket and are dropping things, don't expect anyone to pick them up. Don't kick your basket ahead of you when the line moves.
Don't wave to anyone. Do not burp or pass wind. Don't sweat, glare, whistle, snort, sneeze, pull at your clothing or speculate aloud what Jessica Simpson will name her child.
Please do not sigh in frustration. It will just add to everyone's depression.
If you are on the unemployment line, look grateful you live in a country with safety nets.
If it is a bakery line and you're dying for a scone, ignore all of the above. Do anything you can to get the line moving, including a Richard Simmons impression. We are talking about fresh scones here. To hell with civility.
Stand perfectly still and stare straight ahead. Keep your eyes half closed and meditate. Shower, brush your teeth, use deodorant beforehand. Do not look confused. Do not panic if you think you're on the wrong line. Read the signs around you.
Don't touch yourself in any way that can be misconstrued. Ignore your cell. Don't overfill your basket. If you decided not to use a basket and are dropping things, don't expect anyone to pick them up. Don't kick your basket ahead of you when the line moves.
Don't wave to anyone. Do not burp or pass wind. Don't sweat, glare, whistle, snort, sneeze, pull at your clothing or speculate aloud what Jessica Simpson will name her child.
Please do not sigh in frustration. It will just add to everyone's depression.
If you are on the unemployment line, look grateful you live in a country with safety nets.
If it is a bakery line and you're dying for a scone, ignore all of the above. Do anything you can to get the line moving, including a Richard Simmons impression. We are talking about fresh scones here. To hell with civility.
A Fork in the Road
When I was 18 I had a decision to make. Should I accept a scholarship to Johns Hopkins U. and become a medical researcher, or should I use my body to satisfy the yearnings of horny women and become a Chippendale dancer?
When I was 25 I had to choose whether to use my teaching skills to join the Peace Core and help impoverished kids learn to read and write or use my writing talent to provide material for porno websites.
When I hit 40 I had to decide whether to move my family to a larger house so the children had a backyard and pool, or dump the chubby spouse and her bratty kids and hook up with Lola, the 27 year old in HR.
At 55 I had to decide whether to retire early and travel the world or stay there and retaliate against Walter, a junior associate who spread rumors I couldn't pee straight.
When I hit 75 my decision came down to taking stool softener or continuing to suffer in silence.
At 90 my choice was burial or cremation.
You, dear reader, chose to read this when you could have been devouring Balzac, who ate enough fiber I'm told.
When I was 25 I had to choose whether to use my teaching skills to join the Peace Core and help impoverished kids learn to read and write or use my writing talent to provide material for porno websites.
When I hit 40 I had to decide whether to move my family to a larger house so the children had a backyard and pool, or dump the chubby spouse and her bratty kids and hook up with Lola, the 27 year old in HR.
At 55 I had to decide whether to retire early and travel the world or stay there and retaliate against Walter, a junior associate who spread rumors I couldn't pee straight.
When I hit 75 my decision came down to taking stool softener or continuing to suffer in silence.
At 90 my choice was burial or cremation.
You, dear reader, chose to read this when you could have been devouring Balzac, who ate enough fiber I'm told.
A Walk in the Park
Before my retirement I envisioned myself spending hours walking in local parks, communing with nature, exercising, taking deep breaths and feeling relaxed.
Well, it hasn't quite worked out that way. I review books for extra money and each has a deadline. So I find myself walking and reading, barely noticing the beautiful flowers around me.
When I use my 3 pound hand weights, invariably other walkers stride past me and I get competitive, especially if it's a woman leaving me behind. I jack up my pace, pump my arms, stick out my chest, only to find myself falling further behind until I become so depressed I quit and go home.
Then there are the annoying squirrels who scramble across my path, noiseless and obsessive. The ducks and geese act regal and indifferent, while photogs snap away at comatose turtles on rocks. Fishermen leave their stinky bait out in the open. Geezers on benches chew their cuds, letting hours waste away while I am multitasking, trying to enjoy every moment of this stinking retirement, surrounded by guys practicing their golf swing and boats going in circles and kids biking and sudden rain and God, how many more of these relaxing walks before I just stroke out in front of the guy mowing the grass?
Well, it hasn't quite worked out that way. I review books for extra money and each has a deadline. So I find myself walking and reading, barely noticing the beautiful flowers around me.
When I use my 3 pound hand weights, invariably other walkers stride past me and I get competitive, especially if it's a woman leaving me behind. I jack up my pace, pump my arms, stick out my chest, only to find myself falling further behind until I become so depressed I quit and go home.
Then there are the annoying squirrels who scramble across my path, noiseless and obsessive. The ducks and geese act regal and indifferent, while photogs snap away at comatose turtles on rocks. Fishermen leave their stinky bait out in the open. Geezers on benches chew their cuds, letting hours waste away while I am multitasking, trying to enjoy every moment of this stinking retirement, surrounded by guys practicing their golf swing and boats going in circles and kids biking and sudden rain and God, how many more of these relaxing walks before I just stroke out in front of the guy mowing the grass?
Flea Market Strategy
You don't just barge into a flea market minus a strategy. You'll wind up dizzy and disoriented. Here is my basic approach.
1. Hit the tables with the most stuff, indicating the seller is desperate to get rid of this junk, leading to better bargains.
2. Bring Pez and offer one to each seller. They'll be charmed and you'll get more deals, with the possibility of sex.
3. Wear gloves. Millions of germs live on these items, even the ones that look scrubbed clean. Assume they were kept in dark cubbyholes the owner's cat peed in.
4. Topless sellers may pique your initial interest, but beware of anything diverting your attention from the business at hand.
5. Don't bring lots of money or anyone with a reputation as a collector, especially your significant other. Flea market hysteria has led to numerous break ups.
6. If someone has a relative sitting there and it seems like you might be interested in a purchase, make sure you check their feet for deformities. You don't want to have to carry them everywhere.
7. If you purchase a snail or ferret, make sure it looks well fed. You don't want them munching on your kids all the way home.
8.Be proud of the lamp or ashtray you've scored, no matter how ridiculous they look. At some point you'll be a seller and you need something to sell, right?
9. Purchasing photos of other people's family members because you live alone borders on awkward.
10. First and foremost--locate the Port-O-Potty.
1. Hit the tables with the most stuff, indicating the seller is desperate to get rid of this junk, leading to better bargains.
2. Bring Pez and offer one to each seller. They'll be charmed and you'll get more deals, with the possibility of sex.
3. Wear gloves. Millions of germs live on these items, even the ones that look scrubbed clean. Assume they were kept in dark cubbyholes the owner's cat peed in.
4. Topless sellers may pique your initial interest, but beware of anything diverting your attention from the business at hand.
5. Don't bring lots of money or anyone with a reputation as a collector, especially your significant other. Flea market hysteria has led to numerous break ups.
6. If someone has a relative sitting there and it seems like you might be interested in a purchase, make sure you check their feet for deformities. You don't want to have to carry them everywhere.
7. If you purchase a snail or ferret, make sure it looks well fed. You don't want them munching on your kids all the way home.
8.Be proud of the lamp or ashtray you've scored, no matter how ridiculous they look. At some point you'll be a seller and you need something to sell, right?
9. Purchasing photos of other people's family members because you live alone borders on awkward.
10. First and foremost--locate the Port-O-Potty.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Blossom Betrayal
The cherry blossoms are out weeks too soon for the Branch Brook Park and Brooklyn Botanical Gardens Festivals. Think about what that means. By the time thousands of families trek over there all they'll see are bare trees and crumpled, dead blossoms just lying still like exhausted Target shoppers. Children will break into tears; adults will curse under their breath. Cherry blossoms mean spring is here. Youth and innocence are reborn. The sound of baseball hitting leather. Longer days, melting ice cream. Slurpies.
I don't want explanations about how a warm winter is responsible. I want one giant, aromatic blossom in my hand. I'll tell you what else I want--Macy's Petacular. This event coincides with their flower show. It's a fun day of beauty and imagination. People dress their pets in all sorts of costumes while judges decide which pet will win first prize. It's like living in Nebraska for a day. Well, so far there have been no ads or indication Macy's will hold this event this year, just like what happened two years ago when hundreds showed up with elaborately dressed pets only to find no stage or judges.
I also hear that it will rain Sunday, meaning the Greek Independence Parade will be soaking mess. But those Greeks will persevere. Will I go? Of course. Something strange might happen and I'll have another blog.
I don't want explanations about how a warm winter is responsible. I want one giant, aromatic blossom in my hand. I'll tell you what else I want--Macy's Petacular. This event coincides with their flower show. It's a fun day of beauty and imagination. People dress their pets in all sorts of costumes while judges decide which pet will win first prize. It's like living in Nebraska for a day. Well, so far there have been no ads or indication Macy's will hold this event this year, just like what happened two years ago when hundreds showed up with elaborately dressed pets only to find no stage or judges.
I also hear that it will rain Sunday, meaning the Greek Independence Parade will be soaking mess. But those Greeks will persevere. Will I go? Of course. Something strange might happen and I'll have another blog.
Sentences
As you know, writers must edit their work. In the process, sentences get deleted. Our dirty little secret is where those sentences go after being rejected. The truth is they go nowhere. They hang around our apartments, grousing about not being appreciated. They distract us with stupid criticisms of the sentences we do use. They steal the covers at night. When you're on the phone they get into your cabinets and drawers, creating havoc.
They make snarky remarks about your friends. Sometimes, out of desperation, they will rearrange themselves, hoping you'll like the new version better. Mostly they grow old and wither away, pleading for another chance.
Abandoned sentences are the single biggest cause of guilt among writers.
If rejected sentences are like lonely dogs, rejected poems are indifferent cats. They go right on being poems, ignoring their status, sitting around doing impressions of other poems, making no demands, certainly not demeaning themselves.
I have writer friends, some who read my blog, like Maya and Harriet and Mike. I have tried to Fed Ex some of my rejected sentences to them, hoping they'll find a place for these word jumbles in their own writing. Instead, I get angry e-mails reminding me they have rejects of their own to deal with and maybe we could effect a trade. That defeats the whole purpose. Frankly, I think my rejects are better written than theirs. But that's between you and me.
They make snarky remarks about your friends. Sometimes, out of desperation, they will rearrange themselves, hoping you'll like the new version better. Mostly they grow old and wither away, pleading for another chance.
Abandoned sentences are the single biggest cause of guilt among writers.
If rejected sentences are like lonely dogs, rejected poems are indifferent cats. They go right on being poems, ignoring their status, sitting around doing impressions of other poems, making no demands, certainly not demeaning themselves.
I have writer friends, some who read my blog, like Maya and Harriet and Mike. I have tried to Fed Ex some of my rejected sentences to them, hoping they'll find a place for these word jumbles in their own writing. Instead, I get angry e-mails reminding me they have rejects of their own to deal with and maybe we could effect a trade. That defeats the whole purpose. Frankly, I think my rejects are better written than theirs. But that's between you and me.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Renting Infants
I have to start renting infants for my Facebook page. My few postings are boring. I have no family photos to share because I have no family. I don't even have a pet. My few relatives are moderately interesting at best. None of my friends want to pose with me. Because of budget constraints, I have visited no exotic locations, not even Nova Scotia. I attend no wild parties, engage in no fighting, am never shirtless in public.
I don't speak hip jargon. Is hip even hip anymore? My clothes are rather bland. It's best people don't know what I look like. In fact, I'm the kind of guy who shouldn't have any social media page anywhere.
I could post pictures of great historical figures I admire, like Adlai Stevenson. Probably I should create a trailer for my book of flash fiction, Twilight People. But then I'd have to come up with witty remarks. I could also post a poem. I'm told I am a decent poet, but you know that from reading my sensitive blogs.
No, the most logical course here is to rent an infant, take loads of cute photos and present the baby as mine. People cannot get enough of baby shots. The comments are always cute and positive. I need that reinforcement. I'm more than willing to let my rented infant hog the spotlight as long as readers credit me with having a rich full life, in contrast to all the childless losers out there. Isn't that the whole point of parents posting these endless photos of baby Bluto all curled up, sucking its thumb?
I don't speak hip jargon. Is hip even hip anymore? My clothes are rather bland. It's best people don't know what I look like. In fact, I'm the kind of guy who shouldn't have any social media page anywhere.
I could post pictures of great historical figures I admire, like Adlai Stevenson. Probably I should create a trailer for my book of flash fiction, Twilight People. But then I'd have to come up with witty remarks. I could also post a poem. I'm told I am a decent poet, but you know that from reading my sensitive blogs.
No, the most logical course here is to rent an infant, take loads of cute photos and present the baby as mine. People cannot get enough of baby shots. The comments are always cute and positive. I need that reinforcement. I'm more than willing to let my rented infant hog the spotlight as long as readers credit me with having a rich full life, in contrast to all the childless losers out there. Isn't that the whole point of parents posting these endless photos of baby Bluto all curled up, sucking its thumb?
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Panera and Me
Don't get me wrong, I love the My Panera membership keyring card. The brown, burnt umber, & yellow colors easily make it the classiest looking of my 39 keyring cards. Whenever I use any of them it takes me five minutes to find the right one, while a fuming line forms behind me.
But the other day something unnerving happened. They sent me an e-mail one month before my birthday promising some sort of surprise when it arrives in April. I like surprises as much as anyone. But the possibility this could be a scam or virus entered my mind. If it's legitimate I don't want to get my hopes up. I'm supposed to wait for a followup message. Look, if they send over a woman, I'd be quite pleased. But if it's just a free cookie, I mean, c'mon. Is that all my birthday is worth?
Maybe it's a cross country trip, touring dozens of Panera outlets. I could serve as a quality control guy, pick up a hefty fee. Beyond the Panera situation, it got me thinking. Why haven't my other preferred businesses offered me birthday gifts? Stop& Shop, AC Moore, A&P, Duane Reade, even my gym and my cable owner? In fact, why hasn't my super hinted at getting me a birthday gift? Or you, for that matter. A lovable, witty senior citizen is not easy to come by. Overall appreciation is warranted. If not an actual woman, here's a reminder that they can do amazing lifelike things with latex.
But the other day something unnerving happened. They sent me an e-mail one month before my birthday promising some sort of surprise when it arrives in April. I like surprises as much as anyone. But the possibility this could be a scam or virus entered my mind. If it's legitimate I don't want to get my hopes up. I'm supposed to wait for a followup message. Look, if they send over a woman, I'd be quite pleased. But if it's just a free cookie, I mean, c'mon. Is that all my birthday is worth?
Maybe it's a cross country trip, touring dozens of Panera outlets. I could serve as a quality control guy, pick up a hefty fee. Beyond the Panera situation, it got me thinking. Why haven't my other preferred businesses offered me birthday gifts? Stop& Shop, AC Moore, A&P, Duane Reade, even my gym and my cable owner? In fact, why hasn't my super hinted at getting me a birthday gift? Or you, for that matter. A lovable, witty senior citizen is not easy to come by. Overall appreciation is warranted. If not an actual woman, here's a reminder that they can do amazing lifelike things with latex.
Grubwithus
I really like this concept, but see some problems. For $25 this service brings together a bunch of strangers for dinner at a restaurant. You compose a profile which the other diners can read online, so at least you have an idea who's going to be sitting with you.
Well, you can guess the first problem. Unless you're seated in a large circle, you're liable to get stuck in between two moral relativists or two Tim Tebow fans, while all the really interesting people are seated at the far end of the table. Which is pretty much what happens to me at every single dinner party I've attended.
Suppose an argument breaks out. Who is in charge? Who calms people down? Suppose someone sends the food back for whatever reason? Are we all required to do the same out of solidarity? What if, like me, some attendees don't drink and feel as though they didn't get their $25 worth? What if something sexual happens under the table? Can a couple break away from the rest and take off, or would that be against the spirit of community Grubwithus is trying to create?
Let's say everything goes well from beginning to end. Then what? Do we leave as a group and head in different directions, with the night still young, or do we proceed to a club for some music? What if you're old like me and prefer jazz. Will I be shouted down, making me feel more isolated than before?
This whole enterprise has the potential for deep connection as well as heartbreak. Plus, the pressure of making important decisions hangs over that table. Soup or salad?
Well, you can guess the first problem. Unless you're seated in a large circle, you're liable to get stuck in between two moral relativists or two Tim Tebow fans, while all the really interesting people are seated at the far end of the table. Which is pretty much what happens to me at every single dinner party I've attended.
Suppose an argument breaks out. Who is in charge? Who calms people down? Suppose someone sends the food back for whatever reason? Are we all required to do the same out of solidarity? What if, like me, some attendees don't drink and feel as though they didn't get their $25 worth? What if something sexual happens under the table? Can a couple break away from the rest and take off, or would that be against the spirit of community Grubwithus is trying to create?
Let's say everything goes well from beginning to end. Then what? Do we leave as a group and head in different directions, with the night still young, or do we proceed to a club for some music? What if you're old like me and prefer jazz. Will I be shouted down, making me feel more isolated than before?
This whole enterprise has the potential for deep connection as well as heartbreak. Plus, the pressure of making important decisions hangs over that table. Soup or salad?
Rasputin
Rasputin is screwing everything not nailed down and a few things that are. I don't get it. I'm a Romanov Prince with wonderful hygiene and I can't get any action. This guy, who never washes, who slobbers over his food, who only dresses in black, this charlatan has women just throwing themselves at him. And what is this Mad Monk nonsense? Has he ever even been a monk? Are monks supposed to get this much sex?
Supposedly he has these healing powers. Why doesn't he heal that stench coming from him? I think he has lice and bed bugs. He pretends to be meditating. He stares at you for no reason. God, he gives me the creeps. Some of us Romanovs see right through him. The guy's a moocher. Did he ever pay for anything in his life?
We tried to kill him. Several times. Poison in his wine. Made him drowsy. Shot him. The bullet barely grazed his shoulder. Tried to smother him in his sleep. All he did was vomit. Bashed him in the head with a hammer. The hammer broke. Set him on fire. He dropped and rolled--ruined our best throw rug. The man is indestructible.
We find out too late that the guy is actually married and has three children. Legally, he shouldn't even be here. Day after day he bilks my family out of its riches. Try to get hold of the czar on this. The man doesn't want to be bothered. At some point Rasputin is going to nail the czarina and then all hell will break loose. Meantime I'm seeking a stronger poison. God, does he smell.
Supposedly he has these healing powers. Why doesn't he heal that stench coming from him? I think he has lice and bed bugs. He pretends to be meditating. He stares at you for no reason. God, he gives me the creeps. Some of us Romanovs see right through him. The guy's a moocher. Did he ever pay for anything in his life?
We tried to kill him. Several times. Poison in his wine. Made him drowsy. Shot him. The bullet barely grazed his shoulder. Tried to smother him in his sleep. All he did was vomit. Bashed him in the head with a hammer. The hammer broke. Set him on fire. He dropped and rolled--ruined our best throw rug. The man is indestructible.
We find out too late that the guy is actually married and has three children. Legally, he shouldn't even be here. Day after day he bilks my family out of its riches. Try to get hold of the czar on this. The man doesn't want to be bothered. At some point Rasputin is going to nail the czarina and then all hell will break loose. Meantime I'm seeking a stronger poison. God, does he smell.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Brilliant Disguise
Whenever I want special treatment, I disguise myself as ZZ Top. I wear a long phony beard, the shades, wide brimmed cowboy hat, boots, t-shirt and jeans. Suspenders are optional.
I practice my Texas twang before leaving the house. Since there are two members of this band known for its guitar work, I'm forced to keep a life sized dummy in my garage dressed exactly like me. They are never seen apart.
None of the neighbors question my dragging it out to the car at twilight. This is Hudson County--no one asks questions. At the restaurant, I am recognized and we get the best table. I explain my partner has a sick stomach and only wants soup. When no one is looking I slurp it myself. I make sure I prop him up securely so he doesn't slide down.
When we are approached for autographs, I explain a virus has made it impossible for him to hold a pen, so I sign for both of us. Nubile young women present an interesting challenge. When we retreat to their Winnebago for some hijinks, I apologize for his non responsiveness by explaining he's shy. Sometimes we'll share a woman and it's especially humiliating when she later remarks that she had a better time with him.
I practice my Texas twang before leaving the house. Since there are two members of this band known for its guitar work, I'm forced to keep a life sized dummy in my garage dressed exactly like me. They are never seen apart.
None of the neighbors question my dragging it out to the car at twilight. This is Hudson County--no one asks questions. At the restaurant, I am recognized and we get the best table. I explain my partner has a sick stomach and only wants soup. When no one is looking I slurp it myself. I make sure I prop him up securely so he doesn't slide down.
When we are approached for autographs, I explain a virus has made it impossible for him to hold a pen, so I sign for both of us. Nubile young women present an interesting challenge. When we retreat to their Winnebago for some hijinks, I apologize for his non responsiveness by explaining he's shy. Sometimes we'll share a woman and it's especially humiliating when she later remarks that she had a better time with him.
Is That Your Car?
It depends on who is asking and their tone.
A kid who seems awed by my Hyundai, I'll say yes.
A hot woman who emphasizes the word 'that' disdainfully and I'll deny all connection.
An old friend merits honesty only if he's honest about his '95 Volvo.
Elderly folks with poor vision will get an affirmative, as they can't see the scratches.
A smirking teen gets a lecture on working part time instead of accepting an allowance.
Environmentalists receive a lie centering on me only driving only on weekends & biking otherwise.
If it's a cop I know my day is ruined.
If it's one of the voices inside my head, I'll try to ignore it, like I'm doing now as I'm being told to tackle serious topics on this blog.
I tried painting over the scratches on my side panel, but the paint didn't match and it looks worse. I vacuum the insides and discover cracker crumbs from brands that went bankrupt. Other guys find women's underwear. That pretty much sums up my life.
A kid who seems awed by my Hyundai, I'll say yes.
A hot woman who emphasizes the word 'that' disdainfully and I'll deny all connection.
An old friend merits honesty only if he's honest about his '95 Volvo.
Elderly folks with poor vision will get an affirmative, as they can't see the scratches.
A smirking teen gets a lecture on working part time instead of accepting an allowance.
Environmentalists receive a lie centering on me only driving only on weekends & biking otherwise.
If it's a cop I know my day is ruined.
If it's one of the voices inside my head, I'll try to ignore it, like I'm doing now as I'm being told to tackle serious topics on this blog.
I tried painting over the scratches on my side panel, but the paint didn't match and it looks worse. I vacuum the insides and discover cracker crumbs from brands that went bankrupt. Other guys find women's underwear. That pretty much sums up my life.
Monday, March 19, 2012
First Sentence
Detective novel-I pointed my Glock at the dame's chest and asked, "How did you get in here, lady?"
Existential-The overhead fans kept circling endlessly, useless in this heat, and I thought hard about suicide.
Sci-fi-As we moved closer to the surface, we could see the sad remnants of a doomed civilization.
Historical-I opened the door and there stood Ben Franklin in fishnet stockings, enraptured.
Romance-Luigi ripped off his silk, off white shirt and moved toward me, his seething eyes never leaving my pulsing bosom.
Mystery-Nothing is quite as it seems at 2am in LA.
Adventure-Off to my right I saw dozens of mounted swordsmen shouting in Turkish.
Espionage-My cell vibrated and I sensed it was my contact in Brussels.
Memoir-Why me??
Young Adult-For my 13th birthday my parents got me a goldfish; luckily I knew how to work the blender.
Police Procedural-Blood splattered across the wall was as close to art as Curtis ever got in his short, violent life.
Existential-The overhead fans kept circling endlessly, useless in this heat, and I thought hard about suicide.
Sci-fi-As we moved closer to the surface, we could see the sad remnants of a doomed civilization.
Historical-I opened the door and there stood Ben Franklin in fishnet stockings, enraptured.
Romance-Luigi ripped off his silk, off white shirt and moved toward me, his seething eyes never leaving my pulsing bosom.
Mystery-Nothing is quite as it seems at 2am in LA.
Adventure-Off to my right I saw dozens of mounted swordsmen shouting in Turkish.
Espionage-My cell vibrated and I sensed it was my contact in Brussels.
Memoir-Why me??
Young Adult-For my 13th birthday my parents got me a goldfish; luckily I knew how to work the blender.
Police Procedural-Blood splattered across the wall was as close to art as Curtis ever got in his short, violent life.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
The Violence of Ambition
I've always wanted to be the best at what I tried.
That includes corkscrewing.
I was immediately drawn to corkscrews as a teen the way others are drawn to Corvettes. No one has ever accused me of being lazy. I was willing to work at this craft. I read all I could on the history of cork, watched You Tube to absorb the various techniques, contacted corkscrewing masters in Bavaria for advice.
I was disgusted by the amateurs around me, trying to pop open wine bottles. I suppose, in retrospect, I became overconfident.
At a large gathering of friends I asked to open the wine. I should have practiced in private, I know that now. I was handed a corkscrew heavier than those I had grasped, but I won't use that as an excuse. I jabbed the screw into the cork; there was a collective intake of breath. The anticipation was crushing. But this is what I wanted. One violent twist and yank and...
The horror!
The cork broke apart, did not slide out, there was NO pop. Over and over I tried, until pieces of cork covered the table. Some were shoved right into the bottle, ruining the wine. I unleashed a soundless scream of humiliation, dropped the corkscrew, hunched my shoulders and left the table.
I fled from the premises and have been in isolation since. In the ensuing months I've probably destroyed 200 innocent corks in my obsession to redeem myself. Hubris, my friends, was my downfall. I hate my failure. Mostly, I hate cork.
That includes corkscrewing.
I was immediately drawn to corkscrews as a teen the way others are drawn to Corvettes. No one has ever accused me of being lazy. I was willing to work at this craft. I read all I could on the history of cork, watched You Tube to absorb the various techniques, contacted corkscrewing masters in Bavaria for advice.
I was disgusted by the amateurs around me, trying to pop open wine bottles. I suppose, in retrospect, I became overconfident.
At a large gathering of friends I asked to open the wine. I should have practiced in private, I know that now. I was handed a corkscrew heavier than those I had grasped, but I won't use that as an excuse. I jabbed the screw into the cork; there was a collective intake of breath. The anticipation was crushing. But this is what I wanted. One violent twist and yank and...
The horror!
The cork broke apart, did not slide out, there was NO pop. Over and over I tried, until pieces of cork covered the table. Some were shoved right into the bottle, ruining the wine. I unleashed a soundless scream of humiliation, dropped the corkscrew, hunched my shoulders and left the table.
I fled from the premises and have been in isolation since. In the ensuing months I've probably destroyed 200 innocent corks in my obsession to redeem myself. Hubris, my friends, was my downfall. I hate my failure. Mostly, I hate cork.
Outnumbered
Irish outnumber Italians in this country two to one. That means there are twice as many Irish tenors as Italian tenors. It means an imbalance, something akin to the glaciers melting.
Step dancers are multiplying by the minute, clogging entire neighborhoods. Bagpipers and penny whistlers follow them everywhere, creating musical engorgement. Kilts belong to the Scottish, who you can't understand, but Irish pipers wear them unabashedly.
Meanwhile, Italian barbers are disappearing faster than koala bears.
Thankfully, Italians still have more accordion players than anyone except the Rumanians and gypsies.
Can you imagine Italians trying to step dance with their arms pinned to their sides? Italians cannot do anything without gesticulating. When giving birth, their women's hands are machine gunning movements.
Which brings me to those heavy knit off white sweaters the Irish wear to their parades. I know they have a name, which I keep forgetting. Maybe if I search 'heavy knit sweaters worn by Irish' I'll get an answer.
I'm rambling, but not as much as Irish storytellers. By the way, Italian marble is the best in the world. Damn, here comes another step dancer, hopping maniacally right in my path. She smells of Irish Spring.
Step dancers are multiplying by the minute, clogging entire neighborhoods. Bagpipers and penny whistlers follow them everywhere, creating musical engorgement. Kilts belong to the Scottish, who you can't understand, but Irish pipers wear them unabashedly.
Meanwhile, Italian barbers are disappearing faster than koala bears.
Thankfully, Italians still have more accordion players than anyone except the Rumanians and gypsies.
Can you imagine Italians trying to step dance with their arms pinned to their sides? Italians cannot do anything without gesticulating. When giving birth, their women's hands are machine gunning movements.
Which brings me to those heavy knit off white sweaters the Irish wear to their parades. I know they have a name, which I keep forgetting. Maybe if I search 'heavy knit sweaters worn by Irish' I'll get an answer.
I'm rambling, but not as much as Irish storytellers. By the way, Italian marble is the best in the world. Damn, here comes another step dancer, hopping maniacally right in my path. She smells of Irish Spring.
Where You Wind Up
I seek out orphaned spaghetti streets.
Shadowed three card Monte dealers
entice me with lightning hands.
Peepholes in withered doors,
glimpses of mottled flesh.
I witness unspeakable acts.
Ponder my inaction
In these towns of obfuscation,
these secret streets
tracing a destination of debasement,
where the buses run every hour
on the hour.
I know I can leave at will.
Why don't I?
Shadowed three card Monte dealers
entice me with lightning hands.
Peepholes in withered doors,
glimpses of mottled flesh.
I witness unspeakable acts.
Ponder my inaction
In these towns of obfuscation,
these secret streets
tracing a destination of debasement,
where the buses run every hour
on the hour.
I know I can leave at will.
Why don't I?
Friday, March 16, 2012
The Monkey House
The Bronx Zoo has closed down The Monkey House. We knew this was coming; it follows the closing of both The Lion House and The Elephant House. But, unlike those two, where other accommodations were made, namely more space outdoors, the monkeys were treated shabbily.
Understand, they were the single most popular animal there for decades. All the statistics bear this out. Search zoo animal popularity and you'll get the proof. Speaking personally, I loved those monkeys. During dark times in my life I've spent quality time with those creatures. More than one lent me a sympathetic ear and you know the size of those ears. Quiet nods and an occasional shriek greeted my recounting of adolescent angst, which has haunted me for decades.
Now it was my turn to comfort them, but, alas, the place was locked when I arrived. I have a friend at the zoo who informed me over 60 monkeys were laid off. Just handed pink slips. All sorts of reasons were tossed out. Failure to Climb, Inaccurate Spitting, Defecating on the Keepers, Bad Breath, Rotting Teeth, Copulating During Hours, etc.
Here's the sad thing. I got off the subway and all along the route to the zoo, every few steps, I'm confronted with capuchins, squirrel monkeys, tamarins, marmosets, and one large, lost orangutang, along with regular monkeys, each holding out their hand, pleading for spare change. When I rushed past, head down, embarrassed, they jumped up and down, shrieking and chattering. I think I made out something that sounded like son of a bitch. This will get uglier before it gets better.
Where oh where is the safety net?
Understand, they were the single most popular animal there for decades. All the statistics bear this out. Search zoo animal popularity and you'll get the proof. Speaking personally, I loved those monkeys. During dark times in my life I've spent quality time with those creatures. More than one lent me a sympathetic ear and you know the size of those ears. Quiet nods and an occasional shriek greeted my recounting of adolescent angst, which has haunted me for decades.
Now it was my turn to comfort them, but, alas, the place was locked when I arrived. I have a friend at the zoo who informed me over 60 monkeys were laid off. Just handed pink slips. All sorts of reasons were tossed out. Failure to Climb, Inaccurate Spitting, Defecating on the Keepers, Bad Breath, Rotting Teeth, Copulating During Hours, etc.
Here's the sad thing. I got off the subway and all along the route to the zoo, every few steps, I'm confronted with capuchins, squirrel monkeys, tamarins, marmosets, and one large, lost orangutang, along with regular monkeys, each holding out their hand, pleading for spare change. When I rushed past, head down, embarrassed, they jumped up and down, shrieking and chattering. I think I made out something that sounded like son of a bitch. This will get uglier before it gets better.
Where oh where is the safety net?
Proof
Proof God Exists
onion rings
waffle fries
macaroon cookies
tub glazing
seedless grapes
stretch fabrics
Grace Park
oversize paper clips
foggy spring mornings
second cup free
Proof Satan May Be Winning
a man's toes
speed dating
Sasha Baron Cohen
wedgies
hot yoga
friends with ADD
red carpet interviews
exploratory committees
bagpipers
drizzle
onion rings
waffle fries
macaroon cookies
tub glazing
seedless grapes
stretch fabrics
Grace Park
oversize paper clips
foggy spring mornings
second cup free
Proof Satan May Be Winning
a man's toes
speed dating
Sasha Baron Cohen
wedgies
hot yoga
friends with ADD
red carpet interviews
exploratory committees
bagpipers
drizzle
Center for Fiction
I went to a reading at the Center for Fiction last night. Fourteen readers from their publication, The Literarian. I knew no one there, grabbed some nuts and pretzels and settled in. By the third reader I was glancing around the room, imagining my Cheez-It snack when I got home. I just can't listen to other writers reading. Here and there I'll pick up a metaphor or turn of phrase and nod in appreciation. But overall, even with good readers, I find myself checking my watch.
Why go to these things? I may meet someone who might help me with my own career. Some of the readers were also editors. One woman had 14 books published. I wanted to drop to my knees in front of her.
Outside, all around me, sitting on curbs, blocking the sidewalk, perched on fire escapes, atop cars, dozens of writers with open laptops or notebooks, typing and scribbling away, composing short stories, poems, memoirs. Thousands of words being churned out by the minute by frenzied, bedraggled, smelly, wild eyed people who simply HAD to get their stories out there. I ducked back inside where the hobnobbing was in full force, but I could sense tension building. Writers flexing their fingers, nodding quickly, jittery, impatient, NEEDING to get back to their stories. Conversation is a buffer, nothing more. As one reader, Tracy O'Neill, described a skater's drive in her novel, here was "the violence of ambition."
I rushed home, went right to my computer and got to work. Not before pouring a bowl of Cheez-Its. I know my real priority.
Why go to these things? I may meet someone who might help me with my own career. Some of the readers were also editors. One woman had 14 books published. I wanted to drop to my knees in front of her.
Outside, all around me, sitting on curbs, blocking the sidewalk, perched on fire escapes, atop cars, dozens of writers with open laptops or notebooks, typing and scribbling away, composing short stories, poems, memoirs. Thousands of words being churned out by the minute by frenzied, bedraggled, smelly, wild eyed people who simply HAD to get their stories out there. I ducked back inside where the hobnobbing was in full force, but I could sense tension building. Writers flexing their fingers, nodding quickly, jittery, impatient, NEEDING to get back to their stories. Conversation is a buffer, nothing more. As one reader, Tracy O'Neill, described a skater's drive in her novel, here was "the violence of ambition."
I rushed home, went right to my computer and got to work. Not before pouring a bowl of Cheez-Its. I know my real priority.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
50 Shades of Frustration
Are you kidding me? Someone writes a trilogy beginning with Fifty Shades of Grey, the whole theme of which is domination by a man over a woman. Now it's the hottest thing in publishing. The author is getting filthy rich tapping into women's fantasies of being some guy's sex slave.
Here I am sweating over every manuscript, trying to create a literary masterpiece sure to be included in college curriculum and all this time all I had to do was pour out pages of bondage porn to gain publishing immortality.
As long as I don't have to describe intricate knots I'm home free with this genre. I know women's deepest fantasies. It's not just being tied up, it's being bound while being forced to listen to David Caruso's line readings on CSI Miami. It's being handcuffed while being forced to watch Hoarders and Celebrity Rehab on cable. It's being forced to call your maiden aunts and stay on the phone listening to their bunion stories. It's gazing at photos of a shirtless Jack Black.
It's pap smears administered by ZZ Top. It's being spanked by your linguistics teacher. Wearing too tight penny loafers. Swallowing Aretha Franklin's butt lint. That is 300 pages right off the bat. I'm tired of being a struggling writer. It's time I dug deep and tapped into my intimate knowledge of what submissive women dream about. Humiliation sells. I'll start slow and build. Being ordered about by men with hairy forearms is my prologue. My heroine will curse in three languages. Title? Debasement in the Basement.
Here I am sweating over every manuscript, trying to create a literary masterpiece sure to be included in college curriculum and all this time all I had to do was pour out pages of bondage porn to gain publishing immortality.
As long as I don't have to describe intricate knots I'm home free with this genre. I know women's deepest fantasies. It's not just being tied up, it's being bound while being forced to listen to David Caruso's line readings on CSI Miami. It's being handcuffed while being forced to watch Hoarders and Celebrity Rehab on cable. It's being forced to call your maiden aunts and stay on the phone listening to their bunion stories. It's gazing at photos of a shirtless Jack Black.
It's pap smears administered by ZZ Top. It's being spanked by your linguistics teacher. Wearing too tight penny loafers. Swallowing Aretha Franklin's butt lint. That is 300 pages right off the bat. I'm tired of being a struggling writer. It's time I dug deep and tapped into my intimate knowledge of what submissive women dream about. Humiliation sells. I'll start slow and build. Being ordered about by men with hairy forearms is my prologue. My heroine will curse in three languages. Title? Debasement in the Basement.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
My Shoulder
My shoulder hurts. It's been hurting for days. I take anti-inflammatory pills, it feels better, I lift weights, it starts hurting again. Why, you ask, don't I just stop exercising and give it time to heal?
Two words--Kelly Ripa.
Have you seen Ripa's biceps lately? This is a woman who weighs maybe 105 pounds and her arms are ridiculously ripped. She knows it and flaunts it. As much as I enjoy her sense of humor, I find it disturbing that this actress may have better muscularity than me. So I exercise when I should be resting this injury. I don't even know how I did it. It's in the deltoids area--which deltoid I'm not sure. There are at least three, four if you're Hugh Jackman.
Look, I don't mind Angela Bassett having better arms than me, or even Michelle Obama. But having a tiny blonde actress looking more pumped sends me into a tailspin emotionally. I retreat into myself, which, if you've seen my insides, is kind of disgusting.
So I suffer with a bad right shoulder, which hurts when I wipe the shower or sweep or do any cleaning at all. Soon my condo will be a pigsty, I'll stop shaving and gradually my life will unravel. I won't be able to use a can opener, my main cooking utensil. Ultimately, I'll starve to death in a filthy hovel, all because of Kelly Ripa's biceps. My shoulder hurts just typing this.
Two words--Kelly Ripa.
Have you seen Ripa's biceps lately? This is a woman who weighs maybe 105 pounds and her arms are ridiculously ripped. She knows it and flaunts it. As much as I enjoy her sense of humor, I find it disturbing that this actress may have better muscularity than me. So I exercise when I should be resting this injury. I don't even know how I did it. It's in the deltoids area--which deltoid I'm not sure. There are at least three, four if you're Hugh Jackman.
Look, I don't mind Angela Bassett having better arms than me, or even Michelle Obama. But having a tiny blonde actress looking more pumped sends me into a tailspin emotionally. I retreat into myself, which, if you've seen my insides, is kind of disgusting.
So I suffer with a bad right shoulder, which hurts when I wipe the shower or sweep or do any cleaning at all. Soon my condo will be a pigsty, I'll stop shaving and gradually my life will unravel. I won't be able to use a can opener, my main cooking utensil. Ultimately, I'll starve to death in a filthy hovel, all because of Kelly Ripa's biceps. My shoulder hurts just typing this.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Cycling Murrays
I'm not going to sleep well tonight. I'm worried about the Cycling Murrays. I went to Kearny's St. Patrick's Day parade today, as I always do. I like this working class town with strong soccer teams and a beautiful park I sometimes circle when I feel philosophical. The parade is lined with many flatbed trucks carrying citizens of all types who happen to be Irish. The sheer volume of combined sirens from a long line of firetrucks is quite impressive. I believe the amount of loud firetrucks in a parade directly correlates to the amount of active testosterone in the community.
Every year the Cycling Murrays return, an entire family with an explosion of gray and blonde curly hair, riding unicycles around and around in a circle, arms outstretched. Grandma drives the truck behind them where they store their bikes. The parents don't move quite as fast now and no one does a handstand on the handlebars. The reason I'm concerned is this year I didn't see the children out there performing. Could they have quit the business? Gone to veterinarian school? Had breakdowns after falling off? I only see this act in Kearny and believe me I go to lots of parades. I guess after the holiday is over the whole family goes on unemployment or joins a small traveling circus. It does seem that unicycles are about as hip as pogo sticks, but people still cheer.
When I ponder the thousands of hours they spent perfecting their craft, I wonder if at times they look back and feel they've sacrificed too much. Maybe even wasted their lives going in circles. Good balance is like good posture--everyone wants it, but won't be crushed if they can't manage it.
But that's depressive thinking. Sort of like one questioning whether it's worth it spending hundreds of hours blogging, and we all know the answer to that. Right?
Every year the Cycling Murrays return, an entire family with an explosion of gray and blonde curly hair, riding unicycles around and around in a circle, arms outstretched. Grandma drives the truck behind them where they store their bikes. The parents don't move quite as fast now and no one does a handstand on the handlebars. The reason I'm concerned is this year I didn't see the children out there performing. Could they have quit the business? Gone to veterinarian school? Had breakdowns after falling off? I only see this act in Kearny and believe me I go to lots of parades. I guess after the holiday is over the whole family goes on unemployment or joins a small traveling circus. It does seem that unicycles are about as hip as pogo sticks, but people still cheer.
When I ponder the thousands of hours they spent perfecting their craft, I wonder if at times they look back and feel they've sacrificed too much. Maybe even wasted their lives going in circles. Good balance is like good posture--everyone wants it, but won't be crushed if they can't manage it.
But that's depressive thinking. Sort of like one questioning whether it's worth it spending hundreds of hours blogging, and we all know the answer to that. Right?
Spark Something
Now that Occupy Wall Street is dead, we conscientious types need something to boycott. I suggest flower shops.Only the affluent can afford flowers anymore and most florists are snooty. How many times have I stared into a floral shop and seen pitiful captured flowers, wilting from depression. Their ultimate fate is being stuck in a vase at some 1% er's home and used for decorative purposes.
Once I was able to save up enough to buy a single violet. I treasured my flower, taking such care of it that my baby lasted far longer than expected. Those open discussions he and I had were easily the most substantive I've recently engaged in. I really miss Sebastian.
Compare that nurturing relationship to some sleek hedge fund manager buying up truckloads of tulips and selling them at profit to fools with money. Demonstration against the Tulip Black Market should be at the apex of our agenda. Another target should be the distribution of air brushed photos of celebrities that make Jennifer Aniston and Keanu Reeves look twenty five. This flies against truth and honesty, which are the spine of our government. Or possibly the tailbone.
Something that really annoys me and demands action is my $26 electric razor, which does not do its job. I have to go over my face with a straight razor and that defeats the whole purpose. I still wind up with three long hairs near my mouth and that's where people keep looking. To the barricades!
Once I was able to save up enough to buy a single violet. I treasured my flower, taking such care of it that my baby lasted far longer than expected. Those open discussions he and I had were easily the most substantive I've recently engaged in. I really miss Sebastian.
Compare that nurturing relationship to some sleek hedge fund manager buying up truckloads of tulips and selling them at profit to fools with money. Demonstration against the Tulip Black Market should be at the apex of our agenda. Another target should be the distribution of air brushed photos of celebrities that make Jennifer Aniston and Keanu Reeves look twenty five. This flies against truth and honesty, which are the spine of our government. Or possibly the tailbone.
Something that really annoys me and demands action is my $26 electric razor, which does not do its job. I have to go over my face with a straight razor and that defeats the whole purpose. I still wind up with three long hairs near my mouth and that's where people keep looking. To the barricades!
Big Bags
I carry all my important ideas in big bags. At a party, surrounded by intellectuals, I'll reach into my bag and pull put out a concept like do we really have free will? On dates with vibrant women, once the typical introductory remarks are over, I'll open my other bag of funny stories and grab one. Periodically I'll add ideas, like my theory as to why fingernails grow faster than toenails.
There is nothing more masculine than a man who can negotiate small spaces with big bags.
Women carrying big bags engender admiration unless they waddle into other people. Women carry their hopes and dreams in these bags, while men usually keep theirs in a dresser drawer. I think women need to keep their feelings close so they don't lose focus. A man's feelings are so buried that's not even an issue.
Easter means pedestrians will clog sidewalks, most carrying big bags full of forgiveness or possibly retribution. Of course there are the shallow ones carrying designer bags stuffed with expensive chocolate. Talk about a misuse of the Big Bag concept.
Right now I've run out of angles on this subject, so I'll just reach in and grab an idea. Why do some toilet tanks take so long to fill up? Ponder that.
There is nothing more masculine than a man who can negotiate small spaces with big bags.
Women carrying big bags engender admiration unless they waddle into other people. Women carry their hopes and dreams in these bags, while men usually keep theirs in a dresser drawer. I think women need to keep their feelings close so they don't lose focus. A man's feelings are so buried that's not even an issue.
Easter means pedestrians will clog sidewalks, most carrying big bags full of forgiveness or possibly retribution. Of course there are the shallow ones carrying designer bags stuffed with expensive chocolate. Talk about a misuse of the Big Bag concept.
Right now I've run out of angles on this subject, so I'll just reach in and grab an idea. Why do some toilet tanks take so long to fill up? Ponder that.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Nine Free Donuts
I am about to collect my ninth free donut from a chain store that I won't reveal because, frankly, I don't want others honing in my territory. All I have to do is fill out a one minute survey and I get a 99 cent donut free and I can choose which ever one I want, even those with icing on top. If you prorate this over an hour it calculates to me receiving $60 worth of free donuts.
This is how we as consumers must strike back at big capitalism. You'd better believe I take extra sugar free packets and napkins and straws while I'm there with my ice coffee. I make sure to use as many public toilets as possible to cut down my water bill.
Very soon I will walk into Elevation Burger and get a free burger because I have my special Burger Card with six punches clipped through. That means for every six burgers I pay for I get one free, and don't think I won't savor every bite. When I get my cup of soda I make sure to include extra ice I can suck on when the soda is finished. These are things you pick up after you retire and have to live on a modest pension. Open one of my drawers and you will see many plastic utensils and crackers from salad bars all over northern NJ. You have to be quick and sneaky, but so much in life is quick and sneaky. Now I'm going to sneak a peek at your blog and see what I can steal without anyone knowing.
This is how we as consumers must strike back at big capitalism. You'd better believe I take extra sugar free packets and napkins and straws while I'm there with my ice coffee. I make sure to use as many public toilets as possible to cut down my water bill.
Very soon I will walk into Elevation Burger and get a free burger because I have my special Burger Card with six punches clipped through. That means for every six burgers I pay for I get one free, and don't think I won't savor every bite. When I get my cup of soda I make sure to include extra ice I can suck on when the soda is finished. These are things you pick up after you retire and have to live on a modest pension. Open one of my drawers and you will see many plastic utensils and crackers from salad bars all over northern NJ. You have to be quick and sneaky, but so much in life is quick and sneaky. Now I'm going to sneak a peek at your blog and see what I can steal without anyone knowing.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Jazz Jam
The second Friday of the month I attend a jazz jam at a local church. The musicians live in the area and are quite good. They'll take a standard like "All the Things You Are" and go to work on it, extrapolating the melody. Sometimes the bongo guy will show up and take things in a different direction. There's an intermission with coffee and cake. I'll sit by myself reading my Nook. Sometimes someone will come over and ask what I'm reading and I'll tell them my life story. I can be annoying that way. Eventually I'll sense they want to return to their real friends and grab some cookies.
It got me to thinking. Why aren't there puppeteer jams or impressionist jams or sleight of hand card dealer jams? The concept is the same--find a space, publicize it, ask for a donation, wait for people to show. I'm guessing there are lots of lonely puppeteers sitting home on a Friday night reexamining their choice of occupation. Citizens complain about teens hanging out, getting into trouble. If you provide these kids with cool entertainment like guys doing Robert DiNiro or Peter Lorre, you solve the loitering problem while exposing your child to culture.
Boy, what I wouldn't give to see a tap dancer's jam. Isn't that how Ray Bolger got started?
It got me to thinking. Why aren't there puppeteer jams or impressionist jams or sleight of hand card dealer jams? The concept is the same--find a space, publicize it, ask for a donation, wait for people to show. I'm guessing there are lots of lonely puppeteers sitting home on a Friday night reexamining their choice of occupation. Citizens complain about teens hanging out, getting into trouble. If you provide these kids with cool entertainment like guys doing Robert DiNiro or Peter Lorre, you solve the loitering problem while exposing your child to culture.
Boy, what I wouldn't give to see a tap dancer's jam. Isn't that how Ray Bolger got started?
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Solar Flare
Now they're claiming that huge solar flare fizzled out and barely affected anything. Speak for yourselves. During the period in which that flare entered our atmosphere the following things happened to me:
My penis shrunk a full inch
Small crusty growths appeared on my neck
I could only chew on one side
I forgot the name of my dominatrix
Developed a craving for raw cabbage
Lit matches for no reason
Skipped all the prepositions in the novel I was reading
Decided to purchase a pogo stick
My balls grew in circumference
Sobbed into my Home Goods salad bowl
Mooned a crossing guard
Made a citizen's arrest of a really bad poet
Yodeled deep into the night
Performed a disgusting act with a hand made candle
Briefly thought I was Dame Judy Dench
I'm fine now, really. guess I'm ultra sensitive to atmospheric disturbances. But you knew that, didn't you?
My penis shrunk a full inch
Small crusty growths appeared on my neck
I could only chew on one side
I forgot the name of my dominatrix
Developed a craving for raw cabbage
Lit matches for no reason
Skipped all the prepositions in the novel I was reading
Decided to purchase a pogo stick
My balls grew in circumference
Sobbed into my Home Goods salad bowl
Mooned a crossing guard
Made a citizen's arrest of a really bad poet
Yodeled deep into the night
Performed a disgusting act with a hand made candle
Briefly thought I was Dame Judy Dench
I'm fine now, really. guess I'm ultra sensitive to atmospheric disturbances. But you knew that, didn't you?
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
What I'm Wearing
I'm guessing most of you wonder what I'm wearing when I post. Perfectly natural. Tonight I'm wearing paint stained dungarees and a black Champion sweatshirt. Sometimes I'll just have on an undershirt and corduroy pants. I alternate keeping the sneakers on.
When I'm about to tackle a heavy subject like why IHOP consistently forgets to provide sugar free syrup, I will slide my sleeves up halfway to my elbows before my massive forearms prevent further advance. I have five heavy lumberjack shirts with both zipper and snaps which really bulk me up. I find myself purposely bumping into people when I wear these babies because folks think I'm more muscular than I am.
I own white and black pants that are slightly worn at the bottom because I have short legs and prefer not to cuff them--it just looks dorky.
In warm weather I, of course, wear light t-shirts when blogging and shorts. I wear loose clothes which helps my thinking process. I never wear a hat while writing, almost never don pajamas. I conduct myself at all times as if someone was Skyping me in secret. So when I'm in the middle of a sentence I won't stop and pick my nose. That is showing disrespect for my readers. All I ask is that while reading my posts you don't touch yourself. Never, not even when imagining me in corduroy pants or muscle t-shirts. I expect mutual respect. Just curious. What are you wearing?
When I'm about to tackle a heavy subject like why IHOP consistently forgets to provide sugar free syrup, I will slide my sleeves up halfway to my elbows before my massive forearms prevent further advance. I have five heavy lumberjack shirts with both zipper and snaps which really bulk me up. I find myself purposely bumping into people when I wear these babies because folks think I'm more muscular than I am.
I own white and black pants that are slightly worn at the bottom because I have short legs and prefer not to cuff them--it just looks dorky.
In warm weather I, of course, wear light t-shirts when blogging and shorts. I wear loose clothes which helps my thinking process. I never wear a hat while writing, almost never don pajamas. I conduct myself at all times as if someone was Skyping me in secret. So when I'm in the middle of a sentence I won't stop and pick my nose. That is showing disrespect for my readers. All I ask is that while reading my posts you don't touch yourself. Never, not even when imagining me in corduroy pants or muscle t-shirts. I expect mutual respect. Just curious. What are you wearing?
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Be Sensible
How often have you heard the advice, be sensible? Usually it's from people who pretend to have your best interests at heart. But what really is the agenda here?
I think it's to hold someone down, prevent them from taking that prodigious leap into the unknown in search of new experience, as well as breaking through self imposed or societal restrictions. Like when I decided to shave between my eyebrows and was pummeled with unsolicited opinions. The speaker usually ended with those two manipulative words, 'be sensible', Joe. Adding my name only meant they were being sneakier in their quest to control my ambitions.
It is never to late to readjust your face in big and small ways. One can only imagine how many insiders pleaded with Lindsey Lohan not to pump her lips and cheeks full of God knows what. She went right ahead and took that leap of adventure. One hopes she does other things to her body to achieve that break through to complete independence we all seek.
If colonists had lectured Ben Franklin to be sensible with the whole kite thing, where would we be? Our founding fathers had to move past looney to forward looking, and plunging fearlessly ahead is the fastest method of accomplishing that. Every July 4 there is a hotdog eating contest in Coney Island. Entire reputations are set in stone during these events. Digging deep, ignoring colorless normalcy, these brave explorers stuff their mouths with God knows what in the quest for nonsense. Nonsense has just as much validity as sense. Maybe more if you follow our political process.
I think it's to hold someone down, prevent them from taking that prodigious leap into the unknown in search of new experience, as well as breaking through self imposed or societal restrictions. Like when I decided to shave between my eyebrows and was pummeled with unsolicited opinions. The speaker usually ended with those two manipulative words, 'be sensible', Joe. Adding my name only meant they were being sneakier in their quest to control my ambitions.
It is never to late to readjust your face in big and small ways. One can only imagine how many insiders pleaded with Lindsey Lohan not to pump her lips and cheeks full of God knows what. She went right ahead and took that leap of adventure. One hopes she does other things to her body to achieve that break through to complete independence we all seek.
If colonists had lectured Ben Franklin to be sensible with the whole kite thing, where would we be? Our founding fathers had to move past looney to forward looking, and plunging fearlessly ahead is the fastest method of accomplishing that. Every July 4 there is a hotdog eating contest in Coney Island. Entire reputations are set in stone during these events. Digging deep, ignoring colorless normalcy, these brave explorers stuff their mouths with God knows what in the quest for nonsense. Nonsense has just as much validity as sense. Maybe more if you follow our political process.
My Bin
I'm afraid of my vegetable bin. I haven't opened it in weeks because I have a full, rich life. I know exactly what's in there. A bag of mixed salad, two cucumbers, celery, tomatoes, possibly a carrot. Carrots don't worry me--they last forever. It's the other stuff. I'm hesitant to bend down and sniff. I know it won't be pleasant.
I do this all the time. Buy salad ingredients only to forget about them. I promise myself I will eat healthy as soon as the french fries run out. The french fries never run out.
Celery will get brown and soft. Tomatoes will develop black spots. The bag of salad will end up being dark, squishy lettuce. But it's the cucumbers that really frighten me. Cucumbers have an edible life span of about six hours.Tops. Have you ever examined a rotten cucumber, dripping slime as you carefully place it in a cellophane bag specially created by NASA to keep out space viruses? Well I have and it's not something you want to pass on to your kids.
One time I wasn't thinking and I tossed a bag of fresh oranges into my vegetable bin by mistake. Within seconds I could hear the screams from my bedroom. I raced into the kitchen, yanked open the bin and quickly rescued them. I was shaking all over.
I thought about hiring a professional cleaning and extermination team to come in and handle what's in my bin. What if they take photos and use them for blackmail? I really need to stay away from the salad aisle. Although that would leave me with half a bottle of Russian dressing and several million bacon bits.
I do this all the time. Buy salad ingredients only to forget about them. I promise myself I will eat healthy as soon as the french fries run out. The french fries never run out.
Celery will get brown and soft. Tomatoes will develop black spots. The bag of salad will end up being dark, squishy lettuce. But it's the cucumbers that really frighten me. Cucumbers have an edible life span of about six hours.Tops. Have you ever examined a rotten cucumber, dripping slime as you carefully place it in a cellophane bag specially created by NASA to keep out space viruses? Well I have and it's not something you want to pass on to your kids.
One time I wasn't thinking and I tossed a bag of fresh oranges into my vegetable bin by mistake. Within seconds I could hear the screams from my bedroom. I raced into the kitchen, yanked open the bin and quickly rescued them. I was shaking all over.
I thought about hiring a professional cleaning and extermination team to come in and handle what's in my bin. What if they take photos and use them for blackmail? I really need to stay away from the salad aisle. Although that would leave me with half a bottle of Russian dressing and several million bacon bits.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Quitter
As I type this I should be on my way to a writing group 10 miles distant. This group just started a month ago with three of us. I missed the second meeting two weeks ago because I was meeting with another writing group. One of the members of the new group had a doctor's appointment and also missed the second meeting. Which left one person sitting there alone before he left after 20 minutes. I feel guilty I didn't let him know I'd be elsewhere. But then I thought, what about all the writers who should have been there and didn't show? Damn it, you whine how lonely writing is and ignore an opportunity to meet other scribes.
Yes, I should be driving there right now, but if no one else shows am I going to feel foolish? Besides, I've got a busy day ahead and gas has gone way up and there's this hot blonde on Kelly Ripa's show right now, Alison Sweeney. I am a dedicated writer, but there are only so many groups you can join. Yesterday I decided to go to The Ethical Society for a lecture and lunch. Then I went to the gym, did my laundry and did power walking. I almost fell asleep on The Good Wife, which I never do. I am overextended.
Plus I have six more books to read for two websites which pay me and even at 75 pages an hour that is a lot of reading.
I just realized--I forgot to shave. No, there's no way I can continue in this new writing group which is only three and shows no sign of adding more. I hope they don't send nasty e-mails.
Yes, I should be driving there right now, but if no one else shows am I going to feel foolish? Besides, I've got a busy day ahead and gas has gone way up and there's this hot blonde on Kelly Ripa's show right now, Alison Sweeney. I am a dedicated writer, but there are only so many groups you can join. Yesterday I decided to go to The Ethical Society for a lecture and lunch. Then I went to the gym, did my laundry and did power walking. I almost fell asleep on The Good Wife, which I never do. I am overextended.
Plus I have six more books to read for two websites which pay me and even at 75 pages an hour that is a lot of reading.
I just realized--I forgot to shave. No, there's no way I can continue in this new writing group which is only three and shows no sign of adding more. I hope they don't send nasty e-mails.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
The Cookies
There is an art to confronting the cookies. There are always cookies, you know this. Seltzer and coffee are just foreplay. So is actual conversation. It doesn't matter what kind of cookies; the challenge remains the same--how to leave the event having eaten more cookies than anyone else.
You must be proactive. Arrive early, examine the placement of the cookie dishes. Most likely they will be equidistant from the center of the table. While the host is in the kitchen preparing coffee, gently slide both dishes a few inches closer to you so you won't have to reach as far. Take one cookie from one dish and rearrange the others to disguise this. If there is time, remove one cookie from the other dish and do the same. Let's review--before anyone else has even shown up, you are already two cookies ahead.
Once the event has begun, boldly reach for a cookie. Send a message that you are a serious player, this is your territory and you have staked your claim. Make eye contact. I have a right to these cookies. You, I'm not so sure.
Analyze your competition. One may be extremely thin. Don't be fooled. Those are the sneaky eaters who purge later on. The talkers are best to deal with. They have too much to say to chew anything. The hungry ones--you can tell, believe me--they are your main threat. You will never be able to prevent them from attacking the cookies, but you can minimize damage by offering them a breath mint. This will get them thinking perhaps they should ease off on the munching. They may even rush to the bathroom to floss. More opportunity for you to reach and grab those cookies.
One must establish a balance between maintaining the respect of your circle and scoffing down more Oreo s than anyone else. Art is difficult, but the rewards are quite evident. Especially on your shirt. They are called crumbs.
You must be proactive. Arrive early, examine the placement of the cookie dishes. Most likely they will be equidistant from the center of the table. While the host is in the kitchen preparing coffee, gently slide both dishes a few inches closer to you so you won't have to reach as far. Take one cookie from one dish and rearrange the others to disguise this. If there is time, remove one cookie from the other dish and do the same. Let's review--before anyone else has even shown up, you are already two cookies ahead.
Once the event has begun, boldly reach for a cookie. Send a message that you are a serious player, this is your territory and you have staked your claim. Make eye contact. I have a right to these cookies. You, I'm not so sure.
Analyze your competition. One may be extremely thin. Don't be fooled. Those are the sneaky eaters who purge later on. The talkers are best to deal with. They have too much to say to chew anything. The hungry ones--you can tell, believe me--they are your main threat. You will never be able to prevent them from attacking the cookies, but you can minimize damage by offering them a breath mint. This will get them thinking perhaps they should ease off on the munching. They may even rush to the bathroom to floss. More opportunity for you to reach and grab those cookies.
One must establish a balance between maintaining the respect of your circle and scoffing down more Oreo s than anyone else. Art is difficult, but the rewards are quite evident. Especially on your shirt. They are called crumbs.
Under the Plastic
Plastic is strong and resilient, water proof. My booby traps are all plastic. My pet turtle has a plastic covering, as does much of my furniture. My wide screen TV has plastic traversing its screen to protect the plastic personalities I watch. I'm considering protecting my wires with plastic because squirrels cannot chew through it and cause cable outages.
My plastic Welcome mat tells you to enter, but do no harm. The plastic covered book shelves say why don't you browse, but do not steal any of the ideas therein. If I had a family I would strongly suggest they wear plastic outerwear so they will last longer without value decline.
One must do some work to get beneath my own protective covering. Yes, my outward persona is all intellect, logic, strategic caution, phony empathy, a willingness to just get along with everyone. But underneath my plastic covering I am a seething cauldron of passion, fiery opinions, and a somewhat unpleasant aroma. Plastic has no smell because ultimately it has no character.
Take your choice--either go with protection and safety or choose to be naked, forsaking plastic, opening yourself to bruising, both physical and emotional. My turtle had no choice in the matter, but if I could afford it, I'd cover it in cashmere.
My plastic Welcome mat tells you to enter, but do no harm. The plastic covered book shelves say why don't you browse, but do not steal any of the ideas therein. If I had a family I would strongly suggest they wear plastic outerwear so they will last longer without value decline.
One must do some work to get beneath my own protective covering. Yes, my outward persona is all intellect, logic, strategic caution, phony empathy, a willingness to just get along with everyone. But underneath my plastic covering I am a seething cauldron of passion, fiery opinions, and a somewhat unpleasant aroma. Plastic has no smell because ultimately it has no character.
Take your choice--either go with protection and safety or choose to be naked, forsaking plastic, opening yourself to bruising, both physical and emotional. My turtle had no choice in the matter, but if I could afford it, I'd cover it in cashmere.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Who Goes to the Gallows
Safari types who bring back exotic diseases
Cabaret singers, especially Mandy Potamkin
The inventor of the Segway scooter
Drivers who don't signal before pulling into a gas station
Crossing guards who don't speak English
Anyone with bamboo furniture
Interior decorators of Port-A-Potty
Any woman wearing Capri pants
All practitioners of Revolutionary and Civil War recreations
Sasha Baron Cohen for SO many reasons
Those who claim they heard voices before beheading someone
Food critics who downgrade waffle fries
The person who put pretzels inside M&Ms
Manufacturers of overpriced European chocolate
The composer of Barney's theme song
People who use their snow blower before 9am
Smirking fact checkers who are never wrong
Fart bubble creators in public pools
I must stop now because I have a coupon for another freebie from Dunkin' for finishing their online survey. This is my eighth. Deal with it, dear reader.
Cabaret singers, especially Mandy Potamkin
The inventor of the Segway scooter
Drivers who don't signal before pulling into a gas station
Crossing guards who don't speak English
Anyone with bamboo furniture
Interior decorators of Port-A-Potty
Any woman wearing Capri pants
All practitioners of Revolutionary and Civil War recreations
Sasha Baron Cohen for SO many reasons
Those who claim they heard voices before beheading someone
Food critics who downgrade waffle fries
The person who put pretzels inside M&Ms
Manufacturers of overpriced European chocolate
The composer of Barney's theme song
People who use their snow blower before 9am
Smirking fact checkers who are never wrong
Fart bubble creators in public pools
I must stop now because I have a coupon for another freebie from Dunkin' for finishing their online survey. This is my eighth. Deal with it, dear reader.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Meet Ups
Meet Up offers are beginning to frighten me. I joined a couple centering on discussion and quiet writing. Now the offers are tumbling in.
In the past week I've gotten messages asking me to join Meet Ups on the following topics:
What happened to Paulie Shore's career?
Refrigerator magnets and cancer.
The Conspiracy against Herman Cain.
A Bilingual knitting club.
A group that administers breathalyzer tests to each other.
Bisexual gardeners.
Asexual bird watchers.
Contemplating Sean Penn while in a Zen state.
A Hot Yoga poetry reading.
Interrupters free form chaos conversation.
People who've had breakdowns from Japanese word games.
People who've never been stalked.
A group that brings in items from liquidation sales to compare.
People who've lived in Vermont.
I know curiosity will get the better of me and I'll be spending way too much time gardening and bird watching with issue-laden folks. Maybe I can be a force for normality.
In the past week I've gotten messages asking me to join Meet Ups on the following topics:
What happened to Paulie Shore's career?
Refrigerator magnets and cancer.
The Conspiracy against Herman Cain.
A Bilingual knitting club.
A group that administers breathalyzer tests to each other.
Bisexual gardeners.
Asexual bird watchers.
Contemplating Sean Penn while in a Zen state.
A Hot Yoga poetry reading.
Interrupters free form chaos conversation.
People who've had breakdowns from Japanese word games.
People who've never been stalked.
A group that brings in items from liquidation sales to compare.
People who've lived in Vermont.
I know curiosity will get the better of me and I'll be spending way too much time gardening and bird watching with issue-laden folks. Maybe I can be a force for normality.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
My Chest
I'm watching the film "The Darjeeling Limited" with Owen Wilson, Jason Somebody and Adrian Brody. At one point Brody takes off his shirt and I go into shock. Depression follows quickly. Understand, Adrian Brody was always my fallback guy. Whenever I looked at my chest in the mirror and became distraught at its, well, non-existence, I'd always perk up by reminding myself at least I've got bigger pecs than Brody.
Now I'm staring at shirtless Brody and his pecs are three times the size of mine. How can this be? I see him in these fashion ads and he looks like a stick figure. Is he using HGH? Yes, my arms and shoulders are more impressive, but a man's chest is the fulcrum of his manhood. Oh, I've got enough hair to hide Linda Hunt in there, but the meat is missing. A woman once told me point blank on Thanksgiving while we were dining in Olive Garden in midtown that I "had nothing up there." I could have retaliated by mentioning her expanding hips, but I just smiled uncomfortably and continued eating. I do wear over sized, loose clothes because of my blood pressure. No constricting outerwear, that's been my mantra. Yes, I could have pointed that out. I guess I meekly accepted her judgment because a man with no pecs can't whine. It only makes things worse.
I'm wondering if that really was Adrian Brody or a stunt double.
Now I'm staring at shirtless Brody and his pecs are three times the size of mine. How can this be? I see him in these fashion ads and he looks like a stick figure. Is he using HGH? Yes, my arms and shoulders are more impressive, but a man's chest is the fulcrum of his manhood. Oh, I've got enough hair to hide Linda Hunt in there, but the meat is missing. A woman once told me point blank on Thanksgiving while we were dining in Olive Garden in midtown that I "had nothing up there." I could have retaliated by mentioning her expanding hips, but I just smiled uncomfortably and continued eating. I do wear over sized, loose clothes because of my blood pressure. No constricting outerwear, that's been my mantra. Yes, I could have pointed that out. I guess I meekly accepted her judgment because a man with no pecs can't whine. It only makes things worse.
I'm wondering if that really was Adrian Brody or a stunt double.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)